“Why? Because you threw yourself at him in a bikini and he rejected you? Trust me,” she said gently, when I just lay here like a corpse, “it happens to the best of us, babe.”
“Mmph.” That was my face smushed in the pillow.
“Try not to take it like that. Rejection’s not always as personal as it feels.”
“And how’s that?” I asked skeptically, flopping over onto my back.
“It’s just not personal, that’s all.”
“How?”
“Well… do you think the fact that I’ve been rejected by a looong line of men means there’s something wrong with me?”
“No,” I said quickly, gazing over at her… her long brown hair in cute pigtails, her pretty face. “Wait. How long of a line are we talking about?”
“Shut it.”
“I’m kidding. Guys are idiots. You’re a delight, Angeline.”
“Thank you.” She sipped her coffee. “I like to think so.”
“If I was a dude, I’d totally fall in love with you.”
“See? It’s not personal. It’s just… his deal. Maybe there’s something wrong with him.”
I groaned. “There’s nothing wrong with him.”
“Uh… are you kidding me? All I’ve heard from you for the last two years are all the things that are wrong with him. He’s a slut, he’s a pig, he’s a dirty rotten manwhore—”
“I know, I know. But that’s just dumb stuff I tell myself, so it makes me want to hate him.”
“He’s not perfect. Maybe he’s not hatable, but maybe he’s not right for you anyway.”
“He’s amazing,” I lamented.
“He’s not that amazing,” she said. I knew she was trying to help. But she didn’t know. She didn’t know Xander like I did.
“No one’s ever made me feel the way he makes me feel, though.”
Angie went silent. She sipped her coffee. “Okay. Tell me again. How does he make you feel?”
I thought about that, searching for a few mere words that could sum up what I felt when I was in Xander’s presence.
“Alive,” I said. “He makes me feel electric. There’s this electricity between us… Like everything in me comes awake when he’s there. It’s automatic and chemical and totally unstoppable.”
Angie didn’t say anything.
“I can’t stop it. It doesn’t matter how I feel about him. It doesn’t even matter how he feels about me. Even when I’m mad at him, or we’re arguing… It’s electric.”
“Has it always felt like that?”
“No. Not when I first met him.” When I first met Xander, I was eleven years old. I barely noticed him. He probably didn’t notice me. At the time, he was just another adult in my brother’s world. “I was just a kid when I met him. But then… something changed.”
“You grew up,” she said.
“Gabe died.” I looked over at her, and Angie just looked at me. She didn’t know Gabe, but she knew about Gabe. “And nobody saw me anymore. Overnight, I became a ghost. But Xander saw me. He made me feel… real. Everyone was drowning in the wake of Gabe’s death, just trying to stay afloat any way they could. It was every man, woman and child for themselves. Except Xander. He threw me a life preserver. He was the only one who reached out and wouldn’t let me drown.”
“Courteney…” Even across the room, I could see Angie’s eyes shining with tears. “I’m glad he did that for you.”
“He still does,” I confessed. “It was like I got struck by lightning the first time he kissed me. It scrambled my programming, and I can’t go back to what I was before.”
“He kissed you… when you were fourteen? Uh, how have I never heard this story?”
I shook my head. “He hugged me,” I said, remembering it like it was happening right now. I could still feel his warmth and his big, warm body wrapped around me. “When he said goodbye. When he went away with Steel Trap. He had me in his arms, and he kissed the top of my head. And it rewired my brain or something.”
Angie groaned. “Good lord, I know that feeling.”
“Why are men such gods?” I whispered.
“I think they’re just men,” she said, sighing. “The real question is, why do we worship them?”
“I used to worship him. Then I realized he was only human. It was supposed to make me hate him. But I think it made me like him even more.” I groaned. “Life is never more electric than when he’s in the room, Angie. I’m never more alive than when he looks me in the eyes and sees me.” I looked over at her again. “Is that terrible and pathetic?”
“It’s gorgeous and romantic,” she said. “And who cares if it’s terrible. If you want it, you want it.”
“I love you, Angeline Delacroix. Why can’t we just be lesbians?”
She sipped her coffee. “You know, I feel like life would be so much easier.”
“Me too.”
“But I just can’t. I really need the deep dicking.”
“Me too.”
She grinned at me.
“I mean, I know I haven’t had any yet,” I said. “But I really, really need it. Don’t tell Shay. She bugs me about it enough.”
“Your secret’s safe with me.”
“Thanks.”
“Can you please get up now, and come have breakfast? You can’t solve these next-level man problems without caffeine and sugar.”
“Okay.”
She opened the door. “Take your time. But I’m just saying, the pancakes are getting cold.”
“I’m coming. I promise.”
“See you in the kitchen. I’ll have Mom make you a latte.”
I watched her go, the smell of freshly made pancakes and coffee and other amazing yummy things wafting in.
Then I stared at the ceiling above me. I was lying in a pink fluffy cloud of a bed, the morning sun glowing off the soft yellow walls, and I felt safe here, in this colorful room.
I glanced at the wall above the bed. Staring down at me was a giant, multicolored poster of Jimi Hendrix.
It wasn’t every day that I got to sleep in a rock star’s bed. Or… former bed. But here I was, lying in Elle Delacroix’s bed. At least, the one she slept in as a teenager.
Nowadays, Angie’s rock star sister lived in a mansion on the coast, about fifteen minutes away from here, in Lion’s Bay. With her rock star boyfriend, Seth Brothers, and their baby girl. Elle and Seth were both members of Dirty; super famous, super successful. I knew Angie often felt like she lived in her rock star sibling’s shadow; that was pretty much a requirement of Lil Brat Society membership.
But she and Elle were still close.
Way closer than me and Cary were.
I’d met Elle a few times by now, and she was always nice to me. I was pretty sure she’d be okay with me crashing in her old bed as long as I wanted. But I still felt like an imposition. Too bad, because I really would’ve loved to move in and be adopted by the Delacroixs.
Who wouldn’t?
Angie’s family was just so… cool.
So unlike mine.
If I had to choose one word to describe my family, it would be… awkward. Like, pretty much the opposite of cool.
My parents’ pretend perfection and their denial of reality. The big secret we were supposed to be keeping about my brother’s reclusiveness. As if he was just this super successful music producer, a “retired” rock star who chose to work around the clock because he was just that much of a genius.
Everything about the way we lived, the way we were supposed to behave all the time for the benefit of other peoples’ opinions… It was all awkward to me.
It never fit.
But maybe I never fit, with anything, anywhere.
I never fit at the stupidly expensive, pretentious school I went to for the last four years, and I probably wouldn’t fit at the university I was supposed to go to on the other side of the country. I definitely wouldn’t fit at law school.
I just wanted to fit.
Or… maybe I just
wanted to feel what I felt, be whatever I was, and not be wrong.
The truth was, I felt wrong all the time.
But only because that’s how other people made me feel.
I didn’t mind feeling crazy or sad or any of the things I was supposed to pretend—according to my mom—that I didn’t feel. As long as I felt.
And Xander… he never made me feel wrong. Angry, hurt, frustrated, embarrassed… sure. All those things and more, I’d felt with Xander. But I never felt wrong.
I mean, I knew I wasn’t supposed to get hung up on him.
He was my brother’s best friend. He was too old for me.
Whatever.
He made me feel alive—like I was plugged into some power source I could never reach on my own.
How could I ignore that?
I wanted more of that feeling I only got when he was around.
Who wouldn’t?
But I was embarrassed about how my little “test” backfired. The one Shayla suggested. I’d put my boobs right in Xander’s face—literally—like she told me to.
Maybe, while I’d worked up the nerve to do it, I’d convinced myself that it would change something between us. That there would be this glorious moment, like clouds parting and a ray of sunshine beaming through—and he’d actually see me. Me, as the woman I was, instead of the little girl he used to know.
Instead, I got nervous. I lost my balance, clumsily bumped my boobs against his face, and humiliated myself.
He rejected me. No way to take his reaction as anything but rejection.
What the fuck are you doing?
That’s what he’d said—no, growled. Then he picked me up, set me abruptly aside as he got up, and walked into the poolhouse, slamming the door.
Clearly, he didn’t want me. I was right about that in the first place.
He wasn’t going to magically start seeing me as a sexual being instead of some stupid little girl.
Maybe he was concerned about me, sure.
I was Cary’s little sister, after all.
But when he’d warned me off him in his car that night, he really meant it. He wasn’t coming on to me. When he suggested fucking my mouth or bending me over the seat… he was just driving home his point—that I didn’t know what the fuck I was doing, and I shouldn’t be in that bar.
Or in his car.
He was trying to warn me about men in general. Trying to save me from getting hurt at the bar, with the wrong kind of guy.
For Cary.
There was no dirty subtext to his words. No filthy come-on.
Not like I’d fantasized there was.
How fucking naive was I?
I just kept getting everything wrong.
I heard people in the kitchen, and I thought of Mrs. Delacroix, fixing me a latte in one of her cute aprons with the ruffles on it. Pink gingham, maybe. She seemed to have a new one every morning of the week.
So I dragged my ass up, made the bed neatly, and got dressed. I packed up my bag, too, because I knew that after breakfast I’d have to get my shit together and go home.
I could only hide out for so long.
I was supposed to be looking out for Cary, being there for him if he needed me.
Not moping around because his best friend rejected me.
When I walked into the kitchen, sunlight was streaming in. Angie was seated with her dad in the breakfast nook, in front of the big bay windows that overlooked the lush backyard.
“Good morning, Courteney,” Mrs. Delacroix said, smiling warmly at me as she wiped her hands on her apron. Not pink gingham; today’s apron had bright yellow lemons on it. “Your coffee is on the bar, honey.”
Angie’s mom always called me honey. She said it was because of my “beautiful eye color.”
“Thanks, Felicia,” I said, addressing her by her first name, as she always asked me to. “It smells so good in here.”
I took my coffee and went to sit in the breakfast nook, as Angie’s dad cleared away his newspapers to make room for me. “Sleep well?” he asked. Both of Angie’s parents were, as always, totally welcoming. They’d never ask me to leave.
It just made me feel more guilty for taking advantage of their generosity.
“Really well,” I said. “Elle’s bed is awesome.”
I’d told them so every morning.
“Pancakes?” Angie passed me a tray of them as her dad poured me a glass of orange juice from a carafe on the table.
“Thanks.”
“Mimosa?” he offered, indicating the bottle of bubbly that sat open on the table.
“No, thank you. I have to drive home after this.”
I was pretty sure I saw him exchange a concerned look with his wife, but I pretended not to as I filled my plate. There was whipped cream and maple syrup for the pancakes. Back bacon. A cheese plate with about eight cheeses on it. And fresh fruit.
I’d never had a family, or a life, like this.
At least, not that I could remember.
My brother had moved out of the house by the time I was old enough to form memories, and now… he wasn’t exactly making me breakfast every morning at his place. I honestly couldn’t even figure out when he ate, though I knew he did. He had a fridge and stuff in the studio, a mini-kitchen. But I never saw him or heard him in the main kitchen.
And at my parents’ place… Dad was up and out the door, pretty much every morning of his life, before the crack of dawn, to hit the golf course or go for a run. And Mom was always brunching with her lady friends or hitting an early morning spin class. Neither of them ever had breakfast with me.
And that was when they were in town.
When I got up in the morning, at their house, the kitchen was cold, empty and dark. If I was lucky, there was cereal and milk to help myself to.
“These are amazing,” I told Mr. Delacroix as I dug into my pancakes, because I knew he’d made them. Chocolate chip pancakes were his specialty.
“Help yourself. There’s more on the warmer.”
“Dad, she doesn’t want to gain ten pounds over breakfast.” Angie handed me a bowl of sliced apples sprinkled with cinnamon. I put some on my plate.
Mrs. Delacroix clucked. “It wouldn’t hurt. You girls don’t need to worry about weight. Worry about important things, like educating yourselves and enjoying being alive.” She set a tray of scrambled eggs in front of me with a smile and squeezed my shoulder.
And I could see the glimmer of concern in her eyes. The We’re-here-for-you-if-you-ever-need-us look she’d given me several times since I’d checked into hotel Delacroix.
I didn’t know what Angie had told them, if anything. But I supposed they’d maybe heard me crying in Elle’s room at some point over the last three days.
Angie caught my eye and kinda rolled her eyes behind her mom’s back.
But she really didn’t know how lucky she was.
* * *
As soon as breakfast was done, I helped clean up, despite Mrs. Delacroix’s protests. Then I took off. I had to do it quick—before I chickened out, and instead begged Angie’s parents to adopt me.
Angie hugged me goodbye at the front door, and as I headed out to my car, it all really hit me. This crushing, heavy feeling of carrying way too much shit around, all alone. All the feelings I’d been secretly harboring for so long, for Xander.
I hadn’t even told my friends the half of it. Even Angie didn’t quite know the extent of the feels I had for that man.
I wanted to pretend I didn’t feel for him. I’d tried to pretend.
I’d tried to hate him.
I’d tried to stop wanting him, too.
None of it worked.
It never worked.
Yes, he was older than me. Maybe too old for me in some people’s eyes. Maybe in his eyes, too.
But that didn’t change how I felt about him.
How I’d felt about him for a long, long time.
And every time I saw him and was faced with the fact that I couldn’t have hi
m, all over again… it just hurt more.
When I got into my car, I pulled out my phone. It hurt when my brother rejected me, too, but I wanted to see him. I needed him.
Didn’t that count for anything?
Why did our relationship always have to be on his terms?
I’d messaged him on Monday morning to let him know I was at Angie’s and might stay a few days. And to apologize for taking off on a work day.
He’d texted me back: No worries CC.
I messaged him now to let him know I was coming back. Then I added: Can I see you soon?
I didn’t normally ask him that. I hadn’t asked in a long time. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d actually asked my brother if I could see him.
It hurt too much when the answer was no.
And it was usually no.
Cary always had some excuse. Like, I’m working. That was the most common excuse; the reason he couldn’t be interrupted, even to see his sister.
I drove home, and when I’d pulled into my brother’s driveway and checked my phone, I found his response.
Cary: Sure CC. How’s right now?
* * *
I’d been living at my brother’s place for nine days before I actually saw him. It wasn’t exactly unusual for him to lock himself away in his studio and refuse to see anyone because he was too busy working. For the last four years, music had taken priority over everything else in his life. Though when I showed up at his place, even unannounced and uninvited, I usually managed to see him within twenty-four hours or so.
The fact that he’d been so avoidant this time only fueled my concerns about him. I was anxious to see him.
And yet… my instincts told me to tread carefully.
Gently.
He might be raw about the anniversary of Gabe’s death.
Or about Joseph Fetterman’s death.
He might be on a deadline with the new album and stressed out.
He might actually be uncomfortable about me being here, about this job situation, about me living in the house. Who knew?
As usual, I really had no idea how Cary was feeling about anything, other than not good. It’d been so long since I’d seen my brother happy, I would’ve settled for okay. But these days, he was never really okay.
Filthy Beautiful: A Players Rockstar Romance (Players #2) Page 11