He trails his fingers over my thighs, all the way under my skirt and so, so close, but not quite where they need to be. He whispers in my ear, “I want to be inside you again.” But he mentions nothing about his promise to tell me what he’s keeping from me.
My body is at war with my heart. His hands feel so good. His breath feels so good. Hell, his words feel so good, so perfect, so easy.
He wants me. Maybe this is the only way he'll ever want me. Maybe this is as good as it's ever going to get.
But I made a stand, and I have to stick to it. No matter how badly my body is screaming, begging my brain to take a hike for the rest of the evening, I can't give in. Not unless Miles actually tells me what’s going on.
He trails his tongue over my earlobe. He slides his hand under the fabric of my top. All that heat rushes through me. I can't bear to ask him to stop. I can't even bear to admit I might need to ask him to stop.
So I close my eyes, and I surrender to his hands on my body, his lips on my neck. The wind rushes through the windows, covering the groans escaping my lips.
The car stops, and I open my eyes. Dammit. We're parked outside my apartment. No more of this. We have to step back into the ugly world, and I have to demand an explanation.
I'm tempted to ask him to go to Malibu. The extra thirty minutes would buy me so much time with his mouth and his hands. But I can't put this off any longer, no matter how good it would feel.
Miles pays the cabbie and escorts me to my room. The elevator feels tiny. The hallway feels tinier. The key is slippery in my hands, and my legs have never felt more wobbly.
We step inside my apartment. Miles presses the door closed behind me. He takes my hands, pulls them over my head, and pins me to the door.
His body is heavy against mine. He takes a strained breath and slides his lips over mine. It's fast and needy. For a second, I almost believe it's more than sex to him, that it really means something.
Miles tugs at my skirt. He yanks the zipper down and shoves the fabric to my knees. His hands slide up my thighs. No teasing this time. He strokes my clit.
He whispers in my ear. "I need you."
This is how he needs me.
This is the only way he needs me.
He nips my ear. He tugs at my top and pulls it off my arms.
I'm pressed against the door, almost naked, and he's still wearing all his clothes. Still holding all the cards.
I shove him off, fumble to my bed, and cover myself with a sheet. "You promised to talk to me."
My body is screaming at my head. You could have waited fifteen little minutes. After all the things I do for you, the torture you put me through with the long days and the caffeine. You're ungrateful.
"Megan."
"It's Meg," I say. "Not Megan. It's right on my driver's license. My name is Megara. And, no, it's not from the Disney movie. It's a mythology thing."
"You have a driver's license?"
"Yeah."
"You never drive."
"Not really the point."
"Tom is running his mouth off about nothing."
"So tell me anyway," I say.
"It's not worth discussing."
"I'm not playing this game. You can tell me or you can leave."
He runs a hand through his hair. "There was some drama in the band. I was in a bad place, fucked some shit up, got through it. That's it. Nothing more."
Yeah, that was some detailed explanation. I bite my lip. "Tell me or leave."
"Meg...this isn't supposed to be complicated."
"You're the one making it complicated. All I want is honesty. If you can't do that, fine, but then I'm not going to pretend we're friends."
"I can't talk about this."
"Then leave!"
He takes a step towards the bed. "Wouldn't you rather I leave after?"
"No." I pull the sheet tighter. "I'm not in the mood anymore." No matter how much my body objects.
"This is supposed to be fun."
"Yeah, well it's not fun for me anymore." I stand and press my palm flat against his chest. "If you're not going to tell me then fucking leave."
"Meg..."
"Now."
He holds my gaze for a moment. There's something in his eyes—that same hurt I saw earlier—but he blinks and it's gone.
I blink, the door slams shut, and he's gone.
My heart sinks. Everything in my body wants to give out, wants to curl into a tiny little ball and cry. But there's no way I'm crying over Miles. Not in a million years.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Routine washes away any hint of Miles. I go to class. I go to work. I go to Kara's on Sunday and try to avoid any topic related to men or music—especially men who make music.
The goal proves impossible. She turns twenty-one at the end of October, and she's throwing a birthday- slash- Halloween- slash- week-before-midterms party at the Sinful Mansion in Hollywood. I consider calling Drew and begging him to take over my duties as best friend.
The next two weeks are miserable. Sinful Serenade launches their new single—the song about me—and it's everywhere. I can't listen to “Loveline” without hearing it once an hour. Hell, I can't step into the mall, walk past a café, or even pick up a snack at the grocery store. He's there in my ears, my head, and my heart.
Every time I hear the song, I check my phone, but that's the one place he isn't. There's nothing from Miles. Not a peep, not an apology, not even a plea for me to cash in some of those benefits.
He got what he wanted out of me. He has a new song. I'm sure he has a new plaything. He probably doesn't think about me at all.
I mean nothing to him.
***
It's the Friday before Halloween, the day before Kara's big party. Like I am every Friday, I'm dead tired. About ready to clock out and go home.
A teenage girl is rushed into the ER. She's unconscious, barely breathing. Her lips are blue. She's thin, like she's about to break, and her arms are covered in track marks. One is fresh.
Her mother is at her side with this clueless look on her face. The girl is covered in needle marks, and most of them are old. How the hell did Mom miss that?
The girl is dying. Doctor Anderson, the doctor I scribe for, pushes me out of the way.
"Take five, Meg."
But I stand there. I watch the doctors and nurses attend to her.
I know how this goes. The paramedics should’ve given her Naloxone. It's supposed to counter the opiates in heroin. It's supposed to restart her heart and her breathing.
The sounds around me swirl together until it's this awful mix of orders, air conditioning, squeaking rubber soles on the tile floor, and the erratic beep of the heart rate monitor as the girl's pulse faces away. Nothing they're doing is working. This girl is too far gone. There's nothing anyone can do.
Just like Rosie.
I hide out in the one of the single-stall bathrooms, trying, and failing, to will myself to go home. I can't sit in my bed alone. All I'll feel is her absence. We used to live together in a two-bedroom place in the same building. The super was understanding when she died—helped me move all my stuff into a studio and offered a discounted rent.
I miss my big sister so much. She was so good at all the things I barely understood. She’d know what to do about Miles. She'd take me out, get me drunk, and send me home with the perfect guy to wipe my memory clean. Then, she'd take me to brunch, stuff me with pancakes, and squeal over me finally growing up.
She had me fooled. She seemed okay for so long. She'd look me in the eyes and smile, and I'd feel it in my gut—everything had to be okay if my sister could smile like that. Even as she lied to my face, even though I knew better, I believed it was okay. She'd never lied to me before, not like that.
I call Kara. I've kept all my grief to myself for so long. I want to go to her place and cry my heart out. It's stupid I didn't do it sooner. Her dad died when she was in high school. She knows how this feels, knows enough to drag me out for my o
wn good, knows enough not to press for details.
This is too much to take on my own. Everything is too much to take on my own.
Damn. Voicemail. I call again. Voicemail again. One more try.
"Hey, Kara, just wanted to say hey...text me tomorrow." I end the call and wrap my fingers around the smooth plastic of my phone.
I need to feel something else, something beyond how much I miss my sister. There's no one else to call. None of my other friends would understand. My parents certainly don't understand. There's no one who knows what this feels like.
No one except Miles.
He's probably busy. He's not even going to answer his phone. And just because he does...it's not like we need to talk. It can be sex, only sex...It's all I need from him.
I call him. He answers after one ring.
"It's been a while." His voice is steady, giving nothing away.
"Come over."
"I thought we were nothing," he says.
"Come over anyway."
"I don't to hurt you, Meg. And I really don't want another case of blue balls."
"It was your choice to leave."
"And it was your choice to demand more than what we agreed upon. So stick with that." He snaps. Angry.
I'm causing a reaction. I'm making him angry. That shouldn't feel like something, but, dammit, it does.
I take a deep breath. "I am. We're not friends anymore, but there's no reason why we can't be something with benefits. Unless you didn't enjoy that."
His interest piques. "I did."
"I'm leaving work. I'd like to spend the night with you, but if you're not up for the challenge...I understand."
He laughs. "You'll have to try harder if you want to bait me."
"I'm fucking someone tonight. I just hope it's you."
I end the call.
My heart is pounding against my chest. I've never been great at bluffing. I'm sure he saw right through me, but maybe he'll still come.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Miles is leaning against my door when I arrive. There's something so effortless about it, like he just rolled out of bed. Like he teleported here.
I didn't think this out. I'm in my scrubs, hair in a messy ponytail, face caked with sweat.
But he still looks at me like I'm a cool glass of water and he's wandering through the desert.
"Hey," he says. He wraps his arms around me, pulling my bag off my shoulders. "Keys?"
I point to the front pocket of my purse. Miles unlocks the door and leads me inside.
I tug at the zipper of my hoodie and shrug it off my shoulders. "You want something to drink?"
"Whatever you're having."
"Do you drink?"
"Drink what?" He sets my bag on the counter.
"Alcohol."
"There's never been any alcohol in your fridge."
"There was none at your uncle's place either."
"Are you sure about that?"
"Not in the fridge or any of the cabinets." I look at the available beverages. It's green tea, water, or grapefruit juice. I pour two glasses of juice and hand one to Miles.
"Thanks." He takes a sip and sets the glass on the counter. It's a delicate movement. Careful.
"Do you?" I ask.
"No," he says. "You don't either."
"Why not?"
"You'd have to tell me." His voice bounces back. That sarcastic shield again.
"Why don't you drink?"
"I don't like the person it makes me." He moves into the kitchen. His eyes find mine. "You want to tell me what's bothering you?"
"No." I shift my elbow so it's between us, so it's keeping him at a distance. "We're not friends, remember?"
"And I'm not your shiny distraction. Remember?"
I roll my eyes. "Fine. But I'm still not talking about it." I down my juice in one long gulp and place my cup in the sink. "I'm going to shower first."
"What makes you sure there will be a second?"
"If you're going to leave, lock the door behind you. Okay?" I turn so I don't see his expression. Whatever it is, it has the power to crush me, and I'm already dangerously close to crumbling into a million little pieces.
I slip out of my shirt and pants, leaving them on the floor outside the door. Miles grunts, some low grunt of approval. Maybe his body is fighting with his heart. Maybe his body is fighting with his better judgment.
It doesn't matter to me, not as long as his body will be mine again.
The warm water feels better than I expected. It's been a long week. My muscles are tense and tight, and they're begging for some kind of release. I take my time with soap, shampoo, conditioner. It feels so cold when I step out of the shower, even after I wrap myself in a towel.
Miles is sitting on the bed in his boxers. Only his boxers. A rush of want passes through me. I hug my towel to my chest, but I still feel so exposed. He was right last time. This relationship is supposed to feel easy. It's supposed to be a pleasant distraction.
But it's not. He sees through me. He sees everything I hide from everyone else.
His pupils dilate. "You've turned my cock against me."
"Have I?"
He nods. "It's agony doing anything besides tearing that towel off your body."
I drop the towel. His tongue slides over his lips, and his fingers dig into the comforter, but he doesn't move.
"You're killing me here," he says.
I sit on the bed next to him. "You're killing yourself."
"I'm not doing this. Not with you so miserable."
"Then don't. But you're the one turning your cock against you. He and I have the same idea for how this should go."
He nods and nuzzles his head into the crook of my neck. His breath sends shivers down my spine. I bite my tongue to keep from begging.
"Lay with me." He runs his fingertips over my shoulders.
I melt into his touch. Whatever he wants, I want him doing it to me.
He pulls me onto the bed. His chest is pressed against my back, his crotch against my ass. He pulls the comforter over me and slides his arm under it.
He pulls me closer, his palm flat against my stomach. His heartbeat pounds against my back, his breath warms my neck.
My eyes flutter closed. This is the opposite of easy or casual. Miles is pressed against me. His voice is soft and sweet, and his touch is delicate. This is more than sex. It must be.
I push my thoughts aside. I invited Miles over precisely because I wanted to avoid thinking.
His lips brush my neck. He drags his fingertips over my hips like he's doodling lyrics on a piece of paper.
My racing heart slows. One by one, my muscles relax. I'm a puddle again, melting into him.
The world disappears. It's nothing but us in this bed, our bodies perfectly tangled.
"You sure you don't want to talk about it?" His voice is soft and sweet. It's like he cares, like he's the sensitive Miles who sings all those songs.
I shake my head.
"You might as well," he says. "Since you're not going to get laid."
I let out a growl.
He laughs and pulls me closer. "We can have a fucking conversation without it meaning anything."
I shift, pressing my ass against his crotch. But, still, I can't manage to cause a reaction. "So, not only do you get to keep all your secrets, you get to have mine, too?"
"It's not a competition."
"Fine, Miles. I'll tell you why I'm upset, but only because...because you'll realize that this is never going to happen, not the way you're going about it."
He rubs my shoulder.
"There was a patient today. A teenage girl. She overdosed on something...heroin, I think." I take a deep breath. "Her mom was with her, screaming, but completely clueless. She had no idea her daughter was a drug addict. There were track marks all over the girl's arms and legs, but Mom had no idea."
"I'm sorry."
"Rosie was the most important person in my life. She was my best friend, and we n
ever lied to each other. That's what our parents did to us. They would lie right to our faces. When my cousin ran off and joined the army, they pretended it wasn’t because of a fight with his parents. When my mom lost her job at the hospital, they told me she decided to quit. She was miserable every day she was unemployed, but she said it was fine. Every time anything went wrong, they pretended like it was nothing, like everything was fine. Rosie was older. She’d dealt with it longer, and she saw through it before I did. So she made me swear that we’d never bullshit each other like that. "
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." I bite my tongue. "And it worked. We got into so many fights over our honesty, but we always made up. When she graduated, everything started going wrong. She said she wanted to take a gap year. It that was a lie. An obvious lie I should’ve called her on. She bombed her MCATS. It was the first time she failed at anything, and she was miserable about it. Miserable with this big, happy, everything is okay face. I'm sure she thought she was helping me—all I did that semester was go to class and study for my MCATS—but it didn't help. It was just the first lie to drive us apart."
"It's not your fault, Meg. That's what drugs do to people. They get them wrapped up in all this bullshit."
I don't bother to wonder how Miles came across this wisdom. It's not like he’d tell me. "But that's the thing. It wasn't drugs at first. It was a test. Then it was her future. She gave up. She came home smelling like vodka, insisting she’d only had one drink. Then she started dating Jared and acting secretive, and she insisted it was nothing."
Miles takes a sharp breath.
"It broke my heart when she died."
"I know." He runs his fingertips over my arm. "I'm sorry."
I swallow hard. "That's why I can't do this with you. Not if you're going to hide something from me."
His breath is low, desperate. "If you knew the whole story, you'd kick me out again."
"That's not true." I dig my nails into my wrist. It's a tiny burst of pain, but it reminds me that I'm here, that I'm still breathing. "But it's okay. You don't trust me with that part of you...whatever it is. You don't trust me, so this...whatever this is...is all we're ever going to be."
He runs a hand through my hair. "I'm almost sorry for that."
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