by Amy Marie
His hands slide to my ass, fingers digging into the soft flesh as he lifts me off my feet. I moan and wrap my legs around his hips, clinging to his neck for dear life as he walks us back. Warm water rains down on us, and my back hits the cold tile of the shower wall. I arch into him, sucking in a ragged breath. He grinds the thick bulge behind his zipper against my core, and I cry out as white-hot heat tears my body.
His lips move to my neck, then my shoulder, sucking and biting at my skin as the shower pours over us, soaking us both from head to toe. My jeans cling to my thighs, and the wet lace of my bra begins to chafe my hardened nipples, but all I feel is Ezra, his lips, his tongue, the rough drag of his hands on my thighs, my breasts. This kiss is everything, wild, sensual, consuming. Desire ignites in my veins, and my every nerve ending yearns for his touch, his kiss.
My lips are already thick and swollen when he returns to them, kissing me again with unrelenting passion. His jeans hang low on his narrow hips, weighed down by the water. It wouldn’t take more than a swift tug for the heavy denim to slide down his thighs. I want to feel him like that, skin to skin, so close, not even the water can separate us.
He breaks away, eyes searching mine as he slowly lowers me to my feet. He gently cups my face in his hands and holds my gaze. His eyes are dark, wild with desire and need.
“I want you, Orelia,” he pants. “I want to tear these jeans down your thighs and bury my face in that sweet pussy until you melt on my tongue.” I gasp, my chest heaving as I fight to catch my breath. His eyes move to my breasts, and he sucks his bottom lips into his mouth, his grip tightening on my hips. “I want to take you hard and fast,” he growls, “until you come all over my cock.”
He nips at my lips, once, twice, teasingly tracing the tip of his tongue along the seam. “I want you to fall asleep in my arms and wake up to me sliding between those luscious thighs, taking you again with long, lazy strokes.”
“Then do it,” I whisper, pulling his mouth back to mine. “I want you too.”
He moves slower this time, and I’m nearly crawling out of my skin to get closer to him. My knees shake, threatening to give out beneath me. He stops, pulling back just enough to break the connection, but our lips still touch as we breathe each other in. I lean forward and take his mouth in the softest caress. Where before we were fire and passion, this kiss is infinitely more tender but just as desperate.
He tugs at my bottom lip with his thumb, whispering against my skin. “I want to feel you, to taste you, so much it physically hurts, but I won’t put your career or your heart at risk for my own selfish indulgence.”
With one last gentle kiss, he turns and heads for the door. I watch him go, slumping against the cool marble wall behind me as he flees, leaving a trail of water in his wake. Water flows down my face, hot tears mixing with the spray from the shower as I sob.
Chapter 17
Ezra
My phone buzzes on the nightstand, and I roll to my side and lift it to my face.
Cole: I’m outside. Let me in.
I groan and roll to my back. My body aches with exhaustion after I spent the night tossing and turning, replaying that fucking kiss over and over again. I couldn’t shake the feeling of her soft skin beneath my fingertips, the taste of her on my tongue, her soft moans in my ears. The scene plays on a loop in my head.
Flipping the covers back, I rise from the bed and wipe a hand down my face. I grab a shirt from the drawer and slip into a pair of running shorts. A yawn stretches my mouth wide as my phone vibrates on the nightstand again. I don’t bother to check it as I head for the stairs.
Glancing down the hall, I see her door is still closed, and my heart clenches in my chest. I want to climb in bed beside her, pull her against me, and fall asleep with the scent of her surrounding me. The doorbell rings, and I tear my gaze from the thin wood that separates us and make my way downstairs.
A loud knock sounds as I reach the front door. “Keep your panties on,” I warn as I flip the lock and pull it open.
Cole stands on the other side, fist poised to knock again. “About bloody time,” he says, pushing past me into the living room.
“Good morning to you too, Dickwad.”
“I’ve been trying to reach Hannah.”
I yawn, heading for the kitchen. “She’s still asleep, I think. You want some coffee.”
“Black tea, two sugars,” Cole corrects.
Reaching for the coffee carafe, I hold it up. “I have coffee.”
Cole waves a hand dismissively. “Fine, fine, whatever.”
I set the empty carafe on the counter and focus on my friend. He stares at me, his breathing labored.
“What’s wrong?”
He looks down at his phone, tapping the screen to life and holding it in front of my face.
It takes a moment for my bleary eyes to focus on what I’m seeing, but it looks like a tweet from Hannah.
@TheonlyHannahMiles: I can’t pretend. Can’t live with the pain anymore. I was his queen until I wasn’t. He’ll be my King for eternity. #gonetoosoon
"What the fuck?” My eyes snap to his, and I can see my worry reflected there.
I shoot to my feet, darting up the stairs with Cole thundering behind me.
“This is just another one of her stunts, I assure you.” I hear him, but his words don’t penetrate.
I reach the hall as Orelia opens her door, rubbing the sleep from her eyes, a yawn stretching across her face. “What’s going on?” she asks, but I don’t answer, my eyes fixed on the door to the master bedroom.
It’s locked when I try the handle. Pounding my fist on the wood, I shout her name. “Hannah!” No answer. I try again. “Hannah!” Nothing. I pound harder, the hinges rattling from the force of my fist. “Hannah, open this fucking door, or I’ll break it down.” Again, nothing. Not a single sound.
Stepping back, I raise my foot and slam it down against the wood. The lock gives way, and the door swings wide, banging against the inside wall.
The three of us rush inside. The bed is empty, sheets tossed back and pillows scattered. Clothes litter the floor, and the balcony doors are open wide, the sheer white curtains blowing in the early morning breeze.
Orelia shrieks, her eyes wide with fear. Her hands fly to her mouth, and I follow her line of sight, spotting Hannah’s bare foot sticking out from the side of the bed.
“No,” I cry, rushing to her side. She’s pale, her skin clammy, body limp. I move to her face, framing it in my hands. “Hannah?” Her name is a plea from my lips as I try to coax her awake. “Hannah!”
She doesn’t respond, doesn’t stir. I feel along her neck for a pulse and find nothing. “Call nine-one-one,” I scream, and Orelia darts from the room. I can hear her voice in the hall as she begs for an ambulance.
I pat Hannah’s cheek. “Open your eyes,” I command. “Come on, Hannah, open.” I did this. Just like with Amanda, I did this to her.
The sounds of sirens grow louder in the distance. I hear footsteps on the stairs. Voices carry from the floor below as more footsteps approach. I hold Hannah’s lifeless body close to my chest, willing her to wake up just as bitchy and beautiful as yesterday, but nothing happens.
Paramedics burst into the room, and Cole urges me to release Hannah’s body to let them work. He tugs me back toward the balcony, my eyes glued to where they poke and prod her, attaching wires to her chest and needles in her arms. “I got a pulse,” one of them says, and I drop to my knees in gratitude.
They move quickly, arranging her on the stretcher and carrying her from the room.
“Where are you taking her?” Cole asks.
“UCLA,” a dark-haired man replies as they start down the stairs.
“Get dressed,” Cole tells me, “we’ll meet them there.”
An hour later, we sit in a private waiting area. Cole paces the floor, barking orders into his cell phone while I’m on the edge of my seat, my leg bouncing as we wait for news.
The door opens, and we glance
up as Orelia slips inside, holding a tray of coffee. She hands one to me then offers one to Cole, who waives her off. She takes the seat at my side and takes a sip from her cup. “Anything?” she asks.
I shake my head.
I drop my head back to rest on the wall behind me. “I should’ve been there. I should have looked after her.” I say.
Orelia’s eyes narrow. “This is not your fault.”
I exhale a long breath as the door swings open once again. “Mr. King?” I shoot to my feet to face a tired-looking man in his forties. His dark blue scrubs are rumpled, and the name Dr. Eli Saunders is stitched onto his white lab coat.
He offers me his hand. “I’m Dr. Saunders. Can we talk in private?”
“We can talk here,” I say.
Cole hangs up the phone without a word and steps up beside me. “How is she?”
The doctor’s eyes dart back and forth between us before he exhales. “Stable. She’s stable. She was lucky. We were able to pump her stomach and administer activated charcoal to keep more of the drugs from entering her bloodstream. With some rest, I expect she will make a full recovery.”
He tucks his hands into his pockets and narrows his eyes. “Does she have a history of substance abuse?”
Cole and I look at each other then back at the doc. “Yeah,” I sigh. “She’s been through a few treatment programs over the years. I’ve been trying to keep her out of trouble. I should’ve searched her stuff. I should’ve...”
Dr. Saunders raises a hand. “In my experience, regardless of the measures taken to prevent things like this, an addict who wants to use will find a way. She needs to be in a facility with trained professionals who can give her the help she needs.”
Cole nods. “I’ve already inquired, and we have a facility ready to take her in as soon as she’s discharged.”
“I’d like to keep her for a few more hours for observation, but I feel confident releasing her this afternoon.”
“Can we see her?”
He nods and motions for us to follow. Cole and I head for the door, but Orelia hangs back, nervously chewing on her lip. “You coming?”
She hesitates. “I don’t think it’s a good idea. I think my being there will only upset her.”
I lean in and press a kiss to her forehead. “Let me check on her, and then I’ll take you home.”
She sighs and leans into me. “Take your time,” she says. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Some of the color has come back into Hannah’s cheeks, and she looks peaceful as she lay asleep in the hospital bed. So peaceful that I resist the urge to wring her goddamn neck. I’m a brewing storm of emotion: fear, anguish, relief, pain, all of it stirs inside me like a tornado.
Cole watches the monitor, ensuring her heart is still beating though he probably wishes he could pluck it from her chest. I am agonizingly furious with this fucking woman so starved for attention and acceptance that she would rather die on the altar of fame than risk the chance of being forgotten.
“What happens now?” I whisper.
Cole rubs at his jaw. “Now, we get her the help she needs.”
“I should’ve—”
“Stop. Hannah Miles is merely a victim of her own choices. I don’t give two shits what the media is saying. You gave that woman everything, and she took it gladly because that’s who she is. She takes and takes until there is nothing left for you to give. She did so while you were together and low and behold, she found a way to keep taking from you even after your relationship ended.”
“What are you talking about?”
Cole narrowed his eyes. “Do you really think this whole babysitting plot Malcom cooked up was his idea?” I raise a brow. “What could he possibly have to gain from bankrolling your label?”
I thought about it but came up empty.
“He dangled the carrot in front of your nose, knowing you would leap at the chance, and the woman behind the curtain, the one pulling all the strings…” He gestures to Hannah’s sleeping form. “I give you the puppet master.”
“That’s ludicrous! You really believe Hannah cooked up this elaborate scheme? For what?”
“For you, mate. To get you back.” Her career has been on a downward spiral since you two broke up. It has nothing to do with the drinking and the sex tapes. Her fans gobble that shit up and beg for more. It’s because of the music. She can’t write, and no producer worth his salt will work with her. You are on top of your game, and she is circling the drain.”
“That’s a bit of a stretch,” I tell him.
“Is it?” He folds his arms and smooths a hand over his jaw. “Orelia was the wild card she never anticipated. The timing of the drunk girl karaoke video was rather suspect, and now this. Something isn’t right.”
I laugh. “Jesus, man, you’ve gone full conspiracy.”
“You wait, I’m going to get to the bottom of this.”
Hannah stirred, and I moved to sit beside her on the bed. “Ezra,” she groans, “where—where am I?”
“In the hospital, love,” Cole says. “You overdosed.”
Her eyes flick to Cole then back to me.
“You scared me,” I tell her.
“I’m sorry,” she says as tears well in her eyes.
“You need help, Hannah,” I say.
Her face falls. “What?”
“Cole found a top tier treatment facility. The doctors there can help you; you’ll get through this.”
She shakes her head and grips my arm. “No,” she whimpers. “I don’t want to go.”
“It’s for the best,” Cole says.
She stares into my face, eyes pleading as she clings to me. “Please, Ezra, don’t make me go. Please. I want to stay with you.”
I pry her nails from my skin and stand. “You’re sick, Hannah. You need real help from real doctors. I can’t give you what you need to get better. I’ll go with you to get you settled and visit when I can, but you need this, Hannah.”
“The arrangements have all been made. I’ll be sure to have your things sent up as soon as possible. For now, get some rest.” Cole pats her hand, but she yanks it out of his reach.
“I’m not going!” she screams. “You can’t do this.”
“It’s already done, love.”
Cole heads out, and I turn to follow. “Ezra!” she cries as I move to close the door to her room behind me. “Ezra!”
Orelia stands the moment I enter the room and rushes me, wrapping her arms around my waist. I didn’t know how bad I needed this until she was pressed against me, easing some of the stress from my body.
Gripping her arms, I move her away so I can meet her eyes. “Ready?”
She nods, and I tuck her into my chest with an arm over her shoulder as we make our way toward the exit.
The automatic doors slide open, and we are assaulted with a wall of noise and flashes of light.
“Mr. King, was the overdose a suicide attempt?’
“Does Hannah blame you?”
“Did you know she was suicidal?”
Questions are lobbed at us over and over, accusing, intrusive words, blaming me for Hannah’s attempt on her life, making it seem like I pushed her over the edge.
Tires squeal, and a reporter dives out of the way as Cole’s bright red Porsche comes into view. He throws open the passenger door. “Get in,” he shouts.
Orelia and I dive for the opening as cameras flash, and more questions rain down on us like a hail of gunfire.
I pull the door shut behind us, their voices muted by the soundproof interior. Flashes blind me as they begin to beat on the windows. Cole jerks the wheel and slams his foot on the gas, tearing out of the parking lot.
“Oh, my god,” Orelia whispers.
“Still think she has nothing to do with this?” Cole asks.
I don’t want to admit it, but his theory is beginning to hold some water.
Chapter 18
Orelia
Ezra and Cole left later that afternoon to make sure Han
nah was checked in and settled into rehab. I offered to come with them, but he told me they needed to do this alone. I desperately wanted to be there for him, to comfort him somehow, but this isn’t about me, so I kept my distance, hoping he’ll reach out if he wants to but knowing that he won’t.
The kiss we shared broke me. I can’t eat, can’t sleep, my heart and my body ache for him, which brings this heavy fog of guilt, given our current situation. Still, that kiss was a life-affirming, mind-altering moment for the history books, and now I have absolutely no idea where we go from here.
Who knows if we will even discuss it? For all I know, he could just as easily brush the whole thing under the rug and go back to business as usual. It’s the what-if part of it that bothers me. What if Hannah hadn’t overdosed? What if he decides he wants to give us a chance, give me a chance? What if he doesn’t? And how does that choice affect us working together?
Two days, I’ve been here alone. Two days of cryptic texts and frustratingly short phone calls.
Me: When will you be back?
Him: Soon.
Me: How is she?
Him: Fine.
I know they had to leave Hannah at the door and were not allowed inside. She’d screamed and cursed his name the entire time. I could hear the heaviness in his voice as he told me the story from his hotel room that evening.
There is a strict no visitor rule for the first seven days of treatment, but Cole and Ezra decided to stay in the area a few more days just in case. I respect his decision and hate how much this hurts him. His email has exploded with hate mail from fans calling him a murderer. #justiceforhannah is trending on twitter for the third consecutive day. He had to shut down his account because of the tidal wave of vitriol that engulfed him.
The tabloids just stir the pot every chance they get. Every day is some new headline about the malevolent king and his broken pop princess. To the fans, Hannah is the sun, and Ezra is the black hole trying to swallow her up.
