“What are you doing here?” he hissed. His fingers gripped my chin as the words cut right through the haze of desire.
His kiss had erased all thoughts… all fears… that he was going to send me away. Heck, his kiss erased all of me except what was made to respond to him.
“W-what do you mean?” I whispered huskily. In truth, I barely recognized my own voice at the moment; there was no way he could, right?
Wrong.
Crazy and wrong.
“You think I don’t know it’s you, Baby Blake?” I choked on air.
My heart rocketed out of my chest and then dropped into my stomach.
Oh God. He knew. He knew it was me. What was he going to do? Was he going to send me away? Was he going to tell Ash?
Why was he still pressed against me?
I swallowed painfully and he repeated, “What are you doing here?”
“T-trying to seduce you.” At this point, even lies wouldn’t be able to help me.
The warm breath blowing over my skin from his harsh laugh felt like acid eating away at my exposed heart.
“I told you, I’m not a fucking cradle robber,” he sneered.
“I’m not a child!” I insisted—like a petulant child.
“No?” His thigh shot up higher between my legs, my core pressing uncontrollably against it to relieve the now-burning ache. “Because you have no tits,” he began. And then I felt my left nipple being pinched between his fingers. How did he manage to make pain feel good? “And you sure as shit don’t know what the hell you’re begging for.”
I winced with how much it hurt. But my hips also rocked against his leg because it also made something inside of me feel really, really good.
“Do you even know what you’re doing? Riding my leg like that?” he growled. “Do you even know what you’re searching for?”
Tears began to leak down my face. I hoped that he at least wouldn’t see those.
“N-no,” I answered honestly. “I want you to show me.”
“Jesus Christ,” he swore and I felt him pulling back.
“Please, Zach,” I begged as my hand rose up to the corner of his shoulder and his neck. “Please, I need you—”
“Fuck,” was the word that cut me off and crushed his mouth back onto mine.
His hands found my wrists and pinned them to either side of me. This kiss was deeper. It was anger and resignation all rolled into one. It took. It stole. Too bad everything I had already belonged to him.
A burn that I’d never felt before seared through my body, centering, coiling in that most sensitive part of me that began to move against his leg in a rhythm that I didn’t learn, but I still knew.
“Is this what you want?” he growled into my mouth.
At first, I thought I was easing the pressure, but that was wrong. Like any other drug, it only seemed to make things better until you realized that you were addicted to something—searching for something so much more.
I whimpered like the little girl he thought that I was. There was a knot that was twisting and tightening over and over again and only pressing myself against him promised to release it.
“Is this what you came here for? To fuck my leg, Baby Blake?” he said angrily against my lips, shoving his leg harder between my thighs. “Well, take it. Take whatever it is you want from me.”
I sucked in hard little breaths that never exhaled as the knot tightened stiffer and stiffer.
“Fucking come, Blake,” he demanded of me.
Me.
Not Baby Blake.
Me.
My strangled cry echoed out into the wind that shivered through the trees. I couldn’t breathe as indescribable pleasure washed over me, engulfing everything in its path. I had no words, no thoughts, maybe even no body left—but I was too paralyzed to confirm that; all I knew that it was both too much and not enough all rolled into one.
My very first orgasm consumed me just like every other thing about Zach had—from my bones right down to my soul.
The gentle tapping of raindrops on the tin roof was the first thing that registered—like little knocks of reality on the door of my mind. Then I felt Zach, still pressed up against me, breathing just as raggedly as I was.
“Zach…” I whispered. What did I say now? I had no plan for this.
“You got want you wanted,” he said with a voice that chilled me quicker than the breeze blowing through the window, “now get the fuck out.”
He stepped back what seemed like three feet with just one movement. My legs gave slightly with my full weight unceremoniously dumped back onto them. I reached behind me for the wall before I fell (literally) for him.
“Zach,” my voice broke on his name, just like my heart broke from his tone.
“You have five seconds to get the fuck out before I call your brother,” he warned. “Don’t ever pull this shit again.”
My heart was being ripped apart. I could feel it—the tearing into pieces.
I bit into the soft flesh of my fist to stop myself from sobbing. Grabbing my bra from the floor I quickly snapped it on, the underwire cutting into my boob because it wasn’t seated even remotely right.
I climbed down the ladder, not even registering the rain. Picking up my clothes, I ran back home like I could outrun the pain that I knew was licking at my heels. The spring shower soaked through me and camouflaged my tears. Rapidly wiping my face, I realized that in my fairytale-ending flee, I’d left my charm bracelet in the woods—one more thing I’d mark as ‘lost’ that night. Finding my bed in a blurry mess of agonizing rejection, I climbed under the covers.
Fact: The rainstorm breaking through the sky was no match for the heartache breaking through my heart.
2 Weeks Later—Zach’s Graduation Party
Time passes quickly when your heart isn’t beating.
The past two weeks had flown since the night in the treehouse. My one attempt to corner and talk to him about it had gone about as well as a red cape in front of a raging bull. I was still reeling.
Even now, approaching the giant white tent that the Parker’s had set up in their yard for the graduation party, I knew I was only invited because my whole family was; Zach would be as excited to see me as you would about waking up to see poison ivy on your arm.
I toyed with the idea of sulking at home, but anger, sadness, and complete and utter desperation collected into one final Hail Mary idea that had me grabbing my guitar, throwing on some ripped jeans and worn out Dave Matthew’s tee, and stalking towards the party.
There were all sorts of activities and things set up to do—one of those things was a small stage set up where Ash and Zach’s band could play later tonight.
I’d walked around numbly for a while until Taylor showed up, perfectly dressed in cute summer shorts and gingham shirt. I looked down at my own haphazard attire and wondered if I should have tried to look at least a little more put-together. I listened to her blabber on about all the seniors who were going to colleges that she wanted to go to. We weren’t even juniors yet. I didn’t know what the summer was going to hold, let alone college that was two years away.
She rambled because she knew my thoughts were taking me to a place that I would probably regret later on; I loved her for the attempt, but I was already there.
“I’m singing for him, Tay,” I interrupted bluntly right after she finished with the pros and cons of going to Vanderbilt.
“I was afraid you were going to say that.” She looked at me worriedly.
“I have to. You can’t stop me.”
“I figured from the look on your face—the one that says even a natural disaster can’t stop you from going up on that stage,” she said wryly. “You know how much I love your honest-vomit.” That was the word she designated to refer to my compulsive need to spew out my feelings regardless of the consequences. My brother was loyal to a fault whereas I was honest to the point of self-destruction; if I felt something for someone, I had to tell them. And no matter how many times the ha
bit had come back to bite me, this was the one part of me that never seemed to adapt. “But I don’t think it’s going to change anything.”
“I have to try.” My fist tightened against the neck of my guitar.
She pulled me into a tight hug. “Do what you gotta do, B. I’ll be right here…”
Breathe, Blay.
I caught a few stares as I maneuvered my way through the crowd, basically ignoring anyone who tried to talk to me. If I stopped, I wasn’t sure my nerves would let me start again.
Walking right up to the mic, I bent down and plugged in my acoustic electric guitar into Zach’s amp. I plucked a few strings to make sure it was in tune—even though I’d checked it too many times this morning.
Flicking on the mic, I finally looked out into the crowd. Like lights turning on as the sun begins to set, more and more eyes turned in my direction and nausea rolled through me like a wave. I’d never played any of my songs for anyone before—aside from my teacher and Tay. Never. Why would I? They’d all been written for him.
Clearing my throat, I spoke because it was preferable to vomiting, “H-hello, everyone.” I forced a weak smile as now it seemed like every eye in the acre radius was on me. Including his.
I had yet to find him, but I’d know the feeling of his gaze anywhere—like sunburn on my skin, scorching me, making me itch and ache, and damaging me one cell at a time.
“If you don’t know me, I’m Blake Tyler. Ash’s… sister.” I refused to say ‘little.’ “I wrote a song,” I continued, my eyes scanning every head. And then I found him. Mahogany hair and honey eyes that looked anything but sweet when they fell on me. “And I’d like to play it for you.”
Even though it was all and only for him.
Glancing at the frets, I tried to ignore my own as my fingers clumsily found the chords and began a song that would make me infamous.
“In your eyes, I am the sunrise.
Always there and taken for granted.”
My voice wasn’t strong or confident as it tripped over each word. Yet, somehow, it still sounded right. Somehow, I still hit every note, pulled along by the thread of truth.
“In your eyes, I am the sunrise.
Easily ignored, too familiar to be enchanting.”
I couldn’t look away from him even though his stare threatened to rip my vocal chords if I didn’t stop.
“Here I am, day after day.
My heart, it rises for you.
So, don’t walk away,
My heart, it rises for you.
Don’t turn me away.”
It was plea set to melody. I’d never wanted anything so badly—for him to see me and want me. It was all I thought about when I’d first written the words, and singing them now, for him, was like tearing them from the beats of my heart all over again.
“Don’t turn me into a sad little story
And leave the mess of my heart
That had the nerve to adore you.”
All those bad things that you think can happen when you sing your heart out on stage? Yeah, they all happened. The silence. The stares. The snickers. The cameras coming out to capture my humiliation. The mocking pity in Alexa’s eyes as she looked at me with a sneer. And the angry confusion and embarrassment in my brother’s hard gaze.
Yeah, it all sucked.
But the look on Zach’s face killed me. The blank stare of anger morphed into indifference with a dash of disbelief.
‘Pathetic’ was written in the tight line of his mouth. He chugged the rest of what I assumed was beer in his cup and shoved it into my brother’s chest before stalking off towards the house. Not before he put his arm around Alexa’s smug shoulders and took her with him.
I stared a hole through the back of his head, willing him to turn and come back to me.
Spoiler alert: he didn’t.
He left a few days later.
And I knew my heart would never be the same.
Track 03: Kansas City Shuffle
“All the world wants is drama. They’ve pulled out all their tricks.
No choice left but bait-and-switch. This is the only fix.”
Present
BEING FAMOUS MEANT THAT EYES were always on you. Being famous meant that your every move was watched, everything you said was documented and written in stone, and that you had zero time for yourself. Being famous meant that your life was constantly for someone… everyone… else. There was an unimaginable love and an unfaltering obligation. But there was also a seed of regret—wishing it could bloom into a solitary life where actions and choices were all your own.
Being famous was like being a parent… to six billion children.
All kicking, screaming, and desperate to follow you into the bathroom and publicize every last shred of your privacy… and your sanity.
No matter what I looked like—sloppy clothes, fancy clothes, makeup, gas mask… they could still pick me out. My fans. Blake’s Babes. Not only could they pick me out, but I could pull a full-blown Britney Spears and shave my head and half the world would follow suit. I could see the hashtags now… #yolo #blakedown
Unfaltering obligation to stay sane.
Even people who weren’t my fans looked at me as they walked down the aisle of the plane searching for their seats, whispering to their travel partner or immediately reaching for their phone to text their friends.
And yes, it was obvious when they were not really calling someone, instead faking it in an attempt to secretly take a picture of me. Yes, it was obvious when they pretended to hold their phone nonchalantly down by their leg even though it’s angled up and their finger is pressing furiously on the side button to snap a pic.
I didn’t mind photos. I enjoyed the photos. I enjoyed talking to my fans. I enjoyed being a person and not some untouchable creature that only deserved to be admired from afar. They could have just asked.
“We already have our tickets to see you in Nashville at the end of your tour!” A frazzled mom gushed as I signed two United napkins for her to give to her daughters.
“Oh, I’m so excited!” I said with a smile even though my mind was around a thousand miles up in the air thinking about what said tour was turning into.
“Thank you so much!” she said, clutching the napkins to her chest as the line began moving again, taking her back down the aisle to her seat.
They always booked Tay and I in first class even though I told them I was fine to ride in coach. Maybe in coach, no one would be looking for me. Bruce insisted that—again—it was all part of my image. Plus, ‘did I really want my entire flight to be disrupted with requests for photos and autographs?’ I laughed to myself. The sad excuse for a barrier between first class and coach was zero deterrent to stop Blake Tyler’s Babe Squad; the Babes were relentless.
I plastered a small smile on my face, patiently waiting for Tay to finish unpacking all of her in-flight essentials (Kindle, blanket, neck pillow, and tiny Moscow Mule cocktail kit) so that I could talk to her; needing time to process, I hadn’t said much on the ride to the airport.
What I did mind, I thought as I listened to the muted conversations around us, was when people thought I lived in my own little celebrity bubble where their words, when said just a few feet from me, couldn’t get to me—couldn’t hurt me.
“Did you see the hot flight attendant back there?” I heard two teen girls gossiping in a half-whisper.
“Wait until the end of the flight, Elle. Blake Tyler’s sitting right over there which means she’ll probably date him and dump him before the plane lands. Then you’ll be able to swoop in and pick up the pieces.”
“Shh, Andrea! I think she heard you! God, you’re such a bitch.” They both broke into muffled laughter.
Heat rushed to my face and I turned away from the aisle, trying not to let them see how their words stung or the way I had to swallow down the sudden urge to cry.
At the end of the day—and written on my grave—was that I cared too much. I didn’t want to admit what another break
-up cost me. I was the superstar. The celebrity. The sweetheart of the nation who hadn’t let fame go to her head. I was the It-Girl.
And the headlines lately were a giant slap in the face. ‘Too many boyfriends.’ ‘Too many dates.’ And how I ‘can’t make them stay.’
Slap.
Slap.
Slap.
I was tired of reading what people say. Yes, I dated them all. Guilty as charged. But I wasn’t trying to play with their hearts.
Maybe Bruce and Tay were right… Maybe this was a lot worse than I thought. I was the Princess of Pop whose castle had crumbled overnight.
“Ok,” Tay said with a huff, finally relaxing back in the seat. “I think I’m good.”
“You’d think after all the flights we’ve taken that you would have this down to a much finer science,” I grumbled, reaching in my purse for a piece of Trident, pulling out all four boxes of gum that I had stashed in there. A sad testimony to my nervous habit.
“I do have it down to a science; it just takes time,” she said with a sweet smile, getting her cocktail kit ready as the other female first-class attendant came over and asked if we wanted anything to drink.
“I can’t believe you’re on board with this,” I began softly.
She reached over and squeezed my hand. “You know I wouldn’t be if I thought there was any other way.”
“Yeah, well, for the record, if the Titanic is sinking, then you’re Rose for relegating me to the frigid ocean when there was definitely room for two on that board,” I said with a strangled laugh.
“Seriously. How am I going to do this?” I popped another bubble.
How was I going to survive this?
“Well, asking him would be a good start,” she said flipping open the cover on her Kindle.
“Nope.” I reached over and grabbed the thing from her hand. “Don’t even think of disappearing on me right now. What do you mean, ‘ask him?’ Like ‘Oh hey, Zach. Remember me? The girl who dry humped you in the treehouse and then sang a lame-ass song about you at your own graduation party?’ I swear, Franklin is the only town in the whole US where I’m not famous—I’m infamous.”
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