by Frankie Rose
“I’m Chad Anders. I’m one of the VPs at MVP.” He smiles and stops beside me, his dark hair slicked back. The rings on his fingers making him look like a drug lord. I have to stifle a grin at his introduction, but Pete lets out a soft chuckle. “Nice to finally get the opportunity to sit down with you guys,” he says. “From what Cole tells me, you’ve been working your asses off on some new music.”
Cole’s been lying through his fucking teeth, we haven’t been working on anything new since we got out here, but I grin at him and nod my head like a good little boy. “I’m Luke Reid.” I extend my hand. “If Cole says so, then it must be true.”
Butler laughs. He makes his way around the room, each of the guys besides Cole standing up to shake the guy’s hand.
“You came and saw us play in New York?” Pete asks, his eyes glimmering. I’ve never witnessed a grown ass man regress into six-year-old, meeting his all time hero, but I’m pretty sure this is what it would look like.
“I’ve seen you guys play several times actually.” Butler faces me, rolling his shoulders as if preparing for a fight. He’ll not be getting one out of me, though. I’m far too tired.
Cole clears his throat, laying the charm on thick. “We’re all here and glad you guys are willing to take a chance on us. You’ll be glad you did.” He nods toward me, and I nod back as if agreeing with his ass-kissing, bullshit lines.
“Good. I’m glad everyone’s ready to roll. I’ll be working with your producers as your agent, so we’ll get to know one another quite well.” He lifts a large briefcase to the table and leans over it, pulling out various papers as my eyes shift to the door. Another group of people enter, two men and a blonde woman, none of them over thirty by the looks of things.
“Anders. How goes it?” The other suit in the room speaks loudly, his voice deep and filled with authority. Cole mouths, ‘producers’ at me.
“You must be Reid,” the suit says, extending his hand. I stand and shake, a smile on my mouth as expected. Polite. Be fucking polite. My mind is a million miles from this room and yet I know Cole will staple my nuts to a wall later if I fuck this up.
“I am. Nice to meet you...?” I raise my eyebrow in hopes that the guy will part with his name.
“Jonathan. Jonathan Keepke, and the pleasure is all mine.” He turns and extends his hand, motioning for his other two associates to move forward. “This is Chris Butler and Kristen Parks. Butler will be your new band manager while you’re under contract with MVP. Kristen will be working closely with you guys in the studio.”
“Nice to meet you both.” I shake their hands, nodding. Butler is a little guy, thin and short. He’s balding and smiles in a way that creeps me out, but I ignore it. I try hard to give people the benefit of the doubt. Hasn’t exactly worked out in my favor in the past, but I’m trying. Trying really hard not to let the past dictate how I’m going to interact in the here and now.
The girl is pretty, her eyes intelligent, her smile bright, but perhaps a little frosty. Ahh. So she’s the hard ass of the group. I’m sure Cole has already fucked her ten ways in his head. I shake her hand and move back, ignoring the way her eyes graze across me. It’s nothing out of the ordinary; this new way of life has desensitized me to all of the women throwing their panties and scribbled numbers in my face. I’m not interested. One girl has my heart and therefore gets access to my body. Too bad I’m not nearly good enough to deserve her.
Cole’s voice catches my attention and I smile as everyone else in the room laughs at a joke I must have missed. We sit down and Butler speaks up first. I can’t help but notice Kristen’s gaze on me. She’s not being too subtle about it. Seriously, the only women more ballsy than New Yorkers are LA women.
“Well, now that we’ve all met, I have lots of paperwork we’ll need you guys to start signing. Luke, are you the spokesperson for the band?”
I glance at Cole, and the look in my buddy’s eyes is a warning. I ignore it. “Nope. I’m the voice and the sex appeal. Cole’s the man of the hour where business is concerned.”
Cole’s the one who’s orchestrated this whole thing. No point in changing the dynamic of the situation now. He accepts the responsibility and runs with it. Yeah, it may look better for me as the lead singer of the band to take the reins, but I can’t. This isn’t my dream, and it’s not really my deal.
My mind slips back to the night at the bar, the night Avery broke her own rules where she said we should be steering clear of each other for a few days. That hot little dress she wore and the innocence in her eyes when I turned her around to face me. She’d come to hide, to remain in the shadows, just hear me play. I was almost glad. If I’d known she was there before we started playing, I would have been a fucking wreck, but I still would have gone ahead.
I can play in front of anyone. My guitar is my release. It holds the key to my sanity. I release my demons in the lyrics of my song. Music’s sometimes the only way I find myself still standing. That night after seeing her there, I thought I would falter, I thought I would crack, but I didn’t. I wanted her to watch me at my most emotionally charged. The stage offered itself up to me and I sang for her. I sang about her and to her, needing her to know without a doubt that she had bewitched me. She disappeared before the set was over and dammit if I didn’t go after her. Nothing has been the same since. That’s the only thing I’m interested in now. Not meetings or fronting a band. It’s just too much.
Avery is always on my mind, lingering in the corners of every room I find myself in, her face caught in flashes as I move through the LA crowds. I groan her name as I jerk off in the shower. I dream about her when I go to sleep at night. It’s almost sickening, and yet it’s nothing new. It hasn’t been new for years. It feels like I’ve always wanted her.
When I got her, everything should have been perfect. But it hasn’t been. The shadows of my past have a way of corrupting even the simplest, most beautiful things in my life. I was forced into sexual destruction at such a young age. The memories of Rosa and my father leave me torn in half. Some days I think I’m okay, that I’m passed it, and then some days…some days it feels like I’ll never escape what happened. It’s so unfair to Avery that I’m not the man she needs me to be.
You should just call her, you fucking asshole. Just call her. She’ll understand.
She won’t, though. She’s been through so much. She’s already got so much on her plate, what with the repercussions of Chloe Mather’s actions and playing catch up at college. She shouldn’t have to be worrying about me, too. She probably won’t even want to deal with it. It’s better this way. She’ll hate me. She won’t be worried about me at all. I’m setting her free.
Eventually she’ll find someone else to be with. The mere thought of that really lights my ass on fire, sets my heart racing in my chest. My fists tighten under the table, the air suddenly tasting stale as I breathe out.
“Does that work for you, Luke?”
“Sorry?” I look up and there are six pairs of eyes all staring at me. Cole looks like he’s about to murder my ass.
“Butler was just asking if we wanted to tour the studio on Monday morning,” he says. “Forgive our glorious lead singer. He’s tired. His girlfriend was in town for the weekend and she didn’t let him sleep a wink.”
Everyone laughs, and I have to laugh along, shrugging, acting like the stuck-up shit everyone expects me. Eight months. Eight months, and this will all be over.
Maybe in eight months, I’ll have healed a little. Maybe I won’t have to pretend I’m fully functional and I actually will be. Maybe Avery and I will be gifted with a second chance then. I can’t allow myself to even hope for that, though. It’s a dangerous hope. I might start living for it, and I can’t do that. I have to get through therapy. I have to overcome all the bullshit and the pain and the suffering for me.
If I try and do it for someone else, it will never work.
FOUR
LUKE
SIX WEEKS AGO
“Oh my god, I
’m gonna come. Fuck, Luke, don’t stop.” Avery writhes underneath me, hands grasping fruitlessly at the bed sheets, her head tilted back as I slide myself inside her. Her perfect pink nipples are peaked and looking delectable, and I allow myself the pleasure of bending over her so I can take the left one into my mouth. I suck and I bite at her, careful to apply just the right amount of pressure to the small bud of nerve endings as she grinds her body up against mine.
“Harder,” she pants. “Oh, shit, please. Fuck me harder.”
She loves when I pound myself inside her hard enough that her head bounces off the goddamn bed. It turns me on no end, too. Don’t get me wrong; I love taking things slow, making her feel every single inch of me as I work my way in and out of her. She comes so hard when we make love like that, but that’s precisely what that is—making love. Sometimes the both of us are in the same mood and we want to tear strips off each other, make each other work for the climax we bring to each other. It’s the epic, exhausting, bone-jarring kind of sex that might land you in the hospital if you’re not careful, and we’re hardly ever that. Avery’s on the pill—we’re careful in that respect—but other than that we’re swinging from the light fixtures and howling at the moon three times a day, and it’s fucking awesome.
“Tell me when you’re ready,” I say. I’ve gotten remarkably good at closing myself off, preventing myself from coming until I absolutely can’t take it anymore. That gives me space to cater to Avery, to make sure she’s as blissed out as she deserves to be, that she comes as many times as she can before she’s begging for me to stop. Right now, though, she’s not begging me to stop. She’s begging me for more.
“Okay, beautiful. Hold on tight.” I grab her and spin the both of us over so she’s on top of me, and she adapts to the new position seamlessly, rocking her hips back and forth, setting her own speed. She bounces up and down on my dick, palming her own breasts, and the sight of her taking charge of her own pleasure is magnificent. She’s so fucking amazing; I’m basically the luckiest guy on the face of the whole planet. Avery takes hold of my hand, her face slack with pleasure, and guides my fingers in between her legs, obviously wanting me to touch her. I’m all too happy to oblige. I’d spend every free second I have stroking her pussy if she would only let me.
I prop myself up on one elbow so I can get a better angle, and I use the pad of my thumb to apply pressure to her clit, moving quickly in time with her body. She squeezes me from the inside, her body reacting, telling me that it likes what’s happening right now, and I have to fight off the surging need to shoot my load.
Coming inside her is perhaps the most incredible thing I’ve ever experienced. It’s so impossibly intimate and special. Avery seems to like it even more than I do, too, which has me chomping at the bit half the time, but right now I want to make this last. The tiny little crease that appears between her eyebrows as she’s building up to her orgasm is addictive, and I’m greedy. I want to stare at it some more.
Eventually I give in and let her come. Her body is so free in that moment when she starts to tumble over the edge. She doesn’t care what she looks like. She doesn’t care if she’s loud or if she’s not in a very flattering position. She just sinks into the sensation and allows herself to get lost. I get so fucking hard when she rides me like that. She can barely hold herself up by the time she’s finished coming, and I love getting to wrap my arms around her and hold her to my body, cradling her as she pants. There are days when I could just make her come and hold her like that, and I would be happy. I would have no need to come myself. Today’s not one of those days, though. Today, as soon as Avery has slowed her breathing and come back down to earth, I flip her onto her back and I carry on fucking her, slow at first. I wait for her to start rocking her hips up against me again, until she’s threading her fingers into my hair and pulling on it, nipping at my neck with her teeth, moaning with frustration, and then I finally let go. I fuck her hard and fast, and we both come together this time.
I’m running sweat and partially blind when I slump over Avery’s body, laughing. “That was too much fun.”
“Your heart feels like it’s about to explode,” she tells me, hand pressed against my chest. She’s laughing too, her cheeks and a small, tell-tale patch of skin just below her collarbone turned bright pink. She has that fresh-eyed look about her that she always gets when we’ve just had sex, and I absolutely love it.
“I want to keep you inside me,” she tells me. “I don’t want you to go anywhere.”
“You aren’t sick of me, then?” I ask, smirking, and Avery jabs me in the side. Her eyes cloud over a little when her gaze falls on the small, twisted patch on my chest—the scar that was left behind from when Chloe Mathers shot me. Avery leans up and kisses it, and then presses her forehead into my chest.
“Never. I’ll never get sick of you.”
“Good. Otherwise I’ll have to kidnap you and chain you up in my basement so you can’t escape. That would require a lot of effort.” I don’t pull out of her. I fold my arms around her and roll us both so that I’m on my back and she’s on top of me once more, and from there I pull her down so she’s lying on me. Somehow between the two of us we manage to shimmy the blankets up over our bodies, and we lie there, still and warm and sated, and I play with Avery’s hair. She runs her fingers up and down my side, tracing the lines of my tattoos, and I do my best not to flinch every time she moves over a ticklish spot.
“You falling asleep?” she asks softly.
“Mmm. Kind of. You?”
“Mmm hmm.”
I let her fall asleep. It feels wonderful to have her passed out on top of me. I love her skin on mine, soft and smooth. She smells like flowers and clean sheets, and I can’t stop trying to breathe her in, like I can somehow keep her with me always if I inhale every last molecule of her.
I must fall asleep, too. When I wake up, I can tell immediately that something’s wrong. My blissful mood from before—a mere thirty minutes ago, I discover when I look at the clock—has vanished altogether. I feel…I feel dirty.
My mouth feels like it’s full of cotton wool. I’ve been feeling like that more and more often lately—like it’s filling up my mouth, being stuffed down my throat, filling up my lungs so I can’t breathe. I can’t believe this is happening again. It’s just so fucking typical that I start feeling like this now. My life is faultless. I love my job. The band is doing great. Avery is fucking perfection itself, and yet whenever I close my eyes at night, there is this insidious panic creeping in at the edges of my consciousness. A black stain, spreading slowly and steadily, no matter how hard I try to scrub it away.
It’s him.
After he died, my father vanished from my life for three years. Three whole years, and I felt relatively normal, at peace, or at least as at peace as I could be when I was still suffering from the occasional nightmare. It was when I was seventeen, already in a relationship with Casey that this terrible shadow first swept over me and threatened to swallow me whole. I felt like he was back from the dead, hovering over me, watching everything I did, laying one cold, sinister hand on my shoulder as he judged me from afar.
The sense of impending dread was at its worst whenever Casey and I had sex. I cared about her deeply back then in the beginning, and I could never quite fathom why I would be disgusted by sleeping with her the way I was ninety percent of the time.
Now, panic bullies its way through me, making the contents of my stomach churn. I never once thought I would feel this way now. Never. I’m in love with Avery. More than I’ve ever been in love with anyone before, so it just seems cruel and unkind that I’m in this position.
He royally fucked me up. Royally.
I can feel my panic rapidly turning to anger. If he were still alive today, I would fucking kill him for what he did to me. I’d tear his head off and toss it into the Hudson. I’d rip his heart right out of his chest and shove it back down his throat. I’d cut off his balls so he would never have the pleasure of screwing
with young kids again.
“You okay, Luke? You’re shaking.”
Jesus. I’ve woken Avery up. She stirs in my arms, nuzzling into me, trying to get more comfortable, and I feel fucking terrible. She moans quietly, looking positively angelic as she lies very still again with her mass of blonde hair corkscrewing all over my chest and down on the mattress around us. I take a deep breath, needing to push down the anger. Needing to stem the rage. It’s not easy, but I manage it. I have to.
“I’m fine, baby. Yeah, I’m fine. Just a little cold is all. Why don’t you go back to sleep, huh?”
She does. She falls back asleep, but I don’t join her. I can’t. I stare at the ceiling, trying not to shake. Trying not to burn. Trying not to feel like I’m pure evil inside.
FIVE
AVERY
Three days. Three whole days and nothing. Not a word from Luke. It takes everything I’ve got not to accuse him of lying. It takes everything inside of me not to call and scream down the phone at him. Don’t get me wrong; I’ve tried calling. I would have simply been relieved to hear his voice in the beginning, but now, after so long, after him screening my calls and ignoring my texts, I want to rip his balls off. His forever seems to have lasted all of a few months. I should have known. It was that sadness that hung over on him back in LA. I could tell something wasn’t right, but I didn’t want to push him. And now here I am, three days later, not knowing what the fuck is going on. Not knowing what I did to push him to this. Not knowing anything.