He pulls my bra out of the way, exposing my breasts. He groans, sinking his teeth into my neck again. I gasp, focusing on this moment. I push away everything that’s been weighing me down until I'm so light I'm floating. This is my chance to feel good.
This is my chance to be his.
To have him be mine.
I make another move for his back, but his hands are on my wrists almost instantly.
He pins me to the wall again. I arch my back. I rock my hips into his. His erection is pressed against my stomach, and I want more of it. I want to feel him in my hands, my mouth, my sex.
He draws circles around my nipples. I moan. The pressure is already building inside me. I already need him so badly. He's the only thing that can free me.
"Miles, please."
"Mhmmm."
Every part of my body is begging for his touch, but his hands feel so good on my breasts. I'm an instrument, and I'm tuned to perfection. I lose track of everything but the pleasure. His touch is so light I can barely feel it, but somehow that makes it more intense. Pleasure shoots through my body. I bite my lip. I rock my crotch into his.
"Please," I groan.
He slides one hand between my legs. Slowly, his fingertips skim my thigh. Then they're on me.
He lets out a low moan. "You're so fucking wet."
He brings his lips back to mine. His kiss is intense, but steady. He strokes me again and again, still over my panties. I moan. I shake. I suck on his lips.
But he doesn't relent. He runs his fingers over me, pressing the fabric into me. My sex pangs. Almost. His hands aren't on my skin, but I'm almost there. Almost.
I groan into his mouth, kissing him harder. I rock my hips to match his motions. Pleasure pools inside me. Almost. Yes, almost.
He rubs my nipple with his thumb. The flesh of his finger is so soft, and I can't do anything except moan and kiss him harder.
The pressure inside me builds. It's so much, so intense. I break away from his kiss to cry out. "Miles," I groan.
An orgasm rushes through me. It's only good, only pleasure. I close my eyes and hold onto it as long as I can. My body is warm, relaxed, free.
My arms fall to my sides. He unhooks my bra and tosses it aside. Then it's my new dress. It's a heap on the floor.
His eyes find mine. They're heavy with lust like he's lost in this, too. Like he needs this as much as I do.
Somewhere deep inside, he hurts, and for the next few minutes, I'll be the one to wipe it away.
I pull his shirt over his head and explore his body with my hands. He's so hard everywhere, and his skin feels so good. He undoes his jeans and kicks them to the floor. His boxers go with them.
He's naked. He's naked, and for now, he's mine.
Miles slides his hand under my thigh and wraps my leg around his waist. "I've never tried this before."
"You say that to all the girls you pin against the wall."
"No." He presses his lips against my neck. "Only you."
He takes my other thigh and wraps that leg around his waist. I'm airborne. I squeeze him with my thighs. I hug his shoulders.
His hands slide to my ass, and he lifts me so my sex is hovering over his cock. He lowers me onto him. His tip enters me, and I groan.
He enters me, and the world clicks into place. Hard to believe I ever felt anything but bliss. Hard to believe I could belong anywhere but pressed against Miles.
He holds onto my ass and thrusts into me. He's deep already, and he feels so good already. I hold him as tightly as I can, and I surrender to the ride. I press my back and head against the wall to give him leverage, and he thrusts deeper. Deeper.
His nails dig into my ass. He sinks his teeth into my lips.
He groans against my mouth, holding me tighter.
"Harder," I say. I need more of him. I need all of him.
He moves harder, deeper. So deep it hurts, but the hurt feels so damn good. I close my eyes and rock my hips to meet him. I bite my lip. I turn my head, offering him my neck.
He runs his lips against my skin. Then it's his teeth. He bites me hard, like he's marking me, like he feels so good he can't help it.
I hug his shoulders. "Harder."
His grip around my hips tightens. He pins me to the wall and he fucks me. No illusions of making love—it's hard, and fast, and deep. It's two people who hurt finding some way to feel good.
I close my eyes, soaking in every bit of pleasure and pain.
Almost. Almost. Almost. The knot inside me builds until I can't take it anymore. An orgasm rushes through me. It's fast and intense, and I have to scream to contain it.
He keeps thrusting into me. His breath is strained. He grunts, lost in the sensation. It hurts, but the tension is back in my body. I'm almost there again.
I groan.
He slams my hips into the wall.
One more thrust and all that tension releases inside me. I gasp, clawing at his back, screaming his name over and over again.
He holds me steady, rocking into me as I come. His breath gets heavier. His eyelids press together. He sinks his teeth into my neck again.
His nails sink into my skin. He pins me to the wall. I can feel his cock pulsing inside me as he comes.
He holds me for a moment then unwraps my legs and sets my feet on the ground.
For a minute, everything is right. We kiss desperately, slowly, like we mean it. Then the kiss breaks and he steps back. He dresses. I dress. There's this shift in the mood. Neither one of us wants to discuss what happened.
I roll my suitcase to the door.
"You ready to go back to L.A.?" he asks.
I shake my head. "No. There's somewhere else I want to go."
"Where?"
"To visit Rosie."
***
The grass is dry. There's no danger of slipping in my old sneakers. I squeeze Miles's hand and make my way to my sister's grave. Just left of the center line, sandwiched between a beloved grandmother and another girl who died way too young.
My hands are empty. No flowers, no trinkets, nothing to offer her. It's silly. I know she isn't here, that her spirit is off in some other plane of existence. But I can almost feel her. She would’ve hated it here, so dull and drab and totally average.
I sit, cross-legged, on the ground, no concern for the grass stains that might form on my dress. Miles kneels behind me. He wraps his arms around me and leans in close.
"Do you want some time alone?" he asks.
I shake my head. "I've been alone with this for too long."
His posture hardens.
"It don't mean it like that, Miles. Just that...you know how this feels. You know how it hurts for so long, then one day you wake up and it doesn't hurt quite so much anymore, and you're not sure how you're supposed to deal with that." I bite my tongue. That's more than I want to share with Miles.
He knows everything in my heart, and I know almost nothing in his. What's one more thing to unbalance the equation?
"Yeah." He shifts, melting into me. "I know you've been hurting a long time and—"
"If you're going to make this about our non-relationship then you can wait in the car." I turn away from him, directing my attention back to the tombstone. "Rosie would’ve warned me about you."
"That right?"
"Absolutely." I play with a blade of grass. My shoulders tense. I roll them back and take a deep breath. It's a little easier. A little softer.
The last few months have been difficult between school and work and Miles making me lose track of which way is up and which way is down. But it doesn't hurt as much anymore. It's a dull ache instead of a crushing pain.
"I'm sorry," I say to someone, maybe Rosie, maybe myself. "I wish I'd stopped running sooner. I should never have let you get away with so many lies. But I understand now, how it starts, one lie, one temptation, and then it snowballs into something you can't control." I press my hand against the tombstone, tracing the letters in her name. "I'm sorry. And I love you, and
I miss you, and mostly, I forgive you."
My exhale is long and deep. It's like there isn't an ounce of oxygen left in my body. I forgive my sister for lying to me. I forgive my parents for trying to cope. I forgive myself for missing all the signs she was drowning.
The muscles of my back relax. I'm a puddle again, taking shape around Miles. He holds my closely, the way he would if he really loved me. We stay in silence for a few minutes, then I push myself to my feet and walk back to the car in silence.
He steps behind me, running his fingers over my neck. "Hey."
"Hey."
"Look at me."
I turn so we're eye to eye.
"We still have those same terms—no lies?"
"Yeah."
His expression gets serious. "I have to ask you something."
Miles is reminding me about honesty? That's rich, but fine, I'll entertain him. "What?"
"Do you have feelings for me?"
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Do I have feelings for Miles? A few come to mind—irritation, anger, disappointment. But that's not his question. The real question is whether I love him.
It's hard to breathe again. I can't love Miles. He doesn't trust me or respect me. He's frustrating and secretive and never, ever direct.
I inhale sharply through my nose, breaking up the tension in my throat. He plays everything casual. I can do the same.
"Mostly anger. Some irritation and frustration," I say. "That what you mean?"
"You know what I'm asking."
He's staring at me, through me. It's enough to tear me in half. I look to the ground so I don't crumble. Yes, of course I know what he's asking. But I'm not going to answer that question.
I meet his gaze. "You know enough about my feelings."
"Meg."
"I know where we stand," I say. "Friends who have sex. Nothing more, nothing less."
He studies my expression. Finally, he releases my gaze and gets into the car.
I follow suit.
There's something different about his posture, something serious. I blink and it's gone. He's back to that old Miles, the playful one who lives to tease me.
"I'm falling behind on breaking my orgasm records," he says. "Want to change that this weekend?"
There. The Miles I understand. I nod. "My place or yours?"
"Malibu is too far. I'm taking you to Hollywood." He turns on the car. "There are a few places I want to mark as ours."
***
Tom fixes his gaze on me, eyebrows raised. He's the picture of concern.
Miles pushes the door shut. Shoots a passive aggressive nod in Tom's direction. "Nice to see you too."
"A minute, Miles," Tom says.
"Later, I have to put Meg to bed. She's very tired."
"No. Now." He offers me an apologetic glance. "We need a little privacy."
"Don't ask my guest to acquiesce to your bullshit."
"You don't want to have this conversation in front of her," Tom says.
"Then it can wait until Monday when Pete and Drew are back," Miles says.
"I've already discussed this with them." Tom folds his arms. "We're in agreement on how to proceed."
The smile drops off Miles's face. He's not having fun anymore, not playing around. He drops my hand and moves to the kitchen. The fridge door pulls open and slams shut, and Miles reappears. He hands me a can of green tea.
His voice drops. "Give us a minute."
Tom relaxes. He offers me another apologetic look. "We have cable. Any channel you want. Even the dirty ones."
"I'm good, thanks." The mental image of Tom watching porn on the couch is burned into my brain. Fantastic.
I plop down on the couch. Miles avoids my gaze. His hands are clenched, and his jaw is tight.
"My room or yours?" Tom asks.
"Yours."
They move up the stairs with heavy footsteps. Not a fun conversation, I take it. Probably about me. About that secret Tom wouldn't spill and how it spells trouble for my torrid relationship with Miles.
I bite my lip. How can this be so damn important? Tension builds between my shoulder blades. Whatever it is, I have to know.
I down my can of tea and creep up the stairs. Light footsteps, but they still sound so fucking loud. All the doors in the hallway are closed, but there's sound coming from one of them. Must be Tom's room.
"It's casual. She understands that," Miles says.
"You just spent Thanksgiving with her."
"So?"
"Then you bring her here for the rest of the weekend." Tom sighs. "How is that casual?"
"Sorry you can't wrap your brain around hanging out with a girl after you've fucked her. I understand though. Not like any girl ever gave you the chance."
"Get off it, asshole. At least I'm honest—one night, no strings attached."
Someone pushes against the door, and I shrink backwards. There's nowhere to hide, so I press myself against the wall.
There's no movement from the door. No one is leaving.
Miles starts. "I've got it under control, okay. No spinning out, no relapsing, nothing. I'm as clean as...well, clean isn't your strong suit, so I can't find the perfect metaphor."
"You remember what happened last time you lost someone you cared about?"
"That was my uncle. Not some girl."
My heart thuds against my chest. My mind reels, trying to piece this together to come up with a proper response. I'm not some girl. No way Miles really thinks that.
"She deserves to know what she's dealing with," Tom says.
"There's no dealing. I've been fine for the last fucking year."
"Yeah? What about after that girl in Detroit?"
"What about her?" Miles snaps.
"Found you face down on your bed next to a half-empty bottle of vodka. Was that doing well?"
"One tiny relapse one month out. She threatened to kill herself. That's a sensitive issue for me."
"And what if Meg threatens to kill herself because she's so madly in love with you and she can't live without you?"
Relapse. Vodka. The words rattle around my brain. Miles could be an alcoholic. But he's so casual about not drinking, and after what I said about Rosie...how much watching that hurt, how much I can't stand being around drugs...he would’ve told me.
That can't be right.
"Meg isn't like that," Miles says. "She doesn't even drink."
Tom makes that harrumph sound that usually means yeah right. "What happened to that deal—you take a year away from all the bullshit to stay clean before you even think about dating?"
"We aren't dating."
"You met her fucking parents! Does she even know you're a drug addict?"
"Recovering addict."
My stomach drops. Miles. Is. A. Drug. Addict. Recovering, sure, but still a drug addict. And he didn't fucking tell me.
"I'm not going through this again. When she flips and you flip and start trashing the place and I have to throw out every single ounce of liquor then search your room to see if you're hiding any. Then harass every person who comes through the doors to see if they're carrying. I’m not going to spend my nights wondering if you’re in some hotel room choking on your own vomit. I'm not going on tour with you in that self-destructive bullshit state. Period."
"I won't."
"You want to be another ‘Rock Star Dies of a Drug Overdose’ tabloid headline?”
Their fight is so loud, but I can barely comprehend it. That same sentence keeps running through my brain. Miles is a recovering drug addict.
It's a lie of omission.
That night in Malibu, I was crying about my sister, and he said nothing.
The next day, I asked if there was anything I needed to know, and he said nothing.
He had a million chances to tell me, and every time, he said nothing.
My legs wobble. I hit the floor with a thud. Shit. There's a loud noise. The door pulls open and Tom steps into the hall.
He offers his
hand. "You hear everything?"
I nod. "I need to go home now."
Miles steps out. His face is filled with dread. It's an expression I've never seen on him before. Regret, anguish, something like that.
Maybe he's actually sorry.
"Wait." Miles reaches for me.
"Wait? What for? I'm 'some girl' and this is all casual. What does it matter to you if I leave?"
"Meg..."
"Don't ‘Meg’ me. We had one rule, and you broke it." I push myself to my feet and take a step back.
They're both staring at me, nervous, like I'm that girl in Detroit who threatened to kill herself.
I could promise my mental fortitude, but screw that, Miles deserves to worry. He deserves the same sinking feeling in his stomach that's in mine.
"Fuck you both," I say. "Don't call me again. And don't write any more songs about me!"
I don't wait for an explanation. There isn't one coming. I turn and rush down the stairs.
Someone runs after me. Maybe it's Miles. Maybe it's Tom. But I don't care. My suitcase is in his car.
Screw the suitcase.
I rush down the stairs, grab my purse, and get the hell out of there.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The bus takes forever. All I want to do is scream, but I'm surrounded by strangers. Screaming would get me a quick trip to the police station or maybe the psych ward at the hospital.
I get off two stops early and walk to my apartment. It's dark. There are barely any lights on the streets here. There’s nothing around me to keep my attention off that asshole, so I jam my headphones into my ears and listen to anything besides rock music.
It's cold as hell, but I feel hot all over. It's like my blood is really boiling. I knew there was bullshit to everything Miles said, but to listen to my story about Rosie and tell me I can talk to him, that I can trust him...
He's so full of it.
I'm too pissed to take the elevator. I storm the stairs to my apartment, key in hand. The hallway is too small, too cramped.
There he is, leaning against my door, still the picture of cool and contained—Miles, in his leather jacket, his hands in his pockets.
"Get out of my way," I say.
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