I trudge along at Claremont Prep, pushing them both out of my head.
But I can’t focus.
My head goes to Spider in each class, my brain and heart drunk with thoughts of his edgy, dangerous looks. The way his eyes follow me wherever I go. The way his body feels pressed against my naked skin. I want that. I want him.
He’s on drugs.
He uses girls.
I play back all the things Anne has told me.
My heart doesn’t care.
Where is he?
Why hasn’t he texted me?
What did I do wrong?
As soon as the bell rings for us to head to our last period, I dodge past the onslaught of students and walk out the double front doors like I have every right to. No one notices, and I heave out a sigh of relief.
I hop in my car and drive out of Highland Park, headed toward the penthouse. I’ve done my best to pretend like everything is fine, like I’m not thinking about him every second, but it’s a lie.
After a twenty-minute drive where I jam out to his music, I find a place to park on Bandera Avenue, a few blocks from his building. Still wearing my blue and green plaid school skirt, navy knee-high socks, and a white Peter Pan collared shirt, I jog to the park across from his place.
It’s a sunny day, but a dark cloud shadows the sun and dread pools in my gut.
The air feels ominous.
I look up at the top of the building and my eyes land on the balcony. I stand there, feeling stupid and second-guessing coming all this way, half-expecting him to just know I’m here and waltz out.
But he doesn’t. No one comes out to the balcony and waves at me.
If he wanted you here, he would have said so, a part of my brain reminds me, but I ignore it. He told you goodbye.
But I don’t care.
Life is about taking chances, about saying how you feel, fuck the consequences. I mean, how will you know it’s the wrong decision if you never make it in the first place?
I text him, my hands nervous and wet from sweat.
Are you still here? It feels like you are.
No response as I pace around a park bench.
Half an hour goes by and the sky darkens.
Just walk in there, I tell myself. Ask the bellman to announce you.
But, I don’t have the nerve to go inside . . . so I wait.
If he wants to tell me goodbye, it’s going to be to my face.
I type, I’m outside your apartment and I’m not leaving until you see me.
I groan at how needy I sound, but I think it’s too late to care. I’m too far gone to care how I sound to him.
Just then a black limo pulls up to the curb and a pretty girl in her early twenties gets out wearing a pale pink mini skirt, white stiletto heels, and a soft white sweater that clings to every curve. Her brown hair is up in a ponytail and tied with a polka-dot bow.
I wonder who she is as a ping hits my phone.
Go home, Rose. I can’t do this with you right now.
He is here. I knew it.
You feel something for me, I reply.
There’s a twenty-second delay before he responds. I know because I’m counting, my heart racing.
No, I don’t.
I feel like he’s slapped me. I stumble back to the bench and watch as dog walkers pass by. Affluent women eye me carefully, and I know what they see—a schoolgirl with a phone clutched to her chest as if it’s a lifeline.
I focus back on my phone.
Not buying your bullshit. There’s something big between us. What’s wrong with admitting it?
Five long minutes tick by as hopelessness and anger stir inside me.
God.
Why don’t I just leave?
Why am I here again?
To talk to him.
To tell him goodbye to his face.
To make him tell me goodbye to my face.
He doesn’t want you, Rose.
He does.
I type another text. I have to be at work tonight, but I’m not going, not until I see you.
Half an hour later and the air has chilled as a breeze blows. I shiver as I rub my arms.
A couple walks out of the building, the first people I’ve seen come out, and my senses jump to alertness. It’s him! His hair is a beacon and my eyes drink him in, taking in the confident stride as he walks next to the girl in pink who exited the limousine earlier. The doorman is behind them, pushing a suitcase and carrying his guitar case.
From across the street, I feel his gaze brush over the area, but it doesn’t stop on me.
He’s ignoring me.
I jump up from my seat just as he tosses an arm around the pretty girl. Her fingers clutch the belt loops on his jeans as if she owns him, and as I watch, she smiles up at him, a bemused expression on her face.
He turns her to face him and kisses her on the lips. Her hands roam over his back, pressing him close.
I can’t breathe.
My chest hurts.
My eyes get hot as tears form.
It’s then that I notice other things about her. Her hair is down from the ponytail and is mussed as if hands have raked through it.
Her skirt, although it’s hard to tell from here, appears to be on backward, with the slit in the front, as if it has been hastily pulled back on.
I want to rip out every single strand of her ugly brown hair.
I want to drag my nails across her face.
He . . . he . . . fucking kissed her on the lips.
I inhale a sharp breath, feeling winded. I press my hand to my chest to rub away the pain. I run out into the oncoming traffic and horns blow at me as I dodge the cars to get to them.
I stumble across the curb as I jog over. I know how I must look by now. My braid is coming apart and little wisps of untidy hair float around my face. I wear no makeup because I’ve rubbed it all off. My shirt is untucked, and my saddle oxfords are scuffed from beating them against the bench. I’m a total mess, and I don’t even care.
“Rose?” he says my name as if he is surprised, but I don’t think he is—even though there’s an ashen look to his face.
I dart a quick glance at the girl, and she’s sporting a blissed-out grin.
I want to vomit.
“You know this girl?” she asks him, her hand neatly finding his back pocket and tucking it in. A small giggle comes from her. “You have a stalker already? Kinda young, don’t you think?”
“New stepsister.”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “Oh.”
“What do you want?” His eyes roam over me and I swallow, realizing he’s never seen me in my school uniform.
For the first time with him, I feel terribly young. I clench my hands, pushing down the urge to run away.
I came all this way. I ran across four rows of traffic to get this moment.
There’s no going back now.
My eyes look only at him and not at the brunette, although I know her face will forever be branded on my brain.
“I need to talk to you,” I say as the driver of the limo emerges and opens the back door for them.
Spider motions to the vehicle with a flip of his hand. “I’m leaving for LA. There isn’t anything left to say. Our parents took care of that.”
But his body says something different. There’s an anguished look on his face that matches mine, and his shoulders are stiff as he faces me head on, eating me up with his gaze. His brown eyes are locked on mine, and just like him, I refuse to let the connection be lost.
“You’re lying.” I’m closer now and I smell him, the scent of worn leather, cigarette smoke, and spice all mingling together to form his own particular heady scent. I want to bathe in it. I want his arms around me and not around her.
The girl—God, I hate her—looks up at Spider and traces a slim hand down his face. A resigned expression flits across her face as her eyes bounce from me to him. “Talk to her, babe. She needs to hear it from you. I’ll be waiting in the car.”
I watch as she prances past me and slides into the dark cavern of the back seat. Pretty soon, he’ll be sitting back there with her. They’ll be kissing again . . .
Stop.
Don’t.
Fuck.
Her skirt is on backward.
I close my eyes. They were together, probably naked on his bed upstairs where I was only a few days ago.
His bloodshot gaze burns into mine, his eyes like roadmaps. He hasn’t slept, or he’s hungover—maybe both.
“Say what you need to say. Go off on me. I’m ready, Rose.” His words are soft and tender, and I realize he needs me to lash out, but I’m not going to make this easy for him.
“I love you,” I say.
His eyes flare and his lips part as a whoosh of air comes out. “Don’t say that.”
“Why not? It’s true. I think you love me too.”
He shakes his head. “You’ll never hear me say those words, Rose. I don’t love anyone. Love is for people who want to get hurt.”
“I can’t help how I feel,” I cry out.
“You’re infatuated with who you think I am.” He points to the girl inside the limo. “You know I fucked her, right?”
Rage erupts in an instant and I shove at his shoulders, making him stumble back against the concrete pavement. “Fuck you and all the girls you fuck. You don’t get to tell me how I feel.”
He pales. “God . . . I’m sorry. This is what I do. I cock everything up, remember? I’m lost, Rose. I’m not what you need—ever.”
I shake my head at him. “Let me come to LA with you.”
He closes his eyes and opens them, pain there, yearning . . . for me.
I know it. I see it.
“What you’re suggesting is impossible. I have a career to think about. You have college.”
“I don’t care.” I rush through the words, hoping to convince him. “I-I know it’s unexplainable but when I see you . . . I’m home, like we’re pieces of a puzzle that have finally come together.”
“You might want me now, but in week or a month when I get high and cheat on you . . .” His voice trails off, strained.
I tremble. My body is in fight-or-flight mode. I look at the girl in the car. “Do you care about her?”
He taps his fingers on his jeans and his eyes refuse to look at me. “I have a plane waiting for me, Rose.”
“This isn’t goodbye,” I say, my voice cracking. “I refuse to let you leave until you tell me I mean nothing to you—nothing!” I shout the last words, my hands clenched.
But I’m talking to air.
He is striding toward the limo.
“If you walk away from me now . . .” I let the words hang in the air.
He knows what I mean.
He halts, his shoulders expanding as he inhales, his hand doing that tapping thing against his leg.
I pant, saying things I don’t mean, saying anything as I grasp for something he might care about. “I swear to God, if you leave me here, I’ll be with Trenton . . . I’ll let him be my first. I’ll never think about you again. I swear, I won’t. Is that what you want?” My voice breaks.
He stands there, and I’m counting the seconds, my eyes begging him to just turn around and look at me.
His voice is low and raspy as he pushes the words out. “Tell Trenton hello for me, love.”
And then he gets in the car and it pulls away slowly.
I wipe my mouth with the back of a hand that’s shaking uncontrollably.
He’s gone.
With . . . someone else.
I don’t know how long I stand there, maybe ten minutes, maybe half an hour. The doorman comes out and checks on me, but I ignore him.
It’s not until the sky opens and it begins to rain that I finally begin to see the truth as clarity arrives in bits and pieces.
I was never special to him like he was to me.
I touch my cheeks. Tears course down my face, their wetness a reminder that I’ve never hurt like this before . . . never. I feel like I’m dying of a horrible disease, as if I might waste away.
Is this what it feels like to fall in love with someone and not have it returned?
Is this what love songs are written about?
I want to scream at the top of my lungs. I want to beat my hands on the ground. I want to throw up.
I realize that people always leave, even the ones you love the most. They weasel into your life and then slink away as if nothing happened. They leave you in the wake of their destruction and gamble your heart to pursue their own ambitions.
I know what I have to do.
I’ll never let him near my heart again.
Wherever a man may happen to turn, whatever a man may undertake, he will always end up by returning to the path which nature has marked out for him.
TWO YEARS LATER
Spider
A HALF-HOUR BEFORE SHOW TIME at Madison Square Garden, I’m tossing back a shot of expensive tequila as a knock comes on my dressing room door. It’s my second drink before the show starts. I need it to get me loose, but I’m never blitzed on stage. I made a promise to Sebastian that I wouldn’t do that, and so far I’ve stuck with it.
But afterward, once the music is over and the crowds have gone . . . it’s a whole new ballgame.
I’m wearing my usual outfit for a show: a pair of black skinny jeans and a distressed gray shirt with holes ripped artfully in the high-dollar fabric. I’m decked out in silver jewelry and the makeup girl has already popped by to outline my eyes in black kohl.
I fling open the door, expecting Sebastian or our drummer Rocco. Both of them are big talkers who like to chat before they go on . . . mostly nerves. Rocco likes to shoot the shit about the charcoal drawings I’ve been doing, and Sebastian likes to talk through the sets. Max, our rhythm guitar player, is a quiet guy who likes to be alone until we go on stage.
But it’s neither of them. It’s Rick, one of the roadies for the Wake Up and Die tour we’re currently doing after the huge success of our latest album.
“Hiya. What’s up?” I ask.
He’s chewing tobacco and swishes it aside to speak. He has a slow southern drawl; I believe he’s from Alabama.
“There’s a girl at the back door asking to see ya.”
I arch a brow. “No groupies till the show’s done, mate. Just call security.”
He spits in an empty water bottle. “I radioed them but can’t get them on the line.”
“She’ll go away once the show starts,” I tell him, my head already moving on to other things. I need to call Father and verify where I’m staying here in New York after the concert. Whenever I come here, I usually end up staying at one of his properties instead of a hotel. I probably should have done that by now, but we’re at the end of our tour and my head is everywhere.
“She says she knows you.” He’s looking at me with narrowed eyes now, like he knows something I don’t.
“Don’t they all?”
He glances down at the new tattoo I have on the top of my left hand, a red unfurled rose. I got it last week. On my back is another rose, which I got during the first year after I left Dallas.
“She says to tell you her name is Rose.”
I feel like all the air has been sucked from the room, and I cling to the side of the metal door to keep from falling.
“Did you see her? What does she look like?” My voice is thin.
He nods. “I cracked open the door, boss. She’s a looker, dressed in a tight black dress and heels. Looks like your type, a brunette.”
Sebastian walks up, dressed like he’s ready to go in jeans and a black leather jacket. His golden mane falls around his face, and I can see he just came from having his hair blown out. He stops short at my door. “Dude, you look like you just saw a ghost. You good?” His eyes search mine.
“Good,” I push out.
He eyes us carefully but keeps walking. “See you by the stage door in a few?”
I send him a nod, but I’m looking
at Rick.
He continues. “Normally, I’d just ignore girls at the back door, but well, she knows your real name: Clarence.”
Pure heat ignites as images of Rose fly at me . . . our kiss on the plane . . . her under me in the penthouse . . . her breath like angel’s wings as it touches my skin.
The one memory I play in my head the most is her expression when she saw me with Mila.
I shove away the image of her ashen face.
Don’t think about that.
Most of all, I think about the promise I made to my father when I left Dallas. I swore to him I’d leave Rose to live her life, to grow up and be the person she’s meant to be. I took his half a million dollar offer and made a life for myself in LA.
Yeah, but wouldn’t you like to just . . . see her?
My heart jumps at the thought.
“Boss, what do you want me to do?”
Let her in, my body screams.
She isn’t seventeen anymore.
But . . .
I’m still not clean. Sure, I have good days, but I’m not what she needs. I have to be strong for myself before I can be strong for her.
Sebastian yells out my name. “Ten minutes. Come on, I want to run something past you.”
I stare at Sebastian blankly, my head somewhere else, and he gives me an impatient look. “You coming?”
I nod and push past Rick. “Tell her you’re calling the police if she doesn’t leave.”
I bolt for the stage, my body wired as I cover the distance between where I am and where I need to be. I run, otherwise I might just crack.
I might open that back door and let her in.
I might press my lips to hers and tell her the truth.
That she’s the one I think about when I close my eyes at night.
I snap awake as a police siren blares through an open window.
Fuck.
Where am I?
I look around, taking in the small, cramped flat. Clothes are strewn everywhere, and the place reeks of cigarette smoke and booze. I look up and take in the popcorn ceiling, the dark water stain on the corner of the wall. It’s a dump, but I’ve woken up in worse places.
I scrub my face, my head banging like the drums at last night’s concert.
I hear a groan from the other side of the bed.
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