Strung Out (Needles and Pins #1)

by Lyrica Creed

  Her eyes fixated on the screen, and he curled his grip around the remote in case she wanted the channel switched away from what she was seeing. The thirty-second preview soon faded to the show they had been watching, and he let the clicker fall again.

  His fingertips skimmed her hair. For the fiftieth time, he studied the unnatural shade and realized how stupid he’d been to blow the cover she’d so carefully created. “I thought you just decided to go red.” Hell, in his defense, women changed hair colors like shoes… “But it’s to help you stay down?”

  “Yeah. These eyes when combined with that weird blondish-brown hair color make it impossible for me to hide.” She was still lying down, and she crossed her bare ankles. “You missed my raven years.”

  “I’m glad. Can’t picture you with black hair.” He sifted the tresses through his fingers and looked up from her sexy manicured toes—toes he had the sudden urge to run his tongue over. “Red though… You look good in red.”

  His fingertips slipped to her chin, and his callused thumb ran over the softness of her lips. Her lashes flickered in initial surprise and then her eyelids seemed to fall instinctively closed.

  “Is it hard for you? The twentieth coming up?”

  As well as Scarlette coming of trust fund age, the press had been gearing up for the twentieth anniversary of Tyler Conterra’s death. Books, documentaries, new ‘never before released’ footage and pictures. The event was only a couple of weeks away. And she was in L.A. looking for her friend instead of safe from the media on an island in Seychelles or somewhere equally as desolate.

  He wasn’t speaking only of the hype surrounding the upcoming date, and he knew she wasn’t either when her reply was a whisper.

  “A little.”

  Gage had still officially been her stepbrother during the tenth anniversary of her father’s death. The frenzy had escalated. Paps were stalking her, even outside her school, and Tyler Conterra was a constant name on any media source. One evening when flipping channels had landed on her father’s picture, he had turned the television off and turned to her with the same question. “Is it hard for you, Scar?” She had ended up sniffling on his shoulder and admitting her confusion at mourning for a man of whom she had no memory.

  “It’s such a fucked up world sometimes.” His whisper was empathetic, and of its own accord, one of his jean encased legs moved until it covered her lightly tanned ones.

  She remained quiet, her eyes on the television screen. Continuing to hold her closely, he felt around for the remote to return the volume to normal.

  “I don’t know what to think anymore.”

  His fingers paused without pressing the buttons on the device. “About what?”

  “Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I didn’t see Ivy.”

  He reached for her hand and twined their fingers together.

  “Where could she be?” She squeezed his hand and didn’t let up.

  “We’ll find her.” But he wasn’t so sure any more. All he knew was that he would continue looking forever, if that’s what she wanted.

  “Can I have some of that?” Releasing her grip, she gestured across the room.

  His eyes followed hers a level down to the chair and tiny table beside it where he’d unobtrusively set up his extracurricular post.

  “Stop looking at me like that! I’ve had it before.”

  He hadn’t realized he was staring at her until she called him out on it. “No, Scar. You haven’t had that. I’m pretty sure.” He glanced behind them at the bar. “What about a shot or two of Petrón?”

  “What is it?”

  He knew she wasn’t questioning the liquor and rolled off their nest to avoid the answer. Selecting two shot glasses and the tequila bottle from the array of shelved alcohol, he returned.

  “It’s not blow?” she persisted.

  “You’ve done coke?” In desperation, he turned her inquiry around on her, mimicking her critical tone. In actuality, he felt disturbed at the possibility instead of condemning. She was so far above him. He had dug his holes deep and she was forever peering over the edge of his pathetic pit.

  “Yeah, a few times. It’s all around campus.” She accepted a filled shot glass from him. “If that’s not coke, what is it, Gage? Is it K?”

  Two opposite entities waged a split-second war. He wanted shamefully to evade her gaze. Instead, he searched her face for answers, and in doing so, encountered her knowing look when she read his eyes. Her repulsion revealed what she thought of snorting horse tranquilizer, and he let out a relieved breath. He could handle her disappointment in him if it meant she’d never fallen into his same horrible holes.

  Clinking her glass with his, he quirked his mouth in a semblance of a grin and ignored her inquiry. “To being the lucky ones, Scar.”

  But the only thing that felt lucky right now was her sitting cross-legged beside him.

  Chapter 21

  Shifting, Scarla burrowed closer to the enveloping warmth, breathed in a heady comforting scent, and continued to drift in and out from dozing to sleeping hard.

  It may have been years since she’d last rested this well.

  Warm breath fanned stray hairs around her brows, and a protective weight rested on her legs and waist.

  Two things hit her at once. The first was an understanding of exactly what her groggy senses were taking in. The second was the fact of a man in the same bed—draped all over her no less—was not creating an automatic panic reaction. Not even when she had a serious boyfriend had she let a man stay all night in her bed.

  She opened her eyes to Gage’s vintage Dark Side of the Moon tee. They still lay on the giant lounge cushion. Similar to the morning in his bedroom after his overdose, the room was gray except for the flickering of the television. But this wasn’t his bedroom. They’d fallen asleep in the theater room watching Guardians of the Galaxy, and he was still very much asleep.

  His phone buzzed. The vibration was slightly louder than normal because it rested on the bar above their heads, and she realized the sound had likely roused her.

  Closing her eyes, she let herself enjoy the moment for a while longer. That was the scenario the next few times she woke—each time to the buzz of his phone. Utter bliss and back to sleep. Then when she couldn’t fall back asleep, she did crazy stuff. Like letting her fingers trace over his wrist; moving her face closer so that her lips touched the warmth of his tee shirt; brushing his socked foot with her bare foot.

  He’d grown thinner during the time she’d been here. Her fingers curved over a bicep, still iron hard, but too lean. Was this normal? He’d come off tour in the few months before she arrived. She knew celebrities had dual personalities. But what about physically? Was Gage also physically one person in the spotlight and another out of it?

  She curled her grip into the hot muscle. He was dead to the world. She could probably do more―like comb her fingers through that long thick rocker hair or drag her fingertips across the stubble on his jaw. But she eased out of his embrace.

  Unwilling to leave completely, she held her bathroom urge and listened to his phone, wondering if it was common for him to sleep through this many calls. Anyone who knew him well enough knew he didn’t wake up before noon or so.

  The previous evening drifted through her mind as her gaze roved the shadowy planes of his face, lit only by the random flicking strobes of the silent TV.

  The tray still rested on the table, holding whatever he’d dosed himself up with a time or two throughout their TV watching. She’d been an idiot to ask for some—even if it had turned out to be only coke. She had only had a couple of bumps ever, but she’d felt out of sorts last night. And Gage had refused her, instead of taking the opportunity to party with her. He’d even looked ashamed that she was asking—as if he was humiliated at being a bad influence. What are you putting up your nose, Gage? She knew next to nothing about drugs other than coke, and the few uppers that had passed through her all night study groups.

  The television caught her att
ention when the screen came alive with Gage. A head shot of him behind a media personality. A clip of him onstage. A pan back to the anchorperson. Another video clip of him being herded safely through the midst of a fan craze. Although the venue appeared different, she supposed the newscast was a repeat mention of the concert the other night.

  His noisy phone continually broke the silence and prompted her to look for her own. Spying it not far from his, hidden among the drink tumblers and snack trash on the bar, she stretched for it. It lay right out of her grasp.

  Careful not to knee him, she eased closer and reached again, over him. When he glided a hand up the back of her thigh and curved to the pocket area of her shorts, she let out a startled gasp and caught her balance with a hand on either side of him. In two seconds, both of his hands were over and then under her shirt. His touch skimmed her back and rounded to her front. Since she’d unclasped her bra in the middle of the night to sleep more comfortably, nothing hindered him from claiming a prize in each palm.

  It happened, faster than she could come out of her startled stupor to stop him. And then there seemed no stopping him—not when the combination of his appreciative groan and tingling touch stifled any protests she would have made. In fact, she breathed a groan or two herself. His hands kneading, and his fingers plucking and pinching were heaven—pure and sweet rapturous heaven. Instinct had her wanting to move her knee to the other side of his waist and grind her hips to his, but she finally found her voice.

  “It’s me… Gage! Cut it out, it’s me…”

  “Me who?” His sexy sleep voice was raspy, and his eyes remained closed while he continued to explore. His touch tingled, leaving fiery trails in its wake.

  She rolled from him and wanted to whimper when his hands dragged down the skin of her body and clutched one last time at the denim on her hips before they completely separated.

  His phone screamed for attention again, right when she was about to explain she was trying to retrieve hers. His eyes fluttered open. “Oh. Morning, Scar.”

  But something ambiguous danced in his eyes, and she narrowed her gaze. Sitting up, he reached above him, fetching his phone.

  “Can you throw me mine? Turns out trying to get it myself is risky business.”

  “Ah. You’ve been trying to get to your phone all morning. That explains. Sorry.” He tossed it onto a pillow between them.

  Again, she peered into his face. Had he been awake when she’d practically molested him in his sleep?

  One of his thumbs tapped at his screen, and he put it to his ear. “What the hell, Bill? Fifteen calls? No voicemail or text?”

  Already in desperate need of the restroom, she prepared to scurry away and leave him to the call with his manager, but the tone of his voice stopped her short right before she left the bed.

  “I don’t fuckin’ believe this. Yeah. Yeah, I know. Fuck! I’ll call you later. And thanks, man.”

  “Everything okay?”

  His gaze swung from the ceiling to her face, and the torment in his expression belied his reply. “Sure. We’re the lucky ones. Remember, Scar?”

  Chapter 22

  The app buzzed and Gage squinted at the text before tapping on his phone screen to unlock the gate out front.

  Tripping over the Les Paul he’d treated far more carelessly than it was entitled when he let it slip from his grasp as he dozed on the couch, he oriented himself and crossed the studio. He staggered down the hallway, stopping before the mirror in the entry foyer. After smoothing at stray hairs, he wiped at his eyes but wasn’t surprised when the shadows beneath them didn’t magically disappear. He pulled open the front door.

  “Hey, man.” His neatly groomed personal assistant was reaching for the doorbell and jumped back, clearly startled. After the greeting, he inclined his head toward the fence and high shrubs skirting the property. “You got paps out there.”

  “Yeah?” Although he knew the bend in the drive didn’t allow a view of the gate, Gage instinctively peered beyond him. “Been a while.” The last time more than the random loner with a lens had hung around for any length of time had been during his divorce. Stupidly, he’d never thought he’d go through anything more undesirably newsworthy than that.

  “Yeah. Fuckin’ drones too.”

  At this revelation, Gage wasted no time closing the door between him and any lens hovering far above his hedges.

  “Listen, I heard the news, man. I’m sure sorry.” The guy offered the condolence while following him inside and then froze. “Who’s that?”

  Gage followed the other man’s lustful look down the hall and outside where a pool current drifted the float adorned with Scar’s beautiful bod around the turquoise waters. “No one.”

  “Must be nice to always have a ‘no one’ baking in your pool.”

  The assumption of Scarlette being one of the whores who often flocked by just to tweet, Tumblr, and Instagram themselves in Gage Remington’s pool aggravated him. “Look, I got things going. If you could just…”

  “Yeah. Sure.” His assistant, whose sole daily duty was often drug delivery—and today was one of those days― reached into his pocket. “Want me to fix you up?”

  “No, I’m good.”

  “All right then. Clear Morning. Don’t forget.”

  “Yeah.” Gage acknowledged the stamp on the paper and his understanding of the purity—a purity percentage that had almost killed him when he hadn’t taken the warning seriously the last time.

  He had already authorized the payment through the pay app his dealer used, so he bolted the door behind his assistant and closed a protective hand over the goods.

  Back in his studio, he tucked the packet away inside a drawer for later. He had an incredible urge to join Scarlette in the pool. Instead, he grabbed up the Les Paul and fingered a tune as he watched her float. As he pressed and plucked at the metal strings, he remembered how her nipples had already been taut the moment he’d touched them this morning.

  As if feeling his heated thoughts, she twisted her head to the side. The massive wall of windows was open between them, and she called out. “Who was here?”

  His riff slowed and his mind raced. “Just a friend. Why? Expecting someone?”

  “Colt texted an hour or so ago. Said he and Seth were coming by.”

  Colt had texted him the same thing. But when had he begun texting Scarlette?

  He felt the snarl but couldn’t stop it. “Yeah. Well. Colt says things. Doesn’t always do them.”

  She pushed the sunshades farther up the bridge of her nose and seemed unperturbed about his tone, or whether Colt was arriving. Rolling off the float, she sank under and came up, slinging her head so that her hair sleeked back from her face.

  Holy fuck. All that wet hair. All that wet skin. What would she do if he dove in and banged her animal style against the side of the pool beneath the glare of the California sun?

  His dick throbbed with the thought. Closing his eyes, he let the friction of the guitar against his body and the scream of the music in his ears soothe his wayward thoughts.

  Other unwanted thoughts edged in…

  …”Just tell me Gage.”

  This morning instead of going upstairs, they’d each freshened up in the movie studio bathroom, and she’d followed him to the kitchen where they took turns brewing their coffee. A breakfast casserole waited, but the thought of food turned his stomach. His insides were a coil of nerves because of Ben’s call.

  “I’m being charged with inciting a riot.” There. Blurt that shit out. Easiest way. “And now they’re trying to add a hate crime to the charges.”

  “How did you incite a riot? What is that exactly?”

  The normal Gage who wasn’t her semi-brother would have ignored her. Told her to fuck off if she continued with the questions. But he found himself wanting to tell her. Desperate to get it off his chest.

  “I said some shit at a show. Possibly the stupidest moment of my life—including some of the stupidest that would normally com
e to mind.”

  She’d blown on her coffee, waiting.

  “We’ve come under fire for some lyrics on this last album. I mean we have before. But especially this last one. The very people the songs were written in support of took them wrong. Thought they were meant differently than they were.” Rascal had paced at the window, and he’d paused to push the lever. The glass had glided back until the inside was the outside and the dog rushed out onto the patio and beyond into the foliage. “There was a woman on Twitter. Said her son was bullied at school because he had two moms. I let the publicist handle my account and Fire Flight’s account just to be sure I didn’t screw up. The lyrics were explained to her, and we spoke out against the bullying. But it just got ugly. She wouldn’t let it drop. It became a Twitter war. No longer was it just her. The public rallied to the cause and just as many hate messages and threats came at us and me as support messages.” He’d begun setting up the maker for another cup of coffee. “At that point, I had not personally responded at all. I was faultless unless the misunderstood lyrics were considered. Hours before the last show on the tour, I got served. She filed a lawsuit saying I was responsible for what happened to her son because two of the bullies had cited Fire Flight as their favorite band, and I’d written the lyrics they had commonly quoted when they verbally and physically attacked him.”

  The guilt always assaulted him when he thought of a kid getting beat up and him possibly being the reason. “The thing is, the lyrics are pretty ambiguous. Plenty of people say the same exact words in hateful situations. That’s why I used them as lyrics. It was an awareness of the hate out there. Anyway, I offered to pay the medical bills and then some in sympathy for what he went through, and to come to his school to meet him and speak out against bullying. But she sued for a small fortune and petitioned to have charges filed against me.”

  “But… Fuck, Gage. That can’t happen, right?” Her blue eyes had been as wide and naïve as he had been until this shit played out and became his everyday life.