by L.J. Shen
And that boy saved me that day.
Again.
The good thing about walking with a Londoner in London was that you saw it through their eyes. Alex knew London like an old lover. Every curve and line and beauty spot. He was originally from a town on the outskirts of the English capital, but this was where he hung out. This was his domain. And he ruled it the way he did all things: mercilessly and methodically, like every inch of it was his.
First, we hopped into the underground train, to which he referred to as “the tube.” The bodyguards, Harry and Hamish, were sitting a few seats away, pretending to read a local newspaper. Alex and I sat together, and maybe it was his beanie and shades, or maybe it was just how casually he’d acted, but no one took notice of us. Once we poured out of the train at Camden Town station and took the escalators up, we visited a little market where we inhaled two portions of vegan tacos, each. They were delicious and spicy, and we washed them down with chocolate milk we’d bought at a nearby convenient store. Then Alex showed me around. He said the market was going to turn into a massive mall soon, and that he was happy he wouldn’t be there to see it happening, because it was the equivalent of tearing a piece of his heart and using it as an ass transplant for a Hollywood starlet. I laughed and asked him how his soul was these days.
“Good. And it will get even better once I break it to Jenna that I want to produce my own album. No more Suits.” Our pinkies collided and curled around each other.
“No more Suits,” I repeated.
We walked through the gray streets of Camden Town, past pubs that reeked of stale, warm beer and cigarettes. The scent of fried food constantly floated in waves, and it could have been a lot less pleasant if the air was not so fresh from the rain. We walked uphill until we reached the Cambridge Castle, a small pub with a two-floored apartment building above it.
“This is where I said I’d live if I ever made it big.” He pointed at the apartments above the red banner of the pub.
“So how come you’re not living there?”
He shot me a look I couldn’t decode. A mixture of disappointment and annoyance. “I’m an idiot who lost sight of what’s important. I really should be living there, shouldn’t I?”
It looked kind of small, kind of old, and kind of stuffy. But it was a part of his dream, and when life gives you the tools to fulfill your dream, it’s your duty to do so.
“Definitely.” I nodded.
Alex took my hand in his and jerked his chin to the chipped, wooden door. “Drink?”
“Virgin,” I warned.
“I’ll rectify it later.”
We had cranberry juice and chips—see: “crisps”—at a secluded table. It was just us and the bartender, who was new, and even though he couldn’t remember Alex’s golden years at the venue, he still asked for an autograph and five selfies.
Afterward, we took the tube to London Bridge and visited the London Dungeon. It was really scary, and I found myself jumping several times and clutching Alex’s leather-clad arm. We were walking around with a group of tourists from Eastern Europe who didn’t speak a word of English, which worked in our favor.
Though they asked for autographs and selfies, too.
We decided to head back to the hotel at six o’clock. We took a black cab, watching the streets of the capital flashing by. London was gorgeous and cruel, just like Alex. Too busy. Too hectic. Too brooding. Too dark. Yet I couldn’t help but drink her in like I did Alex. Like I’d finally found the one thing I hadn’t known I was missing.
Alex took off his beanie for the first time since we’d left the hotel room, and his wavy, shaggy hair was sticking out to one side, which was so adorable I needed to look away to protect my heart.
“I love your London,” I blurted out to the window. “I love that people shoulder past me and avoid eye contact and have a no-bullshit attitude. I love that no one looks the same. I love that it’s rich, but grim. Poor, but classically beautiful. It inspires me.”
“I hate your Los Angeles,” he replied. “I hate how it doesn’t suit you. I hate how it’s flat and sparse and shallow. The agreeable weather and the big-teethed people. You deserve better, Stardust. You deserve to be inspired. All the time.”
“Maybe,” I said. I wasn’t unhappy. But I wasn’t happy, either. I just didn’t know if Los Angeles was to blame, or the general chaos that was my life. “Maybe when it’s all over I’ll travel from planet to planet, city to city, to find what I’m looking for.”
“You should know, though”—Alex’s voice sounded sad and far, like he was already drifting away from me—“Craig is your rose. He will root you in place and never let you go. I’ve had these kinds of roses back at home. You don’t have to put up with Craig’s shit in order to still be there for Ziggy and Natasha. You need to tell him to get better, or he never will.”
Turning around to look at him, I put a hand on his cheek. “Are you happy, Alex?”
“I’m an artist. My job is not to be happy. My job is to feel, to suffer, and to conjure the same feelings in others.”
I wanted to tell him he was wrong. That he could create greatness whilst holding onto his bliss. But I didn’t know if it was true, and I knew better than to hand out empty promises, like the ones my brother gave me.
I said nothing, even when Alex slipped his hand into mine and laced our fingers together.
My heart was loud enough to hear, even in the midst of London traffic.
And it spoke all the words I couldn’t give him.
The most important dance you’ll have in your life is one that does not require music.
Alex Winslow, Broken Hearts Blvd
That night, he practiced what he preached. Each movement was an impulse, an instinct, a compulsion. We didn’t need to practice that dance. It was a necessity, like breathing. As real as something could feel.
We got into our suite silently. I walked backward as he cornered me toward the bed. Pressure was building inside me, and I knew he was the only one who’d be able to unknot it into an orgasm. His hard breaths came down on me as he peeled his jacket off and rolled the zipper of my dress down all the way to my tailbone, where he stopped, pressing a teasing finger to the slit between my ass cheeks until he pushed me toward him, my stomach meeting his throbbing erection. His skin burned with an animalistic need, and I touched him everywhere to make sure he was real. He felt so alive under my fingertips. So terribly human, despite his god-like status. The pressure between my legs became agonizing before my panties dropped to the floor. I don’t remember how we got naked. I just remember how it felt a second before he laid me on the bed.
Final.
It felt so final.
Like there was no going back from this. Without words, without a warning, and without a condom, he hovered over me, his dick poking at my belly. He put his hot lips on my neck and sucked on it with a private smile I could feel, and I stared at the ceiling, my pulse rioting all over my body. It was like my heart was working on overdrive, desperately pumping blood into the rest of me, trying to match how alive Alex was in that moment. He positioned himself between my thighs, his tongue swirling over my throat, driving me mad. I clawed at his back like he was already inside me. In a way, he was.
“Condom.” My voice was barely audible; I had to repeat the word to make sure he heard me. “We need a condom.”
He leaned back and stared at me, flushed. His chest was moving up and down, and I wanted to believe it wasn’t like this for him with all one-night stands. There was no way Alex Winslow responded like this to every girl he rolled between his sheets. Like I was the very asteroid where he wanted to live on. Forever.
“I’ll finish out.”
“Alex, what the hell?”
“I just really need to feel you.”
“You will. Through a condom.”
“No. All of you.”
“You can’t have all of me.” But even I knew that was a lie.
I wondered if he really expected me to agree to go b
areback our first time while he picked up his jeans from the floor and sorted through the pockets until he found his wallet. There was one condom there—just the one—and the wrapper looked crumpled and old. My heart cartwheeled happily at that. I watched as he sheathed himself, his eyes focused on the condom he rolled over his shaft—upper teeth biting his lower lip—before he returned his gaze to me. His cock pressed onto my lower belly.
“Stardust,” he breathed, shaking his head slightly. “Stardust, Stardust, Stardust.”
Then he thrust into me all at once. I whimpered, threading my fingers in his hair and bringing him down, his forehead pressing into mine. I chattered, “Alex.”
He thrust. Again. Then again. His movements were rough and callused. Every time he drove into me, his hips ground on mine painfully, like he wanted me to feel how he felt, trapped inside his body, inside his thoughts. I had no illusions about Alex’s nature. He was an addict and a tortured soul, and he wasn’t going to stick around. But this felt like everything I didn’t know I could wish for. This made me settle for ‘For Now’ instead of ‘Forever.’
“Christ,” he muttered, his lips on mine, then on my chin, my ear, back up on my cheek. We were a heap of flesh and limbs. I felt him rattling something inside me, and my womb clenched every time he pushed into me. He grabbed one of my legs and hoisted it over his shoulder, sliding even deeper than before, and I cried out so loud, I was sure every resident in the hotel could hear me.
“It’s so intense.” I sucked in a breath, but that only made him go even harder. He knew what I needed—we always knew what the other needed. That was the tragic thing about us. We were compatible in so many ways—and used ourselves as weapons against each other.
“I’m going to come.” My body was quivering from the inside. Goose bumps crawled over my skin as tiny, steady hot waves of pleasure began to wash through me, head to toe. “I’m coming…”
I threw my head back and shuddered in his arms, feeling like a lit match.
“Fuck, if we don’t change position, I’ll come, too,” he growled, flipping me over on my knees and driving into me again.
“Ohhhh…” My mouth dropped open in pleasure.
Alex snaked his arm around my waist and started playing with my clit, nibbling on my earlobe. I knew he was going to say something. He took special pleasure in talking into my ear like that when I couldn’t see him. When I was at his mercy.
“Come for me again, Stardust,” he said, fucking me mercilessly, and tears pooled in my eyes. It felt so intimate and promising. And he knew how I’d felt about empty promises. “Come all over my cock like the good, bad girl that you are.”
I came again, falling to the mattress with a thud as he continued driving into me and playing with me at the same time, the overstimulation making me twitch now.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” He drove into me once more, jerking inside me and slapping my ass at the same time as he collapsed over me, his entire weight on my back.
He stayed inside me, little grunts of pleasure escaping his lips, his chest plastered over my back. I wanted to turn around and look at him, but I couldn’t move.
“I should start asking you for rent money if you decide to stay on top of me any longer. You’re not light, Alex,” I grunted softly.
He laughed and slapped my ass playfully again, rolling on the bed, pulling out of me gently.
“You should. I’d pay good money to stay in this position.” He went for the pack of cigarettes on the nightstand, but I put my hand on his arm, stopping him. Our eyes locked.
“We’re sharing a room now. I wanted to tell you earlier, when you lit one up, but I was too busy with the Craig thing. You can smoke on the patio. Not here.”
“Is this a joke?” he said, looking incredulous. It didn’t matter that he paid for the room. I was the one who was going to need to pay for the medical bills when I got cancer from all the secondhand smoke.
“I’d like to believe my sense of humor is better than that,” I replied.
He stood up, still butt naked, and walked to the balcony with his pack of cigarettes. His dong was swinging from side to side, and it would look ridiculous and embarrassing on anyone else, but not on a rock star. No. Alex looked perfectly confident and horrendously cool.
“Wear something!” I called out from the bed, wrapping my chest in a white sheet.
He whirled and walked backward, smoothly opening the giant glass door as he flashed me a wolfish grin, canine teeth galore.
“Why, I’m wearing the most beautiful thing one could wear, darlin’. My smile.”
The problem with the world is when you’re having fun, days seem to stick together into lumps, but when you’re miserable and alone, every day is a year, an island, a padded room you cannot get away from.
Three days had passed since I’d gotten into Indigo Bellamy’s panties. Three days in which I’d made it a point to drive into her in every position, angle, and location in Greater London.
We shagged in the Jacuzzi—twice—taking a shower—three times—in bed—four times—and in a black cab—one time—and I’d had to stuff her face with a Mind The Gap shirt while she was sitting on top of me wearing a long dress. We went sightseeing. We visited my old Clapham neighborhood, and other times we just stayed in our room, fucking or watching reruns of The Mighty Bush and Never Mind the Buzzcocks—both of which she thoroughly enjoyed. Fallon always thought my favorite shows were stupid.
Though, to be completely honest, Fallon was the least of my worries in London. For the first time in years, I actually enjoyed myself. I even answered Blake’s calls, though I did keep it professional and curt. Alfie dropped by our hotel room one day and brought Afghan food, which we all ate on the floor, watching Shaun of the Dead. I couldn’t be mad at the tosser. He literally had the social awareness of a chapstick.
Then, on the fourth day, Indie nudged me. “Your parents. We need to go visit them.”
Right.
I didn’t know what bothered me more. The way she’d included herself in the plan to go and see them—why wouldn’t she, you wanker? She’s your babysitter. It’s strictly business—or the fact she would actually meet my train wreck of a family. I rang my mum up while Indie was in the shower that morning, and, of course, she was delighted with the news.
“I saw you were in the UK in them tabloids, luv. Was wondering whether you were going to ring us or not. I’m glad you did.” She snapped her gum in my ear.
I didn’t dwell on the fact she hadn’t bothered to call me, even though she’d known I was there. As long as I threw money my family’s way every now and again and stayed out of their way, they were all right with my existence. I exhaled loudly and tossed myself on the bed, staring at the chandelier.
“I’m not coming there alone,” I warned. My way of telling her she needed to behave for a change. My parents cheated on each other all the time. It was such an ordinary thing, cheating might not be the word I was looking for. I could count at least six times in which Mum and Dad aired their dirty laundry—literally—in front of the entire neighborhood, on the street. They lived in a semi-detached on a busy Watford road where everybody knew everybody. They loved yelling at each other at the top of their lungs with people gathering at their windowsills and doors, peeking through curtains. If you ever wondered who those people who go on Ricki Lake, Jerry Springer, and Jeremy Kyle are—they were my parents. That’s who. The worst part was they’d cheated on each other with local folks, too, so it was all a big, hot mess of middle-aged people who looked like they’d missed every single dentist appointment ever booked for them.
“Is that the lady friend we’ve been seeing in the papers?” Mum asked, half-laughing like a hyena. What was so funny? Maybe the fact Indie was the exact opposite of Fallon. Tall, curvy, blond Fallon, who looked like a carbon copy of every Victoria’s Secret model from the last five years. Indie had blue hair and funny dresses and enough personality in her scrawny figure to stuff a hundred Fallons.
“Yeah,”
I ground out, narrowing my eyes, “that’s the one.”
“A bit of a funny thing, ain’t she?” I could practically hear my mum filing her pink acrylic nails while she popped her gum, once again.
And this, ladies and gents, was why I chose narcotics over people.
“I expect you to behave when she’s there,” I warned, my voice dripping ice.
“Stop talking like you’re the parent here,” she cried, adding as an afterthought, “I should ask Carly and the wee ones to come on over.”
I loved my sister’s kids. They reminded me of myself with George. They were incredibly smart and perceptive. Dwayne was a little terror, but he had good rhythm and could probably be a great guitarist if he ever got a guitar—he would, I promised myself. And I wouldn’t let him read a book five hundred times before I gave it to him. Chayse was sweet and sensitive, kind of like how I would have been had my parents not dented me so thoroughly. Bentley was a proper comedian, even at the tender age of eight. The only part I didn’t like about this idea was seeing their mother and my sister, Carly.
“Yeah,” I said, anyway, watching Indie walk out of the shower wrapped in a towel only, my lazy gaze following her every movement. “Sure, it’d be great to see her. I’m calling a cab now, so…” Clean up the piglet. “Get ready, aight?”
“Aight.” Mum laughed, then hung up.
“You ready?” Indie smiled at me.
“Never.”
I didn’t know why she’d laughed. It wasn’t supposed to be funny.
Jenna: Indie. What do you want to be when you grow up?
Indie: Thrift-shop owner.
Indie: Why?
Jenna: No reason.
Hudson: Aww, Indie. That’s…random. LOL. Jenna, how’s the baby?
Jenna: Shut up, Hudson.
Indie: Have you talked to Blake yet?
Jenna: No. But he suspects something is up.
Hudson: Why?
Jenna: Because I can’t help but be nice to him. Because I cried the other day when we talked on the phone and he was online shopping for his niece’s birthday.