Scarred

by K. Webster

  He brushed his lips against mine, no tongue, and I had to squeeze my legs together to stop the vibrations threatening to overtake me. Is there something wrong with me? Surely, I shouldn’t be this way. Maybe there was a cure—something to take the edge off my desires.

  Brax pulled back, smiling. “You’re gorgeous.”

  My eyes dropped to his shapely mouth, breathing faster. What would Brax do if I pushed him against the wall and groped him in public? My mind turned the fantasy into him pushing me hard against the wall, his thigh going between my legs, hands pawing, bruising me because he couldn’t get close enough.

  I swallowed, battling those far too tempting thoughts. “You’re not so bad yourself,” I joked, plucking his baby-blue t-shirt that matched his eyes so well.

  I loved this man, but missed him at the same time. How was that possible?

  Life wedged between us: the university course stole five days a week, not to mention homework, and Brax’s boss landed a new building contract in the heart of the city.

  Each month trickled into the next, and lovemaking became second fiddle to Call of Duty on PlayStation, and architectural sketching for the extra credit I’d signed up for.

  But all of that would change. Our life together would improve, because I was going to seduce my man. I’d packed a few naughty surprises to show Brax what turned me on. I needed to do this. To save my sanity. To save my relationship.

  Brax’s fingers squeezed my waist and he stepped away, ducking down to grab the suitcases again.

  If I wanted to seduce him, wasn’t it best just to go for it? Planning and dreaming seemed wrong when he stood right in front of me.

  I dropped my shoulder bag and grabbed the lapels of his beige canvas jacket, yanking him into me. “Let’s join the mile-high club,” I whispered, before crushing his mouth with mine. His eyes flashed as I leaned forward, pressing my entire body against his. Feel me. Need me.

  He tasted of orange juice and his lips were warm, so warm. My tongue tried to gain welcome, but Brax’s hands landed on my shoulders, holding me at bay.

  Someone clapped, saying, “You attack him, girl!”

  Brax stepped back, looking over my shoulder at the bystander. He dropped his eyes to mine, temper flashing. “Nice spectacle, Tess. Are we done? Can we go check in?”

  Disappointment sat like a heavy boulder in my belly. He sensed my mood—like he always did—and gathered me into a hug again. “I’m sorry. You know how much I hate PDA’s. Get me behind closed doors, and I’m all yours.” He smiled, and I nodded.

  “You’re right. Sorry. I’m just so excited to go on holiday with you.” I dropped my eyes, letting wild, blonde curls curtain my face. Please, don’t let him see the rejection in my eyes. Brax used to say my eyes reminded him of dove’s feathers as the white bird flew across the sky. He could be very poetic, my Brax. But I didn’t want poetry anymore. I wanted… I didn’t know what I wanted.

  He chuckled. “You’re right about being excited.” He waggled his eyebrows, and together we headed to check-in. The girl who’d told me to attack him winked and gave me a thumbs up.

  I smiled, hiding the residual pain that my attack didn’t inspire the same reaction.

  We joined the queue, and I glanced around. People milled like fish in a pond, darting and weaving around groups of waiting passengers. The vibe of an airport never failed to excite me. Not that I travelled a lot. Before the university course, I travelled to Sydney to study the architecture there, and sketch. I loved to sketch buildings. At ten years of age, my parents took my brother and me to Bali for a week. Not that it was fun going on holiday with a thirty-year-old brother, and parents who despised me.

  Old hurt surfaced, thinking of them. When I moved in with Brax eighteen months ago, I drifted apart from my parents. After all, they were almost seventy years old, and focused on other ‘important things’, rather than a daughter who’d come twenty years too late. A dreadful mistake, as they loved to remind me.

  They’d been so horrified at the pregnancy, they promptly sued the doctor for botching my father’s vasectomy.

  An old enemy: rejection, ruled my life. I supposed the desperation to connect with Brax was a way of confirming that someone wanted me. I didn’t just want intimacy, I needed it. I needed to feel his hands on me, his body in mine. It was a craving that never left me in peace.

  I blinked, putting the impossible together. I needed Brax to be rough because I needed to be claimed.

  Oh, my God, am I that screwed up?

  I followed Brax in a daze to the counter, and let him put the suitcase on the scales.

  “Morning. Tickets and passports, please,” the girl in her smart uniform said.

  Fumbling with luggage tags, Brax asked, “Honey, can you give her our tickets? They’re in my back pocket.”

  I reached around and pulled out a travel wallet from his baggy jeans pocket. Although twenty-three years old, Brax still dressed like a grungy teenager. I squeezed his butt.

  His eyes flashed to mine, frowning.

  I forced a bright smile, handing our documentation to the clerk. I didn’t even check where we were headed, too focused on ignoring the twinges of sadness at not being allowed to grope my boyfriend. Maybe I’m too sexual? My fears were right. I was hardwired all wrong.

  “Thank you.” The girl’s eyes dropped, showing heavily shadowed lids. Her brown hair, scraped back into a tight bun, looked plastic with so much hair spray. She bit her lip and pulled out a ream of tickets before checking our passports. “Do you want your bags checked all the way through to Cancun?”

  Cancun? My heart soared. Wow. Brax outdid himself. I never would’ve thought he’d travel so far from home. I turned and kissed his cheek. “Thank you so much, Brax.”

  His face softened as he captured my hand. “You’re welcome. There’s no better way to celebrate our future, than going to a country that values friendship and family.” He leaned closer. “I read that on Sundays the streets come alive with strangers dancing. Everyone becomes connected by music.”

  I couldn’t tear myself from his crisp blue eyes. That was why I loved him, despite not being completely satisfied. Brax suffered the same insecurities. He didn’t have anyone but me. His parents died in a car accident when he turned seventeen; he was an only child.

  Brax owned the apartment we lived in, thanks to the life insurance pay out, and his dad’s husky, Blizzard, came with the bargain.

  Blizzard and I didn’t see eye to eye, but Brax loved the dog like a tatty teddy-bear. I tolerated the beast, and kept my handbags far from chewing height.

  “You’re the best.” I captured his chin, planting a kiss, not caring he was uncomfortable. Hell, the couple beside us were practically dry humping; a peck on the mouth was PG stuff.

  The girl sighed across the counter. “Is this your honeymoon? Cancun is amazing. My boyfriend and I went there a few years ago. So hot and fun. And the music is so sexy, we couldn’t keep our hands off each other.”

  Images filled my mind of twirling around Brax in a new sexy bikini. Maybe a change of scenery would amplify our lust.

  I said, “No, not our honeymoon. Just a celebration.”

  Brax grinned, his eyes sparkling.

  An idea ran wild. Was this trip special? Was Brax going to propose? I waited for the heart-flipping joy at becoming Mrs. Cliffingstone, but a swell of comfort filled me instead. I would say yes.

  Brax wanted me. Brax was safe. I loved him in my own way—the way that mattered, the long-lasting kind.

  Silence descended while the girl tap-tapped her keyboard and printed off our boarding passes. After tagging our bags, she handed everything back. “Your bags are checked all the way to Mexico, but you’ll have a stop in Los Angeles for four hours.” She circled the gate number and time. “Please make your way through immigration, and proceed to the departure lounge. You board at eleven-thirty.”

  Brax took the documentation and shouldered his laptop bag. Linking hands with me, he said, “Thank yo
u.”

  We headed toward the Passengers Only lounge. We had little over an hour before boarding. I could think of a lot of things we could do in an hour, but I doubted Brax would be into them.

  We were on our way to Mexico. A different country and a different bed awaited us. I could be patient.

  I made up my mind as Brax browsed the tax-free PlayStation games that tonight would mark a new beginning for us. Goodbye contentment, hello lust.

  Our relationship was going to rip and roar with love and flame. I would make sure of it.

  Yes, tonight things would be different.

  I needed different.

  Picture Perfect by Ella Fox

  Prologue

  I was in no fucking mood to perform.

  I was hung-over, or possibly still drunk, from a weeklong bender. I’d awakened to find three chicks in my hotel bed, which was not a great way to start the day. Most people would think that sounds like the best morning ever, and I admit the girls were hot, but the truth is, I hated waking up with people I didn’t know. Combine that dislike with the fact that there were actually three people I didn’t know in the bed, my brain felt like it was on fire, I couldn’t remember what fucking city I was in and I was starving and you get an idea of why the morning sucked.

  On top of all that, my dick felt as if it had gone twenty rounds with a bull that hadn’t been gentle. In spite of the fact that I counted seven used condoms on the floor, I knew that I hadn’t come. Story of my fucking life—I don’t come with groupies, randoms, or people I didn’t know. Since I hadn’t fucked the same girl two nights in a row in years, I was used to it. As a rule, I survived by making myself come after the girls were gone, but clearly I hadn’t taken care of business the night before and my package was paying the price.

  The day continued to be shit and I wound up being late to sound check. My limo driver was an annoying prick that talked about himself the entire way to the stadium and I was ready to commit by the time I got there.

  Still, I felt like shit that I was late, so I went in fully prepared to apologize. Turns out that I didn't have to bother because our bassist wasn’t there and since no one knew where he was, my tardiness was overlooked. Our tour management tried to keep the three of us that were there calm by having an assistant go out to pick up food. The Philly cheesesteak I was handed was my clue that we were in Philadelphia. By my calculation, that meant I was three more months away from the end of this tour, and every one of those days seemed like it would stretch out for an eternity. I wanted to be fucking home, not waking up each morning playing a game I liked to call, “Where in the world am I today?” It’s like Where’s Waldo, but with groupies and hotel rooms.

  Our bass player still hadn’t shown by the time we finished eating and our moods weren’t improving. Sound check was a major bust, but luckily, we had a dressing room filled with booze. Our tour rider stipulated a fully stocked bar at all of our shows, and this one didn’t disappoint. With some hair of the dog, I was back to functioning normally in no time at all.

  Unfortunately, I got a little too drunk, and that’s why I was in no fuckin’ mood to perform. It didn’t help that the entire band was pissed at our bass player- now known as ‘the asshole that shows up twenty minutes before a show’. We were all pretty wasted, but it didn’t escape my notice that he was on something a hell of a lot stronger than alcohol.

  The roar of the crowd as the lights went down in the stadium no longer excited me the way it used to, and that pissed me off too. What the fuck was wrong with me that I felt nothing good anymore? I was living what was supposed to be the dream life—and it was killing me, killing us all, really. Not one of us were happy or healthy, and it showed. We argued about fucking everything, something we’d never done before. I didn’t know where we went wrong, but I was sick of it and I either needed to get the fuck out entirely or break out on my own. We’d made a pact—friends for life, brotherhood before business—but the brotherhood was waning and that made me angry.

  I felt helpless. As the lead singer, wasn’t it my job to keep my band on track? I knew that things were going off the rails with Tyson, knew that Gavin was in pain—but I couldn’t do shit about it. I wasn’t the man that I wanted to be, and I knew that if I kept going the way that I was, my life wasn’t going to be worth shit. Life was only getting shorter and I wasn’t happy—none of us were happy, at least not anymore. The last time I remembered being excited about what we were doing was before the band got sucked into the machine and became a commodity instead of a musical act.

  I took the stage in a rage, mad at the world, mad at our management, mad at my band, but mostly, I was mad at myself for letting it all get this far. When I grabbed the mic I sang aggressively and gave the appearance of rocking, but I was phoning it in. I was in no mood so I gave myself a pass to fuck off since I knew it wasn’t going to be a good show.

  All that changed about four minutes in when I looked down into the front row and locked on to a pair of beautiful chocolate brown eyes. The girl was young, but she was stunning. She was singing along and smiling, and that made me feel like shit. She was there to rock, and there I was, phoning in bullshit.

  Something about her, I can’t even explain what, had me sick to my stomach even thinking about letting her down. She deserved better than whatever pathetic version of myself that I’d become. I used to really care about the fans and the experience, but for the last few years all I cared about was drinking, fucking and trying to feel something.

  Staring into those eyes, I pulled my shit together and gave two and a half hours of a performance that was easily my best in years. I sang almost exclusively to her, the connection between us something I’d never experienced before. Over and over my conscience yelled too young in my head, and while I knew that to be true, I just wanted to fucking enjoy feeling something real for the first time in forever.

  Unfortunately, she didn’t get older during the show. When it was over, it was over, and reality took center stage again. The guitarist for our band, Cole, ribbed the fuck out of me as we left the stage after the encore, asking if I was going to give “jailbait” a backstage pass. I wasn’t that big of an asshole, and I shook my head in the negative. “Fuck that, man. That would be too fucked up, even for me.”

  Grinning at me he said, “Dude, you should have seen yourself. I think that girl was your fucking Priscilla.”

  I glared at him as I shook my head in confusion. “Dude, what does that even mean? What the fuck is a Priscilla?”

  He looked at me like I was some kind of a moron. “You really need to get your rock n’ roll knowledge beefed up—you should know this without asking, it’s like fuckin’ music folklore. If we’re ever on Celebrity Jeopardy and we lose because you don’t know something this obvious, I’m going to kick your ass. I’m talking about Priscilla Presley, fuckwad. You totally went all Elvis over a teenage girl.”

  His words embarrassed me, mostly because they were true. I told him to fuck off and then I got the hell out of dodge.

  It was humiliating to have gotten so turned on by a teenager. I guessed she was somewhere between sixteen and eighteen, but my brain said eighteen was probably a real fuckin’ stretch. I was so disgusted with myself that I wound up getting blackout drunk in order to make it all go away.

  * * *

  I woke up feeling like shit again, but for the first time, I took stock of my situation and was honest with myself. I realized that I had to change the way I was living. I couldn’t remember why, but I knew, down to my bones, that I needed to do better, to be better. I hadn’t always been like a drunken robotic human dildo. I wanted to be worthy. Worthy of what, I couldn’t say, but that was how I felt.

  I didn’t remember shit from the night before, but my band was happy to fill me in once I snapped out and demanded to know why everyone was calling me Elvis. Nothing they said sparked my memory. I could just barely remember eyes the color of melting chocolate, but that was all. No matter how much ribbing they did, nothing other
than the eye color came back to me.

  The name Elvis stuck for about six months, but I never got my memory back from the night that changed the path I was on forever.

  Ignite by Tessa Teevan

  Prologue

  I fucking hate you sometimes…

  The words replay in my head as if on loop. Like I’ve died and gone to Hell, where I’m tortured with those five cruel words over and over again. The words that came from the same lips that used to whisper “I love you” as he held me in the middle of the night. The lips that, at one point, couldn’t wait to say “I do.” Those beautiful lips I thought I’d spend the rest of my life kissing. “I fucking hate you…” Yep, definitely Hell.

  Hell on Earth, that is. I’m still here. He’s the one who’s gone. The love of what I thought would be my life, the man I married, the one I was so sure I’d wake up to every single morning until the good Lord decided to bring me home. The same man, who, on what was unknowingly his last day, spoke those five heartless, torturous words he will never, ever get the chance to take back. That man’s gone, and I’m still here, broken and alone.

  I’m not a complete idiot. Just an overly dramatic one at times. I know my husband loved me. He’d loved me for more than seven years, and that didn’t change. We just spent the morning lying in bed for a few extra minutes so we could be close. He fingered my hair as he told me he loved me and was looking forward to the weekend getaway we had planned. He wasn’t going through the motions; he meant every word as he gave me a preview of what he had planned for our downtown Chicago hotel—if we ever decided to get out of bed and hit the road. It’s just that I can be a raging psycho when I’m PMSing. Then throw in a wine hangover and I turn into Satan’s worst nightmare. Every month it’s either intense cramping for four days or my husband wonders where this crazy bitch stashed the sweet woman he married. Suffice it to say, I was not cramping this month.