WOUNDED
BLACK DIAMOND NOVEL
UNLUCKY 13
ASHLEY JAMES
Copyright © 2023 by Ashley James
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means,
including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author,
except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover by Rebel Ink Co.
Photographer: Wanderlust Formatting
Editing by Nice Girl Naughty Edits
CONTENTS
Keep In Touch With The Author
Welcome to Black Diamond
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Journal Entry No. 1
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Journal Entry No. 2
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Journal Entry No. 3
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Say My Name Sneak Peek
Need More?
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Ashley James
ABOUT YOUR BOOK
Welcome to Black Diamond Resort and Spa…
Where the rich and famous go to disappear. Some to relax, some to get
sober.
For me… It’s my last shot, my final chance at redemption.
I’m hotheaded. Reckless. Self-Destructive.
I don’t want to be here, but not doing so means losing everything I’ve
worked my whole life for.
It means losing my band. The only family and the only constant I’ve ever
known.
They say I have a problem. That I need help.
I say it’s just part of fame.
The drugs help numb the pain. Keep the demons away.
I’m doing my best to keep my head down and bide my time until I can go
home. Then he comes and makes himself at home at my breakfast table…
Rowan Davies.
Son of Hollywood’s most famous movie producer and my new pain in the
ass.
He’s nauseatingly cheerful. Buoyant. A presence refusing to be ignored.
And he’s set his sights on me.
He wants to fix me. Make me feel.
He wants me to let him in. Love him.
But he’s here against his will too.
We’re both broken. Wounded where no one else can see.
Is a bond derived from lies and vices really a bond at all, or only a setup for
yet another epic failure?
KEEP IN TOUCH WITH THE AUTHOR
https://authorashleyjames.com/links/
To the Unlucky 13,
Love this journey for us.
This has been fun, and only slightly chaotic.
I love this little world we all created.
WELCOME TO BLACK DIAMOND
Black Diamond Recovery Center was founded in 2001 by father and son,
Craig and Dexter Diamond. Wanting a place for those in the public eye to
go to seek help with their addiction and mental illness, Black Diamond
came to fruition.
We recognize that addiction and mental illness are complex diseases that
affect every aspect of a person’s life, and we provide comprehensive care
that addresses all of our clients’ needs. Unlike other recovery facilities, we
don’t just treat the addiction; we treat the whole person. Our approach is
designed to provide support and healing for our clients’ physical,
emotional, and mental well-being, helping them achieve lasting recovery
and a brighter future.
During your stay, you’ll enjoy relaxing living quarters, gourmet meals, and
luxurious amenities—all carefully curated with your healing and comfort in
mind—while still receiving the utmost levels on anonymity.
PROLOGUE
Caspian
G
lass shattering startles me from my state of almost asleep, followed
by my aunt shouting. This is nothing new. Tonight, like most nights,
I find myself wishing my life was different. That maybe I could live
like the other kids in my grade who seem to have it all put together. They
don’t come to school in clothes with holes, or that look and smell like they
haven’t been washed in over a week. They never seem to have a chip on
their shoulder, like smiles and laughter are a regular occurrence.
They’re also able to focus and do their schoolwork without trouble.
They don’t come in with their assignments left unfinished because their
house was in such a disarray the night before, they couldn’t find a single
quiet, clean place to complete it. They can read and write; they don’t
stumble over sentences or misspell easy words.
Their families love them. They’re normal, and kind, and do things like
sit together at the table to eat dinner, talk about their days, maybe even
watch movies on the weekends.
I’m starting my first day of high school tomorrow. I don’t have new
clothes, my backpack is one I’ve had since last year—the zipper doesn’t
work anymore, so I have to hold it together with a clothespin—and I
haven’t been able to take a shower since Friday because the hot water was
turned off, and Lord knows my aunt doesn’t have the means to turn it back
on. Not when she spent what little money she gets from the state each
month on the shit she probably just injected into her arm. Bought from the
man who she probably chucked that glass at that shattered all over the
kitchen or dining room, or maybe even the hallway.
Wherever it is, I’ll bet anything it’ll still be there in the morning when I
leave for school. Heck, it’ll be there when I get home too. The glass will sit
there, broken into a million pieces just like my life, until I finally have
enough and clean it up myself.
The pressure pushing down on my bladder is painful, and I know with
certainty I will not be able to ignore it in favor of going back to sleep.
Shoving my ratty blanket off me, I swing my legs off the bed until they hit
the cold, hard floor. The bathroom is down the hall.
Another reason to be envious of the kids in my grade… the rich ones—
actually, even some middle-class ones—have the luxury of having a
bathroom in their room or attached to their room. How fucking nice that
must be.
If I’m lucky, I can make it there and back without being spotted.
Depending on which asshole my aunt has over, it could go one of two ways.
If it’s Mitch, the drug dealer, with the stringy, greasy blond hair down to his
shoulders, the rotten teeth, and the gash under his right eye, he’ll more than
likely come push me around, get in my face, talking shit while his rancid
breath threatens to kill me. If it’s Danny, the dealer with the bald head and
the gold chain that looks like it would turn his neck green, who she fucks
when she doesn’t want to or doesn’t have the money to pay, he’ll more than
likely leave me alone. He may offer me a creepy smile—the kind where he
uses every last tooth in his mouth. But at least, unlike Mitch, his teeth are
mostly intact.
Pulling open my bedroom door as quietly as I can manage, not that it
really matters since they’re both screaming at each other, music blared so
loud, I’m surprised the cops don’t show up, I look both ways before I veer
left down the hallway that leads to the bathroom. It’s directly across from
my aunt’s room, but she isn’t in there. Thankfully, I don’t run into anyone,
and can take a quick leak, making it back to my room before letting out a
deep breath.
I amble over to my tiny closet, opening the accordion door, and
reaching up to grab the shoe box on the highest shelf. Removing the top, I
take out my CD player and headphones before returning the box to its
designated place. Once I’ve slipped back under my covers, I connect the
headphones to the CD player, putting them over my head, and press play.
Rooster by Alice In Chains fills my ears as I turn it up as loud as it’ll go. I
set it beside me on the pillow, tucking both hands under my head as I lie on
my side, closing my eyes. The grungy, dark tenor of Layne Staley’s voice
drowns out the screaming, eventually lulling me to sleep.
This isn’t the first—and it certainly won’t be the last—night I drift off to
sleep with the comforting, familiar sound of music in my ear, with dreams
of a better life—or maybe nightmares of the life I do have.
One of these days, when I’m old enough, I’m getting out of here. I’m
going to make a name for myself, get the fuck out of Dodge, and never look
back.
CHAPTER ONE
Caspian
Present
W
ith our set finished, we exit to the left, heading backstage to catch
our breaths and down some water—or liquor—for a brief few
minutes before the real chaos starts. The stadium is booming,
thousands of fans screaming as we retreat. Beaters in hand and sweat slick
all over my body, I beeline for my designated room. Well, room is much too
generous. It’s more like an oversized closet with a tiny couch, a table, and a
mirror.
“You’ve got five minutes, Gray!” my manager, Sebastian, hollers after
me as I round the corner, flipping him the bird while doing so.
I’m not in the mood for shit tonight. Normally, these Meet & Greets
we’re about to do aren’t that bad. I even enjoy them sometimes, but not
tonight. Not after the day I’ve had. Hell, not after the week I’ve had. All I
want is to be alone, but we’re doing back-to-back-to-back shows in Los
Angeles this weekend—this being night one—to finish off our North
American tour.
The last three months have been jam-packed, with not a single moment
to rest. But alas, that is the life of a rock star, isn’t it? It’s what teenage Cas
wanted, dreamed and prayed for, isn’t it? I remember being a teenager and
fantasizing about what this life would be like. Knowing with absolute
certainty that it would solve all my problems. How if I could just leave
town, make some money, and play music, all my troubles would go away,
and I’d finally understand happiness.
I huff out a laugh, shaking my head at that thought. What a fucking joke.
Digging into the pockets on my too tight jeans, I pull out the little clear
baggy I’ve thought about all set, dumping out a pile of fine white powder
my mouth waters for. Reaching into my back pocket, I grab my wallet,
thumbing out a credit card to cut up lines.
My mouth waters like a damn dog about to get a bone, heart pounding
behind my ribcage as I slice up three long, thin, white lines. I set the card
down, grabbing a bill and rolling it up tight. My hands tremble, the craving
almost unbearable. I need this, need the bitter drip down the back of my
throat, need these drugs more than I need my next breath. It’s about the only
thing keeping me sane lately.
Positioning the tightly rolled bill above the first one, I snort one, two,
three lines, wiping my nose and letting my head fall back onto my
shoulders. The taste is disgusting and delicious all at the same time. I wet
the pad of my index finger with my tongue, dragging it through the white
powder residue before rubbing it along my bottom gums, relishing in the
numbness that follows. It won’t take long before my head feels light and
floaty, body relaxed.
I grab the pack of smokes from the table, plucking one out and putting it
between my teeth. The orange lighter sitting beside it ignites with a flick of
my thumb, flame burning the end of the cigarette until it glows red. The
smoke fills my lungs while the cocaine saturates my mind, a potent
combination I can’t get enough of.
The sound of knuckles rapping on the door jerks my attention. “What?”
Instead of answering me, the door pushes open, Sebastian waltzing in,
angry, narrow eyes zeroing in on the table in front of me before locking
with mine. “You must be joking,” he deadpans.
I take another drag, letting the smoke spill out from between my lips.
“I’m really not in the fucking mood,” I drawl, flicking the end of the
cigarette into the ashtray. “So, whatever it is you need to say, say it, and get
out.”
“You need to fucking pull yourself together, Caspian.” His tone is
chastising, grating my last nerve. He never calls me by my first name either,
always Gray. Same with the rest of the band. “You’re a mess, and it’s only a
matter of time before it affects your playing.”
“But has it?” I ask, cutting him off, a bite to my tone that I don’t bother
hiding. “Has it affected my playing? Even a little bit?”
“No, but—”
“No. Exactly.” Putting the smoke out, I stand from the couch. “So, how
about you mind your fucking business, Seb, and know your fucking place.
Last I checked, it was your job to manage the band and make sure we did
what we were supposed to do. I’m doing what I’m supposed to do, so back
the fuck off. Now, if you don’t mind…” I shove past him, shoulder
checking him on my way out. “I’ve got fans to get to.”
The Meet & Greet takes about an hour and a half. It’s exclusive, only a
hundred or so tickets sold for it. We all do our part; chit-chatting with the
fans, taking pictures, signing CDs, vinyl records, t-shirts, tits, the whole
nine. A couple of them catch my eye and invite me and the band out to a
local bar afterwards.
As a general rule, we typically try not to go out to small establishments
with fans too often. With how well-known we are, it’s usually a recipe for
disaster, but as I mentioned earlier, it’s been a shit week, so I’m doing it. I
talk the band’s guitarist and my best friend, Atticus, into coming with me,
though he was not too pleased. Honestly, he probably only came to keep an
eye on me, but I don’t fucking care.
The chicks we’re meeting at this hole in the wall place are waiting for
us at the bar. When they see us, the smiles on their faces look like they hurt
from being so wide, and they can barely stand still as Atti and I approach
them. They’re all wearing the Wicked Hearts t-shirts that we signed for
them back at the venue and cut-off denim shorts. One of them, the blonde
one with the huge tits and the tiny waist, has combat boots on, while the
other, the redhead with the hourglass-shape body, has on some black and
white Chucks that look like they’ve seen better days.
In front of them is a row of shots. The amber liquid filling them to the
brim is probably whiskey, and I can’t wait to down ’em.
“Hello, ladies,” I say with arms wide open and a shit-eating grin on my
face. They squeal, running over to hug me, before doing the same to
Atticus. “These for us?” I gesture toward the liquor on the countertop.
“Yeah, thought we could kick this party of four off the right way,” the
blonde one says. The pep in her voice lets me know she’s from the valley.
Not surprising since we are in Los Angeles, after all.
We all toss back the shots—I was right, it’s whiskey—before ordering
another round and finding an empty booth in the back of the room to sit and
bullshit. The liquor flows, the girls ask us dozens of questions about the
band and tour, and they tell us a bunch of random facts about themselves
that I wouldn’t be able to recall even if I tried.
Last call comes, and I’m nowhere near ready for the night to end.
Ignoring the intense side-eye I get from Atticus, I invite the girls back to my
hotel room for a little after-hours fun. He comes too, which surprises me.
Although, he is hitting it off with the redhead, so maybe he’s looking to get
laid. Who the hell am I to stop him? I don’t swing that way, so if blondie
thinks she’s getting some of this by the end of the night, she’s sadly
mistaken.
I will, however, give her copious amounts of drugs. Which, in my
humble opinion, is maybe even better than mediocre sex with a stranger in a
hotel room.
“WHERE’S KAYLA?”
My eyes drag from where they’re focused on the table, up to blondie,
whose name I still don’t fucking know. The question came from her.
“What?”
“Kayla,” she repeats. “Where’d she go?”
“Darlin’… who the fuck is Kayla?”
She stares at me like I’ve grown a second head. “The friend I’m here
with.”
“Oh!” I chuckle, sitting back on the sofa. “Redhead. She’s probably in
my room with Atticus, if I had to guess.”
The four of us have been chillin’ in my suite for the last hour. We
started out drinking, then moved to smoking some weed. Shortly after the
joint was gone, Atti and Kayla disappeared. He’s probably getting his nut in
on my bed as we speak.
She giggles. “Do you think they’re having sex?”
“Well, they’re certainly not having a heart to heart,” I drawl, bringing
my attention back to the table in front of me. I’m working on cutting up a
little concoction for blondie and me. I’ve only done it this way one other
time, mixing H and cocaine together—speedball, they call it—in Singapore,
during our last international tour. It was with Cory, our bassist, and a couple
of groupies. Shit got me higher than I’ve ever been, but knocked my ass out
for an entire day.
Probably not my smartest move, seeing as how we have another show
tomorrow night, but I never claimed to be responsible.
With two lines laid out on the table, I grab the rolled-up bill, handing it
to her. “You sure you wanna do this?”
She nods. “Yes, I’m sure.”
“Have you done this before?”
“Of course, I have.” The way her voice lifts into a high pitch makes me
think she’s lying, but I’m not her fucking mom, so who am I to deny her?
“Alright then, darlin’,” I mutter. “Go for it.”
Leaning down, she sniffs the powdered line up her right nostril, her left
one pinched closed by her index finger. She groans, wiping her nose, tears
springing to her honey brown eyes. Shit burns, I know. With a slow blink,
she hands me the bill, resting back, melting into the sofa behind us.
I don’t waste any time taking mine, a euphoric haze flooding my system
almost immediately. Relaxing into the couch, my head drops back, eyes
drifting closed.
Eventually, not sure how much time passes, blondie mumbles
something beside me. My head feels like it’s in a fishbowl, though; I can’t
make out a single thing she’s saying, so I ignore her. My pulse pumps
slower than normal, my body hot and cold. Nothing matters right now.
Not the band.
Not this fucking tour that’s finally almost over.
Not the international tour we’re supposed to go on in a few months.
And certainly not my pain in the fucking ass manager, Sebastian, and
his ever-present disappointment in me.
None of it matters because I’m floating. My body cocooned in a blanket
of soft warmth as I levitate, drifting above Earth. All my problems are
below. Unnecessary and irrelevant. Up here, I’m not even me. Caspian Gray
is no more—the infamous drummer for the famous Wicked Hearts rock
band, with the affliction for drugs and partying and drinking and destroying
hotel rooms. The one with the attitude problem and the smart mouth. The
one who came from the trailer park, beaten and bruised. The orphan.
He isn’t me.
Everything goes fuzzy and black and quiet as I continue to exist in this
transient state.
Nothing matters.
CHAPTER TWO
Rowan
F
uck! My head hurts like a bitch.
Rolling onto my side, I rub my face against the pillow as the
memories of last night’s events come back to me in the form of a
broken slideshow. The party, the pills, the powder, the liquor, the music, the
sex.
God, the sex. At that reminder, I become all too aware of the bodies
surrounding me on this bed. I don’t know who they are without looking,
and I’m not quite ready to open my eyes just yet. Everything hurts. My
head is throbbing, my muscles ache. Last night, we went hard in more ways
than one.
My shoulders shake with a chuckle, the vibration letting me know my
throat fucking hurts too as I recall the wild shenanigans. Going into the
bathroom and finding someone getting pissed on in the shower—random—
and the naked chicks dancing on top of the table and the dresser. And the
people… There had to be close to fifty people in this two-bedroom suite.
The suite is spacious, but not for that kind of crowd. I’m surprised we didn’t
get a noise complaint.
Although, this is Hollywood. It’s to be expected.
Growing up here, in the social class I did, I’ve become accustomed to
shit like this. There is never any shortage in parties, drugs, liquor, or sex.
Anything your little heart desires is a simple phone call away. If you don’t
know somebody, then someone you know does.
Finally peeling my eyes open, I regret it immediately when the light
shining in through the open curtains blinds me. A quick glance around the
room reveals empty Red Solo cups and beer cans everywhere, a lamp in
pieces on the floor, abandoned articles of clothing strewn all about, and on
either side of me on the bed are two people I don’t quite think I know. At
least, I don’t think I do.
They’re naked, though. A woman with dark brown hair almost fully
covering her face, fake tits, and a sternum tattoo, and a gym-bro looking
dude with huge, veiny muscles, excessively tan skin, and pubic hair shaved
into the shape of a star.
Um… alright.
Neither of them are actually my type, so how they wound up naked in
my bed, beside an equally naked me, is a fucking mystery. Apparently, by
that point in the night, I went from blurry, broken memories to full-blown
blacked out.
It happens.
The party was for my best friends, Brielle and Brynn, twins, and
daughters of Clyde Stephenson, Academy Award-winning actor and
philanthropist. It was their twenty-first birthday. Yet, doing another once
over, I don’t see them anywhere.
Hmm… They must’ve left last night at some point.
I spot my phone at the foot of the bed, and by some miracle, it’s not
dead. There’re dozen of texts and social media notifications waiting for me,
but my head hurts too damn much to deal with those. Instead, I pull up
Twitter to do my daily morning scroll. I don’t know when this became a
thing, but it has. Between the delicious nudes and the juicy celebrity gossip,
I can’t get enough of this app.
One post catches my eye immediately and has me clicking on the TMZ
news article, the headline making my jaw drop and my brows jump.
Caspian Gray, bad boy and drummer for rock band, Wicked
Hearts, in custody for questioning surrounding the overdose and death
of unnamed woman.
“Holy shit,” I mutter the words aloud, not even meaning to. Thankfully,
I don’t seem to stir the strangers beside me. I want them to leave, but I’m
also not ready to have to converse with them yet, so I’d prefer they stay
unconscious.
I scan the article, knowing with TMZ, you have to take it with a grain of
salt. It looks like another unknown woman called 911 in the early hours of
this morning, reporting a suspected overdose. They were allegedly in
Caspian’s hotel room when it happened. There aren’t many more details,
and it doesn’t look like Caspian or his manager have given a statement yet.
Damn. Sucks to be him.
I’ve never met Caspian, or any of the members of Wicked Hearts,
despite them living in L.A. too, but he is always in the headlines for
something. More than any of his bandmates. For how frequently he makes
the news, he’s surprisingly an enigma. The public doesn’t know much about
him, other than he’s a notorious playboy and he loves to party. Oh, and that
he has a subtle Scottish accent. It’s barely there, but fuck, it’s sexy.
I stop scrolling when the quiet, yet distinct, sound of the hotel door
opening and clicking shut reaches my ears, perking them up, from all the
way in one of the other two bedrooms in this suite.
Maybe it’s Bri and Bry.
Doing my best to cover my indecent bed partners and doing the same to
myself, my eyes lift to the doorway in time to see that it is very much not
my best friends walking in, but instead, my fucking parents.
Shit. This isn’t good.
“Hey, guys,” I say, slightly with a chuckle, keeping my voice light and
airy, like that’ll keep them from exploding. “What’re you doing here?”
My mother, Tiffany Davies, former Victoria’s Secret model, drags her
gaze from one naked body to the next, a look of sheer disgust plastered on
her face before landing on me. She doesn’t say a word, though.
No… that’s reserved for my dad. Richard Davies, the most successful
film director in all of Hollywood, is a powerhouse. He’s tall and large, with
an energy that demands attention. “We received a call this morning from the
hotel manager about some noise complaints and disturbances that went on
in this room last night.” He glances around the room, taking in the empty
cups and cans, clothes, garbage, and even—shit—a bong on the TV stand.
Distaste radiating off him in waves, he continues. “Since it’s our card on
file, the call came to us. The manager informed us that this isn’t the first
time this has happened, but it will, however, be the last.”
“Because they’re upgrading me to the top floor penthouse suite?” I ask
sarcastically. The scowl on my mother’s face deepens, which is quite a feat,
since the Botox usually always makes her features frozen.
“No, jackass,” my father spits out, eyes narrowing. “Because they’re
kicking you the fuck out of here.”
My eyes bug out. “What? But my house isn’t ready yet.”
I’ve been staying at this hotel for the last two months while my house
gets renovated. There was an earthquake that, truthfully, shouldn’t have
caused as much damage as it did. On the severity scale, as far as
earthquakes go, this one was mild. But an old, and clearly frail, tree ended
up falling, landing on my roof, and destroying the entire back half of my
house. It won’t be ready for me to move back in for at least another month,
maybe longer.
“You know…” Dad pinches the bridge of his nose, letting out a sigh that
reeks of annoyance. “Your mother and I really thought you’d grow up by
now. We thought you’d get over the party lifestyle and get your life on
track, but that doesn’t seem to be the case.”
The tips of my ears and my cheeks flame. “I’m not that bad, Dad.”
“Bullshit, you’re not,” he bites out. “The manager said this is a regular
occurrence with you. Parties all through the night, dozens of people coming
and going. Look at this room!” He gestures around the messy space with his
hand. One thing about Richard Davies is, he doesn’t need to yell or rage to
hold the attention of the room. No, his cold, even tone is enough to send
chills down your spine and scare most people straight. I say, “most people,”
because it clearly hasn’t worked on me yet. “This is disgusting. How can
you live like this? And I know, simply based on your track record and the
way your eyes are bloodshot, if we drug tested you right now, a whole slew
of shit would come up.”
I mean, sure, recreational drugs are pretty common for me. But who in
Hollywood doesn’t partake? That doesn’t mean I have a problem or
anything. Not that I would dare say that to him. Back in December, on my
last birthday, I had a bad acid trip that he unfortunately had the pleasure of
witnessing, and ever since then, he and my mom have been majorly on my
case, acting like I’m a raging drug addict.
“Where am I supposed to stay, then?” My voice comes out small, and I
hate it. “With you guys in Malibu?”
Dad huffs a laugh through his nose, lip turned up into almost a sneer.
“You’re not staying with us,” he says. “Your mother and I spoke about it,
and we think you could benefit from some time away. A reset.”
Heart thumping hard in my chest, my palms get clammy. “What do you
mean?”
“I mean, you need to stop all this shit, Rowan. It’s time to grow the fuck
up. We’re sending you to Black Diamond.”
“Rehab? Dad, you must be joking!” I jump up, remembering too late
that I’m naked.
My mother gasps, turning around, while my father shakes his head.
“Jesus Christ, put some damn clothes on, would you?”
Fumbling with a pair of shorts I’m not entirely sure belong to me, I
continue to flail. “Dad, I am not going to rehab. I don’t have a problem!
Name a person in Hollywood that doesn’t party. That doesn’t mean I’m a
fucking drug addict!”
“You’re twenty-one years old, party almost every single night of the
week, and you don’t have a job, Rowan.” The way he says my name with
venom sounds like a slur. “When I was your age, I was already busting my
ass to get into the industry. And Black Diamond isn’t only a rehab facility.
They also treat mental health issues, and the way you’re going, I think you
could seriously use some help in that department.”
Here we go again. Same speech, different day. It’s the equivalent to
grandparents allegedly trudging miles in the snow uphill to get to school. I
work. Sort of. I’ve done some modeling before, and I frequently get brand
deals for social media. It’s not like I do nothing and live solely off my
parents. Although, that’s also not uncommon in Hollywood.
Rolling my shoulders back, I jut out my chin, hoping to look selfassured. “You can’t force me into rehab. I’m an adult.”
I shouldn’t feel silly saying that, that I’m an adult, but I do. It never
fails, I always feel small in the presence of my parents, and not just because
they’re such well-known, famous people. They’ve always treated me like I
was less than or like they couldn’t take me seriously. Growing up, I always
felt overshadowed by them. In middle school, I took an interest in directing
because I wanted to spend more time with my dad. After asking him to take
me to work with him a few times, he laughed and told me I didn’t have
what it took. Never did get to go to work with him either.
“You’re right,” my dad says simply, bringing me back to our
conversation. “We can’t force you per se, but if you don’t comply, you can
kiss your trust fund goodbye.”
“You can’t fucking do that! That is my money!”
“The hell I can’t,” he quips, his expression condescending as can be. “It
isn’t your money until you’re twenty-two this year, anyway, and if you
don’t want to act like a responsible adult, I can take it away entirely. Don’t
fucking test me, Rowan. We’ve been cleaning up your messes for long
enough.”
“What’s going on?” All three of us turn our heads, looking at the source
of the question. One of the two naked individuals on my bed is finally
awake.
Dad lets out a heavy sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose again. “Miss,
you need to get up, get dressed, and leave. The party is over.”
Her eyes dance from him, to my mom, to me, before she nods and
shakes the other one awake. They both get up groggily and get dressed
while we stand here awkwardly, waiting for them to leave before we resume
our conversation.
When they finally make their escape, Dad turns back to me. “Did any of
those partygoers sign an NDA?”
The tone in his voice makes me think he already knows the answer.
“No.” I hang my head as he scoffs.
“You’re so irresponsible, Rowan,” he hisses. “When are you going to
grow up?”
His words sting. They cut like a knife. I chew on the inside of my cheek
as my throat tightens with emotion. When I don’t say anything—because
what is there to say? He doesn’t actually want an answer. He wants to
chastise me—he continues. “You have thirty minutes to get this place
cleaned up and get out of here. Your flight leaves in an hour. We’ll be
downstairs in the lounge waiting for you.”
“Dad, please don’t make me go there. I don’t need rehab, I’m fine.” I’m
a grown adult, but the way I’m pleading with him, begging, makes me feel
like such a child.
“You’re not fine, and you’re going. End of discussion.”
And with that, leaving no room for argument, they turn and leave the
room, but not before I catch the look of disappointment in both of their
eyes. I’m nothing but one big disappointment after another to them.
Watching them walk out the door, I can’t help how powerless I feel. Being
forced to do something I don’t want to do; go somewhere I’ve never been
before. I have no clue what to expect. Nerves rack through my body, nearly
paralyzing me to the spot with not knowing what’s to come.
CHAPTER THREE
Rowan
B
lack Diamond Resort & Spa is a place for the wealthy. The elite.
Those who want—or need—to escape the world without everyone
knowing. It’s a place where paparazzi won’t find you and your
secrets stay safe. It’s hush-hush and, truthfully, if I didn’t have famous
parents and wasn’t somewhat in the spotlight myself, I probably would have
no clue this place even existed.
Located in French Polynesia, on the Windward Islands, is Black
Diamond. It’s a resort, like the name suggests. A place to relax,
decompress, take a load off, hide from reality. But it’s also a rehab center
for the addicted and mentally ill wealthy. A place to get clean, seek help,
without your business ending up splashed on the tabloids. Or, in my case, a
place for my parents to keep me out of trouble and out of their minds for a
while.
To get here, I had to take a flight from LAX to the international airport
in Tahiti, which took a little over eight hours. Then I had to jump on another
—much fucking smaller and terrifying—plane to fly forty-five minutes to
the island’s airport. However, I think the term airport is a bit generous in
this instance.
It’s close to nine in the evening, local time, as I’m getting off the toy
plane with a racing heart, slick palms, and trembling legs. I do not like
flying, and flying on tiny planes like this one is so much worse than flying
on a regular one. Every little movement you can feel. I felt like it was going
to drop out of the sky at any moment, landing right in the middle of the
Pacific Ocean, making me prime shark bait.
I’m much too pretty to be eaten by sharks.
The island Black Diamond is located on is the top of a mountain. The
resort side and the recovery center side are separated by a mountain range. I
think there’s a bridge somewhere, but I don’t fully know how one would get
from one side to the other. It’s probably built this way for a reason. It’s dark
out now, so I’m unable to really get a good look at the island or the
grounds. I imagine it’s beautiful here, though. Turquoise waters, white sand,
lush, emerald-green hillsides.
If I have to be sent somewhere against my will, geographically, this
probably isn’t the worst place to be, aside from the whole stuck on a
secluded island with essentially no real way to get off easily thing.
A snooty looking dude who says his name is Lawrence Shaw was
waiting for me when I got off the miniature plane at the airport. He
introduced himself as one of Black Diamond’s Intake Liaisons for the rehab
center. Instructing me to get on what looks like a golf cart, he drove us to
the main building, where I’ll apparently be checking in.
While I can’t make out much of the island, other than the well-lit
building we’re stopping in front of, I can smell the warm mix of salt water
and floral notes in the air. This place is probably covered with unique plants
and flowers. I don’t have a green thumb at all, but I can appreciate its
beauty.
“As I mentioned,” Lawrence Shaw says, turning off the golf cart and
climbing out. “This here is the main building. In it you will find the front
desk, health center—think gym, pool—the group therapy rooms, therapy
and general physician offices, and the restaurants. Almost anything you
need, you can find within this building.”
He grabs my bags off the back of the cart, and we make our way inside.
The air is thick and warm. I’m not used to humidity like this in L.A. My
back is lined with perspiration and, suddenly, there’s nothing I want more
than a shower. Hopefully, the check-in process doesn’t take long.
The lobby is empty when we step inside, and the air conditioning feels
incredible. Once at the front counter, Lawrence rings the bell, continuing
with his introductory spiel while we wait for the receptionist.
“Aside from this building, there are three resident buildings that house
some of the patients. Think hotel style buildings and rooms. These are
where most residents stay. The ones who require tighter restrictions. Then,
in addition to those, there are a string of villa-style bungalows that sit over
the lagoon. These offer a bit more privacy and are granted to residents who
are further along in the program or who don’t require as much monitoring.”
Nodding, I ask, “So, I’m in a villa then, right?”
He blinks a few times at me, mouth turned down into a frown, brows
pinched tight. “No, Mr. Davies. You’re in one of our resident buildings.”
“Excuse me?” Why the fuck would I need to be in a closely monitored
resident fucking building? “I think there’s been a mistake. I’m not even
really supposed to be here. I don’t have a drug or alcohol problem.”
“Yes, well, that’s what they all say.” He pins me with a bored expression
but is saved from having to say anything further when a petite brunette
woman sits down at the front desk. The silver name tag stuck to the front
left side of her blouse reads Katlyn, and she has rosy cheeks and big bright
green eyes blanketed by thick black lashes.
“Hi there,” Katlyn greets cheerfully, a row of straight white teeth on
display as she grins up at me. “How can I help you?”
“Hi, Katlyn,” I say before I’m rudely interrupted.
Lawrence clears his throat. “This is Rowan Davies. He’s checking in.”
Apparently, I can’t speak for myself.
She glances from him to me like she’s thinking the same thing, her eyes
dipping to the computer screen in front of her, fingernails tapping on the
keyboard. “Okay, yes, here you are. So, since it’s so late, I can go ahead and
get you checked into your room, and Lawrence can give you a brief tour of
the place, but the actual intake will have to be tomorrow morning. Our
intake specialists and the regular therapists and general physicians are only
here during the day.”
Glancing over at Lawrence—for what, I’m not sure—I nod. “Um, okay.
Sounds good.”
Katlyn gets to typing vigorously again, silence descending upon the
three of us. The lobby is completely clear of anyone else. She takes my
photo ID, asks me a few questions, and then gives me a wristband that
apparently acts as an entry card of sorts. It’ll unlock my room and give me
access to the health center and a few other facilities. Most buildings, Katlyn
tells me, require wristbands to be scanned before we can go in, and it’ll
deny access if it’s outside of my restrictions.
She informs me of the ten p.m. enforced curfew, and the fact that there
is a cellular and internet block on this side of the island. We get to keep our
phones, but we can’t use them for anything other than pictures and music.
I’d imagine there isn’t such a restriction on the resort side, but I don’t
bother asking. Exploring and spending time outside is allowed—and
encouraged—but we all must be inside the facilities by ten p.m. After going
over some brief housekeeping items, she sends us on our way.
Lawrence leads me around the main building, pointing out where
everything is, including where I can find a map, should I forget all of this
by morning. Which is a big possibility. Afterward, he takes me outside,
showing me how to get to my building. The resident buildings surround the
main one. I’m in the building farthest from the main part.
As we step inside and get on the elevator, a question hits me that I
haven’t asked yet. “Do I have to share a room?”
Please say no. Please say fucking no. I swear to God if I have to have a
roommate, I’m rioting.
“No, Rowan, you do not have to share a room.” His tone suggests my
question was stupid, but it seems like a valid one to me. “Do you really
think we charge thousands of dollars per day in fees for us to turn around
and force our residents into sharing living spaces like this is some college
dormitory?”
Holding my hands up, I say, “Well, I don’t know. Shit. I have to live in
this fucking knock-off style hotel, so who knows?” We get off the elevator
and take a left. It really does look like a hotel in here. “You’re kind of
bitchy, you know.” I blurt out, winning me a chilling side-eye.
“I am not bitchy.”
“If you say so.” I laugh.
Lawrence comes to a full stop in front of a closed door, and I lift the
wristband to the reader. The light turns green, and we hear a soft clicking
sound, indicating the door is now unlocked.
“Alright, this is your room,” Lawrence announces, but doesn’t enter
with me. “Remember, housekeeping comes every other day, and if you need
anything in between, you can dial zero on the phone by your bed. Be
downstairs at ten in the morning, and I’ll take you to intake. Do you have
any questions?”
I shake my head, wanting to be a smartass, but I’m too tired to even
think of anything. Once I’m in the room by myself, I take the world’s
quickest shower—noting how fucking nice the bathroom is—before passing
out.
CHAPTER FOUR
Caspian
“Y
ou either go or you’re out. It’s one or the other, Gray. I’m tired of
this shit. The band’s tired of this shit. Get help. Get clean. Or
you’re gone.”
Lying in this bed, staring up at the ceiling, I replay the conversation I
had barely twenty-four hours ago. The one that was forced upon me
intervention style after my fucking prick of a manager picked me up from
the station. The one where he, all four of my bandmates, and Bex all sat in a
circle, telling me how fucking worried they are for me. How I could’ve
died. How someone did die. Like I’m somehow responsible for that girl and
what she did. The choice she made.
I’m not her fucking babysitter. I’m not her boyfriend. I’m a fucking
drummer in a famous rock band. Sex, drugs, and rock ‘n’ roll. What the
fuck do they expect? If they are looking for morality and good choices,
they’re looking in the wrong fucking place.
It’s fucking bullshit that I’m even where I am right now. The fucking
ultimatum they gave me, as if I haven’t been with them from the fucking
ground up. I’ve been with this band long before we were Wicked Hearts.
Long before platinum albums and world tours and fans. And they’re going
to kick me out? Fuck that.
Fuck that and fuck them.
Turning my head to the left, face still pressed into the pillow, my eyes
find the blaring red numbers on the digital clock sitting on the nightstand. It
tells me it’s much too fucking late for me to still be up—I’ve been awake
for almost two days—but one quick peek through the curtains that aren’t
quite closed lets me know a new day has begun.
I don’t know exactly where I am, nor what the time difference is from
here and Los Angeles. I know the facility is Black Diamond, but I don’t
have a fucking clue what part of the world it’s in. Probably something I
should’ve asked at some point between being all but forcefully shoved onto
the private plane and checking into this place.
Digging the heel of my palm into my eye socket, I blow out a breath
before climbing out of this bed that isn’t mine. Well, I guess it is now—at
least for the next ninety days. Pulling open the French doors that lead to the
private balcony, I step out, the warm saltwater breeze gliding over me. This
room isn’t right facing the water, but I can see it from here, and it’s
turquoise color is something straight out of a photograph.
There’re a couple of large wicker chairs out here, along with a circular
table. Sitting down in one of the chairs, my palms rub up and down my
thighs. I wish I had a fucking cigarette. They confiscated everything I had
on me—a pack of smokes, two lighters, a container of pre-rolled joints, and
a half empty bottle of Adderall. Fucking took it all. Bet some punk
employee is really enjoying my stash right about now.
I have to go downstairs in a couple of hours to do intake. That’s about
the last thing I want to do. Have a bunch of doctors and specialists poke and
prod me, while they ask personal fucking questions and make a judgement
on me based on my answers. Yay. They don’t fucking know me, and they
never fucking will.
I’ve talked to shrinks before. Never fucking helped. It’s nothing but a
waste of time and money. But apparently, those who think they are in
control of my life and my goddamn well-being seem to think I need it. So, I
just gotta bide my time here, do the shit I’m supposed to do, so I can get
out, and go on the international tour with the band.
The more I think back on the ambush I received yesterday—was it
yesterday?—the more I’m convinced Sebastian had a hand in getting the
band to side with him. There’s no way they would’ve come to me and
confronted me like that if it weren’t for him. We’re the closest thing we’ve
got to family, the five of us. There ain’t a single one of us who didn’t come
from a fucked-up home, have a tragic backstory, or who doesn’t know what
it’s like to struggle.
Wicked Hearts was forged through tragedy; we’ve all got sorrow and
agony in our blood. If any of them were truly worried about me, I’m sure
they would’ve come to me on their own. Not a goddamn ambush. Nah…
this was all Sebastian. I fucking know it.
I sit outside for a little while longer before dragging my ass into the
bathroom for a quick shower. I’m starving, and can’t even remember the
last time I ate anything of substance, so before I have to meet these assholes
for intake, I decide to check out the restaurant in the main building.
Hopefully, it’s not just a bunch of disgusting cafeteria food. I don’t know
how much this place is costing me, but I’d imagine it’s a pretty fucking
penny, so the food here better be top-notch. Grabbing my book, my
headphones, and my phone—which is basically useless in this place, but
thankfully, I still have music—I head downstairs.
There’s a paved-out walkway between this building and the other
buildings, surrounded by a lot of big, green shrubbery and colorful flowers.
It almost reminds me of the vegetation in a place like Hawaii, but I don’t
think that’s where I am. It’s early in the morning, but the air is hot and
humid already. The hostess is able to seat me out on the back patio, per my
request, and after she brings me a water and an orange juice, she takes my
order and leaves me to my own devices. Despite being in a band and
touring all around the world, performing in a different jam-packed place
every night, I prefer being alone. I find much more solace by myself with a
book and my music than I do in a room full of people. I’ve always been that
way, though.
My food comes; I ordered the French toast platter—can’t go wrong
there. With my book beside my plate and my headphones blaring in my
ears, I dig in. About halfway through eating, someone takes a seat at my
table directly across from me. My eyes lift, taking in the stranger with short,
buzzed blond hair and ratty looking clothes that look like he doesn’t belong
in an expensive ass place like this one. His forest green eyes are already
watching me, a wide smile tugging on his full, pink lips, and he’s wearing a
pair of navy-blue headphones around his neck.
He says something, but I miss it because my music is still playing.
Plucking out an ear bud, I lift my brows in question, waiting for him to
repeat himself.
“What are you reading?” he repeats, voice rich and melodic, a
surprisingly beautiful sound coming from someone as grungy as him, as he
tips his chin toward the open book. I lift it, letting him see the front cover.
He nods, grin magnifying. “Greek mythology, huh?”
I nod, setting the book back down and moving to put my ear bud back
in, when he speaks… again.
“Caspian, right?”
Blowing out a heavy sigh through my nose, I set the bud down on the
table, clearly not getting back to that anytime soon. “Yup,” I grit out,
annoyance flaring inside of me at his insistence for small talk, but I can’t
say I hate the sound of his voice. He just stares at me for a moment, almost
expectantly.
“Aren’t you going to ask me my name?”
“Wasn’t planning on it,” I deadpan.
“Little rude.” A smile still plays on his lips as he reaches over and
snatches a blueberry off my plate, popping it into his mouth. “Rowan,” he
says in between chewing. “My name. Rowan Davies.”
Davies. I wonder if he’s related to director Richard Davies.
Cutting off a bite of French toast, I shove it into my mouth as my eyes
roam over his face. His eyebrows are thick and dark, framing his eyes in a
way that somehow makes the green stand out more. It also lets me know
that the blond is probably fake. His jawline is strong and square, free of any
stubble, and his cupid’s bow is deep, pronounced. He has a pout to them.
Dragging my gaze down, he’s wearing a black bandana tied around his
neck loosely, sitting beneath the headphones with a white and black
splattered t-shirt on that has holes in it. I can’t tell if it’s just an old, worn tshirt, or if it’s one of those Kanye style shirts that cost an absurd amount
and are full of wear and tear on purpose.
Either way, it’s ugly as fuck.
Rowan pops another one of my blueberries into his mouth before
reaching over and grabbing my water. Halfway to his mouth, I sit up and
snatch it from him, water sloshing over the edge and onto my hand. “What
in the fuck do you think you’re doing, lad?”
“What? I’m thirsty.”
“So, fucking get your own. I don’t share.”
He sits back in his chair, fingers threaded together on his torso. “Well,
that’s a shame. Sharing is fun.” The crooked grin and the glint in his eyes
tell me that was an innuendo. It does nothing but further my scowl.
“Can I fucking help you with something, or are you this annoying to
everyone?”
“Saw you on the news the other day,” he mutters, ignoring my question
completely. The last fucking thing I want to do is talk about what happened
that landed me here. “Was it yesterday? Shit, I don’t even know.”
Grinding down on my molars, I mutter, “Cool. Is that it? I’d like to get
back to what I was doing.”
“Did you get here today?” he asks, clearly not letting this conversation
die like I’d prefer. I barely get out a nod before he continues. “I did too. Can
you fucking believe we’re trapped here on this island? Left here to be
forgotten? Did you know that some islands are man-made? Isn’t that
fucking wild to think about? How do they man-make an island in the
middle of the water? How do they stay afloat?”
Fucking hell.
Shoving one more giant bite into my mouth before washing it down
with the rest of my orange juice, I grab my book and pop my ear bud back
in, Flights Over Phoenix’s Hypnotize canceling out any noise as I push out
my chair and leave without another word.
I don’t know where the fuck I’m going, but I’m not in the mood for
chit-chat, so preferably somewhere where I can be alone, that isn’t my
room. After making sure they can charge my meal to my room up at the
front desk, I push through the doors into the warm morning air, plopping
my ear buds back in and turning on some music as I head in the direction of
what’s hopefully a quiet place to chill. What better time to explore the
grounds than now?
CHAPTER FIVE
Caspian
“W
hy don’t we begin with you telling me a little bit about yourself,
Caspian.”
My new shrink looks like a shrink. Big wire-framed glasses,
her light brown hair in a low bun tied tightly at the nape of her neck, a stone
gray oversized knit sweater over a white floral blouse and black slacks.
She’s got a pad of paper in her lap and a black pen between her fingers,
ready to write her judgements and assumptions about me based on what I
do or don’t say.
The couch I’m sitting on is black leather, and her office is bright, airy.
The entire back wall is floor-to-ceiling windows, a view of the turquoise
waters and the thick greenery front and center. There are no picture frames
placed strategically around the room indicating a spouse or kids, but
certificates and diplomas in wide black frames decorate the wall behind her
desk. She’s educated, I’ll give her that.
“I’m sure you know all about me already, Doc,” I say in response to her
request.
Her smile is soft, the wrinkles tightening around her eyes. “Well, sure.”
She shrugs a shoulder. “I have heard of you, seen things here and there, but
I want to hear them from you.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Let’s start with the incident that led to you deciding to check in here.”
“I didn’t decide shit,” I grumble. “I was given an ultimatum, and this
was the best option of the two. Although, now that I’m here, that’s
debatable.”
Scribbling something down, she says, “Okay, well, tell me about the
incident that led to the ultimatum.”
“You want me to talk about the dead girl.” I don’t bother phrasing it as a
question. I know that’s what she’s after.
“Only if you’re comfortable talking about it, Caspian.”
When I was seven, I had to move from my home in Scotland to the
States to live with my aunt after my dad died. In doing so, social services
required I attend mandatory therapy sessions to make sure I was okay
mentally after the tragic passing of my only present parent. What they
didn’t seem to grasp was that his death wasn’t the first tragic thing I had
ever witnessed. On the fucked-up scale, that was probably on the lower end
of the list.
I wasn’t okay. Not by a long shot. But even at seven years old, I was
able to feed them what they wanted to hear. What appeased their
professional little hearts. Because I knew I didn’t want to sit in front of that
man with the funky breath and the Mr. Rogers cardigans for longer than I
needed to.
This woman—Dr. Weaver—wants to hear me divulge how troubled my
life was, how the incident with the little bitch who died was some
subconscious cry for help, how I want to get better, live a cleaner life.
She wants to fix me.
But what she doesn’t seem to understand, and maybe soon she will, is
that I don’t need to be fixed. Nor do I want to be fucking fixed.
“There’s nothing to tell,” I supply dryly. “She was a fan who practically
begged me to hang out with her. Begged me to give her the drugs. She said
she could handle her shit.” I shrug. “How was I supposed to know she
couldn’t?”
More scribbled out notes. “Is that something you do often?” she asks,
voice even. “Drugs.”
“Once or twice.”
“Once or twice,” she repeats quietly. “And what was it that was
consumed before she died?”
“Just some cocaine.”
With a glance up at me, she grabs my folder from the side table next to
her. She flips through it until she finds what she’s looking for. “At the time
of intake, it appears you had cocaine in your system, as well as heroin.”
Closing the folder, she sets it back on the table, folding her hands in her lap
as she peers over at me.
I don’t say anything as I drag my eyes away from her and focus on the
view outside. Yes, I have to be here, so I don’t get kicked out of my fucking
band, but that doesn’t mean I have to sit in this office and vomit all my
secrets to a fucking stranger. I don’t give a shit if she’s a John Hopkins
graduate who was probably top in her class. I don’t have a problem, and
that bitch’s death wasn’t my fault, and I refuse to be made to believe it was.
Sebastian and the label just want to make sure they cover their asses so the
band doesn’t look like a bunch of fucking low-life junkies.
She was an adult, just like I am. Nobody forced her to do anything she
didn’t want to do. And again, I never claimed to be a fucking saint.
The rest of the hour-long session goes by without anything more said.
She must’ve known I shut down because she didn’t even try to get me to
talk. Before I leave, though, she reaches back over to the side table,
underneath my folder, and pulls out a black leather notebook. Handing it to
me, she says, “I’d like for you to start writing in this. When your thoughts
are too loud, when your feelings feel too big, write them down. I don’t care
what you write; it could be poetry, song lyrics, gibberish. Just write.”
She must sense my apprehension when I hesitate to take it from her
because she adds, “Think of it like homework. I will never read this. It’s for
your eyes only, but I do hope to be able to talk about some of what you
write in here next week.”
Leaving her office with the journal tucked into my back pocket, I pop in
my headphones, turn on my music, and head toward the little secluded spot
I found the other day after breakfast. Admittedly, this place is beautiful, and
it’s big enough that I don’t seem to have a problem keeping to myself.
Unless, of course, I’m in the restaurant and someone decides to sit
down with me without my permission.
That was a few days ago and, thankfully, it hasn’t happened again, nor
have I even seen him since.
It’s warm as fuck out here already, and getting to this place is a bit of a
hike. My black t-shirt sticks to my back as I trek through the jungle-like
mountainous trail. Flowers in white, yellow, and pink line the path, the
scent mixing with the salty oceanic aroma in the air. It’s only about a mile
and a half until I get to where I’m wanting to go. The trail clears, opening
up to a small cove with the clearest turquoise waters I’ve ever seen up close
and an exceptionally tall, roaring waterfall.
Pulling the journal from my back pocket, I drop it on the white sand
before sitting down. The cool breeze and faint spray from the waterfall feel
refreshing against the humid air. Tie Me Down by Taylor Ray Holbrook
bumps through my headphones as I draw my knees up, resting my arms on
them and taking a much-needed deep breath. I watch the waterfall, thinking
back on everything that led me here.
I think about my mom, and the way she left me when I was a kid. Five,
maybe six years old—my memory from back then is a little foggy most
days—she left with sad eyes and a heavy soul. Elsie Gray was a beautiful
woman with a wild spirit. I don’t remember too much about her, but the
memories I do have go one of two ways. She was either happy and always
laughing, taking me to do this or that, letting me stay up late at night to
bake with her or watch a movie or dance with her in the living room. She’d
tell stories and dream about my future with me. Or, she’d lie in bed for days
at a time, lights off, curtains drawn. She’d barely emerge to eat, and it was
as if talking or moving pained her.
I’ll never forget the last day I saw her. It had been an exceptionally
warm day, and I was playing in the field like I often did, when she stepped
outside, a suitcase by her side and make-up running down her face. Dad
stood in the doorway she just walked out of, a bottle of cheap whiskey, half
empty, dangling from his fingers as he watched her with a dejected
expression. I always wondered why he didn’t stop her.
Why he didn’t fight for her.
Looking back with a mature set of eyes, I now know what he knew. She
never would’ve stayed. No matter how much he fought. Mom was plagued
with demons she didn’t know how to live with, weighed down with a
husband and a kid she never wanted to begin with. Her getting pregnant
with me was an accident, and deciding to keep me was a drug-fueled, manic
pipe dream for them. Dad, like me, was a famous musician, on the road
often, drowning in his vices. Most days, I don’t know who I’m more like;
him or her.
Lachlan Gray was a fucking legend. A rock god. Women fell at his feet
and men wanted to be him. Mom, I’m almost positive, was a groupie he met
on tour. I have no way to confirm that, but when I was a teenager, I found a
bunch of pictures in a box sent to me after he died. Pictures of him, pictures
of her, pictures of them on a tour bus, backstage, surrounded by huge
crowds. Elsie—whatever her fucking maiden name was—met bad boy
drummer, Lachlan Gray, then followed him on tour, fell in love, and
eventually had me.
She left when I was young. Too young to lose a mom. Then a couple of
years later, he died. His reckless lifestyle finally caught up with him. It was
only a matter of time, though, right? The greats don’t live forever. Our sins
catch up to us eventually. It’s not often that I think this way, but sometimes
I can’t help but wonder what my life would’ve looked like had my mom not
abandoned me, and had my father not died right before my eyes. If I didn’t
move to the States to live with an aunt who couldn’t give a shit less about
me or my wellbeing.
Honestly, I’d probably still be fucked up. It’s in my blood. Nature
versus nurture and all that.
JOURNAL ENTRY NO. 1
I don’t even know what the fuck I’m supposed to be saying in this thing. Dr.
Weaver told me to write when my feelings got to be too big… but what does
that even mean? All of this feels utterly pointless. Talking about how I feel…
what is that even going to solve? It’s not like if I speak the words into
existence, suddenly my troubles will vanish. That’s not how the world
works.
That’s a lesson I learned the hard way a long fucking time ago.
But fuck it… here goes nothing.
I vaguely recall the time when my mom was still in my life. I was so
young when she left us that the memories are foggy at best. But there is one
night that stands out vividly in my mind. One night, when even in my young
mind, I knew something wasn’t okay. Something wasn’t right. Her moods
fluctuated often. There were days when she would wake up before the sun,
clean the house, turn on music, dance with me. She would bake and play
with me. We’d run for hours in the field. We’d laugh.
Those were the days I remember feeling the happiest.
But then, it would be like the darkness came. It would suffocate her.
Hold on for dear life and drain every last bit of light out of her until she
was a shell of herself. Days would pass, and she wouldn’t get out of bed
once. She’d be angry. Extremely emotional. She wanted nothing to do with
me.
Her fucking kid.
I remember telling Dad how I was worried about her, and how I wanted
to try to help her. Don’t remember how old I was, but I couldn’t have been
older than five. Five years old and concerned for your fucking mother.
That’s not how it should be.
“She’s fine, Caspian,” he would assure me.
“She’s just a little tired, a bhobain.”
“Go play. Mind your business.”
To this day, I don’t know why this specific memory stands out as much
as it does. Or how I remember these little details as much as I do. But three
days later, she left. Three motherfucking days after my piece of shit, drug
addict father told me to mind my goddamn business, that she was fine, she
left me forever.
I never saw her ever again.
When I started touring, I tried looking for her. Never found her.
I’m convinced she left our house and killed herself. My guess is the
voices in her head, the same ones that plague my thoughts from time to
time, got to be too loud, too much, and she couldn’t take it anymore.
Silenced them in the only way she knew how. I’ll probably never know the
truth. Know if she’s alive or dead. But that’s my theory.
I don’t know which would be easier to swallow… her truly being dead,
having taken her own life, or her being alive. Living in a world without me,
perfectly fine.
If she is alive, maybe she’s happier. Maybe she has a new husband who
the world doesn’t know. Who doesn’t have vices of his own. And maybe she
even has more kids. Ones who don’t wallow in the same darkness she knows
all too well.
Maybe we were the problem, my father and me.
Maybe it was us all along, and that’s what I am the way I am. Maybe it’s
why I so carelessly offered a deadly concoction of drugs to a stranger in my
hotel room and didn’t even bat an eye when she died. Maybe I am to the
world who my dad was to my mom.
Toxic.
Wounded.
Self-destructive.
Maybe there’s no hope for me, and all of this will be for nothing.
Whatever. This is stupid. Don’t think it’s going to help.
CHAPTER SIX
Rowan
T
o be honest, I thought I’d see more recognizable famous people here.
Given what this place is. Sure, I’ve seen a few models and actresses,
and there’s even a star football player. I decided to take part in one of
the facility’s yoga classes this morning. Being here, even if only for a few
days, has made me realize just how much I relied on social media for ways
to pass the time. I can’t do that here, so I figured I’d take up a hobby. Yoga
seemed like the best choice. Anyway, I saw an influencer in the class. She
was not good at yoga, and she wasn’t quiet about her annoyance at that fact.
Oh, and can’t forget the very unfriendly drummer from Wicked Hearts who
I semi-had a breakfast date with last week. But other than that, it looks like
it’s a bunch of rich-ass no-name individuals.
Am I a “rich-ass no-name individual” to some people too? I mean,
yeah, everybody knows my dad, most people know of my mom, and sure,
I’ve done a bit of modeling myself, but… Damn, I guess I am pretty noname in the grand scheme of things.
Well, that’s shitty.
Taking a seat in one of the many folding chairs placed into a circle in
the middle of the room, I glance around, seeing who I know. Today is my
first group therapy session, and I honestly have no idea what to expect. I’ve
never done anything like this before, and sitting in a circle, campfire style,
and talking about our problems sounds pretty fucking interesting. Not for
me, since I sure as hell don’t want to share my shit, but hearing everybody
else’s? Yeah, sign me up. It’s no secret to anybody that knows me that I love
the drama. The tea. I’m a sucker for a good juicy gossip story.
The room is filling up, almost all the seats now taken. A thing I’ve
noticed about this place is all the windows; every space lit with beautiful
natural light, and this room is no exception. The counselor—or I’m
guessing he’s the counselor, because he looks the most responsible out of
the bunch—shuts the double doors leading to the hallway before taking his
seat almost directly across from me in the circle. There’re still a few empty
chairs, so I wonder if that means more will be joining us, or if they just
over-planned.
“Hello, everyone. My name is Dr. Kevin Keller,” the responsible
looking man states, crossing his left ankle over his right knee. He looks a
little nerdy. Like he maybe goes home after work and plays World of
Warcraft in the basement with several empty cans of Orange Crush strewn
about all over his desk and a clunky headset on that he talks to his buddies
with. He’s in his early thirties, at the oldest, and a pair of teal-framed
glasses sit on his nose. Is it a prerequisite for all psychologists and
therapists to wear glasses? Dr. Kevin Keller opens his mouth to speak
again, but before he can, the closed double doors creak as they’re pulled
open. No, yanked open.
All eyes shift toward the entrance as our tardy member joins us. Lips
turned down into a frown, eyes dark and broody, and his hands shoved deep
into the pockets of his zip-up, Caspian takes one of the few remaining seats,
which happens to be beside me. His dark hair, which falls to about his ears,
is damp, like he just got out of the shower right before coming here, and he
smells fresh.
Yummy.
He doesn’t say anything, despite everybody in the room staring at him,
including Dr. Kevin Keller, who clears his throat softly before saying,
“Hello, welcome.”
Caspian glances up and grunts out a response. Okay, caveman.
Dr. KK forces a small smile before addressing the rest of the room. “As
I was saying, I am one of the group counselors here at Black Diamond, and
I will be the leader of all of your group therapy sessions while you’re here.”
He slides his gaze back over to Caspian, who’s staring down at his lap. “I
know it can be overwhelming and a little intimidating to partake in a group
therapy. Having people know your personal details, feeling vulnerable and
unsure, but I assure you, this is a safe space. In my years of experience, I’ve
found that group settings such as this often help people feel not so alone,
help them find their voice, and help them relate to people who share similar
struggles.”
He has us introduce ourselves, starting with the woman beside him,
going clockwise. Some people are chattier than others. They tell us all
about their life, down to what their cat is named. While others keep it short.
A sentence or two, clearly not wanting to share too much. Due to the way
we’re sitting, Caspian is supposed to go before me. Shamelessly, I’m
thrilled to hear his story. Know why he’s here. Just hear him speak in
general. The deep baritone of his voice, paired with the faint Scottish
accent... I could listen to him read me a grocery list, and I’d enjoy every
damn second of it.
Caspian seems like an enigma. From what I know about him—which
admittedly, isn’t a whole lot, mostly from interviews, tabloids, and such—
he’s closed off and quiet. He has a reputation for partying and drugs and
fighting. A hot head. A playboy. Reckless. Be it my nosy nature or the
simple fact that I want to pass the time here so I can get home, I find myself
wanting to crack his shell. Get to know him. Make him my friend.
I’m great at making friends.
I’m a little pushy, and can sometimes be a bit much, but typically, when
I set my sights on making someone my friend, I succeed.
The room falls quiet when the person beside Caspian finishes and it’s
his turn to go. He doesn’t. Instead, he says nothing at all. Hands clasped in
his lap, his left thumb nail digs into the bed of his right. The silence is
stifling, and it seems to go on forever.
“Caspian,” Dr. Kevin Keller prompts. “It’s your turn to introduce
yourself. Share a little with the group.” His tone is light and friendly, but it
has to be annoying for him to have someone show up late and then refuse to
participate. When he still doesn’t budge, Dr. KK continues. “Caspian, it is
only fair we all participate. It helps everyone feel safer and more
comfortable. You don’t have to share much. A few sentences.”
“No.” The single word is nothing more than a grunt, voice rough like
it’s the first time he’s used it this morning.
“I promise, it won’t be so—”
Dr. KK is cut off when Caspian’s head whips up, gaze presumably
colliding with his. “I said no,” he barks. “I’m not going to sit here and play
fucking happy circle with a bunch of people I couldn’t care less about, and
who couldn’t care less about me. No fucking way.”
He doesn’t give the therapist a chance to respond, because he raises
from his chair with such force, it tips over behind him, the sound of it
clanking on the hard floor startling me. Caspian leaves through the same
double doors he came through, without so much as a backward glance.
Damn.
The rest of the session goes by smoothly. I introduce myself before the
rest of the circle does the same. Nobody addresses the elephant that left the
room, but it’s on my mind the entire time. Once we’re excused, I make my
way out into the hall, stopping at the front desk. The woman sitting behind
the computer isn’t the same one that was working the night I arrived. I
haven’t seen Katlyn since that night.
This one’s wearing a name tag that says Celeste—her parents were
hippies, no doubt—and she has strawberry blonde hair woven into a thick
braid over her right shoulder. A few strands frame her face, and she has a
septum piercing and one through her eyebrow. I’ve noticed her here the last
few mornings, and I know this is quite stereotypical, but I get the vibe she
could help me.
Her eyes lift from the monitor when she sees me, a small smile tugging
on her lips. “Hey. Can I help you?”
Returning the smile, I rest my forearms on the desk, leaning in and
holding her gaze. “I sure hope you can. Hypothetically speaking, if one
were looking for a little fun on this island, where would they look?”
“That depends,” she mutters, glancing around. “What type of fun are we
talking?”
Holding up my thumb and index finger up to my lips as if I were
holding a joint, I take a few invisible puffs.
Celeste watches me for a moment, not saying anything, and I start to
wonder if maybe I was wrong in my assumption. But then she leans in,
voice hushed. “Josiah, he’s one of the housekeepers. Works day shift. He
can hook you up.”
A grin splits on my face as I smack the counter. “Thanks, babe.”
Movement to my right catches my eye. Glancing over, I see Caspian
coming out of the restaurant, heading toward the doors that lead outside to
my left. He blows past the front desk without even looking this way, and
without thinking, I follow. I keep my distance, so he doesn’t notice he’s
being tailed just yet. He seems to know where he’s going as he heads off the
trail into the wooded area that reminds me of a jungle. He veers left, finding
his way onto another trail, and we continue on for about twenty minutes
until we get to a clearing that opens up to a beautiful waterfall.
Holy shit. How did he know this was here?
Caspian’s wearing a navy-blue drawstring backpack. It’s a Black
Diamond one; I think he got it from the health center. Shrugging it off his
shoulders, he sets it down, and it’s then I notice he’s wearing ear buds. So,
that’s how he didn’t hear me this entire time. I walk over, closing the
distance, intending to let him know I’m here. It happens so fast; one
moment, my hand reaches out, touching his bicep, and the next, pain
explodes in my jaw, my head jerked to the side.
“Ow, fuck!” I cry out, hand coming up to hold my jaw. Something wet
and sticky drips down, my fingers catching it, and when I pull my hand
away, I see it’s blood. “You fucking punched me!”
His eyes, slightly wild, look from the blood on my hand to my eyes.
“Yeah, well, that’s what you fucking get for sneaking up on someone,
idiot.”
“I wasn’t sneaking up on you,” I grumble, wiping my split lip with the
back of my hand. Moving past him, I step down to the water’s edge,
dipping my hand in to clean it off. I hope I don’t need stitches.
“Then what the fuck do you call what you just did?”
Glancing over my shoulder, I watch as he sits on the sand, legs extended
in front of him. He loosens the drawstring backpack, reaching inside to grab
out a book, then shoves the ear bud back in his ear without another word
and starts to read.
Okay, clearly, he wasn’t looking for an actual answer.
My lip is still bleeding in earnest, and with nothing else to make it stop,
I rip my shirt over my head, bunching it up, and pressing it to my face. It
stings, and I’ll definitely have a bruise tomorrow. Thank God I wore a black
shirt, so hopefully the blood won’t be as noticeable.
I take a seat beside him, watching him tense for a moment as I do.
Knowing I probably shouldn’t, but not totally caring—it’s the least he could
do after clocking me in the fucking face—I grab the bud out of his right ear,
putting it in mine.
“What in the fuck do you think you’re doing, lad?”
That’s the second time he’s called me lad. I like it.
“Hanging out with you,” I say easily, with a shrug.
Animal by WildHeart is playing through the little buds. Not surprising
that he has excellent taste in music, given he’s a literal musician.
“We are not hanging out,” he states.
“We kinda are now.” He makes a grumbling noise before returning to
his book. “What are you reading?” I ask.
“The same book as the other day. Now shut the fuck up if you’re going
to insist on sitting beside me.”
A small smile pulls on my lips as I glance over, reading over his
shoulder. It’s basically a foreign language to me, since I know nothing
about Greek mythology, but it’s interesting. And he doesn’t try to punch me
again, so that’s a plus.
“What about this stuff do you enjoy so much?” I ask.
He huffs. “I said be fucking quiet if you’re going to sit here.”
So grouchy.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Caspian
I
’m fucking over this place. I’ve barely been here a couple of weeks, and
it’s so fucking boring. Same shit, different day. Meet with my nosy
fucking therapist twice a week—she’s got me started on some bullshit
anti-depressants, like they’ll fucking fix me—sit through painfully dull
group therapy where people bitch and whine and cry about their hard lives,
and then I’m left to do fucking nothing the rest of the week.
Absolutely fucking nothing.
A few days ago, I stumbled upon a library tucked into the main
building, though. I’m thankful for that, since I’ve read both books I brought
here more than once already.
Admittedly, it probably wouldn’t be so bad if I wasn’t so antisocial. A
lot of the other residents pass the time by hanging out outside, hiking, or
going down by the water together. While I, on the other hand, have zero
interest in making friends. My mind, of course, lands on the one person
who keeps attempting to hang out with me, even though I’ve made it clear I
do not want to hang out with him. He’s obnoxious and way too chatty,
doesn’t know how to take no for an answer. All I want to do is bide my time
until I can get the fuck off this island and back home to my band.
It's bullshit that I even have to be here in the first place. I don’t have a
drug problem. There is a difference between recreational drug use and
addiction. If I had an addiction, wouldn’t I have gone through some sort of
withdrawal when I checked in and lost access to substance?
Yeah.
Exactly.
I don’t have a goddamn problem.
Well, I do have one problem currently—this fucking group therapy
session I’m forced to sit and endure. We’ve spent the last twenty minutes
listening to Gage ramble on and on about how rough his rich, privileged life
is, and how he started doing drugs as a way to rebel against his loving
parents.
Must be nice.
Half of these fuckers wouldn’t know true trauma if it smacked them in
the face.
When the hour is finally up, I’m the first one to leave. You couldn’t
have paid me to stay in that uncomfortable plastic folding chair for a second
longer. Barely out the double doors, my name is called. Whipping my head
around, I watch one of the guys from group approach me. Don’t have a
fucking clue what his name is.
Lifting my eyebrows in question, I say nothing as I wait.
He offers me a smirk that doesn’t reach his eyes as he comes to a stop
about a foot away from me. “It wouldn’t kill you to participate, you know.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” he replies flippantly, exhaling a breathy laugh. “We’re
several sessions in, everyone is opening up, sharing personal, intimate parts
of their lives. Everybody, except you. It’s fucked up, if you ask me.”
Rubbing two fingers to my temple, I feel my blood pressure rising as I
glance around the room for a moment before my gaze lands on this fuckwit
again. “That’s funny,” I mutter quietly, taking one single step toward him,
closing the distance between us, and forcing him to have to crank his neck
to look up at me. “I don’t fucking remember asking.”
He holds up both hands, feigning innocence. “Hey, man. All I’m saying
is, if you aren’t going to participate, you shouldn’t be able to come and sit
in, listening to all our shit.”
Dragging my eyes over him, expression dripping in disgust, I’m sure, I
take in his pink polo shirt with the collar flipped, khaki Chinos, and his
ridiculous boat shoes, and I know all I need to. He’s a rich preppy asshole,
living off his mommy and daddy’s money. Pretentious and privileged.
“Listen up, Chad,” I spit out, but he cuts me off.
“My name isn’t Chad—”
“Don’t fucking care. Seems you got a real fucking problem offering up
shit nobody asked for, Chad.” He glowers at me at the sound of his nonname. “If I were you, I’d learn to mind your own fucking business.”
He huffs out a laugh, a scowl on his face. “Yeah? Or what, drummer
boy? What are you gonna do? Shove heroin down my throat and kill me?”
“You motherfucker,” I spit out, forearm going to his throat as I shove
him back into the wall with it. His eyes go wide, spit flying out of his
mouth as his hands come up to my arm.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Footsteps squeak against the linoleum as they
run over to us, an arm pulling me back—or trying to—as I whip my head
around, gaze colliding with an annoyingly familiar pair of dark greens. His
lip is still busted, chin discolored with yellow bruising.
“You trying to get hit again?” I growl, staring into the face of the guy
who I can’t seem to fucking get away from.
Dickhead uses the momentary distraction to slip out of my hold and
scurry away.
Rowan chuckles, shaking his head. “No. Come on.”
The blood’s roaring in my ears, I’m still so fucking pissed off. It’s the
only reason I can think why I actually follow this fucker. Letting him lead
me wherever we’re going. I don’t know why or how he keeps showing up.
Is he fucking following me? Dragging my gaze down his body, I notice he’s
dressed like a fucking homeless person again. A ripped and faded band tee,
paint-splattered, holey, navy blue sweats, and a pair of what look like army
combat boots.
“Why do you dress like you’ve just rolled out of the fucking dumpster?”
The question falls from my lips before I can even stop myself.
He glances over his shoulder at me but doesn’t stop walking. We’re now
outside of the facility and heading toward a trail. “What?” He chuckles.
“All of your fucking clothes seem to be in various stages of ruin. If
you’re in this place, you obviously have money, so why the fuck do you
dress like you can’t afford new clothes?”
“These are comfy. Why do I need to spend an absurd amount of money
on clothes when the ones I have fit just fine and they’re comfortable?”
I mean… touché.
He leads me through the jungle along the trail, and I already know
where we’re going before we actually reach the waterfall.
“Are we here for round two?” I ask, sarcasm dripping from my tone.
Tossing me a toothy grin, he says, “We can be. Or…” He pulls
something out of his pocket, before turning around to show me. It’s a bottle
of—
“Whiskey?” I gape at him. “Where the fuck did you get that?”
Rowan’s walking backward as he twists the cap off, breaking the seal.
He takes a swig before capping it back up and handing it to me. “From
Josiah.”
I take it, but don’t open it yet. “Who the fuck is Josiah?”
His brows draw inward, like he’s confused about how I wouldn’t know
this person. “He’s one of our housekeepers.”
We get to the waterfall—the same one I decked him at—and he plops
his ass right in the sand, patting a spot beside him. Begrudgingly, I take a
seat, cracking open the bottle and downing a few swallows. It’s fucking
nasty. Cheap shit. But it’ll do.
“How did you get this?” I ask, passing the bottle back to him.
“From Josiah,” he repeats.
“Yeah, I fucking heard you. I meant how.”
“Oh!” He chuckles, taking another shot. “By blowing him.”
My gaze snaps to his. “What?” I hiss. “Are you serious?”
Reaching into his pocket again, he pulls out a pack of Marlboros,
plucking two out. “Sure,” he replies with a grin as he flicks the Zippo,
lighting both cigarettes, and passing me one. “Or am I?”
I roll my eyes, placing it between my teeth and taking a deep drag. The
smoke fills my lungs, the toxic chemicals making my head feel light. It’s
been far too long since I’ve had one of these and, truthfully, I think it’s this
I miss more than any other substance. I’ve been smoking for as long as I
can remember. The first time I ever lit up a cigarette, I was probably
thirteen. Maybe even a little younger.
The drugs came young, as did the drinking, but not that young.
Pulling out my ear buds, I stick them in, turning on a playlist. It takes
but one single minute before Rowan is plucking one out and putting it in his
own ear.
Who the fuck does this guy think he is?
Thankfully, he stays quiet for a while as we pass the bottle back and
forth, listening to music.
Unfortunately for me, it doesn’t last.
“So, how long are you here for?” he asks.
“Ninety days,” I grunt out.
“Me too!” He’s always so fucking chipper. It’s nauseating.
“I didn’t ask.”
“You’re here ’cause of that incident with the girl in your hotel room,
huh?”
Of fucking course, he knows about that. Who doesn’t?
I don’t respond, instead uncapping the bottle to take another swig. Small
talk has never been a favorite of mine. It’s pointless. Talk to me about real,
deep shit, or don’t talk to me at all. However, I’d prefer he didn’t talk to me
at all. I’m not here to make friends.
Make Believe by Memphis May Fire comes on, and Rowan shoves my
arm with his elbow. “These guys kind of sound like your band.”
“Not really.”
“Oh, shut up. Yes, they do.”
Rolling my eyes, I glance to the left, away from Chatterbox, toward the
waterfall. “You talk an awful fucking lot. Anybody ever told you that
before?”
He chuckles. “Oh yeah, once or twice.”
“So, shut the fuck up.”
“You are exactly how you look on TV.” There’s no bite to his words. In
fact, he sounds amused, and I know if I were to look over at him, he’d have
that annoying goofy grin on his face. He’s way too fucking happy.
He’s right, though. It’s something Sebastian hates, the way I don’t mask
my true self for the cameras. The other guys are usually pretty good at
putting on a friendly face for fans or for paparazzi, but not me. I am who I
am, and you’re either going to accept that and love my music anyway, or
you’re going to hate me. Either way, I couldn’t care less.
“My parents sent me here after one too many noise complaints at the
hotel I was staying at,” he provides.
I don’t respond.
Of course, he continues. “They act like I’m some suicidal drug addict
who’s one hit away from my next lethal overdose.” Rowan huffs out a
laugh, and I can hear the cap to the whiskey opening again. “Sure, I enjoy
the occasional drug at a party. And sure, I probably throw more parties than
I should, but who cares, right?”
Again, I don’t answer. He’s clearly talking for his own benefit, enjoying
the way his voice sounds, because he doesn’t need a single other person to
keep a conversation going.
“Your dad was famous, too, right?” The question is rhetorical. Anybody
who knows me knows exactly who my fucking father is. “I wonder if your
experience of being raised by someone famous is similar to mine.”
Doubtful.
“Wanna play a game?” he asks. Is he for real? I’m giving him nothing
and he keeps going. He’s like the fucking Energizer Bunny of small talk.
Slowly, I drag my gaze back to him, his hazel eyes looking almost gold
in the sun, his lips a baby pink and so pouty. I don’t respond, but I raise my
brows in question. If he’s not going to shut the hell up, I may as well
entertain his ridiculous game.
“Two truths and a lie.” He says it so matter of fact. “I’ll start. I’ll list
three things, and you have to tell me which you think is the—”
“I know how to fucking play the game,” I snap, my voice coming out
rough as I grab the bottle from his grip. Unscrewing the lid, I bring it up to
my lips, downing another two swallows.
“Okay, grump.” He laughs, using his fingers to count. “I’ve been to a
party at the Playboy mansion, I went skydiving for my eighteenth birthday,
and grapes are my least favorite fruit.”
This is so fucking stupid.
“The skydiving is the lie,” I guess.
This guy is either completely oblivious to social cues or he just doesn’t
care. I couldn’t look or sound more bored and uninterested if I tried. Yet, his
eyes light up with my guess.
“Correct! How did you know?”
“Lucky guess,” I drawl. “Give me another smoke.”
“Please,” he says with a laugh, but he grabs the pack out of his pocket,
nonetheless. “Your turn.”
“Not playing.”
“Then you’re not getting this,” he mutters, twirling the stick around his
fingers.
“Fuck off,” I grunt. He’s getting on my last nerve. Thankfully, the cheap
whiskey swimming around my veins is helping me not deck him again.
“Come on,” he whines, his smooth voice growing more grating by the
second. “Just play.”
I swear to God, I roll my eyes so much in his presence, they’re bound to
get stuck. “Fine. I once partook in an orgy with a famous pop band, I
committed armed robbery as a teenager, and I’ve had a knife held to my
throat before.”
“Well, damn, dude.” He hands me the pack of smokes. “I’m going to
guess the armed robbery is the lie.”
With the cigarette between my lips, I raise off the ground, wiping my
ass off before lighting it. I hand the Zippo back to Rowan as he stands too,
pocketing it.
“Am I right?” he asks.
Shrugging, I say, “I don’t know. Are you?”
“That’s not fair. You’re supposed to tell me if I’m right or not. It’s the
way the game works.”
“The game’s stupid,” I mutter, walking toward the trail.
“Where are you going?” His footsteps sound behind me.
“Back to my room.”
It’s pretty warm out, but the breeze makes it feel not so bad. The trail is
also covered almost completely by massive trees, so the sun isn’t beating
down on us. As much as I’d rather be back home in my own space, I’ll
admit, this place isn’t the worst place to be if I have no choice. I mean, I’d
rather not be trapped here, especially with this fucking guy, but it could be
worse.
We walk wordlessly the rest of the way back. An ear bud is still in both
of our ears, my music filtering through it, occupying the silence. We make it
to my building, and when I step inside, I notice he’s still following me. I
sure as fuck hope he doesn’t think he’s coming to my room to hang out and
chit-chat some more.
Shuffling all the way down the hallway, I reach my room. Before I scan
my wristband, I glance over my shoulder as he comes to a stop, eyes wide.
“You’re not fucking coming in here,” I spit out. “And I need my ear bud
back.”
He hands it back. “I wasn’t going to try to come in. My room is right
there.” Rowan points his finger to my left.
To the room right next door.
How did I not know he was my neighbor this entire time?
“That’s your room?”
He smiles. “Yup. See you around, neighbor.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Rowan
“H
ow have you been this week, Rowan?”
Dr. Weaver seems nice. Every time I’ve met with her since
arriving here, she makes me feel like what I have to say matters.
Like she wants to hear it all. She never makes me feel like a bother, or like I
annoy her, like everyone else in my life does.
“I’ve been okay,” I reply honestly, a shrug lifting one shoulder.
She smiles as if me being okay genuinely makes her happy. “Have you
made any friends here?”
“A few.” Caspian, of course, is the first one to come to mind. Although,
I don’t know if he would consider us friends. It’s been several days since
we drank at the waterfall. He must’ve stayed holed up in his room the entire
weekend, because I didn’t see him once, even though I was hoping to.
He doesn’t really seem like the type to keep friends. Very closed off and
quiet. Also, he’s kind of a dick. Caspian is an anomaly. One I’d really like
to figure out.
I’ve made a few other friends—ones who are probably more in line with
what friendship actually is. There’s Josiah, the housekeeping guy I
befriended. I told Caspian I gave him a blow job to get the whiskey and
cigarettes.
But I didn’t. I don’t know why I lied. It’s something I tend to do often,
without even meaning to.
All I did was sweet talk him and slip him a little cash. My phone doesn’t
work here, but he let me log into my Venmo account on his phone to send
him the money. You’d think such a high-profile rehab center would have
staff who are less likely to be persuaded. Oh well, works in my favor.
Apparently, there’s a bartender over on the resort side that also sells weed.
Josiah said he’d get me some.
He's leaving it in my room when he cleans it today while I’m here.
It pays to be friendly. I bet Caspian and his rude ass attitude isn’t
scoring weed and alcohol and cigarettes from the employees.
Why do all of my thoughts circle back to him?
“Do you have a lot of friends back home?” Dr. Weaver asks. She’s in a
black pencil skirt and a dark purple blouse today, her wire-framed glasses
sitting low on her nose. She looks every bit the professional that she is.
I wonder what it would be like to have her job. To sit down and speak
with everyone here on a twice-weekly basis. How many of us sit in this
very spot and insist there’s no reason for us to be here? Or how many refuse
to say anything at all? Or maybe they’re rude.
I bet Caspian is rude to her.
There I go again!
“I do,” I say, finally replying to her question. “Well, I have people I
hang out with, but I guess I don’t know if I’d consider them actual friends.”
“Why is that?”
Thinking about her question for a moment, I say, “They feel surface
level, the friendships. We hang out, have a good time, but never talk about
anything real. I know their names, what they like to drink, their drug of
choice, and who they slept with last weekend, but nothing more than that.
Nothing deeper.”
Dr. Weaver jots something down on the pad of paper in her lap. “Why
do you think that is?”
I don’t have to think about the answer. “Because it’s Hollywood.
Everything is a façade, and everyone walks around with blinders on. If you
open up to the wrong person, you’ll end up in the tabloids, your dirty
laundry aired for the world to see.”
“Has that happened to you before? Ending up in the tabloids.”
Shaking my head, I mutter, “Not like magazines or anything, but on
Twitter or something, yes.”
She nods. “So, have you ever had somebody you consider a real friend?
A close friend?”
A laugh bubbles out of me. “Okay, I guess I do technically have two
people I would consider close friends, but they don’t live in Hollywood.”
She smiles warmly. “And what are their names?”
“Brielle and Brynn.”
She nods, writing something down. “How long have you known them?”
“Since we were kids. We went to school together.”
The twins moved to Malibu after we graduated high school, but before
that, they lived close to my childhood home. Our nannies were friends, and
they’d take us to play at the same parks all the time. Thank God we all got
along, because our friendship was forced upon us whether we did or not.
Growing up the way we did, it’s normal for nannies or au pairs to be a
large part of our everyday lives. It’s not like in regular households, where
they come and watch the kids while the parents work their regular nine to
five, and then go home. It wasn’t until I was a teenager that my mom even
retired from modeling. So, most of my childhood and adolescent years, both
my parents were frequently gone a lot for work. My dad’s production studio
is based in Los Angeles, but it isn’t uncommon for him to travel to different
parts of the country, or even out of the country, for a movie. And Mom
traveled to New York for shoots and fashion shows. There would
sometimes be weeks at a time when neither of my parents would be home.
My nanny practically raised me.
But again, that is the norm growing up as a kid in Hollywood.
Dr. Weaver prods into my friendships a bit more before the session is
up. I don’t mind these appointments, but knowing what’s waiting for me in
my room has me antsy and ready to bolt. So, I do just that. Practically speed
walking, I make it back to my room in about five minutes. Scanning the
wristband, the door clicks open as the light turns green.
The faint earthy aroma of marijuana can be smelled almost immediately.
It’s light enough that had I not known it was in there, I probably wouldn’t
have picked up on it. But fuck, it smells good. Josiah left it under my
pillow, along with some rolling papers. The real MVP.
Snatching it up, I also swipe the Zippo in my nightstand, heading out to
my balcony. It doesn’t take me long to roll a joint, but right before I light
up, a thought pops into my head. Walking back into the room, I slip on my
shoes, grab my wristband, and head out the door. I don’t have to go far,
though. My knuckles rap softly as I wait.
Hopefully, he’s here.
I knock once more before finally hearing some shuffling on the other
side of the door. It’s pulled open a second later, Caspian appearing. He
looks like shit. His not quite shoulder-length hair is greasy, like it hasn’t
been washed in days, and the white shirt he’s wearing looks dingy. And boy,
is he ripe. His sour scent wafts around me, paired with whatever odd stench
is coming from his room.
“Wow, dude. You fucking stink.”
His face screws up. “Fuck you. What do you want?”
Holding up the joint between us, I say, “Wanted to see if you wanted to
smoke with me.”
“Where the fuck did you get weed?” A toothy grin plays on my lips, and
he rolls his eyes. “Let me guess,” he says. “Blow job Josiah?”
“That’s the one,” I quip with a wink. “So, you down?”
“No,” he grunts. “I don’t want to go anywhere.”
A chuckle bubbles up in my throat. “Yeah, well, you smell like a
garbage can. I wouldn’t want to go in public with you, anyway.”
His perma-scowl deepens. “So, why the fuck are you here, then?”
“For one, I didn’t know you’d look and smell like shit.” I laugh. His
eyes narrow into thin slits. “And two, we can smoke on your balcony. Easy
peasy.”
I don’t bother waiting for his response, shoving by him, and holding my
breath while I do. Seriously, the guy needs a fucking shower.
“Sure, just fucking come on in,” Caspian grumbles from behind me.
His room is a disaster. There’s food everywhere. It doesn’t look like the
housekeepers have come in at least two or three days. His bed is a mess. It’s
not made, but more than that, the bottom sheet is coming off on two of the
corners. Maybe more, but I can’t see the other sides. There’s also a dark
stain on the left side near the pillow.
Glancing over my shoulder at him, I bite the inside of my cheek when I
see him already watching me with annoyance in his gray eyes. “What
happened in here?” I ask.
“Nothing fucking happened,” he snaps, his expression a mix of anger
and exasperation that I can’t help but find amusing. “Why are you so
fucking nosy?”
I stick the joint between my teeth, raising my hands in mock innocence
as I plop down on one of the chairs outside. “Aye yai yai, you’re touchy
today.”
Caspian doesn’t sit in the other chair, but he doesn’t go back inside
either. I take that as a win. Flicking open the Zippo, I light the end until it
burns red, inhaling deeply. Passing it to him, I hold the sweet smoke in until
my lungs scream at me, and I can’t anymore. He finally sits down while he
takes the hit.
Not wanting to chance my luck, I remain quiet as we pass the weed
back and forth. He’s peering out at the water in the distance, and I take this
time to take him in. Even clearly in need of a shower and a shave, he’s
undeniably hot. It’s not fair. His brows, thick and dark, dip as he squints,
probably to avoid getting smoke in his eyes. He’s got scruff along his jaw,
above his lip, and a smattering across his cheeks, where he’s normally clean
shaven. I don’t know which I prefer; both work for him.
Below his dingy t-shirt, he’s wearing a pair of shorter, black athletic
shorts, showing off the patchwork on his legs. A creepy—but cool—
looking skull sits above his left knee, among other various pieces that seem
to be placed randomly with no rhyme or reason.
Not for the first time, I can’t help but wonder about his story. Sure, I
know what the media tells us, but what’s the truth? It’s not like I could get
him to tell me, anyway. The dude is a locked vault.
The joint is practically finished by the time either of us speaks again
and, of course, it’s me. “I haven’t seen you around the last few days.”
Huffing out a laugh through his nose, he mutters, “How very observant
of you.”
There’re dark circles under his eyes, like maybe he hasn’t been
sleeping. But why?
“Is everything okay?” I ask, hoping he gives me something. Maybe I
can help.
This time, he outwardly laughs, but there’s zero humor behind it as his
gaze snaps to mine. “No, dude. We’re stuck in this fucking hellhole, away
from the rest of the fucking world, unable to do anything. Nobody is okay.”
He smashes what’s left of the joint, which is basically nothing, into the side
of his soda can before letting it fall inside. “Why are you always so fucking
chipper, anyway? You realize we’re in rehab, right?”
I shrug. “Well, yeah. But that doesn’t mean we can’t make the best out
of the situation we have.”
“Yeah, well, go be fucking chipper and make the most of our situation
elsewhere. I’m tired of seeing your fucking goofy, smiling face all the
fucking time.”
His words cut me deep, as does the way he glances away from me with
a sneer on his lip, but I don’t know why. It’s nothing I haven’t heard a
million times before.
“You’re so fucking upbeat. It’s weird.
“Calm down.”
“You’re so annoying. Go away.”
I hate the way my eyes sting and my throat tightens, to the point I can’t
even respond. My brows are pinched as I watch him, seeing if he’ll
apologize or take it back. He doesn’t. Of course. In fact, he still doesn’t
even look at me.
Fuck this. Raising from the chair, I grab the Zippo, pocketing it before
storming past him. In the back of my mind, I hope he’ll stop me.
He doesn’t.
Asshole.
CHAPTER NINE
Caspian
I
wonder what my band is up to right this very second. Are they
rehearsing? And if so, who’s their stand-in drummer? Maybe they’re
partying. Are they enjoying not having the train wreck that is me
around? Or do they miss me? I wish I could talk to them, especially Atticus.
For as long as we’ve been friends, we’ve never gone more than a few days
without talking.
I’ve always been somewhat of a recluse. Too much time spent around
people drains the fuck out of me. There are periods of time when I enjoy
company more than others, though. It’s like I’ll go so long with my cup
empty, that I’ll find myself wanting to socialize, only for it to wind up
drained again after a few days. Sometimes the mood will last even a week
or two.
It always ends up the same, though. The crash. The darkness.
That’s where I’ve been for the last several days—the deep, dark space in
my mind. Between the therapy, the group sessions, and all the people I have
to be around on a daily basis when I’m doing everything from grabbing
food to working out, it’s no wonder I catapulted into the pit of my
depression. I’m not used to being around so many people. So, I spent the
last almost week holed up in my room. I didn’t leave once. Had food
delivered here, told the front desk I didn’t want housekeeping.
The only time I saw anybody was that time a few days ago when Rowan
stopped by, and we smoked that joint. Didn’t end well, though. I think I
pissed him off somehow because he got up and left without so much as a
goodbye.
I’m feeling fucking good today after the two hours I just spent in the
gym. First time I’ve left my room in almost a week. It’s a Saturday, and
apparently the weekends aren’t too busy in the gym—or at least, it wasn’t
today—because it was practically dead in there. I just took a shower back in
my room, and I find myself standing in front of Rowan’s door, my fist
banging onto it.
The fog in my mind that’s been prevalent the last few days seems to
have cleared enough that I find myself craving some human interaction.
And even though Rowan annoys the fuck out of me, I don’t mind his
presence. His sunshine personality is almost like a breath of fresh air to my
own dark, depleted mind. And besides, he seems keen on breaking some of
these God-awful rules, which is appealing to me. Not that I’d ever admit
that to him.
He doesn’t answer at first, so I start to wonder if maybe he’s not even
here. He’s quite social, and probably has friends here already. Just as I’m
about to walk away, the door is pulled open. The scent of cedar and vanilla
waft out, wrapping around me as his big, dark green eyes collide with mine.
His brows are pinched tight as he takes me in, like he’s confused.
“Hey, wanna go down to the waterfall?” I ask him, running my hand
through my still damp hair. It hangs past my ears now, and I could really
use a haircut, but I kind of dig it being this length.
“Are you for real?” His face is screwed up like he caught a whiff of
something sour.
“Uh, yes?” It comes out as a question because his demeanor is throwing
me off.
Crossing his arms over his chest, he raises a brow at me. “Earlier this
week, you were a huge fucking dick to me, kicked me out of your room,
and told me I was annoying. And now, you want to hang out?”
“Whoa, whoa,” I sputter, holding my hands up in front of me. “I never
kicked you out of my room. If I recall, you left of your own volition.”
Rowan rolls his eyes. “And the other stuff?”
“I was just fucking with you,” I say. “I didn’t mean it.”
Okay, that’s a little bit of a lie. He annoyed the fuck out of me the other
day, but it was more because of my mood than him.
“Really?” He eyes me hesitantly.
“Yeah, man. So, you wanna go?”
I’m antsy, wanting to get outside and enjoy the fresh air. Bouncing back
and forth on my feet, I watch as he seems to ponder over my offer. Finally,
he gives me a terse nod before he disappears into his room, coming back
with his wristband and some other shit he’s stuffing into his pockets.
“Do you have any more weed?” I ask before he shuts the door.
“Yup. In my pocket,” he replies, tapping said pocket. His face is still
very deadpan, his usual chipper grin nowhere to be found. I don’t think I
like it.
It’s a warm day, but with the breeze, it doesn’t feel stifling. I’ve noticed
it’s like that most days—sunny and warm, but not overly so. It must be the
tropical climate.
“I see you finally showered,” Rowan blurts out beside me as we make
our way down the trail that leads to the waterfall.
An unexpected chuckle bubbles out of me at that. “Yeah, I guess I did.”
“’Bout time,” he mumbles under his breath. “You fucking reeked.”
“A little rude.”
“No, it’s the truth.” He laughs. The sound of his rich, airy laughter is
like a weight off my shoulder that I didn’t know was there. His usual happy,
social self seems to be coming back from where it seemed missing back at
the room.
We get to the fork in the trail. The right side leads off to the waterfall. I
haven’t veered off the left yet, but it seems like a good idea today, so I do,
knowing he’s following me. The trail itself is small, the two of us barely
able to walk side by side with enough room between us to not be brushing
shoulders. The tropical vegetation is lush on either side, the trees big and
thick enough to block out most of the sunlight as we walk. There’s an everpresent salt water and floral scent that fills the air no matter where you are
on the island.
It's a nice scent. Especially when it mixes with the cedar and vanilla one
beside me. I wonder if it’s an aftershave or a lotion, or maybe a cologne that
he wears. I like it and can’t help but wonder how it would smell with my
nose buried in his neck. What his skin would smell like with sweat pouring
out of him. I bet it’d still smell sweet.
Admittedly, this isn’t the first time my mind has gone to this place. He
is a very attractive guy. And if I’m stuck in this place for the next couple of
months, maybe indulging in a little fun wouldn’t be such a bad idea. Help
me pass the time. Plus, I’m always down for a good lay.
Would he be down for it, though?
Is he even into men?
Guess there’s only one way to find out.
He did say he gave that housekeeper guy head for the alcohol and
cigarettes… but was he telling the truth?
It was probably a lie. Everybody lies.
Eventually, the trail opens up to a clearing that overlooks the water. A
cliff. It’s mind-boggling how turquoise the water is here. It’s unreal. I’ve
always seen pictures of places like this, with the water all pristine, but I
always thought it was fake. Like maybe they photoshopped the water to
look that color. But nope, it’s real.
Walking up to the cliff, I peer over the edge. It’s only about a twentyfoot drop, give or take. I bet people jump off here all the time. I glance back
when I notice Rowan isn’t beside me. He’s all the way back toward the
entrance of the trail, watching me with wild eyes.
“Why do you look so freaked out?” I ask.
He shakes his head tersely, arms wrapped tightly around his chest.
“Don’t like heights.”
I don’t know why, but that makes me laugh. “Really?”
“Yes, really,” he snaps. “It’s a very normal thing to be afraid of, thank
you very much. Acrophobia is one of the most common phobias.”
The way he says it, with so much defensiveness, it’s clear he’s gotten
shit for this many times before. It only makes me laugh harder. “Fine, well,
at least meet me in the middle, and we can smoke. The cliff isn’t going to
collapse, and where you’re standing, the sun won’t even hit us.”
Rowan rolls his eyes, then groans, but takes the few steps to meet me
anyway. We sit on the ground—it’s not quite sand, but it’s not straight rock
either. Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out the pack of Marlboros,
flipping open the lid, plucking out a pre-rolled joint from beside his other
cigarettes. He tucks it between his pink, pouty lips before flicking open the
Zippo, and lighting the end of it. His nostrils flair slightly as he inhales, his
eyes squinted nearly shut. The joint is pinched between his thumb and index
finger, and he takes a few puffs before eventually handing it to me.
Whoever that housekeeper guy gets his weed from must live on the
island. Either that, or he grows it himself. As far as I know, the employees
also live here, so I can’t imagine they’re leaving the island enough to stock
up on drugs. That would be a huge hassle. It’s not like this place is some
small island off the shore of the United States or anything. I had to take two
separate planes to get here.
They must grow it.
The slightly sour, earthy smoke fills my lungs, and I have to admit, it’s
good shit. Whoever grows it knows what they’re doing. The one and only
other time I smoked with Rowan earlier this week, just one joint got me
pretty baked. When I pass it back to him, I pull out my ear buds that I
always keep in my pocket, place one inside my ear, handing the other to
him this time on my own.
It's fucking stupid that my Wi-Fi and my phone connection won’t work
here, but at I have music downloaded, so I can at least listen to that. I’d go
out of my mind insane if I didn’t have music. Social media and all that
bullshit, I don’t need.
The occasional bird flies by over the water, but aside from those and
Ragu, the cat that hangs out near the main building, I haven’t seen any other
animals. You’d think in a jungle as lush and thick as the one behind us,
there would be all kinds of animals creeping around, but I guess since we’re
on such a secluded island, there aren’t many.
“What happened with that girl?” he asks after several minutes of neither
of us saying anything.
Glancing out toward the water, I fight to roll my eyes at him for asking
this question again. He’s always so fucking nosy, but I knew that when I
invited him out here, so I can’t really complain. Still, I don’t like to talk
about personal shit.
“She died,” I deadpan. “There’s not really much to tell.”
“God, you sound heartless,” he replies with a breathy chuckle.
“Maybe I am.”
“I don’t believe that.”
This time, it’s him I’m glancing at. My gaze colliding with his mossy
eyes. In the sunlight, they look like dark crystal orbs. “Why do you say
that?”
He shrugs. “Think there’s more to you than you let on.”
“You don’t even know me.”
“True,” he agrees, shrugging. “But from what I’ve seen—”
“You mean from the tabloids and social media?”
“And here.” His response comes out quietly as he brings the joint to his
lips.
“You don’t know me, man,” I say, but not cruelly. “Nobody does, really.
And you’d do good to not try to hold me in some light of innocence. I’m no
saint.”
He passes me the weed; it’s no more than a tiny roach at this point.
“Two truths and a lie,” he asks, the smile so evident in his voice, I don’t
even have to look over to know it’s there.
“Again?”
“Yeah, why not?”
Rolling my eyes, I nod before taking a hit. I hold the smoke in my lungs
for a moment until they scream at me for a reprieve.
Rowan seems to ponder for a moment before a grin so wide plays on his
lips. “I went to a sex club once and participated in an orgy in their dark
room, one time I didn’t have my wallet with me and wanted to buy some
molly, so I gave the dealer a hand job for it, and I fucked my high school
English teacher for some extra credit.”
I put out the joint, a laugh falling from my lips. “Jesus. I’m going to
guess the teacher fucking one is the lie.”
His eyes gleam as his smile widens. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
My head throws back, a belly laugh rumbling from me as he does to me
what I did to him the first time we played this. “Okay, touché.”
Rowan nods his chin toward me. “Your turn.”
I don’t even have to think about my three. “Once let a fan snort a line of
coke off my dick, I shot someone when I was twelve, and I lost my virginity
when I was thirteen to a woman twice as old as me.”
His eyes widen as he laughs. “You’re a fucking rock star. I feel like,
logically, any of those could be true.”
They’re all true. The fan snorting coke off my dick was this past tour, I
had to shoot one of my aunt’s ex-boyfriends in the leg to get him off of her
before he killed her one night after they got a little too high and a little too
heated, and my aunt’s friend fucked me one cold winter afternoon when my
aunt was gone. Said she could give me experience and confidence to fuck
the girls my age. What she didn’t realize—and what I didn’t realize until I
was inside of her—was that I didn’t want experience with girls my age. Or
girls in general.
“But I’ll guess the shooting someone is the lie,” Rowan adds.
Mimicking his words, I mutter through a grin. “Wouldn’t you like to
know.”
Reaching back into his pocket and grabbing the pack of smokes again,
he pulls two out, lighting them both at the same time, and handing me one.
“Did you really blow the housekeeper guy for this shit?” I ask when I
can’t stand it anymore. His nosiness must be wearing off on me.
A shit-eating grin takes over his face, eyes squinting. “Sure, I did.”
Something about his tone as he says those words has me questioning
him all over again. I genuinely can’t tell if he’s lying.
Quirking a brow, he asks, “Why? You jealous, Caspian?”
Rolling my eyes, I take a long, slow drag from the cigarette. Not for the
first time, his rapid-fire questions annoy me, but his sweet, angelic voice
makes it tolerable. “You fucking wish.”
He smiles at that, his eyes shining with mischief. “You want me to suck
you off? Is that it?”
The words, paired with the sultry tone his voice has taken on, has my
cock rousing behind my shorts. I don’t let anything show on my face,
though. “I’m good.”
“You’re straight?”
“Didn’t say that.”
“Are you?”
Persistent little fucker, he is.
Dragging my gaze over to him, I put on my best bored expression.
“No.”
I swear I see victory in his eyes when he hears that, like a fucking
invitation. One I most certainly want to grant him, but not yet. Not before I
can fuck with him a little more.
“Don’t you want to know if I’m straight?” he asks with a smirk.
“No.”
His mouth turns downward into a frown as his brows pinch with
confusion. “Why not?”
“Because I already know you’re not.”
Rowan scoffs. “And how do you know that, Mr. Know It All?”
“Well, for one, you told me you gave a blow job to the housekeeping
dude,” I say pointedly. “Even if that’s a lie, no straight guy would lie about
that.”
He thinks about that for a moment before chuckling. “Okay, yeah. You
got me there.”
After that, we fall into a comfortable silence as we finish smoking while
we listen to song after song play through the ear buds. It’s getting warmer
the longer we sit here, and the idea of jumping off that cliff into the
turquoise waters is sounding more and more appealing as the time goes on.
“Have you heard Left Behind by The Plot In You?” he asks as the song
changes. “I think you’d like it.” He’s done this a few times, told me to listen
to specific songs that he thinks I’d like. And I always do.
At some point, Rowan ends up lying back, propped up on his elbows. I
don’t know how that’s fucking comfortable with the hard ass ground below
us, but I don’t question it. My mind is stuck on the one question he asked
that was more than likely nothing but a joke.
“You want me to suck you off?”
Yes, yes, I do. My cock sitting at half-mast would have to agree. It’s
clear now that if I wanted to, he’d be down. But do I want to go there? If it
fucking sucks, I’d have to see him all the time, at least until I’m released
from here. We’re neighbors and share a group therapy session; it’s not like I
can totally avoid him. Raking my gaze over him, I can’t help but question
that… Would he be good?
His lips are certainly fuckable, that’s for damn sure. I can almost
envision the way his hair would feel, threaded between my fingers as I fuck
into that perfect fucking mouth of his, stealing his breath and making him
choke. His clothes are entirely too baggy for me to know how tight his ass
is, and the one time he stripped his shirt off after I punched him, I was too
pissed off to check him out like I should’ve, but I bet it’s nice and would
feel fucking heavenly sinking into. Bet he moans real beautifully too.
Rowan glances over, catching me checking him out. At this point, I
don’t try to hide it. He throws me a knowing smirk. “Whatcha thinking
’bout?”
“My cock down your throat.”
He swallows, throat bobbing, and I swear, even in the sunlight, his
pupils dilate.
“Would you like that?” I ask, purposely keeping my voice low.
“Maybe,” he replies, sounding completely unaffected. The bulge in his
pants tells me otherwise.
“What type of shit are you into?”
Brows knitting in confusion, he asks, “What do you mean?”
I roll my eyes at his obtuse question. “In bed, idiot. What are you into
sexually?”
“Not you being an asshole to me,” he scoffs.
“Not into a little degradation, baby,” I purr. “Don’t want me to tell you
what a filthy fucking whore you are?”
I take a sick satisfaction in watching his Adam’s apple bob up and down
again, Rowan looking absolutely speechless. For once.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” I mutter. “You can pretend all you want
you don’t like the asshole, but nice guys would bore you, I fucking bet.”
He rakes his fingers through his hair. “Well, what about you?”
I shrug. “I haven’t found much that I’m not into,” I reply honestly. I’m a
fairly open guy, willing to try just about anything once, and I have yet to
find anything that I’ve tried and hated. My issue normally lies in finding
someone who’s also as down for whatever as I am.
He nods. “So, what’s something you haven’t tried but you want to?”
One thing immediately comes to the forefront of my mind. Something
I’ve read about in books but have never been able to try. But I hesitate
saying it out loud, because said in front of the wrong type of person, I’ll
sound like a fucking psycho. Which, normally, I don’t give a shit about, but
again… I have to see him all the time.
Rowan must sense my hesitancy because he smirks. “Go on… tell me. I
won’t judge.”
I pause, only for a single moment, before metaphorically saying, fuck it.
“Chasing,” I say simply. “I’ve always wanted to chase someone. Hunt them
down, and then take them once I capture them. A primal kink in its purest
form.”
Desire is practically pouring out of his eyes, a salacious waterfall of
lust, his cheeks flushed just a tad, and the bulge in his pants grows a little
bigger. It’s fucking hot, watching the visceral reaction he’s having to my
fantasy. I don’t think I’ve ever admitted that one out loud before.
When he seems to be at a loss for words, I ask, “What about you?”
He blinks a few times, seeming like he’s being knocked out of a
daydream… maybe his own fantasy. “What about me?”
“What’s something you’ve wanted to try before?”
Now his cheeks really turn red. For someone so bubbly and outgoing,
he sure shies easily. “It’s kind of similar to yours, in a way.”
“Let’s hear it.”
Rowan bites down on his lip, looking out toward the water. I’ve never
seen him look so uncomfortable before. I kind of love it. “Okay, I know this
sounds so fucked up, but I’ve always found the idea of being… forced”—
his entire face flames as soon as he mumbles that word out—“a huge turn
on.”
“So, CNC?” I ask. On the outside, I keep my face neutral. He’s clearly
embarrassed by this fantasy, so I don’t want to scare him off or make him
feel bad about it. But on the inside? Fuck me, I’m beaming.
His brows dip. “CNC?”
My lip kicks up into a small smirk. “Consensual non-consent. It’s a
kink. Basically, one person gives another person, or persons, consent to take
them forcefully. Like role play. Both parties know it’s consensual, but the
role play is acted out as if there’s no consent.”
The air surrounding us thickens. It’s supercharged. There’s no hiding his
erection, and mine would be visible too if I weren’t sitting the way I was. I
want to take him up on his earlier offer—if that’s even what you’d call it—
more than anything, but I don’t know with absolute certainty he’d want it.
So, instead, I rise off the ground. Taking out my ear bud, I reach behind
my head, ripping my shirt off, letting it fall to the ground beside me before
shoving my shorts down. I leave my boxers on. Rowan watches me with
wide, crazed eyes—probably because I have a boner like a pubescent
teenage boy—as I scoot back to get a good start before running and
jumping off the cliff.
Rowan’s loud, choked gasp reaches my ears before I’m fully submerged
in the cool turquoise waters. The temperature isn’t frigid like the Pacific
back home, but it’s also not warm like the Atlantic. It’s a solid mix between
the two, and it feels fucking wonderful. It does wonders in getting rid of the
raging erection, though.
He’s shouting frantically as soon as my head breaches the water. My
guess is he’s been screaming the whole time.
“…could’ve been killed! What the fuck is wrong with you? Do you
have a fucking death wish?”
Pushing my hair out of my face, I laugh. “Oh, fucking live a little!”
Rowan looks flabbergasted by that. “Excuse me?!”
“You heard me, chickenshit. Live a little.” He gawks at me, and I can’t
even hide my laughter. “Jump in.”
“You’re out of your fucking mind! Nope. No. No way!” He’s now
pacing back and forth near the edge of the cliff. I wonder if he even realizes
how close he is.
Cupping my hands around my mouth, I snag his attention, halting his
incessant pacing. “Bawk, bawk, bawk!”
This really gets him going. Hand on his hip, he scoffs. “I am not a
fucking chicken, you asshole!”
“Then jump in,” I taunt. “If you’re not a chickenshit, jump in here.
Water feels great.”
He shakes his head.
“Alright,” I say. “It’s okay to be scared.”
“I’m not fucking scared.”
“Prove it.”
Rowan scowls so deep, even from down here, I can see the smoke
practically fuming from his ears. I got him, though. I know it. He’s
cracking, and he’s going to do it just to prove he can. Nothing happens for a
few beats, but then…
He grumbles—loudly—before ripping his shirt over his head and
shoving his shorts down with such force you’d think they personally
offended him. He narrows his eyes, throwing me one last burning glower
before he disappears.
Nothing happens.
At least not for quite a while. He’s out of sight for at least twenty
seconds, and I start to think maybe he left me here. Then, out of nowhere,
he comes flying off the cliff, a gargled cry leaving his lips—one I’m not
even sure he realizes he let out—and I have to hurry backward so he doesn’t
land right on top of me. He hits the water feet first, submerging himself,
causing waves to rift all around me.
Once he reaches the surface, his head pokes out, and he wipes the water
from his eyes. “Holy shit!”
“You fucking did it!”
“I did it,” he repeats, almost as if he can’t believe it.
“Guess you aren’t a chickenshit, after all,” I quip, my body floating a
little closer to him.
Rolling his eyes, he looks all around. “That was fucking fun.”
The smile on his lips is wide, and it fills my chest with something like
pride. “I told you.”
When his dark green eyes collide with mine, all humor gone, replaced
with what can only be described as unbridled desire. We’re now directly in
front of one another, so close, his hot breath fans my lips, my tongue
dipping out to wet them automatically.
I want to taste him, feel his lips on my own, but I wait… seeing if he’ll
make the move.
Rowan’s gaze drops down, watching the movement. He pauses, eyes
finding mine.
One second passes.
Then two.
His lips crash into mine, saltwater, and something else entirely filling
my senses. My mind freezes, all thoughts vanishing. Despite me wanting
him to make the move, I didn’t think he actually would. Hands wrap around
my neck as he brings our bodies flush. He’s hard. That awakens something
inside of me, spurring me into action. Taking hold of his hips, I push my
tongue into his mouth, swirling it around his as he moans against my lips.
I can taste the weed, and the cigarettes, but also a little mint. From his
toothpaste, maybe. He tastes good, and he feels even better as he rubs his
evident arousal against mine.
Much sooner than I prefer, he breaks apart from me, panting as his chest
heaves. “Maybe we should get out of the water before we’re eaten by a
shark or a sea creature.”
Staring at him for a moment, a laugh rips from my throat. “A sea
creature?”
“Yeah, the ocean is a fucking creepy place. I don’t love it.”
Holding my hand in front of me, I murmur, “After you.”
CHAPTER TEN
Rowan
I
think I’m broken.
No, I know I’m broken. And Caspian is the reason for my ruin.
Every single thing that happened yesterday, from start to finish, is
replaying in my mind like a movie on fucking repeat.
Him showing up to my room.
Him inviting me to hang out. I mean, sure, it crossed my mind that
maybe he only invited me to get the weed, but something tells me if
Caspian wants something bad enough, he’ll get it in whichever way he can.
And he knows who I got it from, so it’s not like he needs me for the weed.
Then, as if him wanting to hang out with me wasn’t strange enough, he
was actually… nice. And almost chatty. It’s like everything I’ve known
about him thus far was turned off yesterday. Caspian two-point-oh came out
for a visit while grumpy, stinky Caspian took a nap.
Will version two-point-oh stick around? Or was it a fleeting sight to
witness?
And the kiss… The fucking kiss.
Hold up… I’ve gotten ahead of myself. I need to rehash everything that
came right before that kiss. The conversation about our kinks… that had no
business being as hot as it was. I swear, I’ve never been harder, and there
was absolutely no hiding it. He saw. He had to.
But so was he. I saw it plain as day when he stripped down out of
fucking nowhere and threw himself off that cliff. My heart damn near
lurched out of my chest—breaking straight through my rib cage—when he
did that.
How he got me to jump too is still a mystery.
I’ve been terrified of heights since I was a boy. It’s not like something
happened that made me this way. It’s just a deeply engrained fear that’s
damn near debilitating. And embarrassing.
Once, when I was a teenager, I visited Seattle with the twins and our
nannies. Of course, being in Seattle, we had to go to the Space Needle.
When I say I’ve never felt fear like that, I fucking mean it. Between the
clear elevator, where you get to watch your fucking ascent, and the viewing
deck, my muscles ached from how tightly they clenched. Visions of the
entire thing tipping over, and all of us dying brutally, played through my
mind the entire time I was there.
And, of course, the twins thought it was hilarious.
It wasn’t hilarious.
So, the fact that I jumped off that cliff practically willy-nilly is
astonishing. It was fun as hell… I can’t lie. The adrenaline rush that came
with it, and the shock on Caspian’s face when I burst through the water.
Worth it.
Now, back to the kiss. Pressing the pads of my fingers to my lips, I
swear I can still feel the pressure of his mouth on mine. His hot breath
washing over me. I can still taste him as he licked around curiously with
palpable need. I never wanted it to end.
And then I ruined it by freaking out about the fucking water. Why am I
like this?
When we got back from the cliffs, he made some excuse about needing
to run to the main building to talk to someone, but it was vague, and I think
it was his way of saying he didn’t want to take our kiss any further. It stung.
I tried to not take it personally, but that’s difficult for me. He’s always so
hot and cold, and yesterday he was so nice and flirty and actually wanting
to hang out. I was eager to ask what caused the change, but I didn’t want to
risk ruining the mood. Then he practically ran away from me the moment
he could. It’s kind of hard not to think it’s because he hated the kiss or
regretted it.
My stomach grumbles. It’s late morning at this point, and if I don’t
shove some food down my throat soon, my stomach may very well eat itself
just to spite me. Rolling out of bed, I haul my ass into the bathroom, taking
a quick glance in the mirror and noting I look like absolute dog shit.
Fuck it.
The sky’s overcast today. It looks like it may rain soon; something I
haven’t seen much of since being here, actually. Heard someone say the
other day that rainy season here is November to April, so I must’ve barely
missed that since it’s just now turning May. It’s still warm and humid.
As I’m walking along the path made to take us from the rooms to the
main building, I can’t help but think of Caspian. What’s he doing right
now? Is he still sleeping?
Probably not. It’s like after eleven now, if I’m not mistaken.
Has the kiss been on his mind all morning, like it has mine?
Does he regret it? Want it to happen again? Not give a shit one way or
another?
I feel like the latter is more on par for him, but I hope not.
Strained laughter reaches my ears, and it takes me a moment to realize
the noise is coming from me. Covering my mouth with my fingers, I roll
my eyes at myself. My entire life, I’ve always been someone who feels too
hard. I latch onto people easily, crush way harder than anyone I know, and
despite being fully aware of this, I can’t find a way to stop it from
happening.
Abandonment issues. That’s what a therapist once told me.
It’s a little inconvenient, if you ask me.
Pulling open the door to the main building, I step inside, the air
conditioning washing over me, making the light sheen of sweat along my
neck and back feel chilled. The lobby is busier than it normally is, but I
guess, given that it’s a weekend morning, that’s not too unusual. The
restaurant in here has a Sunday brunch that seems to be quite popular. It’s
nothing like the brunches back in L.A., and there’s no bottomless mimosas
—or mimosas at all—but the food is still pretty good.
I round the corner, strolling down the narrow hallway that leads to the
entrance of the restaurant. Up ahead, closer to the door, there’re two people
standing beside the wall. The closer I get, the clearer they become. It’s
Caspian and some chick I’ve never seen. Her hand is on his bicep, and she’s
laughing about something, the sound like nails on a chalkboard as I swallow
against the sour taste on the back of my tongue.
Caspian looks bored, per usual, but that doesn’t mean anything.
A bitter, wretched feeling swirls around low in my gut as I watch them
interact. Observe as this woman flirts shamelessly with him. He must catch
sight of me out of his periphery, because his wolfish gray gaze slides over,
connecting with mine, and I freeze. A wicked glint shines in his eyes as a
barely-there grin tugs on his lips, looking more menacing than anything.
It feels warm in here all of the sudden. Uncomfortably hot, actually. I
have to walk past them in order to get into the restaurant or look like a
fucking idiot in front of Caspian and turn around to leave. I don’t know
which is worse.
I also don’t know why this is bothering me as much as it is.
Cas brings his attention momentarily back to the huge breasted blonde
in front of him. She leans in, whispering something in his ear. His eyes find
mine once again when she does, holding my gaze. Steeling my spine, I jut
my chin out and walk past them. She doesn’t even notice me, only having
eyes for Cas. But him, on the other hand… I feel the weight of his stare on
me the entire time.
Once inside the restaurant, I let out the breath I’d been holding. The
hostess seats me, takes my drink order—much to my dismay, it’s
nonalcoholic, of course—and leaves me alone with the menu and my
stewing thoughts. It feels like asphalt is churning in my stomach, burning
hot and vile.
Has he slept with that woman?
Has he slept with anyone since being here?
What if I’m not the first person he’s kissed here?
What a fucking asshole. Not even twenty-four hours ago, he was
hanging out with me, smoking my weed, kissing me.
And the smug fucking look on his face when he saw me watching
them… Asshole!
It’s infuriating how hurt I feel by this. It shouldn’t be this way. I barely
know him, but despite all that, I feel this pull toward him, this undeniable
connection. That’s how it always is with me, though, isn’t it? Always
falling hard, attaching to the wrong people who definitely do not feel the
same about me, only to get hurt in the end. Since I was little, I’ve always
worn my silly little heart on my sleeve, desperately wanting people to want
me the way I want them, want me around the way I want them around.
My eyes keep darting to the entrance of the building, waiting for him—
or them—to walk in here, but it never happens. My entire meal passes in a
blur. I’m so fucking angry.
First, he’s insanely rude to me. Practically kicks me out of his room.
Then he comes to my room a few days later, acting like nothing happened
and being uncharacteristically nice to me, and now this.
It’s a game to him.
I’m a game.
Fuck that. And fuck him.
By the time I make it back outside, it’s raining. Correction—it’s
pouring. I’m soaked by the time I make it back to the resident building.
Taking the elevator up, I practically stomp down the halls, and when I pass
Caspian’s room, I tell myself I won’t do it.
I’m not going to knock on his door.
I’m not going to give him the time of day.
Fuck him.
He’s an asshole.
But it’s as if my mind and body aren’t on speaking terms, because
before I know it, my fist is pounding on his door, my heart hammering
behind my chest as I wait to see if he answers.
Is he in there alone?
Is he even in there at all?
Eventually, though, right as I’m about to give up and go to my own
room, the door is swung open, his huge body taking up the doorway,
signature bored-as-ever expression on his face. He doesn’t say hello.
Doesn’t say anything. Just stares at me.
“Um, hello?” I finally blurt out, waving my hand in front of his face.
“What?”
I scoff, the lava of anger steadily rising inside of me, about ready to boil
over. “What? That’s all you have to fucking say?”
“Well, what the fuck did you expect?” he asks, deadpan. “A welcome
party?”
“Aren’t you going to let me in?”
“No.”
Rolling my eyes, I fold my arms over my chest. “Why not? That girl in
here?”
Caspian’s brows knit together. “What fucking girl?”
“The one from the restaurant. Did you fuck her?” I ask, vaguely aware
of how fucking insane I sound, but the words fly out of my mouth like
vomit anyway. “Is she in there right now, naked, with you dripping out of
her?”
I’m basically hysterical, the pitch of my voice rising with every syllable.
“Aww, is Rowan jealous?” His tone is dripping with sarcasm, the words
spoken in a baby voice, like he’s directing the question to a toddler. It
infuriates me. “Do you wish it was you pinned beneath me, getting fucked
into the mattress instead?”
“Fuck you,” I spit out, well aware I didn’t deny it.
“You fucking wish, don’t you, princess?” His lip ticks up into a crooked
grin, like he finds great pleasure in pissing me off.
“Don’t fucking call me that,” I growl. “And I’m not fucking jealous.”
“Yeah?” His brow lifts in question. “You’re not as good of a liar as you
think you are.”
“Why are you such an asshole?” Frustration grows in my chest like
helium blowing up a balloon. Like any moment, I’m going to explode from
it. “Just yesterday—”
“Just yesterday what?” he snaps, stepping a little closer. “What, you
think just because we got high together and kissed, I’m suddenly yours?”
He huffs out a laugh. “You can’t be that fucking pathetic, can you?”
Knowing whatever would come out of my mouth if I tried to speak
would only make it worse, I grind my molars, keeping it shut instead.
“Do me and you a favor and don’t go thinking you’re that fucking
special,” he says when it’s clear I’m not responding. “You aren’t.”
My jaw aches with how hard I’m clenching it, the stinging behind my
eyes infuriating as I can do or say nothing. After a moment of nothing but
silent tension, I watch him smirk before shutting the door in my face.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Caspian
“A
ny moment might be our last.
Everything is more beautiful when we’re doomed.
You will never be lonelier than you are now.
We will never be here again.”
My eyes drop to the name, despite reading this a hundred times,
practically knowing the entire book by heart.
Homer, The Iliad.
Ancient Greece has been a fascination of mine since I was a young boy.
I remember after moving to the States when my dad died, I’d do everything
I could to prolong me going back to the house I was supposed to call home.
My aunt was always drunk or high—usually both—and the revolving door
of low-life men moved so quickly, it gave me whiplash sometimes.
Down the street from my school, there was a library. I can’t even say
how many countless hours I spent there over the course of the years, but it
was many. I wasn’t the best reader, and was kind of a slow learner
altogether. After my mom died—and even before, honestly—I missed a lot
of school. I fell behind, and nobody cared enough to step in.
Until someone did.
My fourth-grade teacher—her name was Mrs. Stetson—noticed how
behind I was and how much I struggled with almost everything when it
came to school. This was about a year after I moved from Scotland, and she
took me under her wing per se, working hard to try to get me caught up. It
was the first time anybody had ever cared enough to help.
Mrs. Stetson noticed other things too, like my too small clothes with the
holes and stains, and the occasional bruise that couldn’t be explained away
with some lame excuse about tripping or falling. Child protective services
were called. House visits were done. I barely slipped by without getting
thrown into the system because of it.
I hated Mrs. Stetson for it. Oh, I loathed her for fucking years, for
betraying me like that.
Looking back now, I know she was only doing what she thought was
best—what she was legally mandated to do—but as a little boy with trust
and abandonment issues, that was unforgivable.
Anyway, it was because of her, my love of reading bloomed. What
started out as me hardly being able to put two sentences together ended with
me spending umpteen afternoons in the back of the library until the
streetlights came on and I had to go home.
I can’t remember if it was middle school or early in high school when
we first learned about Greek mythology, but whenever it was, I was hooked
immediately. The intricacies of their folklore fascinated me to no end, and I
found myself wanting to know more and more and more. Those types of
books became what I sought out the most during my after-school trips to the
library.
What I love the most, I think, about their mythology is how the Greek
heroes aren’t perfect. They’re as messed up as anyone in this world is. They
were not lacking fault by any means. The word hero used back then versus
how we use the word now is astronomically different. It holds people on an
almost unreachable pedestal now. Whereas heroes in those stories aren’t
entirely good. They’re flawed.
Another thing I resonated with was how not every story had a happy
ending. In books and movies, and even in real life, there’s this belief that if
things don’t end perfectly, wrapped in a tidy bow, you don’t wind up with
the guy or the girl, then life has no meaning. Basically, there’s this “what’s
the point?” mentality, and it’s bullshit. Life isn’t always going to be pretty.
It’s not always going to feel good or turn out the way you want.
That’s just fucking life. It’s reality.
Many late nights were also spent locked in my bedroom all throughout
high school with my headphones in my ears, music blaring from some CD
player I stole from another kid at school, while I read and reread the words
in these books to block out the yelling, and screaming, and fighting that
took place between the so-called adults in the living room. It helped me
escape. Helped me forget—even if only for a few hours—how wretched my
reality was.
These books, the stories, they became a comfort for me over the years.
It’s the same with music. They got me through some dark fucking times.
Helped see me through the impossible.
The waves lap at the shore, pulling me from my thoughts and reminding
me where I am. Today’s been a shit day. Well, the last few days, if I’m
being honest. The darkness has been creeping in, and the thought of
spending another fucking empty evening stuck in that goddamn makeshift
dorm room made me want to blow my fucking brains out. After picking at
my dinner, barely eating anything, I decided to wander. Maybe getting lost
will help the fog clear.
Instead of following the same trail I normally meander down, finding
myself at the waterfall or that cliff I jumped from, I went past the resident
buildings, and continued on until I found… whatever there was waiting for
me. Much to my appreciation, I found a small, quiet beach that’s completely
deserted. I don’t know if it’s always empty, if maybe the residents don’t
know it’s here, or if I got lucky tonight.
Either way, I couldn’t be more pleased about it. It’s been—shit—I think
hours at this point, since I’ve come down here, plopped my ass in the white
sand, and started reading and listening to music. It’s a miracle I can even
read right now, since the sun has sunk into the horizon a while ago. The
song thumping in my ear ends, switching to some Thousand Below song,
when it hits me… Curfew.
Shit!
Pulling out my useless fucking phone, I turn the screen on and see that I
have five minutes until ten. I’m not normally out of my room this late, so
I’ve never had to stay conscious of the rules. Normally, I wouldn’t give two
shits about this place and their fucking rules, but I’m not trying to give them
or Sebastian any ammunition to keep me here longer than I need to be. I all
but sprint back to my resident building with one minute to spare. As soon as
I get up to my floor, though, I realize I forgot my wristband inside my room
before leaving in such a hurry earlier.
Fucking goddamnit!
This is just fucking great. Why the hell do they use these dumbass
wristbands anyway? Is this a fucking club? Spinning on my heel, I climb
back into the elevator and head downstairs. When I get to the main
building, it’s fucking locked.
Of fucking course, it’s locked. Why wouldn’t it be? It’s after the curfew
they place on us like we’re goddamn children. I bang my fist on the door.
Surely, someone is still inside. It’s barely past ten p.m. I’m not in the mood
for all this tonight. The anger is rising quickly inside me, and I’m certain
steam’s going to billow out of my ears at any minute.
I can’t wait to leave this hellhole and go back home. Shouldn’t even be
here. Sebastian is a fucking idiot. He knows good and fucking well I don’t
have a drug problem. Yes, I enjoy getting high and getting drunk, but what
famous musician doesn’t? The other guys in the band do it too.
This was nothing but a control thing. Manipulation. He wanted to prove
to me that he owns me, that he could make me bend and twist any way he
wanted because he knows how much this band means to me. He knows
what lengths I’d go to keep them. How much I need them.
Fuck this. Fuck him.
Halfway back to the resident building, it dawns on me that the door for
that one is also probably locked. A thought that boils my fucking blood.
Why would they not have staff at the front desk if they lock all the fucking
doors? So, if someone is late from curfew, they what? Have to sleep outfucking-side?
That’s fucking dumb.
I step up to the door, and it appears the universe is at least a little on my
side, because while I was correct—it is locked—there’s someone walking
by as I bang on the glass door, and they open it for me. What I’m going to
do now that I’m inside the building, I have no fucking clue. Taking the
elevator back up to my floor, I stride down the hall, getting to my door, and
I try the handle. Like it’ll somehow be open.
It's not.
“Fuck!”
Slowly, reluctantly, my gaze slides to my left. To the door that belongs
to someone I really don’t want to bother.
A groan vibrates from my chest as I drag my fingers through my hair,
yanking on the strands while I try to think of any possible solution where I
don’t have to ask for Rowan’s help because, let’s face it, the last time we
saw each other, I wasn’t exactly warm and welcoming.
But… I don’t have anyone else I can ask. It’s not like I’ve gone out of
my way to make friends—or even acquaintances—here. That’s my issue
everywhere, though, isn’t it? I lack the people pleaser skills that everyone
else in the world seems to possess.
Finding myself in front of his door, I lift my fist, hesitating only a
moment before knocking. Maybe he’s already asleep.
Yeah, but what then? If he is sleeping—or worse, what if he doesn’t let
me in? Then what?
After several long beats, the door swings open. He fills up the frame in
forest green flannel sleep pants and nothing else. No shirt, no socks. His
eyes widen a fraction when he takes me in before he controls his features.
“What are you doing here?” he asks, his usual chipper voice more
clipped than usual.
“I’m locked out of my room.” Heat creeps up my neck, but I don’t know
why.
“Okay…” Rowan folds his arms over his bare chest. He’s not overly
muscular, his body mostly lean, but it’s not an unattractive body by any
means. There’re the faint markings of a six-pack, and his chest is free of
any hair, save for a light dusting.
Realizing I’ve spent one too many seconds examining his abdomen, I
snap my eyes up to meet his, the green in them mossy. “I accidentally left
my wristband in there when I left earlier.”
Rowan cocks his head to the right. “And what exactly do you expect me
to do about that?”
He’s feisty tonight. And clearly not going to make this easy.
Blowing out a breath, I continue. “The door to the main building is
locked, and I didn’t see any staff inside.”
I grit my teeth, grinding down on my molars as he just stands there,
staring at me.
“Can I come in?” I’m not exactly in the mood to beg, but I’m also not in
a place to be a dick either. It’s either he lets me in, or I sleep in the hallway.
He huffs out a laugh through his nose. “No.”
“What? Why not?” He cannot be fucking serious.
“Do you and me a favor, would you, and don’t go thinking you’re that
special.” Rowan smirks, eyes fucking gleaming, as he regurgitates my
words back at me from the other day.
“Don’t be a fucking child, Rowan. I’m locked out and have no place to
sleep tonight. Let me in,” I all but growl.
“How is that my problem?” he asks smugly.
My heart’s hammering in my chest, and the urge to deck him in his
fucking stupid face is strong. Squeezing my hands into tight fists at my
sides, I level him with a glare. “Don’t be a fucking dick,” I grit out. “It
doesn’t suit you.”
He laughs again. It’s dry.
The words I know I need to say are right there on the tip of my tongue,
but it’s like my mouth is coated in chalk. I’m choking on them, unable to
spit them out. Swallowing hard, I watch his eyes dip, tracking the
movement.
“Please,” I manage to get out. Albeit painfully.
His brows shoot straight up to his hairline at that. “I’m sorry, what?”
“You fucking heard me. Please let me crash in here tonight.”
A goofy grin plays on his lips as he steps to the side, gesturing with his
hand to come in. “Look at you being all polite,” he muses. “Who knew you
had it in you.”
“Shut the fuck up,” I grunt, taking a deep breath through my nose to
chill the fuck out.
His scent wafts around, clinging to every surface in here. It’s
maddening. My eyes drop to the bed in the center of the room, the
comforter pushed back, sheets a little crinkled. He was obviously lying in
bed when I knocked. That thought surprisingly makes my stomach twist.
“Uh, I can sleep on the floor,” I offer, suddenly feeling uncomfortable.
“Don’t be fucking weird. There’s more than enough room for the both
of us on this bed.”
Rolling my eyes, I kick my shoes off, emptying my pockets, and setting
the contents on top of his dresser. Exhaustion hits me as I watch him climb
back into bed, positioning himself on the right-hand side, allowing me to
have the left.
I reach behind my neck, pulling my shirt over my head. Dropping it to
the floor, I flick the button on shorts, letting those pool around my ankles
until I’m in nothing but my boxer briefs. Rowan watches me every step of
the way, not even hiding his perusal.
“I can’t sleep in clothes,” I mumble as I climb in next to him, feeling
more naked than I’ve ever felt in my life, despite being covered where it
counts.
He holds up his hands. “I didn’t say anything.”
After turning the lamp off on his bedside table, he situates himself under
the covers, and I do the same.
It’s going to be a long fucking night.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Caspian
I
t doesn’t take long for Rowan’s breathing to even out. It also doesn’t
take long for him to gravitate toward my body in his sleep. Not long
after that, everything goes black. Honestly, I’m surprised I’m able to get
any sleep at all, let alone get a full night’s rest. I never sleep well around
other people.
What isn’t surprising, though, is that I’m awake before Rowan.
Glancing out the little opening between the curtains near the window, I’d
say it’s early; maybe even only seven a.m. He’s curled up on my side, his
left leg thrown over mine, while I lie on my back. I’m warm and so fucking
comfortable. I almost don’t even want to get up at all. His bed feels way
better than mine.
Maybe I should bitch to the front desk about that when I complain about
being locked out.
Rowan groans, repositioning himself, and that’s when I feel it.
He’s hard.
One salacious drag of his erection along my thigh, and now I’m also
hardening. Aching almost immediately.
It’s been so long since I’ve had sex—months—a fact that never crossed
my mind until this very moment. My dick is throbbing every time he rubs
himself along my leg in his sleep.
I should push him off.
Should go to the bathroom to rub one out. Or better yet, my room.
That would be the logical thing to do, but I don’t do that.
Instead, like the pervert I am, I lie here, envisioning all the ways I could
take him. It’s obviously crossed my mind, fucking Rowan. Especially since
our conversation turned make-out session at the cliffs. Fuck, he was a good
kisser. Soft, plush lips, a hot, wet tongue, and a mouth that tasted so fucking
good.
I still don’t have a fucking clue why I ran off with that bullshit excuse
after we got back from the cliffs. Of course, I wanted him, wanted so much
more than that kiss, but something—I don’t know what—stopped me.
With his warm, slightly sweaty body plastered against mine right now,
though, I can’t help but wonder what he’d look like completely naked for
me.
Is his pubic hair light and scarce like his chest hair is?
Is he cut? Uncut? Thick?
Is his shaft smooth or is it veiny?
Does he prefer to give or take? Both?
I’m so in my head—in my fantasies—that I don’t notice him stirring
until he groans, deep and throaty, and he grinds his pelvis into the side of
my thigh once more. He doesn’t open his eyes yet, but I know he’s awake
based on his breathing. His hand, the one that was resting on my chest,
drags down beneath the covers, and a warmth spreads under my skin as I
can feel him palming himself. His knuckles brush against my leg, and he
lets out a broken breath, the puff of air hot against my flesh.
“Fuck, I’m horny.” His voice is raspy, and that, plus his admission,
sends a bolt of electricity through my body, landing directly in my groin.
Huffing out a laugh, I mumble under my breath without meaning to,
“That makes two of us.”
Rowan hums, hand skating along my lower stomach. My abs dip and
constrict against the faint touch. It’s a tease, and it’s driving me wild. “I
could… help you with that,” he murmurs, tone husky. Sultry. He’s not
looking up at me; I can’t see his face, but the insinuation is clear.
“Is that so?” I prop my arm under my head against the pillow, peering
down at him.
“Mmhmm.”
“And how would you do that?”
He continues to rub along my stomach, the pads of his fingers
featherlight. “Well, I could start with my mouth,” he breathes. “Taste you.
Get you nice and wet.”
I’m going out of my mind. My cock throbs behind my underwear, so
hard, I’m surprised I haven’t broken out of them yet. “And then what?” I
ask, lust coating every word.
He shrugs, the gesture so fucking cute with his face slack with sleep.
“Then maybe I could climb into your lap and ride you.”
I have to bite the inside of my cheek to stifle a groan.
He glances up at me then, pupils blown, the deep green of his irises
barely visible.
“Maybe you should do it, then.”
As if he was waiting on pins and needles for my permission, he wastes
no time as his hand dips under the fabric, gripping my stiff length firmly. A
groan slips between my gritted teeth as he pumps me slowly. Rowan’s hand
is soft and warm, and my eyes roll back when his thumb swipes over the
tip, spreading the evidence of my arousal.
He leans forward just as I dip my chin, our lips colliding messily. When
he squeezes my length as my tongue sweeps into his mouth, I can’t even
find it in me to give a shit about morning breath.
Rowan pulls himself up onto his knees, the blanket sliding down my
stomach as he situates himself between my spread thighs. His fingers hook
into the waist of my briefs, pulling them down until my cock springs free.
An amused look takes over his face as his eyes lift to mine.
“Really?”
I can’t help the bubble of laughter that comes out, already knowing
what he’s referencing. “What?” I ask, playing dumb.
His fingers trace the words etched into my skin right across my pubic
bone. “What the hell is this?”
“That would be a tattoo,” I drawl, earning me an eye roll.
“No shit. Who the fuck gets that tattooed on themselves?”
“Me.” I chuckle.
“Good boy?”
“I am a good boy,” I say matter-of-factly.
One night a few years back, during the band’s first tour, we all got
wasted after a gig, and went to get tattoos. Don’t ask why I chose to get the
words “good boy” in all capital letters, but I did.
“You are ridiculous,” he mutters before wrapping his hand around my
cock again. Leaning down, he swipes his tongue across my slit, my back
arching as a gasp falls from my lips.
“Fuck.” The word escapes as nothing more than a whisper, pleasure
flooding my senses when he wraps his lips around the tip, tongue swirling
around and around.
Rowan’s mouth is hot, throat tight. His hair is sticking up in every
which way as he sinks farther down my length, my hand coming to the top
of his head, fingers threading through the short pale blond strands. It’s
getting a little longer from when we first got here, but it’s still barely long
enough to grab. He peers up at me from beneath his long dark lashes, his
thick brows pinched tight as his eyes fill up with moisture. He’s disheveled
and filthy, and it only turns me on more.
Time stands still, desire seeping out of my pores as his head bobs up
and down. He’s sloppy, uncaring about how it sounds or how he looks. It’s
sexy as fuck. Rowan moans around my length, the sound vibrating through
my cock until it settles deep in my balls. They’re tight, drawn up, ready for
release. What he’s doing feeling so damn good.
He takes his time, paying my cock homage, leaving not a single inch
untouched. He knows what he’s doing; this isn’t his first rodeo. His strong,
skilled tongue licks a path along the underside of my shaft, flicking it
teasingly once he reaches the crown. Soft, warm hands come up, cupping
my balls, and rolling them in his palm. The slightest bit of pressure to them
as he closes his lips around the tip of my dick makes my toes curl, eyes
rolling back.
Undeniable sensation floods my system, every nerve ending lit up.
“Your mouth,” I breathe. “Fuck, I’m going to come if you don’t stop.”
Rowan pulls off, and when his gaze connects with mine, my breath
catches in my throat, heart sputtering in my chest. His lips are rosy and
swollen, slick with his saliva, and his cheeks are flushed, eyes nearly pitch
black, the mossy green nowhere in sight.
This moment feels too intimate, the way he’s staring at me like he can
see straight through me. See my every thought.
Thankfully, Rowan severs the connection when he glances away,
climbing off the bed to reach into the drawer of the bedside table. A clear,
unlabeled bottle is dropped onto the bed. It looks like lube, but who fucking
knows with him. Ridding himself of his clothes, he climbs back on the bed
as my eyes rake down his lean body. He’s pale, skin creamy smooth. I don’t
see a single shred of ink anywhere, miles of untouched surface, unlike
mine.
My eyes drop to his groin, the dark hair that’s trimmed short around the
root. The hair is such a contrast to the top of his head, proving even further
that it’s bleached. Rowan’s cock bobs under my gaze, full, pink balls
hanging low. My mouth waters when he wraps an eager hand around the
shaft, stroking lazily, and when I drag my attention back up to his face, I
find the faintest of smirks tugging on one side of his swollen, plump lips.
My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth as I swallow, trying to bring
some moisture back to my dry throat. “Get over here,” I croak, gesturing
him closer with my hand. “Let me taste you.”
Rowan’s grin intensifies as he crawls across the bed, climbing over me
until he’s situated on my chest. He’s so close, I can smell the sweet sweat
and his masculine musk. It washes over my body, settling in my stiff dick,
the hunger in me for him growing by the second. He bites down on his
bottom lip as he teases the slick tip of his cock across mine. My tongue
darts out, cleaning up the mess, the salty flavor marinating along the bed of
taste buds. I twirl it around his tip before shaking my head and grabbing
him by the backs of his thighs.
“Not what I meant,” I mutter before scooting down on the bed until his
nuts rest on my face. “There we go. Time to eat.”
The broken sound of his whimper hits my ears as soon as my tongue
traces his puckered hole. He mutters a quick “fuck,” under his breath as I
get to work, taking my time to lap him up. His flavor, his scent, his feel is
everywhere. It’s heady, dizzying, having all of my senses doused in all of
him like this.
My hands slide up, gripping the swell of his ass, kneading the firm flesh
as my mouth continues to explore his most intimate parts. His balls start to
bounce against my face when he jacks himself, grinding his ass a little
harder on my tongue. He’s needy and desperate, exactly how I want him.
Working one finger in, he clenches around me, gasping against the
intrusion, but it doesn’t take long for him to relax. I take my time working a
second digit, and then a third, into him, stretching and scissoring, making
sure he’s more than prepared for what I’m about to give him.
Once I’ve got him nice and wet and open for me, I slap a hand down on
his left cheek, and he seems to get the message as he slides down my body,
a dazed grin on his face while he grabs the bottle from beside us.
“What is that?” I ask, already knowing the answer, but the fact that it
has no label is throwing me off.
He flicks open the cap with his thumb, pouring a glob onto his fingers.
“Lube,” he says plainly.
“Why does it look homemade?”
“Because it kind of is, I guess.” He says this nonchalantly as he wraps
his slicked-up hand around my cock.”
“Um… explain.”
He smirks when he feels my hips thrust into his fist involuntarily. “I got
it from Josiah. Apparently, the same employee on the resort side who he
gets his weed, smokes, and alcohol from, also makes a THC lube.”
I huff. “A real one-stop shop type of guy.” Then, it’s as if my brain
finally catches up with what he said. “Wait, did you say THC lube?”
His dark green eyes, practically black from desire, find mine as he lines
me up to his entrance. “Mmhmm,” he hums, sinking down easily, like
taking an eight inch, girthy cock in his ass is no sweat off his back. The
only sign of discomfort at all is the way he chomps down on his bottom lip
and the way his brows knit together.
All the air is sucked out of my lungs as he fully seats himself on top of
me. He’s tight—unbelievably fucking tight—and he thankfully gives us
both a moment to adjust to the fit; otherwise, I think I’d blow instantly.
“It’s supposed to heighten pleasure and intensify your orgasms,” he
says, and it takes me a moment to follow what he’s referring to.
The THC lube. Of the homemade variety.
“Did you have to blow him again to get it?” I ask through gritted teeth
as he slowly rotates his hips, my question coming out breathier than
anything.
“Maybe,” he sing-songs. “Or maybe I rode him just… like… this.”
Each word is punctuated by a roll of his hips, and I sink my teeth into my
lip to stifle the groan threatening to burst free. “Would that make you
jealous?”
Yes. “Why would I fucking care?” I ask, rather than admit to the burning
in my chest and the ache in my jaw from that visual. Not when I don’t
understand why it’s there.
Rowan places one hand splayed open on my chest, while his other
plants right beside my head. He leans down, hot breath fanning my face as
he works himself up and down my length in long, slow strokes. He gives a
shrug. “I don’t know. You strike me as the possessive type.”
I let him fuck himself on my cock leisurely, even though I’m dying to
take control and slam into him. He pants, soft mewls falling from his lips as
he works himself into a frenzy, his dick between us, hard and drizzling onto
my stomach.
“You aren’t mine, though.”
That seems to amuse him, his grin growing until his straight, white teeth
show. Something about the sight wakes something up in me, my blood
pumping fire through my veins. With his lips right against the shell of my
ear, he whispers, “I can be.”
His tongue flicks against my lobe before sharp teeth nip into it. A growl
reverberates from my chest as I dig my fingers into the meaty flesh of his
hips, flipping us in one swift go, leaving him pinned beneath me, eyes wide.
Reaching up and gripping his throat in one hand, I grab the headboard
with the other as I pull out to the tip, driving back in with a force that seems
to knock the wind out of him. My hips brutally snap against his, my pace
relentless as I growl, “Yeah, you’d fucking like that, wouldn’t you?”
Rowan answers in the form of a whimper, but that’s not good enough.
“Words, princess. I need your words.”
His lips part, a deep throated groan rumbling from his chest as my cock
grazes his sweet spot. Y-yes… yes, fuck!”
“Mmhmm.” Nodding, I continue to drill into him. “You’d fucking love
to be all mine, yeah? To do with as I please. To own you. To keep you as
my little toy.”
He reaches between us, but I slap his hand away.
“Ah-ah, not until I say so.” His face screws up, a snarl sounding from
him at that, but his hand retreats anyway. I cup his jaw with my hand,
giving a little squeeze. “Good boy.”
His eyes roll back before he shuts them tight, a whimper falling from
his lips. Grabbing his left leg, I cross it over me until it’s pressed against his
right, his lower body twisted while his upper stays flat on the mattress.
Rowan’s eyes spring wide, his jaw slack as my hips savagely slap against
his ass, the sound a steady tempo of insatiable desire.
Rowan’s arm covers his mouth as his inner elbow muffles his cries. I
slap it away. “Let me hear you, princess. Let me hear you scream for me.”
Somehow, we lock eyes, neither of us able to break the trance. It’s
titillating. Fervid. Alarm bells go off somewhere in the back of my mind,
the intensity of this moment too much, but the passion, the hunger, the
carnal part of me admiring the sight where our bodies connect flood my
system, overriding all rational thought.
It’s just me and him.
Rowan.
The annoying fucking guy who I can’t stand most of the time.
The beautiful, sexy man writhing underneath me.
The one I think about more than I’d care to admit.
The one who somehow manages to chip away at my walls, even if only
for a few hours at a time before I’m able to find my senses outside of his
presence and put them firmly back in place… until the next time.
The one whose lips taste like spearmint and longing. Whose eyes are
endless, reminding me of the beautiful landscape and luscious pastures back
home. Reminding me of an easier time. A freer time. When the world was
still at my fingertips. Before everything went to shit.
And he’s so utterly unabashed in what he wants.
His chest thunders with a deep, deep groan, pulling me from my
thoughts. “I’m close,” he cries. “I’m so fucking close.”
The desperation in his tone, the raspy, gravelly edge to it, has my balls
tightening, drawing up, as pressure and molten heat build at the base of my
spine, spreading, multiplying, until I can’t take it anymore. The velvety, hot
feel of his channel as it clenches and contracts while he lifts higher and
higher toward release is staggering.
I want his cum. Want to watch him unravel. Run my fingers through the
sticky mess. Bring them to my lips—taste him on them. “Give it to me,” I
growl, the sound of those four words foreign to my ears as I double down
my efforts. “Come for me, princess.”
As if that request—my demand—is his trigger, I watch as he falls apart,
thick ropes coating his stomach and the sheets below us. He cries out, voice
hoarse, knuckles blanching as he thrusts his fingers in his hair, fisting and
tugging. He’s ripping at the seams, but so am I. Just as I envisioned, I trace
the pads of my fingers along the mess he made on himself, bringing them
up to my lips. I suck them into my mouth, the salty, tangy flavor of him
setting off an inferno in my body until I’m spilling deep inside of him with
next to no warning.
I collapse on top of him, sweat slick all over our bodies, my muscles
tired.
Before the high of the orgasm even has a chance to wear off, though,
regret’s already settling in, burying itself deep into my marrow because
there’s no fucking way I’ll be able to stay away now after getting a taste of
this, feeling him with no barriers, and the very last thing I need is more time
around him and his witchery of getting beneath my walls.
I’m set for ruin. And Rowan will be my destruction.
JOURNAL ENTRY NO. 2
I still don’t think this shit works, but here I am again, doing it anyway.
This place is fucking with my head, I think.
Or… maybe it’s not so much this place as it is one specific person. Him.
Fuck, I guess if I’m being forced to write in this fucking thing, I may as well
be real about it. Rowan fucking Davies… I wonder what his middle name is.
…but why do I care?
I don’t.
It’s infuriating. He’s infuriating. The way I react to him is fucking
infuriating.
We fucked, Rowan and I. Am I even allowed to say that in this thing?
Who fucking knows, but it happened. We had sex, and I hate how much I
enjoyed it. And I hate how much space the memory has taken up inside my
mind. I practically ran out of his room afterward like my tail was on fire
because being near him was too much. Such a dick move. One I normally
wouldn’t think twice about, but with him, I can’t help but replay it and how
it probably made him feel ten times over.
I’m a drummer in a very famous rock band… casual sex is nothing new
to me, but the bodies underneath me are always long forgotten by the time
the bed sheets cool. What is it about Rowan that makes him any different?
And I know if I were in Dr. Weaver’s office, she’d analyze me, trying to
figure out why I’m this way. What if it’s just how I am? These therapists
seem to think everything is cause and effect. If you do xyz, it’s because you
were exposed to abc as a child. What if I’m just not someone who enjoys
getting close to others? What if I was just born with this wall around my
heart? What if it has nothing to do with my mentally ill mother and my drug
addicted father, or the heroin loving, needle sticking aunt who was left to
take care of me when my dad died, and my mom went AWOL, who had no
fucking business taking care of and raising a teenager? What if it’s in my
DNA, period? No childhood trauma to explain it away.
What if, had I grown up with healthy, present parents, I would’ve turned
out the exact same fucking way?
Nature versus nurture, right? Maybe this cold, closed-off side of me is
all nature. Why do we have to explain away every single little fucking thing
until we’re blue in the face?
I became a fucking stalker today. That’s what this fucking place has
turned me into.
Earlier, I was minding my own fucking business, trying to read and keep
my mind off fucking Rowan and the memory of us rolling around in his
sheets, when there he was, like I made him appear out of thin air with my
rampant thoughts. But was he alone?
Fuck no.
He was with Blow job Josiah. Apparently, his best fucking friend. The
dweeb he is.
Rowan is so fucking friendly all the time. Flirty and energetic and
frustratingly chipper.
They were walking into the trails… the same ones he and I walked
through to get to the waterfall or the cliffs.
My body started moving before my brain could even catch up. I shoved
my book into my back pocket and took off behind them. He told me he’s
given the stupid fuck a blow job before, and part of me thinks he’s lying.
This was my chance to investigate and find out if he really was hooking up
with the staff.
They were walking close… but not arms-brushing-together type close.
I don’t fucking know why I followed them. I don’t know why I care.
I don’t. I shouldn’t.
But like a fucking bloodhound following a scent, I couldn’t stay away.
They were so enthralled by whatever it was they were talking about, they
didn’t even notice me. Idiots.
Rowan. Fucking. Davies.
I can’t fucking stand him.
Maybe coming to Black Diamond wasn’t my punishment. Maybe Rowan
is. Or he’s the test. To see how far I can be pushed before I snap. Bet
Sebastian sent him.
Can see that slimy little fucker doing something like that.
He’s never fucking liked me. At least, not since I wrecked his brand-new
Audi the night of our brand-new record label party two years ago.
Guess I probably shouldn’t say that.
A group of residents came out of fucking nowhere mid-follow, and I lost
sight of Rowan and stupid fucking Blow job Josiah. By the time they got out
of my way, I lost them. My chest tightened and my pulse raced, trying to
find them, wondering if I was going to walk through a clearing and see
Rowan on his knees for the asshole. The thought of seeing Rowan’s big,
perfect fucking lips stretched over somebody else’s cock instead of mine
made bile churn in my gut, made me see fiery red.
I ended up going back to my room when I couldn’t find them, so I
wouldn’t commit fucking murder.
Fuck this place.
Fuck the rules.
Fuck the staff.
Fuck the residents.
Fuck Rowan Davies. Again.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Rowan
“W
hy don’t you tell me about your parents, Rowan.” Dr. Weaver’s
voice is quiet, gentle, as she peers at me through her darkframed glasses.
The golden sunlight beams in through the many floor-to-ceiling
windows in Dr. Weaver’s office, making its descent over the shimmering
water in the distance. It’s warm in here. I can feel the air conditioning
floating around the room, but it’s overshadowed by the heat permeating
from the natural light.
It was a nice day today. Really nice. Rain has come and gone, as did a
dreary overcast sky, for the last several days. My mood seems to be affected
greatly by the weather. It’s Tuesday, which means it’s my first therapy
session of the week. Dr. Weaver apparently had to rearrange her schedule
for whatever reason, so my normal midday meeting is now bordering on
evening. These ones aren’t that bad, honestly.
The group therapy sessions, though…
Dr. Weaver is still watching me patiently, waiting for me to dive into the
topic I loathe talking about the most.
My parents.
“What do you want to know?” I ask, head cocked marginally to the left.
She smiles. I have a feeling she knows how much I don’t want to talk
about them. “What were they like growing up?”
“I wouldn’t know, Doc.”
Jotting something down quickly on her notepad, she asks, “Could you
elaborate on that statement?”
I pause, going over in my head how I’d like to get this out. “I feel like
most kids—at least those in normal households—know their parents’
favorite foods, colors, what they like to watch on the TV, their favorite
movies. At least, while they were living at home with them. I couldn’t tell
you any of that. Not a single answer.”
“And when you say normal household, you mean what?”
“Parents who are home for dinner with their kids, at least most nights.
Parents who show an interest in their kids’ lives.”
“Yours did not?” She asks the question genuinely, with no judgement.
“When I say my parents were gone the majority of my childhood, I’m
not being dramatic,” I mutter. “My father had a condo that he owned, or still
probably owns, that’s near the production studio. Sure, we lived in Los
Angeles, but with traffic and all that, it took a decent chunk of time to get
from there to the studio, so when he was working on a movie, he’d stay at
the condo. And he was working on movies frequently. Most months of the
year, to be honest. Then my mom, before she retired, would travel all over
the world for jobs. She’d be gone more than half the week, most weeks, and
when she was home, and after she retired, she’d go stay with my dad at the
condo. My nanny raised me.”
She nods, jotting down some more notes. I can’t even begin to imagine
what she must think. Although, it’s probably nothing new to her, especially
given the clientele she sees. “Can you recount any time when the three of
you were all home together for any period of time longer than a few days?”
I don’t have to think too hard. A memory pops up right away. “One
time, when I was about fifteen, my dad had to have emergency surgery to
remove his appendix. I believe he was home for a week or so before going
back to work—early, against doctors’ orders—and during that time, my
mom was home with him.” Recalling the situation, I huff out a laugh that’s
lacking any humor. “You know, despite both of their workaholic tendencies,
their marriage was—and still is—solid. They love each other. It’s
apparently just me that’s the issue.”
A smile that doesn’t quite meet her eyes—one that I would categorize as
sad, almost full of pity—plays on her lips. “We will come back to that
comment, but first, can you describe what that time was like for you, having
both of them home with you at the same time?”
“It was…” I brush a hand over the top of my head, the short strands
standing straight up as a heaviness presses down on my chest at the
memory. “Almost worse than when they were gone all the time, honestly.”
“How come?”
“Because at least when they were gone, I could pretend they wanted to
be there,” I admit out loud for the first time ever. “I could make myself
believe they loved me and wanted to be around me, but they were just too
busy.” An unexpected tightness in my throat causes me to pause. “But when
they were in the same house as me, and still making zero effort to include
me, or pay me any attention, ask me anything about my life, my day, my
feelings… there’s no lying to myself about that.”
“And so, circling back to your previous comment, why do you think
you’re the issue, Rowan?”
“Well, like I mentioned before, their marriage is solid. They very clearly
love each other. Even when they were working on opposite sides of the
continent, they still managed to make time for one another. With me, it was
like I was always an afterthought. On my birthdays, I’d get calls super late
in the day, like they’d just remembered. When they were home, they’d
forget all about me. I’d walk into a room they were in, and it was like I
startled them. As if they thought they were alone.”
The pressure behind my eyes is uncomfortable, and when my vision
blurs, I tilt my head back, staring up at the ceiling, refusing to let the
moisture spill over. It’s been years since I let them get to me, and I’ll be
damned if I let them now.
“I think I was an accident. Not that I’ll ever know for certain, but it’s
my guess anyway. They were young when my mom got pregnant. At least,
they were young as far as Hollywood goes. It was right in the prime of my
mom’s Victoria Secret modeling days, and it was right when my dad’s
career took off. I think they were so blinded by their love for each other and
the idea of what a family could mean, that they kept me instead of aborting
the pregnancy. And I think it’s a regret they’ve both had ever since.”
Something like sympathy crosses Dr. Weaver’s features as she adjusts
the glasses on the bridge of her nose. “Have you ever expressed your
feelings to either of your parents before?”
“I’m sure I did as a small kid. I don’t remember it, but I’m sure I did. As
a teenager, no. Never. It would do no good. Who wants to beg for their
parents to love them?” I snort out a laugh that dies among the silence in the
room.
Suddenly, it feels too small, too hot in here. Sweat lines my forehead,
more dripping down the back of my neck. I want out of here. I want out.
My hands tremble in my lap, and no amount of clasping them together fixes
it either. The feeling of being under a microscope is stifling.
My eyes drag to the clock on the wall to the right and, thankfully, our
time is almost up. Dr. Weaver sighs, clearly not wanting to be done with
this conversation. “Well, that looks like all we have time for today. Please
continue with what we talked about at our first session. You’re making
wonderful progress, and I know you can keep it up.”
I nod, rising from the couch.
“I’ll see you next week, Rowan.”
With an awkward half-wave, I leave like my ass is on fire.
The halls outside her office are bare, only feeding the loneliness blaring
in my head right now. The emptiness I shove to the back of my mind most
days, that I’ve become a pro at ignoring. The bleakness that, if I’m not
careful, will overshadow every single emotion and feeling and thought in
my mind.
As I make my way through the main building, and eventually outside, I
have every intention of heading back to my room. A hot shower will surely
get rid of all this. Maybe some food. Pulling open the glass door to the
resident building, I meander on toward the elevator, pressing the button, and
going up. There’re a few people walking by on my floor, but nobody I
recognize.
Instead of going to my room, I stop a few feet ahead, knocking on my
neighbor’s door. Don’t ask me why; my body is clearly in control of these
decisions. I’m surprised that, after only a few moments, the door is pulled
open, piercing gray eyes colliding with mine.
Images of the other morning flood my mind; me sucking him off, riding
him, him flipping us and fucking me hard into the mattress. I’ve wanted a
repeat of that morning every single day since. I don’t know if it’ll ever
happen, but I sure as fuck hope so.
“What do you want?” he grunts, not bothering to step aside and let me
in.
Shrugging my shoulders, I say, “Wanna hang out?”
Caspian’s face screws up before morphing into something bordering on
amused. “Why?”
He acts like he hates me every single time I’m in his presence, like he
didn’t just stick his dick in my ass a few days ago and fucking love every
second of it.
“Because I’m bored.” It sounds so childish, but it’s the truth. This place
is boring as fuck sometimes—most of the time.
“And that’s my problem, why?” he drawls, folding his arms over his
broad chest. He’s wearing a ribbed black tank top, his tattoos on full display
along his arms. He’s got a plethora.
“It’s not, but I’m sure you’re bored too.” I cock my head, eyebrow
quirked. “Am I right?”
He stares at me blankly for a moment, and I start to think he’ll tell me to
fuck off and slam the door in my face, but he eventually rolls his eyes and
walks back into his room to grab his shoes and wristband before joining me
in the hall.
With his hand, he gestures down the hall noncommittally, an
exasperated sigh leaving his lips that I majorly suspect is bullshit. “Where
to?”
**
“This is a terrible idea,” I mutter as he climbs into the golf cart we
found abandoned on the side of the main building. We walked around the
entirety of the building, contemplated heading toward the waterfall, but
with the sun set now, it would be pointless.
“Would you shut the fuck up and get in already?” Caspian grumbles as
he twists the key that was left in the ignition, powering the machine to life.
I don’t know who this one belongs to, or why it was out in the open for
anybody to take, but I’m not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. After
my session with the doc, my hankering for getting into some trouble is
strong, and it’s clear Caspian possesses that same need.
Looking left, then right, making sure I don’t see anyone—or that
nobody sees us—I begrudgingly climb in beside him. We’re moving before
my ass is barely planted in the seat. My body jerks as he presses on the gas,
and we make our way down the pathway. “When I suggested we hang out, I
didn’t have grand theft auto in mind.”
Kind of a lie. I’m relishing in this shit. The thrill of potentially getting
caught… it’s fucking exhilarating. I’m not a daredevil or a trouble seeker by
any means, but sometimes it’s necessary.
Caspian grunts before tossing a look my way. “Yeah, well, beggars can’t
be choosers, princess.”
A scowl forms on my face that makes him chuckle, but it’s a façade.
The nickname, as condescending as it is, doesn’t bother me… like, at all.
It’s hot as hell in a degrading sort of way.
Driving down the pathway, it’s a miracle we don’t see anybody—no
staff, no residents. Not a soul. “Where are we going?” I ask, after a few
minutes of driving.
“Fuck if I know,” Caspian replies with a laugh. “We can finally see
what’s on this damn island.”
We’ve long since passed all the buildings easily accessible to us. The
terrain surrounding the pathway we’re weaving around is green and thick
and lush. Humidity is thick, the air moist as we fly by the shrubbery, going
much faster than I even thought possible on a golf cart. The water is in the
distance. I know it by memory alone, as it’s nothing more than inky
darkness this time of night. It’s gorgeous in its turquoise shade during the
day. Pristine and clean. Bet it feels good to dip into too. I’ve surprisingly
only gone in the water the one time I cliff jumped with Cas.
The air smells salty and floral out here, a vast difference from the scent
of pollution and asphalt back home. Everything is fresh, free of bumper-tobumper cars and overpopulation. I hate to admit it, but had the
circumstances of my stay here been a little different, it wouldn’t be such a
bad place to stay. It’s a breath of fresh air compared to the chaos in
Hollywood.
Caspian flies around a corner, the cart teetering on two wheels. My
stomach bottoms out, a bubble of laughter slipping between my parted lips
as the wind whips us in the face, his hair blowing all around him. The scent
of whatever tropical, clean shampoo he uses wafts around us, and it’s
suddenly all I notice.
Not the flashes of green passing by in my periphery.
Not the alarmingly fast pace of my pulse.
Not the fear that we’re going to get in major trouble for stealing this
golf cart.
No… it’s his scent. The way it tickles some part of my brain that has my
mouth salivating. The way I remember so fucking vividly how it smelled
with my nose buried in his neck, and how the scent, mixed with the salty,
musky taste of his skin, set my blood on fire as we rolled around between
the sheets.
There is something about Caspian that just eats away at me. He’s
terrible for me—walking red flags at every corner—but… I don’t know, I’m
slowly becoming obsessed.
In one of the many failed attempts at therapy growing up, I was told I
do that… become obsessed easily.
“You very easily get attached to people, Rowan,” Dr. Tram once told
me during one of our few sessions. “You latch onto them, and make them
your whole world, giving way too much of yourself.”
Abandonment issues is what she stated.
“These issues stem from a fear of loneliness, and they affect the way you
keep and manage relationships.”
It’s bullshit, if you ask me. I don’t have abandonment issues. She acted
like I was one of those kids in Third World countries who were left alone to
cry in a soiled diaper and an empty stomach.
And I don’t latch onto people. I have plenty of friends who I see on a
very normal basis.
Dr. Weaver seems to have a bit of a different appraisal of me. While she
agrees with Dr. Tram, about the abandonment issues, she believes I keep
everyone at an arm’s length to protect myself.
“You have this innate need to surround yourself with people; you want
to be wanted, but you don’t let anybody in deep enough to hurt you,” Dr.
Weaver had said in one of our first sessions. “You don’t give anybody the
opportunity to be able to leave you.”
I let people get close to me. The twins, for starters. They know
everything about me.
Well… maybe not everything, but who honestly spills their entire life
story, all the nooks and crannies, the good and the bad? Nobody. It’s normal
to keep shit to yourself, or even stretch the truth, especially if it sheds you
in an unfavorable light.
The pathway we’re driving on winds around for quite a while until it
just… stops. A huge building comes into view, similar to the resident
buildings. Squinting, I can barely make out the sign by the front entrance:
Black Diamond Employee Building.
No fucking way.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Caspian
“D
id you know this was where we were heading?” Rowan asks,
almost on a whisper, like someone is going to pop out and catch
us at any minute.
Turning off the engine, I climb out of the golf cart. He does the same.
“Not a fucking clue,” I mumble, glancing around at our surroundings.
Not that I can see shit. Aside from the lights on the building, there’s nothing
else lit up.
The building itself, though, looks just like ours. The only difference is
it’s completely secluded, whereas ours is surrounded by two other resident
buildings and the main one. It’s slightly bigger too. If I had to guess, I’d say
there’s a restaurant inside, at the very least. Possibly a gym.
Walking up to the door, I reach into my pocket and pull out the
wristband, holding it up to the pad. Nothing happens.
Rowan scoffs behind me, the sound morphing into a laugh. “We’re not
employees, idiot. Why would our wristbands work?”
Rolling my eyes, not bothering to look back at him, I spit out a quick,
“Fuck you.” He’s in a mood today. I could tell from the minute I opened my
door, and he was standing on the other side. I don’t know what’s up his ass,
but I’m normally the grump out of the two of us. This is… different. Weird.
But also, intriguing.
This fucking building is huge. Making our way around, we find two
side doors—both locked. By the time we make it to the back, I’m convinced
we’ll never get inside, and this joyride will have been for nothing.
But color me fucking surprised when he reaches for the knob, finding it
propped open.
When he glances at me, a wide smirk plays on his lips, his dark green
eyes glinting, the wrinkles surrounding them more prominent. Gesturing for
me to follow him, he heads down the quiet, dimly lit hallway all stealthlike, as if we’re in some Bond movie. It’s… a little cute. I guess.
The way he maneuvers down the hall, turning here or there, it would
seem like he knows exactly where he’s going, like he’s been here before,
but I know that’s not the case. His shock was evident when we parked the
cart and he saw the sign on the building. I keep my eyes peeled, expecting
to see an employee come flying around the corner at any minute, catching
us, but so far, it’s a dead zone here. It’s only like, maybe, seven or eight, so
they can’t all be in bed. That’s absurd.
We keep walking, the hallway eventually ending, opening up to a sort of
dining area. The lights are off, the chairs set upside down on the tables. It
looks like an unused space. Spotting a sofa underneath the window to the
far right, I cross the room and take a seat. It’s a deep red leather. Probably
real, too, with the cost of this place.
A moment later, he plops down beside me, holding his knees to his
chest. Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out his cigarette pack, taking out
what I automatically know is a joint, along with his Zippo.
“Now we’re talking,” I mutter, reaching up to prop the window open.
The room’s dark, so when he flicks the lighter, bringing the flame to the
end of the joint, his entire face is illuminated. Every sharp line accentuated
for a single moment while he lights up. The way his plush lips pucker
around the weed, and the way his cheeks hollow as he inhales.
He’s a fucking beautiful man. I have no shame in admitting that.
Those same lips looked incredible stretched over my cock as he choked
on it the other day. Now, that scene has spent an awful lot of time replaying
in my head since it happened. Not that I’d ever tell him.
He hands me the joint after taking a few puffs. Placing it between my
lips, I inhale and hold it for a moment. We pass it back and forth a few
times in silence, until I surprise even myself by asking, “So, what landed
you here?”
Rowan’s eyes widen fractionally, and I can tell it surprised him too. I’m
not exactly one for small talk, and I’m sure he’s well aware of that by now.
He takes another drag before answering. “Too much partying,” he
states, reminding me that he’s already partially told me this before. “Parents
thought it would end up looking bad on them and their reputation. So, this
was their way of managing the situation.”
I nod like I understand. I don’t—dead and missing parents and all that.
“What’s your drug of choice?” I ask, not entirely sure why I want to know.
He shrugs. “I don’t really have one, to be honest. I’ll take shit at parties
—coke, molly, shrooms, acid—but it’s never something I do alone, or
outside of a party setting.”
I glance over at him, brows knit together. “I’m so fucking sure.” Every
single addict says the same shit.
He chuckles, handing me the joint that’s nearly gone at this point. “I’m
serious. I don’t think I have an addictive personality.” Something else all
fucking addicts say. “I’ve never felt the itch to do it more than that. To me,
it enhances the fun, but it’s never been anything I need, per se.”
“Do they know this?” I ask, still not totally believing him.
His dark, thick brows draw inward. “My parents?”
I nod.
“I don’t think it would make a difference one way or another. I’ve
always been an inconvenience to them. This was just a new way to ensure
their perfect image was protected and I stayed out of their way.”
“Damn,” I mutter, tossing the butt of the joint out the open window,
blowing out the remaining smoke. That’s shitty.
Rowan’s quiet for a moment. “What about you?”
“What about me?” I don’t look at him, but I should’ve known asking
him anything would lead to him thinking he can ask shit about me. He’s
always trying to do that, I’ve noticed… figure me out. Maybe deep down,
way below even my own level of consciousness, I wanted him to ask about
me.
“Well, I already know what landed you here,” he points out. “It was all
over the tabloids and social media. So, what’s your drug of choice?”
I knew it was coming, but it still makes me pause. This isn’t a topic I
talk about ever. I’ve barely even talked about it in the stupid fucking
therapy sessions. But what the hell? “Cocaine, mostly,” I say quietly.
“Mostly?” he asks inquisitively. Rowan is nothing if not fucking curious
and fucking nosy.
“I’ll do other shit from time to time,” I admit. “But it’s the coke I prefer,
especially on the road.”
“That chick that died,” he prompts in a gentle tone, like I’m a grenade
he’s trying to not set off. “She took coke and heroin when she OD’d, right?”
“Mmhmm.”
“Were you taking both of those too?” I can feel the weight of his stare
on the side of my head, burning into me like a flame, but I don’t meet his
gaze.
“Sure was.” The slight edge to my words comes out by accident, but I
can feel my blood pressure rising.
He should fucking drop it. I should steer the conversation in another
direction, or better yet, take us the fuck back to our building. Nothing good
ever comes from us hanging out. Ever.
But for some reason, I don’t do either of those things.
“How are you handling that?” he asks. “Her death.”
Huffing out of my nose, I say, “Fine. I didn’t know her, and I didn’t
force her to take the drugs.”
Rowan watches me for a moment, his face soft but unreadable. I don’t
think it’s quite pity in his expression, but it’s something similar. Finally, he
says quietly, “You don’t mean that.”
My eyes narrow, brows knit tightly as I look at him. “Yes, I fucking do.”
“You may not know her, and you may not have forced her, but you have
to still feel something about her dying. You’re not heartless, Caspian, no
matter how much you prefer to pretend like you are.”
Pulse racing, I look away for fear of what he’ll see on my face. Where
the fuck did this serious Rowan come from and how the fuck can I get him
to go away? It’s like he dove deep into my mind and picked out the one
fucking thing I don’t want to talk about, pinpointing exactly how I feel, and
bringing it to light. Of course, I feel some type of way about her dying. I’m
not a total monster.
Sure, when it happened, I was so pissed off about Seb and being forced
to come here, I made myself believe I didn’t care. But that’s not the case at
all, and my mostly sleepless nights are proof of it. She was collateral
damage in my downward spiral, and I have to live with that forever. She
lost her life trying to keep up with someone who has no limits. She had no
idea what she’d walked into. But that doesn’t mean I want to fucking chat
and cry about it.
“Drop it,” I warn. “I’m not having this fucking conversation with you.”
I don’t miss the way he rolls his eyes before quickly changing the
subject to something just as intrusive and annoying. “Do you do heroin a
lot?”
My entire body goes rigid. Who the fuck asks someone that straight up
like that?
“If I did, don’t you think I would’ve been in worse shape when I
checked in here?”
The first few days here sucked, mostly because I was coming off a
speedball, but it wasn’t as unbearable as it could’ve been, had I had more in
my system.
He’s quiet a beat, eyes still focused on me. “So, why are you here?”
“Like you fucking said, it was all over the tabloids. What kind of
question is that?”
“That’s not what I mean,” he groans. “Is it court-ordered or what?”
The answer to that makes my pulse race and my blood boil. “My bitch
of a manager threatened to not let me go on our international tour if I didn’t
come here.”
Rowan’s quiet, and when I look over, he’s chewing on the inside of his
cheek, like he doesn’t know what to say in response to that. Finally, his
brows pinch, and he asks, “Do you really think he’d do that?”
“Yeah.” I huff out a dry laugh. “Sebastian fucking hates me. He’d do
anything to get me out of the picture.”
“Why does he hate you?”
Pushing out a breath, I run the pad of my thumb across my bottom lip.
“Because I make his job harder.”
With a shake of his head, he says, “Well, yeah, but surely that’s part of
the job description.”
“You’d think,” I muse.
“But…” He seems at a loss for words. “You’re the drummer. They need
you.”
I can’t help but scoff at his ignorance. “You act like no band has ever
replaced a member before. Everybody is fucking replaceable, Rowan.”
“What does your band think about it?”
Groaning, I throw my hands in the air. “Why do you ask so many
fucking questions?”
“How else are you supposed to get to know—hey! Where are you
going?”
I’m already halfway across the empty room as I grit out, “Away from
you and your yappy fucking mouth.”
Of fucking course, I hear his feet pad along the linoleum floor,
following me. Because why wouldn’t he? “Sheesh, you’re touchy, my
friend.”
“Not your fucking friend,” I growl, rounding the corner. I don’t know
where the fuck I’m going. I can’t even remember if this is the direction we
originally came from.
“I’ll bet you a thousand bucks, one day you’ll change your mind about
that.”
“Dumb way for you to lose a grand,” I quip. “That’ll never happen.”
“You know what I think?” he asks, to which I quickly tell him “No,” but
it doesn’t matter. He keeps going. “I think you, deep down, really do like
me. You’re just afraid to let anybody in.”
Huffing out a laugh, I say, “Not afraid of shit.”
“I saw the way you looked at me when you fucked me the other day.”
The sheer mention of that day makes my cock twitch in my pants. “You
didn’t look at me like someone you hated.”
“It’s lust, princess. Don’t confuse it for anything more than a natural
physical reaction to a willing body before me. You were a tight, warm hole
for me to use. Nothing more.”
Rowan snorts from behind me. “Yeah, like I fucking believe—”
He’s cut off mid-sentence when I finally lose my cool, spinning around
and grabbing him by the front of his stupid fucking shirt with both hands,
hauling him into the nearest room. He gasps, hands gripping my forearms,
legs fumbling for balance as I kick the door shut with my foot, shoving him
into the wall. Our eyes meet briefly, his pupils blown, darkness edging from
the corners of his deep green irises. The tension in the air shifts, thickening
into something palpable. The hunger in his gaze no doubt matching my
own.
My lips crash down on his before he even has a chance to catch his
breath, my tongue sweeping into his mouth with fervor. He tastes like
marijuana and mint, a heady, addicting combination.
It takes his brain a moment to catch up, clearly having been taken
completely by surprise. My hands continue to fist his t-shirt, keeping his
hard, lean body flush with mine as he tilts his head, opening wider, giving
me better access to deepen the kiss. I greedily lick every corner of Rowan’s
mouth, leaving no space untouched as one hand reaches up, gripping his
throat, the other sliding up to cup the back of his head. He whimpers, the
sound like music to my ears as I swallow it, devouring him.
I revel in the reactions he gives me.
My cock thickens behind my pants in no time at all, and with his body
pressed against me, I can tell he’s hard too. Pushing my hips out, I grind my
groin against his, loving the contented sigh he breathes into me from the
friction.
Despite not wanting to, I rip my lips from his, trailing along his jaw
until I reach his neck. A full body shiver racks through him as I suck on the
sensitive flesh below his ear, rolling my erection into his. With my lips next
to the shell of his ear, I say, “Looks like this is the only way to shut you up,
princess.”
My hands trail down his body, wrapping around his waist until I’m
gripping two firm handfuls of his round ass.
Rowan groans. “Please, do continue,” he murmurs with a laugh that
quickly morphs into a moan as I continue to drag my covered erection along
his.
I’m suddenly wishing for far less clothes than we have on. Rowan
seems to feel the same, because in the blink of an eye, he has my pants
shoved halfway down my thighs, freeing my aching cock. He does the same
with his, lining our lengths up before bringing his hand up between us,
spitting into his open palm.
His mossy eyes lift to meet mine as he wraps it tightly around our
joined lengths, moving up and down effortlessly. His thumb swipes over my
tip, my head falling back and eyes rolling as he smears my arousal all
around. His hands are always so soft and warm. It’s dizzying. His fist tight
and wet. Maddening and perfect.
Burying my face in his throat, hot, hungry lips find his pebbled flesh,
my tongue dipping out to lick a trail from the base of his clavicle to the tip
of his chin. He gasps, jerking back, fist tightening around us when my sharp
teeth nip at his rolling Adam’s apple before soothing the pain with my lips.
“That’s right, princess,” I breathe against his skin. “Let me hear you fall
apart for me, baby.”
“Fuck,” he rasps. The gruff, gravelly tone pierces something inside me,
setting off a wicked hot inferno in my veins. I wish we weren’t in this
random, empty room, but instead, in one of our bedrooms so we could fully
strip off these clothes and I could fuck him again. The way he felt wrapped
around me, gasping and moaning…
Rowan brings his other hand to join the mix, the grip on us tightening
even further. There’s no way I’m going to last. I grab onto his chin, turning
his head until our lips brush. He parts for me immediately, my tongue
delving inside. His desire is potent on my taste buds. It mirrors my own.
“I’m close,” I groan against his lips.
He nods. “Me too.”
Heat builds at the base of my spine, growing and spreading. My blood is
on fire, skin electric. Our lips are a hairsbreadth away from each other, and
when his tongue darts out, flicking into my mouth and sliding over my
teeth, I’m done for.
My balls draw up as my release builds.
Rowan cries out into my mouth, his no doubt creeping up too.
But… before either of us can blow, the door right fucking next to us
bursts open, light pouring in from who knows where. We both snap our
heads in the direction of the noise, my gaze colliding with a startled, yet
angry, older woman. Rowan gasps as her eyes drop to where our bodies are
intertwined.
“Fuck…” I groan.
I couldn’t stop it even if I tried. The woman with the wide eyes covers
her open mouth with her hand just as my cock erupts. Thick, white ropes
cover Rowan’s hand as I bite down on my lip, stifling the moan threatening
to come out. She watches, horrified, as Rowan follows directly behind me,
his cum coating mine. Unlike me, he’s not able to hold back the whimper
falling from his mouth, but he has the decency to look the other way as he
continues to stroke us through our shared orgasm.
This couldn’t be any fucking worse.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Caspian
“T
hank you so much, everyone, for coming this afternoon. My name
is Sterling Laurier, and I am the events coordinator here, at Black
Diamond Resort and Spa.”
Sterling looks like he wears cable-knit sweaters and sits in front of a
fireplace playing checkers by himself. He looks like a fucking dweeb.
Glancing around the room, I take in all the residents watching Sterling. I
can’t help but wonder if they signed up for this willingly or if they were
forced into this god-awful activity the way I was. Rowan’s here somewhere.
I can feel his presence.
How fucking stupid is that? That I can feel someone even though I can’t
see them.
Aside from feeling Rowan like we have some sort of psychic
connection, I also know he’s here, for the exact reason I have to be here.
A punishment.
It’s been four days since we stole the golf cart and ventured over to the
employee building. Four days since some fucking woman, whom I’d never
met prior to that day, watched as we both came all over each other. Four
days since the head of this facility threatened to kick us both out, before
coming up with this genius fucking plan.
I’d rather have been kicked out, but alas, here we are.
When all this bullshit is said and done, the band better appreciate my
fucking effort. I’d love to see one of them put up with this shit.
“Everyone should’ve already been assigned a wilderness buddy, but if
you’re unsure who yours is, the sheet is up here for you to reference,” the
dweeb says. “This is meant to be a bonding activity, but also, have fun with
it. Lean on one another, help each other out, and if, at any time, you’re lost
or in trouble, you can use the walkie talkies to reach one of the staff. You
are free to go. Just be sure you’re back here this time tomorrow to check
back in. Have fun!”
The upbeat tone in his voice and the smile on his face, making his eyes
go all squinty, makes me want to deck him in the face. The wilderness
event, as the head of Black Diamond referred to it as, is the last fucking
thing I want to do. I don’t even like camping back home. So, why the fuck
would I want to do it here?
Basically, as it was described to me, we’re paired up—and, of course,
my buddy is Rowan, since we’re both in trouble—given a tent and food and
camping gear and sent off into the damn jungle for the night. There’re
markers along the way, indicating where we’re supposed to go—color
coordinated, so people don’t all wind up at the same campsite.
It seems so fucking pointless. Honestly, what are we getting out of this
activity? Proving we know how to build a fucking tent? Play nice with
others? Yeah, I’d rather not. Like I said, had it not been for what’s on the
line with the tour and the band, I would’ve rather been sent home. Fuck this
place, and fuck everyone involved.
Everyone in the room starts to disperse, grouping together with their
buddy for the day and heading to the front to pick up their camping gear.
“Hey, buddy!”
Rolling my eyes, I glance to the left, where the sound of the chipper
fucking voice came from. My gaze collides with familiar mossy green ones
that seem to make my insides churn and flutter at the same fucking time.
When it becomes clear I’m not going to respond, he continues—because
why the hell wouldn’t he? Chatty fucking Cathy. “I already got our camping
gear.” He holds up the bag as if to prove it. “You ready?”
“I fucking guess,” I grumble.
“Oh, cheer up, you grump. It’ll be fun.”
Narrowing my eyes at him, I say, “Why don’t you mind your business
and not fucking tell me what to do, princess.”
I rip the bag from his grip, slinging it over my left shoulder before
heading toward the door that leads outside. No amount of bitching about
this is going to make it go away, so may as well get it over with.
What feels like a blanket of hot, moist air welcomes me. Lovely.
Because I totally want to trek through the damn jungle in high humidity and
heat. This is such bullshit.
The terrain is wide and deep. I’m not even sure how big the area is, but
it’s large enough that we’re all able to go separate ways once we begin.
Mine and Rowan’s color for this activity is orange, so we have to follow all
the markers of that color as we make our way through the space. It’s midafternoon, so we should have plenty of time before dusk. The plan is to hike
until we find our designated campsite—they never told us how far that
would be, but my guess is quite a few miles—and from there, we’re to set
up our tent, build a fire, and apparently twiddle our thumbs after that.
Like I said… pointless.
We’ve only been walking for about five minutes when Rowan speaks
up. “So, what have you been up to for the last few days?”
“Absolutely fucking nothing,” I mutter. “What the fuck is there to do
here? I went to the gym, I ate, and I sat in my room.”
“You’re so hot and cold,” he mumbles, the words spoken so quietly, I’m
not even sure if he meant for me to hear them. “Moody. Some days, you’re
nice, and others, you’re insufferable. Why is that?”
I don’t bother answering. Surely, that’s a rhetorical question. But that
doesn’t deter Rowan.
“Did you know that over half the world’s plant and animal species live
in jungles?”
My face screws up at the utter randomness that is that fact. “Uh, no?
Why do you?”
“Learned it in school. Also, did you know that camping can reduce
stress and depression?”
I glance over at him; his eyes are wide and full of glee. It’s nauseating.
“Says who?” I ask, not sure why I’m engaging.
He shrugs. “I don’t know. Scientists, I’m sure. Snails are capable of
hibernating in their shells for up to three years… isn’t that wild?”
If my eyes roll any harder, they’re going to get stuck. “Sure.”
“Yeah, and men account for nearly seventy-five percent of camping
deaths at US National Parks.”
“Oh, my God. Will you shut the fuck up? We’ve been walking for less
than ten minutes, and if you keep this up, I’m going to add you to that
fucking statistic.”
“Well, technically, we’re not in the United—”
“Shut the fuck up, Rowan!”
A little whimper escapes him, and I fight the urge to look over. He’s so
fucking annoying sometimes. The way my body and mind react to him is
even more aggravating. Like I can’t stand him half the time… until I can’t
stand to not be around him. It makes zero fucking sense. I’ve never
experienced anything like it.
Thankfully, he heeds my threat and stays quiet while we make our way
deeper into the jungle. At least the farther we seem to go, the cooler it
becomes. The massive, thick trees block out most of the sunlight.
I don’t know how much time has passed or how long we’ve been
walking, but we still haven’t found our campsite. Had it not been for the
orange markers every thirty or so feet, I’d think we were lost. Nope,
apparently, it’s just really fucking deep.
“So, do you think that old lady told the dean what she saw when she
caught us?”
“I don’t think he’s a dean, Rowan. This isn’t college. It’s rehab.”
“Well, I don’t know what his title is otherwise. Warden?”
I groan. “And to answer your question, I doubt she told them everything
she saw, otherwise I doubt they would’ve paired us together today.”
“That’s what I was thinking,” he agrees, cringing. “But I wonder why
she didn’t.”
“Maybe because she’s like seventy years old, probably hasn’t gotten
laid in a decade, and the idea of telling her boss that she saw two men jizz
all over each other was too embarrassing for her pearl-clutching ass.”
He chuckles, and I hate the way my heart races a little faster at the
sound. “It was kinda hot, though,” he says, his voice turning husky.
“You like being watched, princess?” I ask, cocking my head and looking
at him from the corner of my eye.
“Uh, hell yeah. You don’t?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Do you?”
I shrug. “Yeah.”
“Do you prefer to watch or be watched?”
These questions are stirring something in my gut. Awakening something
that shouldn’t be. “To be watched,” I croak out, trying not to show my
arousal in my voice. “But I enjoy watching nearly as much.”
“Same…” Somehow, during all of this, we’ve migrated even closer to
one another, his arm brushing against mine as we walk, the sensation
sending an electrical current through my veins. “So… I’m hard.”
An unexpected laugh bubbles up my throat at his unabashed honesty.
“Thanks for sharing.”
“You’re not?” he asks, disbelief and humor in his voice.
“Oh, I am,” I confirm, because why lie? If he were to look, it’d be
obvious.
Rowan steps in front of me, walking backward now so we’re facing
each other. He reaches down, groping his evident erection as he bites down
on his bottom lip. The sight makes my dick twitch.
“Did you think it was hot?” he asks, mischievous eyes finding mine.
“When we got caught… and before that?”
His hand continues to stroke himself over his pants as he asks, then
more as he waits for my response.
“It was,” I admit. “Would’ve been hotter if she had been hot too.”
“We could always do a repeat…” Rowan shoves his shorts down just
enough to let his cock and balls free. “Nobody is out here to see us, but it
could still be hot.”
The thrill that shoots through me is insane. How much I want to touch
him. Have him touch me. Feel his body against mine. There’s no doubt in
my mind, and I hate that. I hate the way my body responds to him.
I don’t respond. I observe.
Watch as he strokes his long, smooth cock, swiping his thumb across the
top of his rosy-pink tip, smearing the liquid pooling there, using it as lube.
One glance around confirms we are, in fact, completely alone. Every atom
in my body is screaming at me to close the distance, grab him, replace his
hand with mine.
But I don’t.
I watch.
Watch as he tightens his fist, choking his stiff length before twisting his
wrist on the upstroke. Watch as a small moan that makes my nuts tingle
falls off his pretty pink lips. Lips I would love to see stretched around my
length again while I gag him. Because, fuck, those green eyes sure do look
so damn beautiful, bloodshot and filled with moisture. To feel his throat
constrict around the tip, watch his chest heave with a breath he can’t have.
Feel his nails rake down my bare thighs as he fights for air.
“I know you want to touch me,” he breathes, reaching below his cock to
palm his full, low hung balls.
“Do you now?” I ask, a brow arched.
He nods. “It’s written all over your face.” Bringing his hand up to his
mouth, I watch, rapt, as he licks his palm before bringing it back to his dick.
He moans like it’s the best damn feeling there is. “It’s in the heaviness to
your eyelids, the way your steel grays are glossed over. Even your cheeks
are slightly flushed, and I don’t think it’s from the exertion of this hike.”
He’s right.
“You want to touch me, don’t you?” Rowan’s voice is nothing more
than a breathy moan as he jerks himself in front of me, my eyes alternating
between his face and his hand.
I don’t respond. But I think he knew I wouldn’t.
My dick’s hard a rock right now, making walking a challenge, but I
don’t touch myself. I don’t know why. Maybe because doing so feels like an
admission. Which is dumb. We both know I’m sexually attracted to him, so
me trying to deny it or hide it makes no sense.
Rowan pumps himself a few more times before tucking his cock away
inside his shorts. “Wanna play a little game?” he asks.
My brows pinch together, confused by the quick change of topic. “What
type of game?”
A grin slides on his lips. “Catch me if you can.” He words it like a
question, but before I can ask what he means, he takes off. The thought
briefly pops into my mind that he’s booking it through the woods with a
boner, and that’s comical, but it’s gone as quickly as it came when the thrill
of chasing him kicks in.
My feet move of their own volition, kicking into gear. He’s got a head
start, but I’m taller. Have longer legs. He’s fast, though, I’ll give him that.
Weaving through the trees, he’s careful not to trip over any branches, and
when throws me a look over his shoulder, his eyes light up when he notices
I’m following him.
Our conversation from the day on the cliff comes back to me—his
kink… and mine—and suddenly this just became way more arousing. As I
chase him through the trees and the shrubs, my mind goes over everything I
have in the backpack I’m wearing. Ideas forming, my cock throbbing
behind my sweats, running is a task all on its own.
Up ahead, he pauses for a moment, sending his shorts down to his
thighs, spreading his cheeks open and giving me a glimpse of his hole
before he’s off again.
The things I want to do to him once I catch him…
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Rowan
M
y heart is racing, pounding hard behind my ribs, pulse roaring in my
ears as my legs and feet work to keep me moving, keep me ahead of
him. He’s gaining on me, but if I’m being honest, I don’t actually
want to win. I want him to catch me.
That’s the real prize, isn’t it?
It’s the whole reason I started this game anyway.
This wilderness event, or whatever the fuck they called it, is stupid. I
love hiking and camping and being outside as much as the next person, but
sending a bunch of us out into a jungle-like area of a secluded island is
ridiculous. Not only that, but the dean or the warden, or whatever the fuck
his title is, made it seem like this was some sort of punishment for Caspian
and I for stealing the golf cart and breaking into the employee building.
It's hardly breaking in if the door was open, but that’s neither here nor
there, I suppose.
Per usual, Cas has ignored me every day since. It’s become so normal at
this point, him giving me any sort of positive attention, only to turn around
and shut me out for days after. It’s like he holds out, refusing himself any
sort of physical or emotional contact until he can’t anymore, but then once
the moment is over, he retreats into his shell again. He reminds me of an
abused animal, dying for a connection but terrified of letting anyone close
enough.
My chest heaves, lungs aching. It’s been a minute since I’ve run for any
distance at all, so I’m surprised I’m still moving. All the cigarettes I smoke
and all the exercise I don’t do have me feeling pretty out of shape. A quick
glance thrown over my shoulder shows me he’s much closer than I
anticipated. An anxious slash aroused thrill shoots through me, knowing
he’s going to catch me soon.
His kink came back to me as we were hiking a few minutes ago, and out
here, essentially in the middle of nowhere, seemed like the best time to
explore that. Especially since his directly correlates with my fantasy. It’s a
win-win, in my opinion.
“You’re fucking slow,” I shout at him, followed by a bubble of laughter.
He’s not slow; he’s practically on my tail, and he knows it. A shot of
adrenaline spurs me on as he gets even closer. Somehow, my legs reach a
little farther, go a little faster, as I get ahead of him once more. Don’t get me
wrong, I want him to catch me—oh, fuck yeah, I do—but the chase is
nearly as fun as the idea of what’ll come once he does. It’s got me not
wanting to give up quite yet.
“You talk a lot of shit for someone about to get tackled in the middle of
the jungle,” he throws back. I can hear the grin in his words. I fucking love
it.
“Yeah, we’ll see about th—”
Before I can even finish the sentence, his hard body collides with my
back moments before we both land on the ground, the air knocked out of
my lungs. Christ, he feels like a fucking linebacker.
“Oh, fuck,” I gasp, the weight of him intense.
His head drops down beside mine as he growls, “Got you now,
princess.”
I can feel the thick ridge of his erection against my back, and it makes
my head light. I have craved having his dick in me again ever since the one
and only time it happened.
“Get the fuck off me, asshole,” I grunt, wiggling under him, to no avail.
For someone who absolutely wants to be fucked into the earth right now, I
sound convincing.
He chuckles, the sound dark and sinister, washing over every square
inch of my body. With his hand gripping the nape of my neck, pinning my
face to the ground, he shimmies down my body, shoving my shorts down
one handed. The air licks the bare skin of my ass, goosebumps blooming all
over.
A harsh mix between a gasp, a cry, and a moan falls from my lips as his
hand cracks down on my cheek, the thwack sound echoing between all
these trees. It stings, heat radiating from the spot. It makes me thrash below
him even more as I grunt, trying to escape him.
“Fuck you!” I grumble. “Let me fucking go!”
His grip on my neck loosens momentarily, giving me a false sense of
hope as I lift my head. But then his laugh reaches my ears as he slams my
face back into the dirt. “I don’t fucking think so, princess. You’re not going
anywhere.”
A full-body shiver runs through me, my body viscerally reacting to his
words. They’re spoken with malice. I love it.
He spanks me once more, harder than the first time, and I can’t help the
way my hips thrust into the ground, desperately needing friction. I’d be
embarrassed to admit how fucking hard I am already because of this if I
didn’t know how wholly fucked he is too.
Using his one free hand, he spreads me open, and for a moment, he does
nothing. I wish I could look back and see what he’s doing… how his face
looks as he takes in my hole.
Does he like what he sees?
What does he plan to do with it?
Is he going to be rough? I sure as fuck hope so.
Something hot and wet slides through my crack. His spit.
Fuck, I could almost come already. A pathetic moan claws its way up
my throat, and Caspian chuckles when he hears it. “Such a fucking slut,
aren’t you?” His finger slides through the wet mess, the pad of his thumb
circling my entrance. He’s not pressing in, or pressing at all, really. Just
teasing. “Tell me, how fucking bad do you want this right now, Rowan?”
Shaking my head the best I can, I spit out, “Not at all, psycho. Get off
me!”
“Aww,” he says in a very chastising tone. “But where’s the fun in that,
little one?”
Gosh, his accent is coming out thick right now. It’s fucking sexy.
Then he’s shoving through the tight muscle, no warning. I gasp. Loudly.
“You’re so fucking tight for me, baby,” he coos, more to himself than
anything. He doesn’t insert more than the tip of his thumb into me. It’s
maddening. “Gonna have to loosen you up a bit if you’re going to take the
cock I plan to give you.”
Fuck, yes, please.
In a quick move I don’t anticipate, he shifts himself at the same time his
hand leaves my neck, only to replace it with his knee.
His fucking knee is on my neck.
It’s obvious most of his weight is on his opposite leg since I can still
breathe, but I probably should be concerned about the position I’ve been put
in. More than that, I should be concerned by how much I’m not concerned.
In fact, I’m probably more turned on than I’ve ever been.
With the new position, he leans down, holding me open with both hands
now, nose right in my crack as he inhales like I’m the best goddamn scent
he’s ever smelled. My cheeks flame at the sound, the act so fucking filthy.
There’re birds chirping in the distance, the leaves swaying on the trees, the
feel of them crumpling below my half-naked body. It’s scratchy and rough.
I squeeze my eyes shut, focusing on my other senses as I allow myself to
get lost in his touch, no matter how minute.
Caspian’s nose tickles the skin along my cheeks, down my crack,
circling around my hole. I cry out as his sharp teeth sink into my flesh, my
hips bucking, dick throbbing. The way he has my shorts shoved down, my
groin is still covered, only my ass exposed. After what feels like an eternity,
the flat of his tongue swipes along my taint, making me cry out.
“You taste so fucking good, princess.” The words are spoken against my
skin, barely loud enough for me to hear. His voice is like top shelf whiskey
poured over my desire—smooth, rich, and so goddamn intoxicating. With
the blood roaring in my ears, I’m surprised I even can. His knee is still
pressed down on my neck, his fingers dug into my cheeks with a bruising
hold. The tip of his tongue licks and probes me with featherlight strokes;
it’s nearly too much and not enough at the same time.
I need more, desperately so, but I won’t beg. Not yet, at least.
He continues to explore every inch of my most intimate parts—well, the
ones visible right now—with his fingers and his tongue and his teeth until
I’m practically sobbing. He groans from time to time, as if he’s enjoying
this as much as I am, the sound vibrating through my lower half. My dick is
throbbing and painfully hard, and so fucking deprived of attention. I can’t
handle it.
“Please… please,” I cry out, my mouth centimeters away from the hard
ground.
He chuckles darkly. “Please what?”
Not wanting to beg, I press my lips tightly together, but not before a
whimper comes out. My whole body feels lit up, like it’s one huge thread of
live wire. I’m dizzy, and I can’t tell if it’s from arousal or the way his knee
will sometimes cut off some of my air supply depending on how he’s
leaning, or maybe it’s a little bit of both. Insides tingling, a molten type of
heat pools low in my gut as he inserts a single, long finger into my hole.
I gasp, the intrusion unexpected but needed. He doesn’t go easy, doesn’t
take his time, sliding in to the third knuckle in one swift go. Crooking the
digit, he brushes against the spot inside of me that has stars erupting behind
my closed eyelids.
“Oh, fuck!”
A sound that can only be described as a deep, primal type of growl
rumbles from deep in his chest, but he says nothing.
He hits it again and again and again, until I’m sure I’m going to blow
from that alone. The pressure builds and builds, growing more intense by
the second, and right before I free-fall over the edge of oblivion, he
removes his finger from my body. I shamelessly cry out, no longer caring
how pathetic I sound. I can’t take this. I need more.
Caspian, without warning, stands up, and I fucking hate how much I
miss the weight of him on my body immediately. He grabs me again by the
neck, hauling me up with his fucking Hulk strength. My legs try to give out
on me, but he wraps his free arm around my middle, hauling me into chest,
before I have a chance to lose my balance. Hot, hungry lips find my neck,
pressing down with savage need. He sucks on the skin, a shiver racking
through me, my eyes rolling back.
Walking us over to the tree up ahead, he spins me around and shoves me
up against it, at the same time he rips my shirt over my head, tossing it off
to the side. The bark digs into my back, scratching in a way that’s almost
uncomfortable.
“Don’t fucking move,” he orders me in a throaty, domineering voice
that makes my dick twitch.
A big part of me wants to be a brat and disobey, but another—larger—
part of me is frozen in place, desperately eager to see what he’s going to do.
His steel-gray eyes are nearly pitch black with blown pupils, and his hair is
wrecked, cheeks flushed, pants severely tented with that beautiful, hard
cock of his. It’s blatantly obvious I’m affecting him as much as he is me.
I fucking love that.
Caspian turns, and the minute his back is to me, I step loudly like I’m
going to run. He spins around, eyes wild, narrowing as his hand flies up,
shoving me harder into the tree.
“Don’t even fucking think about it, princess.”
Holy fuck, he’s hot.
He meanders over to the backpack that was thrown on the ground when
he tackled me. He doesn’t bother even looking over his shoulder to make
sure I listened to him. No, that cocky fucking asshole just knows I will.
That should infuriate me.
Should.
Watching, full of curiosity because I have no fucking clue where he’s
going with this, my eyes widen, and my stomach drops when I see the item
he pulls out of the bag.
A long piece of thick, red rope.
Caspian’s lips turn up into a wicked grin when he sees the shock I’m
sure is written all over my face. I swallow hard, a lump now lodged in my
throat, as my heart races inside my chest. He stalks over to me, undoing the
knot the rope’s in, his gaze lifting above my head. I look up, seeing what
he’s staring at.
“No,” I say, my voice cracking on the word. “No fucking way,
Caspian.”
He chuckles, closing in on me. “Cute you think you have a say in the
matter.”
My mouth’s dry, tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. “I’m serious,” I
croak, as I try to sidestep him before he reaches me. But I’m too slow… or
maybe he’s too fast, I’m not really sure, but he closes the distance, shoving
me back into place as he uses his weight to hold me there.
With our slight height difference and the closeness of our bodies, my
face is right by his neck. I don’t know what the fuck comes over me, but I
reach out—with what little room I have to do so—and seal my lips to his
throat, just to the right of his Adam’s apple, which I can feel dip against my
cheek. I suck, I nip, I lick across the flesh as he grinds his erection into my
lower stomach.
Reaching down, he wraps his fingers around my wrists, bringing them
above my head. He holds both in one hand against the tree while he uses his
other hand to toss the rope over the branch just above my head. In some
form of absolute witchcraft, he’s able to tie my hands into a knot, so they’re
hanging from the tree branch in a way that isn’t uncomfortable or painful.
When he’s done, Caspian takes my chin in his fingers, lifting until our
lips are pressed together. He slips his tongue into my mouth, licking and
tasting, as I practically melt into the wood behind me. Caspian kisses me
like it’s his job. Like it’s his God-given right. He kisses me like he never
wants to stop.
And I don’t want him to.
He kisses me like I mean something to him.
And I desperately want to believe that.
Continuing to kiss me breathless, Caspian shoves my shorts down my
thighs until they pool around my ankles before dropping to his knees. The
sight of him on his knees before me is one I want to catalog forever. It’s a
sight to behold. A wet dream come to life. Similar to how he did when he
had me pinned to the ground, he nose dives into my groin, inhaling so
fucking loud.
I squirm under the weight of the sound, but he presses his palms to the
tops of my thighs, holding me still as he drags his tongue from the base of
my cock, all the way to the tip, swiping up the pre-cum pooling at the slit.
Raging heat douses my blood, setting me on fire from the inside out, and
when his plush, red lips close around the crown, engulfing it in his slick,
wet heat, the sound that travels up my throat is inhuman at best.
“Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck,” I chant as he takes more of me in his mouth, until
I’m touching the back of his throat. He doesn’t even gag.
Fucking asshole. But he’s an asshole who sure as fuck knows what he’s
doing. Caspian holds me in his throat, swallowing around my girth, and the
tightness of him constricting has my balls drawing up close to my body in
seconds.
Reflexively, I tug on the rope, trying to bring my hands down to thread
through his hair. I want to come so bad, the sensation growing and
spreading, my toes tingling as my legs tremble.
I need this.
I need him to make me come.
Fuck, fuck, fuck!
Crying out, I’m right on the brink… when he fucking pulls off, wiping
his mouth with the back of his hand as he grins like the cat that got the
canary.
“You fucking asshole,” I growl, my eyes narrowed on him. The loss of
the orgasm he worked me up to feels devastating.
I’ll get his dumb ass back for this, I swear.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Caspian
R
owan is falling apart. Ripping at the seams.
I love to see it. In fact, I probably enjoy it a little too much.
He looks almost… angelic, as he stands there before me, hands
raised and bound above his head, his cheeks painted a rosy pink, his
forehead slick with the perspiration caused by the loss of release. His lips,
swollen and red, are still slick with our shared saliva, and pushed out into a
pout, and a bruise the size of a quarter on his neck caused by me is a dark
shade of purple. It stands out drastically against his creamy, pale skin. It’s a
good look on him, being marked by me.
His thick, dark brows dip, his eyes overflowing with want and need, and
a little frustration too. He’s furious with me, body practically thrumming
with it, but beneath all that rage is a bone-deep arousal and a blood-thirsty
hunger.
Rowan lacks patience. It’s obvious in the way he handles himself.
Instant gratification is his true love. If it were up to him, I would’ve been
balls deep inside his tight fucking ass and made him come twice already.
He’s a royal pain in my fucking ass, but apparently not enough for me to
not want to be a pain in his.
The attraction, the vibe, the raw fucking chemistry between us is
undeniable at this point. I hate the pull, the draw between us, like two lifeforces destined to lock together. The more I shut him out, the harder he
pushes back. The more I try to ignore him, the more he plagues my mind.
His hair—short and fake blond. Fucking stupid, but annoyingly
attractive.
His jawline—sharp and enticing. Especially when he smiles.
The way he doesn’t give a single fuck that he dresses like he shops in a
dumpster.
The spark and the light burning inside of him that I’ve never possessed.
The way his lips feel against mine, and the way his mouth tastes like
mint, and sometimes tobacco, and sometimes marijuana.
How utterly fucking responsive his body is to me.
And the way I know for a fucking fact he lies about dumb shit, and how
it makes me think maybe, just fucking maybe, he’s more like me than I’d
care to believe. Maybe we aren’t so different. Maybe he’s fucked up like
me. And maybe that means it’s okay to let him in.
But that… that fucking pesky thought scares the ever-loving shit out of
me. It scares me more than the threat of being kicked out of my band. It
scares me more than the possibility that one day I’ll be nothing more than a
washed-up musician who ends up just like my fucking dad, cold and dead,
six feet under.
It terrifies me because nobody, in my twenty-four years on this fucking
god-forsaken planet, has ever—ever—made me want to let my walls
crumble, even a little bit.
Not until Rowan fucking Davies.
I refuse to let myself spiral about this, though. At least, not right now.
Not when he’s hard and willing and hungry for me. Not when the taste of
his arousal is still sitting on the back of my tongue, taunting me.
“Cas…” Rowan whining and pouting brings a wanton need out of me I
didn’t know existed. It makes me want to tease him some more, rile him up
until he explodes, ravage him thoroughly and wholly until there is no more
him or me, only us.
“What do you need, princess?”
Truthfully, I don’t know when that name went from being a
condescending jab to a sensual pet name that we both so clearly enjoy.
Every time he hears it fall from my lips, his pupils blow—like now, they’re
hooded and blackened with desire.
“I need…” His tongue pokes out, swiping across his lips, a sigh leaving
him. “Fuck, I need you, Cas.”
Shit…
My chest tightens. I can’t breathe. I need you, Cas.
Those four words rock my nervous system, shaking me to my core. My
mouth goes dry as I try to swallow around the emotion clogging my throat.
I need to get the fuck out of my head, otherwise I’m going to ruin the hot
ass moment we’re in.
Now isn’t the time for feelings and emotions and existential crises.
So, shoving all of that down—deep, deep down—into the dark abyss
that lives inside me, my lip curls into a grin, mask sliding into place as I let
my desire take over. Leaning in, I flick the tip of my tongue against the
thick divot underneath his head before swallowing his cock to the brim. A
deep, throaty groan rumbles from him as I hear him tug against the ropes
binding him to the tree.
He’s not going anywhere. He’ll save himself a lot of marks later if he’d
realize that and stop fighting against them.
His natural musk surrounds me, the sweet scent of his sweat mixing
with it, providing a potent concoction that makes my dick throb. I love the
smell of him.
The taste of him.
The feel of him.
Hollowing my cheeks, I bob my head up and down his length, making
sure to get every last inch. One hand comes up, cupping and rolling his
balls, while the other slides past them, finding his tight, pink hole. It flutters
as my finger dances across it, begging for me to fill it again. Earlier, I only
got a single digit inside of him, and he was crying out, begging for me. He’s
such a needy little slut.
Even now, with his cock filling my mouth, his nuts in my hand, and his
hole being teased, he’s still sobbing and moaning and thrashing around. He
can’t fucking get enough.
And neither can I. While I continue to suck him deep and strong, I bring
one of my hands to my lap, and pull out my cock, stroking it. Rowan’s gaze
is down-turned as he watches my hand fly up and down my length. He
alternates between watching that and his own dick disappearing down my
throat.
“Fuck, what a fucking sight this is,” he breathes.
It doesn’t take me long to get him back to the edge. He’s already so
worked up, so ready to blow. The moment I feel him swell in my mouth, I
pull off his stiff length again, and like last time, he huffs and puffs and
groans, begging me to let him finish.
He’s the definition of desperate.
“You’re such a fucking asshole,” he cries. “A sadistic fucking prick!”
I can’t help but laugh.
“That’s three!” he nearly shouts. “Three fucking orgasms you’ve stolen
from me. I just want to come. Make me come!”
Standing up, dick still at full-mast, I wipe my mouth with the back of
my hand, gaze locked on him. “So whiny,” I taunt, his eyes narrowing on
me, lips pressed into a tight, thin line. “Do you need me to fuck that attitude
right out of you?”
He nods feverishly. “Yes, fucking please!”
I bite the inside of my cheek to stifle the laugh that wants to come out.
Instead, I meander on over to the backpack on the ground, reaching inside
and pulling out the lotion I found in there. It’s like whoever packed this bag
for us, did it with the intention of filthy sex. Why else would there have
been rope and lotion?
Okay… the rope, I guess, makes sense for camping. But still, it’s like
they’re asking for us to fuck on this trip.
Flicking the cap open with my thumb, I step closer, using my foot to
remove Rowan’s shorts the rest of the way. They’re still pooled around his
ankles, so I kick them off and to the side. I pour a dime size amount of the
cool cream onto my fingers, gaze lifting to meet his mossy greens. “Open
up for me, baby.
He whimpers, teeth biting down on his lip, but he doesn’t hesitate.
Using the rope, he hoists himself up, wrapping his legs around my waist. I
grip his firm, round ass in one hand while my slick fingers slide through his
crease, finding his puckered hole. Circling it and applying a little bit of
pressure, feeling him bear down on the digit, I push through the tight
muscle, his heat surrounding it.
Rowan’s lips part, jaw slack, as I work the finger in and out of him, only
stopping to add a second to the mix. His thighs are trembling where they’re
wrapped around me, tightening their grip every time I skate over his
prostate.
“That feel good?” I ask, my voice deep, gravelly.
His brows are knit tight as he nods. “Mmhmm,” is all he can manage to
get out, and when I add a third finger, he gasps, a low groan rumbling from
his chest.
Rowan’s skin glistens with sweat, and the noises leaving him from only
my fingers are driving me nuts.
I can’t wait anymore. The carnal need to own him, to be inside him, is
too strong. A gluttonous ache is spreading in my veins for him. Lowering
his feet to the ground, ignoring the pout he gives me, I grab the lotion,
slathering up my length up with a generous amount before grabbing Rowan
by the hip and spinning him around.
Slapping a hand down on his ass, I say, “Arch it for me, princess.”
He does. Beautifully. I allow myself a moment to take in the expanse of
his lean back. Smooth skin, dips and divots between his shoulder blades, the
two mouthwatering dimples above his waist, and the round, firm globes that
sit right below.
Impatient as ever, Rowan peeks over his shoulder, catching me drooling
over him, a grin tugging on his full lips. “What, are you taking a picture or
something? Fuck me already.” And then, much softer, he adds, “Please,
Cas.”
Closing the distance, I wrap an arm around Rowan’s middle to steady
him as I line my cock up to his entrance. My slick tip teases his hole, and I
revel in the full-body shiver that rolls through him. “This what you want?” I
ask, mouth hovering over the shell of his ear.
He nods before dropping his head back onto my shoulder, a toe-curling
groan sounding from him, and the last of my restraint vanishes. One arm
still wrapped around him, and my other hand gripping me at the base, I sink
inside, swallowed by his warmth. We share a groan, the tightness stealing
the breath from my lungs. Rowan turns his face toward mine, meeting my
lips with such ferocious need, that when his tongue slips into my mouth, I
can taste his hunger.
His body shudders against mine as I start moving, rocking into him,
hands moving to grip his hips. I start slow, deep, almost lazy in my strokes,
enjoying the feel of him wrapped around him, of me owning him. My lips
move down, pressing soft kisses along his pebbled skin. Teeth sinking into
the meaty flesh between his shoulder and neck, my cock fills him to the
brim at the same time.
Nipping at his earlobe, I say, “Do you have any idea how fucking hot
you look right now?”
He whimpers, but says nothing.
“Tied to this fucking tree, unable to go anywhere, completely fucking
naked with my cock inside you.” I slide a hand down his abdomen, fingers
gliding through his dark, trimmed hair, until I’m able to wrap a palm around
his stiff length. “Look at you, so fucking hard for me. Anybody could find
us—find you getting fucked like a slut in the middle of the forest. You love
it, though, don’t you?”
Another pathetic whimper as he nods feverishly. His teeth have hold of
his bottom lip; he’s biting down so hard, it blanches under the pressure. I
continue to pump my cock into him; the sound of my pelvis slapping his ass
is lewd and so fucking hot. Whenever I stroke his length, his hole flutters,
walls constricting around me.
My heart jackhammers behind my ribcage, my breathing coming out
heavy. He feels good… too fucking good. The type of good that has me
seeing stars. That has me wanting to keep him like this forever. Never let
him go.
The way his body fits with mine, molds to me, can’t be a coincidence.
Rowan Davies’s body was fucking made to be destroyed by mine.
Sweat lines my neck, my brows, my chest, head dropping back onto my
shoulders, jaw slack as I become desperate, reckless with my movements.
Rowan keeps his back arched like a good boy, meeting me thrust for thrust
as broken, breathy moans fall from his lips, my name sprinkled in there
from time to time, chanting it like he’s at the altar, and I’m his god, my cock
the answer to his prayers.
We fall into a mind-numbing rhythm. The blood running through my
veins is molten and rapturous, skin electric and overheated. Every plunge
into his body sends euphoria directly into my brain, breathing life into me,
awakening something fierce.
“Cas… fuck, Cas… ungh…”
“Fuck, princess,” I groan, voice hoarse, nipping at his shoulder again.
“You gonna come for me, baby?”
He nods. “P-please!” He swallows hard before adding, “I swear to
fucking God, if you don’t let me come, I’m strangling you with this rope
once you untie me!”
The chuckle that comes out of me is one hundred percent involuntary.
His rage is unexpected but endearing. It’s cute he thinks I could pull back
and stop now. I’m too far gone; he has to know that.
“Mmm… lucky for you, I’m fucking dying to see you lose it and come
all over this tree.” My hand trails up his chest, wrapping around his throat,
forcing his face to turn toward mine. We get lost in hungry lips, ravaging
tongues, sharp teeth, and my body moving fluidly in and out of his.
Rowan squirms, arms fighting against the rope, and at the last possible
moment, he rips his lips from mine, crying out as he blows, thick ropes
decorating the tree, his voice raspy as he doesn’t hold back. He’s loud, and I
fucking love it. He’s beautiful when he lets go. When he falls apart.
For a single moment, everything around us goes quiet. The birds
chirping, the leaves swaying in the wind, the ocean waves in the far
distance. Everything quiets, amplifying this moment for exactly what it is…
monumental. The Earth stops moving while Rowan knocks my world off its
axis with his feel, his sounds, his scent. Everything about him utterly rocks
me, until I can’t hold back any longer.
His body relaxes against mine, molding to my form, as he turns his
head, sealing his lips to mine again. I spill inside him when his tongue
caresses mine. Everything—the pleasure, the moment, him—feels too
strong. Pressure builds behind my eyes, my nose stinging, and my throat
tight. I empty my seed into him, filling him, but I can’t help but feel like
I’m giving him so much more than my orgasm.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Rowan
F
uck, my back hurts like a bitch.
Now, I remember why whenever I go camping, I bring an air
mattress. This sleeping on the fucking ground is bullshit. This facility
is probably a multi-million-dollar business, and they can’t even afford to
give us air mattresses? Kind of fucked up, if you ask me.
I have no clue what time it is, but it smells like it’s early.
People always act like I’m nuts when I say that, but it’s true. The early
morning scent is a legit thing. The dew on the grass and the trees, the sun
touching the earth for the first time since the night before… there’s a smell.
It disappears when the world has a chance to wake up, but it’s there.
Rolling from my side to my back, I wince at the ache around my lower
half and the… wet feeling coming from the same spot. His cum is still
inside me, Caspian’s. It’s filthy, and it should probably gross me out more
than it does. Sure, I’d love a nice, hot shower, some deodorant, and a fresh
set of clothes, but also, knowing a part of him is in me, marking me, turns
me on. My ever-present morning wood becomes a little stiffer at the
thought, even more so when I glance to my left, finding Caspian already
awake and watching me.
Heat pools low in my groin, my throat tightening and feeling dry as his
steel-gray eyes drag down my body, landing on my very apparent erection.
He smirks, the gesture sultry and cocky all at the same time before his gaze
meets mine again. Tongue dipping out, he wets his lips before he turns onto
his side, resting his head in his hand. The way his hair, messy from sleep,
hangs in his face, his eyes bloodshot and tired, tattoos on full display where
he’s lacking a shirt, he looks every bit the rock star I know he is.
It's sexy as fuck.
“G’morning,” he rasps. Presumably, from all his years living in the
States, his accent is basically non-existent at this point, but I’ve noticed
with certain words, or if he’s angry—or apparently tired—it tends to push
through. Like right now.
“God, your voice is hot in the morning,” I grumble, rubbing my face
into the flat pillow.
“Only in the morning?”
I nod, meeting his gaze. “Yup. Every other time of day, it’s horrid,” I
tease.
Cas rolls his eyes, and I choke out a laugh. Something’s shifted with us.
I can’t put my finger on what exactly, but it’s something.
Dipping my hand underneath my sleeping bag, I cup myself over my
boxers. “Are you as hard as I am?” I ask bluntly, chuckling when his eyes
widen for a fraction of a second.
“You just always come right the fuck out, saying what’s on your mind,
don’t you?”
Shrugging, I say, “Yeah. I mean, why not?”
“I don’t know, modesty, maybe?”
I bark out a laugh at that. “Modesty? Says the fucking rock star who,
I’m pretty sure, had a sex tape go viral a few years ago.”
“Is that so?” he asks, face deadpan. “Did you watch it?”
“Of course, I watched it,” I reply, his brow quirking in response. “Not
that I could see shit. It was blurry as fuck, but those noises you made…” I
fan my face dramatically. “Were pretty fucking hot.”
Jesus, even the thought of that makes my dick throb. I don’t know where
that memory came from. I haven’t thought about that since I watched it.
Someone had uploaded a horrible cell phone quality video to Twitter from
the Wicked Hearts tour bus. You couldn’t hardly see shit, but it was obvious
someone was giving Cas a blow job. It was too dark, and the picture was
too shitty to make out who it was.
“You’re fucking ridiculous,” he grumbles, but I don’t miss the faint
smirk he tries to cover when he rubs his hand over his mouth.
“Who was it? One of the guys from your band? It was Atticus, wasn’t
it?”
Caspian’s face screws up. “Why the fuck would it be Atticus?”
“Uh, maybe because you guys are always spotted together, and you
seem close.”
“Yeah, because we’re best friends,” he replies dryly.
“Best friend blowies are where it’s at, my man.”
“Oh, really,” he drawls. “So, you get best friend blowies often, then?”
“All the fucking time.” Lies. Brielle and Brynn would never go there,
and I would never go there with them. We are not those type of friends…
not that there is anything wrong with friendships like that.
His gaze hardens as he watches me, an emotion almost looking like
jealousy passing through his eyes… but that can’t be true, can it?
“What? You don’t like the idea of other people sucking my cock, rock
star?”
His scowl deepens. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.
“Oh, fuck off,” he spits out.
“I mean… if you want to get the image of somebody else’s mouth
around my dick out of your mind, you could always get between my legs
right now and do it yourself.”
His head is seconds from combusting, I swear. He’s quite the jealous
man I’m noticing. “Oh, you’d fucking love that, lad, wouldn’t you?”
Him calling me “lad” is so fucking hot for no reason.
“Yeah,” I agree. “I would. So, get down there, buddy.”
“Buddy?” Caspian’s face morphs into one of disgust, which only makes
me laugh more. “I’m not your fucking buddy.”
“Well, you sure were something last night when you were balls deep in
my ass…”
“I didn’t hear you complaining.”
“Oh, I was definitely not complaining.” Reaching over, I rest my hand
on his shoulder, offering a gentle tug downward. “It’s why I want your
mouth on me so bad.” Pulling the sleeping bag down and showing him the
tent in my boxers, I poke my lip out into a pout as he rolls his eyes. “See
how hard I am? Fix it, please.”
Bored expression plastered in place, he watches me for a moment, and
I’m almost a hundred percent sure he’s going to tell me to fuck off. I
practically choke on my own tongue when he shoves the material to the
side, positioning himself between my spread thighs.
My heart rate accelerates, to the point I think it’s going to zoom right on
out from behind my rib cage. Chest heaving with ragged breaths, I watch
Caspian hook his fingers confidently beneath the waistband of my
underwear, shoving them down and tossing them to the side. The cool
morning air hits my now-free, painfully hard erection, a rush of tingles
spreading along my skin, goosebumps blooming in their wake.
He fists my length, his calloused, rough hand giving a tentative pump
that has stars flying behind my lids. I’ve watched him perform before…
I’ve even seen him live a few times. I know what those hands can do.
Between the passion he clearly possesses for music, his technique, and the
upper body strength he must have to be able to perform the way he does for
hours at a time, night after night.
After what feels like ten minutes, but is probably only several seconds, I
whine a little and say, “Put your mouth on me…”
I can’t know for sure, but I’m almost positive the pout does something
to him. He always seems to soften, even if only marginally, every time I
poke my lip out or whine for what I want. Like now, for instance, as he
lowers, tongue flicking across the tip of my dick, lapping up all my arousal
pooling for him there.
I gasp, my back arching, which only seems to egg him on more as he
wraps his lips around the crown, sucking hard and swirling his tongue some
more.
“Fuck yeah,” I breathe. “Just like that.”
Seeing as my hands aren’t bound to a fucking tree this time, I take
advantage by reaching down and threading my fingers through his shaggy
brown locks, keeping my grip close to his scalp, urging him deeper. My
cock is enveloped in his wet heat as he sinks farther down, taking me into
his throat.
“Christ,” I moan. “You suck dick really. Fucking. Well.”
He hums around my length, the vibrations felt throughout my entire
body. It’s paradise all wrapped up in one mouth.
Pulling off my dick, he moves even lower, lapping at my nut sack. He
sucks one into his mouth, tongue twirling, before moving to do the same to
the other while using his hand to continue to jerk me. All of it… so good.
So fucking good.
I bring my knees to my chest, holding them in place with my hands.
“Eat me out,” I say, the words coming out breathy, my voice husky, the lust
laced within every syllable. I’m still slick with his release, so I doubt he
will, but fuck, I wish he would. There’s something so undeniably fucking
sexy about not giving a fuck. About doing something so fucking filthy, but
not giving a shit because the pure carnal nature takes over, throwing
inhibitions out the window.
Come on, Caspian… be filthy for me.
He pulls back, only a smidge, using the hand he had wrapped around
my cock to hold my balls up, dipping down to ghost his tongue along my
taint before going even farther. The tip of his nose teases my hole, and my
cheeks flame when I hear the sharp inhale. There’s no way he can’t smell
his cum on my skin. My cock leaks from that thought alone.
Sniffing around for a few more moments, like he’s trying to memorize
the scent, his tongue cautiously circles me before he snaps. Caspian eats
like he’s starving. Tongue lapping up, teeth nipping my cheek. The act is
messy, spit dripping crudely down my crease as he ravages me like a wild
animal whose been denied nourishment. He savors me, broad strokes with
his tongue all the way up to my balls, where his hand kneads them gently.
Between yesterday and right now, my throat feels raw from crying out
so hard. I lift myself up onto my elbows, wanting to watch as he devours
me. My eyes are heavy, fighting to close, but the sight before me is just too
good. He looks like a fallen angel between my legs, with his dark hair in his
face and his body decorated with black tattoos.
I can’t take it anymore… I need to feel him inside of me one more time
before we have to head back. Shoving him back, he falls onto his haunches,
gazing at me with wild eyes and a slick mouth, his lips puffy and red.
My head is dizzy and light, and my heart is ricocheting inside my chest,
thumping to a beat that is all Caspian. Placing a hand on his shoulder to
steady myself, I drape my legs over his as I situate myself in his lap. From
the fucking he gave me last night, the cum still lubing my channel now, and
the spit covering me, I know I’m prepped enough—and it’s a good thing
too, because I don’t think I could wait even if I needed to.
Reaching between us, I shove his briefs down enough to free his cock,
giving it a couple of pumps. I let spit dribble onto it, getting it nice and slick
before lining him up to me. Then I sink down onto his dick at the same time
I seal my lips to his. He huffs out a groan that I gladly swallow, sweeping
my tongue into his mouth while I give myself a moment to adjust to his
size.
It stings more than I thought it would, given how little time has passed
since he was in there last, but it’s nothing I can’t handle. Caspian’s arms
wrap around my waist, his head tilting to the side and deepening our kiss.
His tongue now fights mine for dominance as he starts moving below me,
dragging himself all the way out to the tip before crashing me down onto
his lap, fully impaling me.
I gasp into his mouth, “Oh, fuck, Cas…”
“That’s right,” he growls. “Say my name while I fuck you nice and
deep, princess.”
Fuck! That stupid fucking nickname gets me every time.
Running both hands through the hair on the back of his hand, I tighten
my hold and yank his head back. My lips right beside his ear, I roll my hips
faster, riding him harder as my desperate, broken moans sound in his ear.
The blunt tips of his fingernails dig into the meaty flesh of my hips, the pain
only adding to the pleasure radiating through me.
“You’re so fucking wet still from last night,” he murmurs, all gruff and
throaty. “And I’m about to fill you up again. What a little fucking cum slut
you are. You’re going to have to walk all the way back to the building with
my cum dripping out of your ass. But you fucking love that, don’t you?”
I can say or do nothing other than groan at his fucking words.
“Don’t you?” he growls with more authority this time.
“Yes!” I all but shout, as the tell-tale signs of my release creep up. I
won’t last much longer. “Fuck, yes… don’t stop. I’m so fucking close.”
Caspian wraps a rough palm around my length, pumping me in time
with his thrusts. Heat spreads, burning me up, as my nuts tingle and draw
tight to my body. I couldn’t stop it even if I wanted to. I blow. Thick ropes
cover my chest, hit my chin, as the edges of my vision go black, stars and
fireworks taking off when I let my eyes close.
“Fuck, Cas, yes!”
His other hand wraps around my nape, dragging me into him as his
tongue flattens, lapping up the cum on my chin. He groans like I’m the best
damn thing he’s ever tasted before crashing his mouth into mine. Inhaling
me, he kisses me like he never wants to let go, and when he moans into my
mouth, I know he’s coming.
I’ve noticed he really loves to kiss me when he comes. I kind of love
that.
By the time we pull apart, we’re both slick with sweat, cheeks flushed,
and his hair is matted to his forehead and flying in every which direction.
Neither one of us can seem to catch our breath, and suddenly, the idea of
having to head back to rehab sounds like the last fucking thing I want to do.
Out here, where no one can see us, where he doesn’t have to hide,
Caspian is a different person. He’s him, not Caspian Gray, drummer for
Wicked Hearts, playboy and reckless celebrity. I want to keep him this way.
If only I could…
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Caspian
W
hen I woke up this morning, I could feel it, the darkness. It’s
making its way back into my mind. Not quite fully present yet, but
it’s coming. It’s like I’m given this twisted sixth sense when I’m
about to be hit with the pit of it. My mind feels… off. Something is wrong,
but it isn’t. Everything starts to feel a little more gray, dampened by a little
less color. A weight sits on my chest, getting heavier and heavier by the
day, and no matter what I do, I’m unable to stop it.
Mental illness is a fucking bitch. I watched it destroy my mother.
Watched it rip her apart at the seams, piece by piece, until she was
unrecognizable. There would be days on end, sometimes weeks, when she
wouldn’t even get out of bed. Dad would bring her food, try to force feed
her. He’d give her sponge baths, brush her hair, sing her songs. My entire
life, I never saw my dad give a single shit about anything the way he did
with my mom.
Except maybe music.
No one’s ever been there for me, at bedside, when the days turned into
weeks, and the darkness became never-ending and crippling. Granted, I’ve
never let anyone get close enough to notice what was happening.
Unhinged. That’s what everyone assumes I am when the darkness
comes. Not mentally ill. An unhinged rock star who doesn’t listen to a
fucking thing anyone tells him. A nightmare prima donna with an affliction
for drugs and alcohol and sex.
I wonder what they would say if they knew the truth. The band, my
stupid fucking manager, the fans, the paparazzi. That, yeah, I like to get
high or drunk or bury myself inside some no-name, no-face nobody,
because it helps numb the loudness in my mind. It helps numb the darkness,
the memories, the loneliness.
It’s all only temporary, though, when this shit invades my mind.
Once I come down from the high, or the buzz wears off, or I find my
release, it all comes rushing back.
It’s not always like this. Sometimes I even can find joy in things. Little
things. Sometimes I feel on top of the world, like if I jumped, maybe I
could fly. That fades faster than the darkness, though. It’s fleeting. But
honestly, it’s probably better that way. With the joy always comes the
trouble. The bad decisions. The recklessness. The danger.
With the joy comes my face plastered in the tabloids, a video leaked on
Twitter of a night that never should’ve happened. I’m not surprised
Rowan’s seen that video. Who hasn’t?
There used to be periods of time when I felt more normal. But more and
more, it’s becoming one extreme or the other. The dark and gloom, or the
chaos and the trouble. There is no more normal. The highs are always way
too high, and the lows are scary.
It’s been a couple of days since we returned from the dumb-ass
wilderness event. As I sit naked and awake in my bed before the sun even
has a chance to rise, with a sheet covering my waist, my gaze finds the
warm body in my bed. The one that’s also naked. Except he’s asleep.
Peacefully, by the looks of it, sprawled out on his stomach, lips parted,
facial features slack. The cowlick on the back of his head makes the hair
stand funny.
I find myself doing ridiculous things more often lately. Like right now,
watching Rowan as he sleeps. Counting the pale brown freckles on his face
and his arms and his back. Tracing the lines of his jaw and cheeks and nose
with my eyes—memorizing them. Dancing my fingers along the nape of his
neck, down his back, up his arms, just to hear the contented sighs fall from
his sleepy lips.
What is he doing to me?
Dread sits bitterly on the back of my tongue, trudging all the way down
my throat and into my gut, where it simmers, gnarly and loud.
This is a bad idea, me and him. I’ve run through every scenario I could
possibly think of, any possible outcome for us, and it’s all shit. Every last
one. As good as he feels, as much as he makes me want to break down the
walls, I can’t.
People who get close to me always get hurt. It never fails. Even if I
don’t mean to, it’s inevitable. I get mad, or upset, or stressed out, and say
things I don’t mean—or shit I do mean, but really shouldn’t say out loud—
or act like a fucking lunatic, or just… leave. Leaving has always felt like a
viable option to me when shit gets difficult. It’s better to leave than to be
left.
The very few intimate relationships I’ve been in, I’ve always been the
one to walk away. Calls it quits. The thought of being left rocks me to my
core. I can’t fathom letting myself be vulnerable enough for that. It’s like if
I can control the situation enough, then maybe I can avoid getting hurt.
Dr. Weaver seems to think it stems from my abandonment issues. My
mom left, then my dad. The two people in my life who should’ve been my
constant, who should’ve always been there. They left, and I had zero
control over it. Then, I went to live with my aunt, who is as unstable as they
come, with the drugs, the poverty, the endless slew of men with issues and
even bigger tempers. Not letting myself get too attached is a defense
mechanism. My need for control stems from never feeling safe or wanted.
Or so she says.
Either way, I can’t do that to Rowan. He has his own trauma. He hasn’t
come right out and told me that, but it’s clear in the way he’s latched onto
me. He hasn’t gone back to his own room once since we got back from
camping. He’ll even occasionally talk about subtle plans for once we get
out of here.
Who the fuck thinks that far in advance?
I want to believe him. I want to wear the rose-colored glasses, be
ignorant and fucking happy. Trust me, I do. But I don’t know how. And
frankly, it’s just not how the world works. We come from two very different
backgrounds, live two very different lifestyles. Why would our… whatever
the fuck this is between us… work once we were back in L.A.? I tour, make
music, perform. He lives off mommy and daddy’s money.
There’re only a few more weeks left here, but this needs to end before
that. To save Rowan the hurt I know I’d cause him otherwise.
Speaking of Rowan, rubbing his face into the pillow below him, he
starts to stir. I’m always up before him, so I’m not surprised he slept in. He
rolls onto his back, pillow lines all over the side of his face, arms raised
over his head as his body contorts with a lengthy stretch. The softest of
sighs echoes from him, the noise redirecting the blood in my body below
the waist, and when he peels one eye open, and it lands on me, a sleepy grin
tugs on his full, pink lips, twisting something inside my chest.
“Morning,” he mumbles with a sleep thickened voice.
With a smile I know looks forced, I say, “G’morning.”
Rowan’s stomach rumbles loudly, making him chuckle and rub his
belly. “I’m starving.”
“You’re always starving,” I quip. “I’ve never met someone who can eat
the minute they wake up like you can. It’s not normal.”
He bats his long, black lashes at me, biting down on his bottom lip. “I’m
a growing boy,” he says in a too-sultry tone, accentuating his point by
sliding his hand down under the covers, gripping what I can tell is his
morning wood. Like I said, he’s always hungry… in more ways than one.
Rolling my eyes, I climb out of bed before he can start anything. “Then
get dressed. Let’s get some food.”
I don’t miss the way his face falls when he realizes I won’t fuck him.
It’s not that I don’t want to. Fucking around with Rowan has been fun, but
with the impending darkness comes a disinterest in a lot of things that
normally bring me satisfaction. Sex being one of them. The idea of putting
effort into anything sounds horrible and daunting. Rowan would be better
off leaving me alone during this time, however long it lasts.
After he pouts for a few moments, he finally throws off the covers and
pulls some clothes on. He doesn’t say anything, not even when we head
downstairs, but I know he wants to. I can feel it coming off him in waves.
Rowan doesn’t seem angry by any means, but I know he’s bothered, and he
isn’t one to keep quiet about shit like that.
The restaurant isn’t too busy, and we get seated right away. Food is the
last fucking thing I want right now, nothing sounding good, but I could use
some coffee. I’m not fucking sleeping well, and it’s starting to show with
how sluggish I feel.
The dread in my gut… it grows and grows. Heavy. Toxic. Unavoidable.
I hate this feeling, the one I know is on the horizon. What I hate more
than that, though, is that I know it’s coming, and I can’t do a single fucking
thing to stop it.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Rowan
S
omething’s up with Caspian.
I felt the shift the moment I woke up this morning. And now,
glancing across the table at him, where he won’t even look at or talk
to me, I can feel it in spades. He’s sick of me, I think.
We’ve been having fun over the last few days. Hanging out, going down
to the waterfalls, smoking, listening to music. Fooling around. He even let
me sleep in his room. But he’s losing interest. I can see it with my own
eyes.
My palms are clammy, and my heart races a mile a minute the longer
we sit here without saying anything. We ordered breakfast a few minutes
ago. Well, I ordered breakfast. He ordered black coffee. Gross.
He’s barely said more than three sentences to me since I woke up. I
have to fix this. Make him not want to get rid of me.
My food comes. It smells so good. I got the French toast. I always get
that. With scrambled, cheesy eggs, bacon—extra crispy—and a nice large
glass of chocolate milk. Caspian told me I ate like a child a few weeks ago.
He said it with a smirk on his face and endearment in his eyes. Like he
thought it was cute.
Now, though? He looks at my plate with disgust before his blank eyes
stare off somewhere behind me.
My stomach sinks.
“Is everything okay?” I ask, hating how my voice comes out shaky.
“I’m fine.” He doesn’t even glance up at me.
“Are you sure?” I press. “You seem a little off. Did I do something?”
His gaze finally slides to meet mine. “I’m fine,” he repeats, harsher this
time. “You didn’t do anything, Rowan. Not everything is about you.”
Ouch. That stings.
“Okay…” I pop a piece of bacon into my mouth, trying to will away the
pressure building behind my eyes. Why am I so emotional right now? He
said I didn’t do anything wrong. So, why don’t I believe him?
Because he doesn’t want you. You’re annoying him.
My thoughts can be hurtful, and very much not helpful.
He’s not annoyed by me. I just need to cheer him up. Make him see why
it’s important that I stick around. Everyone needs a little cheering up from
time to time. I can do that for him.
But what would cheer him up?
Clearly, not sex, if the way he so blatantly turned me down this morning
is any indication. I know it’s not the healthiest mechanism, but sex has
always been the one way I can make people see how great I am. It’s how I
can make people feel better. Sometimes I can be annoying with the things I
say, but my body… My body can make everything right again.
So, when that’s not on the table, I’m left with fuck all to do.
The rest of the meal passes with as much awkward tension and silence
as the beginning, and when it’s over, Caspian tells me he’s going back to his
room to take a nap.
He doesn’t even ask me to come with him.
But honestly, that’s okay, because a thought formed in my mind while I
was eating, and frankly, I think it’s genius. We part ways, with him sulking
over toward the front door of the main building, and me taking a left out of
the restaurant. There’s a store in this building. It reminds me of a gift shop
like you’d find in a hotel or a hospital or something, but it has more items
similar to a convenience store.
I saw something in here the other day when I was buying toothpaste that
made me think of Caspian. Hopefully, it’s still here. Walking in the front
entrance, it dings, alerting everyone in the store of my arrival. Grabbing a
basket, I hook it on my arm, making my way through the aisles. Some
random Beyonce song from the early 2000s plays on low in here, and I’d
like to know when the music I grew up on suddenly became convenience
store music.
It takes me all of fifteen minutes to find everything I need, including the
item I saw the other day. It was the last one too, so I’m happy to have
snagged it.
I decide to not bug Caspian yet, since we just parted ways, like, twenty
minutes ago. So, instead, I head on up to my room, tossing the bag of
goodies on the bed as I strip down into my birthday suit.
The spray is scalding as I step under it, the room quickly filling up with
billows of fog. The water feels amazing, and I take my time washing myself
while my mind remains firmly planted on Caspian.
As always.
This feeling of panic that he’s going to leave me—even though he’s not
even mine to leave—terrifies me. Why am I like this?
He’s such a frustrating person. When he’s there, he’s there, and fuck,
does it feel good. Like when we were camping, that morning after… that
was incredible. The way he handled my body with such care and need, the
way his steel-gray eyes drank me in like I was the most exquisite thing he’s
ever laid eyes on. He has this way of making someone feel like they’re the
only ones in the room, like they matter.
And I’m the gullible guppy who believes him.
Then there are days like today, when I’m certain he hates me. That I’m
nothing more than an annoyance to him, and maybe an occasional nut. It’s
an awful feeling. A sinking ship in my fucking gut.
But it’s okay because what I have planned will make it all better. He’ll
cheer up, and he’ll appreciate my effort.
Turning off the faucet, I grab the plush white towel, wrapping it around
myself as I step out of the shower. Goosebumps break out all over, a shiver
racking through me as the cool air hits my freshly heated skin. I quickly dry
off and get dressed, running the towel through my hair. Not that it needs it.
It’s getting longer since being here, but it’s still so short, it’s practically dry
by the time I step out.
Checking the time, it’s still only been like forty-five minutes since we
parted ways. Not exactly a long nap. Wanting to kill some more time, I sit at
the desk and work on some shit for my therapy appointment next week.
Who knew therapy would be like school, with homework and all.
I wonder what the twins are up to right this very second. The time
difference always throws me off, but it’s probably early morning there. It
would be nice to get to talk to them. Back home, we didn’t hang out too
often, since they live in Malibu and I’m in L.A., but we did talk almost
every day. It’s been weird not doing that.
What if by the time I get home, they’ve forgotten all about me?
Maybe they found a new best friend. Someone who isn’t an outcast by
his parents, who doesn’t get forced into rehab, someone who doesn’t think
everyone hates him if they go longer than a few days without talking.
Sometimes, I really hate the way my brain works. It’s a self-sabotaging
son of a bitch. No matter how logical I try to be, it’s always there, the little
devil on my shoulder, whispering doubt into my ear.
I remember one time when I was a junior in high school, I was dating
this smokin’ hot UCLA baseball player. The boy looked like he could be a
fucking model, type hot. We hadn’t been able to see each other much
because it was the middle of the season, and it was making me anxious and
unsure of everything. Like, maybe he didn’t want to see me, maybe he was
ghosting me.
Anyway, he went out of town for an away game, and I found out where
the team was staying. I was convinced he was going to be hooking up with
someone else, so I drove down there, went to the game, and then
afterwards, I followed him to the afterparty, where I was dead set that he
was going to meet someone there.
He spotted me pretty quickly and was understandably confused. I
played it off like I wanted to surprise him, but later that night when I got
drunk, I spilled the real reason.
As one would guess, he wasn’t fucking cool with that.
He broke up with me the next morning, saying he couldn’t be with
someone who didn’t trust him and who wasn’t secure in the relationship.
Which, I get it, but fuck, that hurt. All because my brain convinced me
he was lying to me. And what’s worse is he never gave me a reason not to
trust him. It was solely my own fucking issue. I cling to people like a
lifeline, and then doubt them incessantly.
Feeling satisfied with what I’ve gotten done for Dr. Weaver, I shove the
journal I was writing in back into the drawer, and start setting shit up.
Nerves dance inside my belly, hands trembling enough to be noticeable. Cas
is fucked up, and all I want is to help him get outside of his head and make
him feel better. The desperation I feel to make this happen is a hand to the
throat.
Squaring my shoulders and giving my hands a good shake, I leave my
room and go knock on Caspian’s door, praying like hell he answers. The
blood whooshing in my ears echoes inside my head, becoming deafening as
the seconds tick by. Perspiration lines my brows and the back of my neck,
despite being cold.
Fuck, get it together, Rowan.
After what feels like an eternity, the door finally opens. Cas is in a pair
of athletic shorts and nothing else, and his hair looks like his finger was
shoved into a light socket. He clearly just woke up.
“What, Rowan?” He sounds so exasperated, which only heightens my
fear that I’m the problem.
But instead of dwelling on that and cowering away, I shove it down and
ask, “Can you help me with something in my room real fast?”
“With what?” The rasp to his voice that comes from sleep does things to
me, as does the way he lazily drags a hand through his unruly dark hair.
“Um…” Shit, didn’t think this through. “I accidentally shoved
something back on the top shelf in the bathroom, and I can’t reach it.
You’re taller than me.”
It’s a ridiculous lie. He’s taller than me by, like, maybe two inches. If
that. Whether he thinks I’m full of shit or not, I’m not sure, but he rolls his
eyes, gesturing in front of him with his hand. “Well, let’s fucking go, then.
Yes! Got him.
Pressing the wristband to the reader, it flashes green, and the door
unlocks. My hand is trembling as I reach for the knob, and I pray Caspian
doesn’t notice. How embarrassing. Lavender and vanilla are strong in the
air as we enter the room, and music plays softly from my phone on the
dresser. Once I hear the door click shut, I turn to face him.
Eyes wandering around the room, confusion is written all over his
features. “What’s all this?”
His eyes drag back to me, and I swallow hard under the weight of his
gaze. Here goes nothing. First, I grab the bag I got from the gift shop type
store earlier. Before handing it to him, I say, “So, this may be really lame,
but try not to laugh in my face, okay?”
I say it in a light and funny tone, but the truth behind the request hits me
like a ton of bricks.
Caspian takes the bag, but he doesn’t open it. He looks up at me,
somehow knowing I have more to say.
“I can tell you’re going through a hard time right now. I respect you not
wanting to talk about it; we barely know each other, and while I hope to
change that really soon, I get not wanting to open up to me.” My hands
open and close into fists at my sides. Something he, of course, notices. “I
wanted to do something that could possibly cheer you up or make you feel a
little less down, but I don’t really know what you like when you need
comforting, so I had to guess and go with what I would like if it were me.”
His jaw flexes as he grinds down on his molars, Adam’s apple rolling in
his throat.
“Open it,” I say, barely above a whisper, my heart thrashing behind my
ribs.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Caspian
W
hat in the fuck is happening right now?
One minute, I’m lying in bed, half asleep, and the next, I’m
standing in Rowan’s bedroom with a plastic bag in my hand, his
mossy green eyes on me expectantly, and a pit in my stomach the size of
Mars as he tells me he wants to try to make me feel better.
Nobody has ever said that to me before.
“Cas…” He chuckles, but it’s stiff. I can tell he’s nervous, which makes
me nervous. “Will you open it already?”
I don’t want to. I don’t want to open the bag or find out what else he has
in store for me, because the gnawing feeling in my gut tells me that
whatever it is will change everything.
My throat feels so tight, it aches, and my hands are trembling just like
his were when we came in here.
I’m terrified.
I don’t even remember feeling this anxious when I was arrested for that
chick’s death before Black Diamond.
There’s no way I can stall any longer. Glancing down at the white
plastic bag in my hand, I drag a cautious hand through my hair before
pulling the handles open. Whatever it is, is wrapped in aqua blue tissue
paper, and as my hand goes to pull it out, his voice has me pausing.
“Okay, so this part may be stupid, but I didn’t have much to work with,
with us being on an island and all.” He offers me another shaky chuckle.
“This isn’t the only thing I have planned, but uh, I hope you like it.” The
whole sentence comes out as more of one long, fast spoken word than
anything else.
Letting the bag fall to the floor, I unwrap the tissue paper, revealing a
coffee mug. When I turn it over in my hand, I immediately bite down on the
inside of my cheek to ground myself because, suddenly, I feel dizzy. The
mug is white with black interior, and in black lettering, it says, ‘Introverted
but willing to discuss Greek mythology.’
“You know,” he mumbles awkwardly. “Because you’re into—”
“Yeah, I got that.” Glancing up at him, his cheeks are pink, and since I
cut him off mid-sentence, he’s now chomping down on his bottom lip.
“Thank you,” I say, as steadily as I can, fully meaning it.
“Do you…” He clears his throat. “Do you like it?”
Holding his gaze, I say, “I do.” That goddamn ache in my throat is back,
but this time, it’s accompanied by a tickling sensation in the tip of my nose.
The smile that takes over his face is beautiful and genuine, causing my
chest to tighten. “Good!” he exclaims, hands clapping together. “Well, um,
okay.” Rowan stumbling over his words is as endearing as it is adorable.
“The next surprise is a little… um, more intimate, I guess you could say.”
Saying nothing else, he spins on his heel, heading into the bathroom. I
assume I’m meant to follow him, so I do. The aroma of lavender, and what I
think is vanilla, gets stronger as we step farther into the space.
I swear to God, my heart lurches into my throat when I take in the sight
behind him. He must sense my inner turmoil because he laughs softly again,
a real breathy sound. He laughs at inappropriate times, I’m gathering. Like
a nervous habit.
“When I’m feeling like shit or when I’m sad or having a bad day, a hot
bubble bath always makes me feel better.”
My brain forgets how to form words.
I stand there, staring at him blankly. Occasionally blinking for way too
many seconds, before it’s like all my brain cells figure out how to work
again. “You… you drew me a bath?”
Rowan nods, closing the distance between us. “Yeah.” He leans in, lips
featherlight as they brush against mine. His breath is minty as it fans my
face. Shaky fingers hook into my waistband as he whispers into my mouth,
“Here’s what we’re gonna do…” My shorts pool around my ankles, heat
sparking in my groin. “You’re going to shut off your mind, and you’re
going to let me take care of you. Now, get in.”
I’m not really a taking orders type of guy. Generally speaking, it’s
usually the other way around, but something in his soft, caring tone behind
has my feet moving of their own accord as I lift one leg, and then the other,
stepping into the… scalding fucking hot water.
“Christ, is this hot enough?”
Rowan’s face pinches. “I’m sorry. I wanted it to be ready by the time
you came in here, and I didn’t know how much convincing I would have to
do to get you to come into my room. I wanted to make sure it wasn’t cold.”
“It’s definitely not cold,” I huff as I tentatively lower myself into the tub
of bubbly lava.
Giving a sort of nod of approval when I’m fully submerged in the water,
he reaches behind himself, grabbing the lime green, fluffy loofah off the
counter. He kneels in front of the tub, the lip of the porcelain coming to
about the bottom of his sternum.
Rowan watches me with gentle eyes, not doing anything for a moment.
The energy is thick, but not uncomfortable. When he dunks the sponge into
the water, my chest tightens, pulse racing in my ears.
He’s going to bathe me.
No one has ever bathed me before.
Well, that’s a lie. Surely, my parents bathed me when I was a baby, but
other than that, never.
It feels like such an intimate act. One I would never even think to want.
But I don’t stop him. Be it the exhaustion taking over my mind, or the sheer
thoughtfulness of the act, I can’t bring myself to deny Rowan this
opportunity to do this for me.
Bringing the loofah up to my chest, he massages it onto my skin, his
gaze never faltering from mine. My throat is thick, mouth dry, and every
nerve ending in my body tingles. My breaths are coming out in short,
shallow pants as I try to remain calm, as I try to relax under his touch. He’s
tender with the way he cleans me. First my chest, then my shoulders, down
my arms before he makes me lift them so he can clean underneath.
It tickles when he cleans my pits. When I squirm a little, he chuckles,
airy and light, but he’s focused. Like his whole life’s purpose is to take care
of me in this moment. In one of my many moments of weakness. The way
he watches me, like he can see into every corner of my soul, is jarring. As if
he knows my every thought, my every worry, every self-deprecating thing I
say to myself, but even more frightening, is the way he looks at me like he
can see exactly what he’s doing to me.
Swallowing over an insurmountable lump, I fist my hands underneath
the water where he can’t see them, trying to ground myself as my nervous
system frays at the seams. Every single part of my mind is screaming at me
to get up, grab my clothes, and leave. I can’t do this. But then, Rowan’s
hand dips below the water, loofah gently scrubbing my pubic area, his other
hand softly soaping up my dick and balls, ignoring the raging erection. If it
weren’t for the way his Adam’s apple rolls in his throat and the way he bites
down on the inside of his cheeks when he feels it, I’d think he was
completely unaffected.
Working his way down my legs, he massages the soap into my thighs,
then to my calves, giving attention to my feet before working his way back
up. Warmth spreads through my veins, his hands moving in a soft caress
over my skin.
Once he’s cleaned the loofah off, he sets it to the side, wetting my hair
with nothing more than his hands before grabbing the shampoo. He pours a
dime size amount onto his palm, spreading it between both hands before
bringing them to my scalp, working the gel into my strands. It feels so
good, his hands scrubbing, and my body seems to finally be able to relax
fully. When I was little, my mom used to play with my hair when she would
put me to bed at night. It was my favorite. No one’s done it since she left,
but I guess I still enjoy it just as much.
Eyes suddenly heavy, I let my lids drift shut as he takes his time,
making sure it’s all clean.
Throughout all of this, no words are spoken between us, the sound of
the water sloshing in the tub the only noise. The absence of speaking isn’t
uncomfortable like I would think it would be. My body’s buzzing, every
touch heightened, but it feels… natural. Like he’s done this for me a million
times.
Rowan washes the shampoo off his hands before turning the faucet on
and grabbing the cup he apparently had stashed on the floor, using it to rinse
the suds out of my hair. Once that’s done, he applies a small amount of
conditioner to the ends only. Something I don’t normally use myself, but the
gesture tightens my chest. He barely has any hair, so I don’t know how he
knows the proper way to apply conditioner, but I’m not all that surprised.
As he lets the product sit and do its job, the pad of his index finger
traces along the tattoos on my chest and my upper arm. He reads the lyrics
etched into my flesh, paying great attention to every detail in every single
one. When his eyes lift to meet mine, his hand trails a little lower.
Before his hand reaches its intended destination, he pauses. “Can I?” he
asks, voice barely above a whisper.
My pulse intensifies as a flutter takes over in my stomach, a million
fireflies on a hot summer night. I nod, my breaths stalling.
Rowan’s warm hand wraps around my base, giving a tentative squeeze
before gliding his fist to the tip. His other hand cups my balls, rolling them,
squeezing them. Exhaling a heavy sigh through my nose, I fight the need to
close my eyes, wanting to watch him as he works me over. I wish I could
see his cock. See if he’s as turned on as I am.
Before I can even get too worked up, he lets go, turning the water back
on to rinse the conditioner out of my hair. Once he’s satisfied it’s all washed
out, he unplugs the drain before reaching behind him and grabbing a fluffy
white towel.
“Up,” he instructs, a barely-there smirk tugging on his lips as he stands
with the open towel, waiting for me to step out. When I listen, feet planting
on the equally fluffy rug, his smirk grows. “Good boy.”
A faint growl rumbles from my chest when I hear those two words fall
from his lips, and I don’t know if they turn me on or piss me off. Probably a
little bit of both.
He chuckles, the sound washing over me as he begins to dry off my
body, taking his time like he did when he was washing me. First, my arms,
then my chest. When he goes lower, he drops to his knees to pay great
attention to my legs, then both my feet, before finally, my groin.
Instead of drying it with the towel like he did with every other part of
my body, he parts his full, pink lips, sealing them around the tip of my cock.
The way he combines suction and tongue play on just my tip has stars
exploding behind my eyelids. It has my toes curling into the mat and a
groan setting off inside my chest that can be felt everywhere in my body.
Rowan peers up at me beneath his thick, dark lashes, a smile twinkling
from within them. He looks like an angel on his knees before me. He’s
beautiful. It’s right there on the tip of my tongue to tell him as much, but
before I can, he swallows more of me, my length disappearing down his
throat.
“Fuck, Row…”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Rowan
I
won’t lie… I had no clue how Caspian would react to all of this. There
was a real possibility he would either tell me to get fucked or deck me
in the face. Thankfully, he didn’t do either.
Desire chokes me as I suck the tip of his cock teasingly, making him
squirm in place. The noises coming from him are heavenly. He has to be
feeling relaxed from the bath, because he’s basically putty in my hands,
compliant in anything I want from him. He tastes and smells so good… so
fresh, but even underneath the soap, he’s got that natural musk scent and
flavor that’s all his own that I’m not so slowly becoming addicted to.
Caspian’s eyes hold pain. A pain that is normally staggering. But right
now? Right now, they’re overflowing with hunger, swimming in adoration.
The way he’s looking at me now, with his gaze down-turned, I want to keep
this forever. Have him look at me like this every single day. I’d never
question my worth. Not with eyes like that.
He moans as I drag the tip of my tongue along the thick, blue vein that
runs through his shaft, the sound sprinkling over me, settling in my core,
and heating my blood. My dick aches behind my pants. I’m desperate for
some attention, but this isn’t about me right now. It’s about him. It’s about
showing him I can make him feel better.
And not to toot my own horn, but I think I’m doing a pretty good job.
Caspian’s hand comes up, cupping the nape of my neck as I take him all
the way in my mouth again. “Fucking hell, your mouth feels unreal,
princess.”
I can’t help but moan around his length, pressing the heel of my palm
into my groin, seeking whatever friction I can get without full on pulling
myself out and stroking.
He must notice my predicament, because a soft chuckle rumbles
through him. “Little horny, are we, baby?”
Fuckkk me right here and now. He’s only called me “baby” a few times,
but it’s like Christmas Day every single fucking time. The whimper that
escapes me would be embarrassing if it were anybody else. Caspian well
and truly knows how fucking gone I am for him at this point—at least in the
bedroom—and if he doesn’t, he’s a moron.
Confusion clouds my mind when he pulls out of my mouth. “W-what
are you doing?”
“Relax, princess, I want to take this to the bed so you can get in on this
too.”
Raising to my feet, my mouth turns down into a pout. “But this is
supposed to be for you.”
He nods. “It is for me.”
“Only for you,” I add, not missing the way his eyes darken.
Caspian grabs my chin with a bruising force, crashing his lips down
onto mine before I even know what’s happening. His tongue sweeps into
my mouth, stealing my breath before he lets go and pulls back, like nothing
happened. “You getting off gets me off, Rowan. Now, get your ass on your
bed. It’s my turn to take control.”
Well, alright then.
Hopping on the bed, he makes himself nice and comfortable. “Grab the
lube,” he instructs, stroking himself leisurely.
I roll my eyes at his arrogance, but tug open the drawer and pull out the
bottle, nonetheless.
He tips his chin my way. “Take your clothes off.”
“Anything else, your highness?”
With a smug grin, he arches a brow at me, continuing to stroke his
length.
Reaching behind me, I yank my shirt over my head, shoving my pants
down next. I don’t bother with a sexy show of removing my clothes because
I’m too worked up for that. Climbing onto the bed, I move to position
myself between his legs, but he stops me with a hand on the arm.
“Lie down,” he rasps, rolling onto his side to face me.
His warm, rough, calloused hand wraps around my length, and I hiss
from the contact. It feels so fucking good. Everything he does to my body
feels good. Leaning in, his lips brush mine, the kiss soft, almost sweet, but
not for long. His tongue slashes into my mouth, sweeping over mine,
tasting, teasing, sucking. My hands fly up to his hair, threading through the
still-damp strands, his circling my waist, pulling me closer.
We become nothing more than clashing teeth and tongues, limbs
entangled in one another. His hand palms the swell of my ass as our stiff
lengths rut into each other, the friction too much and not quite enough at the
same time.
Caspian’s lips leave mine, trailing along my jaw, down to my neck. The
way he’s sucking on the skin, I know there will be a bruise tomorrow. That
turns me on way more than it should, being marked by him. He reaches
between our bodies, wrapping his hand around both of us, and my hips
can’t help but thrust into his tight grip.
“Fuck, Cas…”
He chuckles against my throat, a shudder rolling through me. “What do
you want?” he asks.
“You,” I moan. “I want you inside me right now.”
Clicking his tongue at me, he says, “Always so impatient.”
“Caspian…” I growl, trying to roll us so I can get on top, but he’s
stronger. “Please.”
“So needy,” he replies almost absentmindedly as he grabs the lube, the
sound of the cap flicking open sparking my burning hot desire. “So
desperate to feel me stretch you open, hmm?”
He remains on his side while he shoves me onto my back, hiking my
left leg over his thigh, opening me up to him. A visible shiver takes over
when I feel his cool, slick fingers press against my entrance. I gasp as he
shoves one long digit in, followed by a second. Cas isn’t a gentle man by
any means. He has his moments, but for the most part, when he fucks, he
fucks hard. And I fucking love it.
I love that he doesn’t treat me like I’m fragile. I love that when he gets
going, it’s like a carnal urge possesses him, and he almost can’t control
himself. Like he needs me so bad, he can’t help himself. It’s probably an
unhealthy thing to crave, but fuck it.
“Touch yourself, princess.” Glancing up at his face, his gray eyes are
nearly black with how blown his pupils are. “Play with yourself for me
while I get you ready to take my cock.”
My gosh, I could listen to him talk dirty to me all fucking day, every
day, and I’d never get tired of it. The raw sex appeal this man possesses is
unreal. Not only is he way too sexy for his own good, his confidence is such
a turn on.
By this point, he’s three fingers deep, and when I wrap my fist around
myself, I have to squeeze tightly to stave off the release wanting to make
itself known already. A whimper falls from my lips when he grazes over my
prostate, my entire body lighting up like the fucking Fourth of July.
Thankfully, before I have to resort to begging, he pulls his fingers out
and lathers up his dick. He repositions me so we’re almost in a spooning
position, my ass against his groin. Caspian lines himself up to my hole, but
before he enters me, he reaches up, turning my face to meet his. Gaze
locked on mine, he pushes through the tight muscle, making himself a home
inside me.
The eye contact makes the moment feel way more intense. It’s heady
and overwhelming, and I gasp for breath at how he fills me. His hand cups
my jaw, keeping my head turned toward him as he moves gently, allowing
me to get used to him.
“You feel so fucking good, princess. Do you feel how perfectly we fit
together?” His words are soft-spoken, and it almost seems like he’s not even
aware he’s saying them. “You take me so well. So tight and warm and soft,
fuck.”
My head feels light when he leans in, sealing our mouths together. Lips
tender, tongue savoring, he kisses me until I’m out of breath and dizzy.
Until I can barely remember my own name. And he does it while fucking
into me, deep and hard. My cock leaks, spilling onto the bedding with every
violent thrust. I can’t get enough.
Caspian’s free arm slides under my head, hands threading into mine. His
other hand holds onto my hip, using it as an anchor as he continues his
onslaught. The organ in my chest feels like it’s going to break through my
ribs at any moment, my pulse dangerously fast.
“Fuck,” he growls next to my ear. “You look so fucking hot taking my
cock, baby. Does that feel good?”
“Yes… yes!”
“That’s right, let me hear it all.” The angle changes, his cock repeatedly
pegging my prostate, making me cry out. “Oh, fuck, that’s it, baby. Keep
squeezing me like that. Fuck…”
“Cas… shit…” I let my head rest back on his shoulder, my chest
heaving as I try to catch my breath.
He nips the shell of my ear, growling into it. “Such a good boy. You feel
incredible.”
Our bodies are slick and glistening with sweat, his breaths heavy against
my ear. Every part of me tingles, making me feel high. Higher than any
drug I’ve ever taken before. I’m floating, losing myself in him. Caspian is
all-consuming. The way he looks at you, the way he touches you, it’s
impossible to not get lost in him. It’s easy to forget everything around us
when he owns my body as well as he does.
Fingers still intertwined, he squeezes my hand, his movements
becoming jerkier by the second. “I’m about to come.” Those four words
leave his lips as a breathy, needy moan. Nothing more than a whisper of
pleasure and rapture. It sends tingles rushing down my spine, ricocheting
through my body like a firecracker.
And it’s all I need to get there too. Before I know what’s happening, my
balls tighten against my body, heat spreading throughout my core as my
cock erupts, thick spurts of cum dousing the bed as he stills behind me,
emptying himself into my body. Turning my head to the side, I bite down
on his forearm, the one still connected with mine, as I cry out.
As soon as we come down, my body becomes boneless, melting into his
arms, not wanting to move at all. Caspian presses soft, hot kisses against
my shoulder and up my neck, his fingers still linked with mine. My throat
tightens as the severity of my feelings hit me like a Mack truck all at once.
Here, lying in his arms, his spent cock still inside me, the evidence of my
release in front of us, I can’t deny how much I care for him. How much I
never want to stop whatever this is. How terrifying it is to know this will
have an expiration date.
It's enough to evoke a panic attack, but I somehow manage to keep my
cool. Probably because he wraps his arm around my waist and holds my
body close to his. The false sense of security calms my nerves for now. But
I know it won’t last forever.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Caspian
T
he sun is blinding where it’s pouring in through the open curtains. It’s
early, but not too early. After we fucked last night, we ended up
ordering food and watching a movie before passing out. I didn’t
bother going back to my own room either. It felt too good to sleep next to
Rowan. To sleep with him curled up in my arms.
It’s frightening how good it feels to have him next to me.
Something’s changed, shifted. That’s become abundantly clear,
especially after yesterday. The way he cared enough to notice I wasn’t
doing okay and went out of his way to do something about it, to try to help
me feel better, hasn’t left my mind. It meant even more to me, too, because
he didn’t try to force me to talk about it. I hate talking. No one has ever put
that much effort into an attempt at cheering me up.
It doesn’t automatically make me better, and it doesn’t mean I’m no
longer going to have low, dark days, but it means a lot to me. More than I
care to admit.
Rowan got up a few minutes ago to shower, so we can head down to get
breakfast soon. I’m not a huge morning eater, definitely not the way Rowan
is, but my stomach is growling something fierce.
Climbing out of bed, I remember all my clothes are still in his
bathroom, where he took them off me yesterday before he bathed me.
Maybe he has some sweats that may fit me. I cross the room, pulling open
his top drawer. It’s nothing but boxers and t-shirts. Pushing that one shut, I
pull open the second drawer, which has his pants, but it also has something
else. Something that I should one hundred percent ignore—a journal. One
very similar to the one I was given by Dr. Weaver.
Quickly, I grab a pair of loose-fitting sweats, pulling them on. They
barely fit. Against my better judgement, simply because I can’t fucking help
myself, I grab the leather-bound journal, bringing it over to the bed, sitting
down on the edge. Listening intently for the sound of running water, I can
tell he’s still in the shower. I’ve never been good at minding my own
business. I’m a snooper, through and through. My heart pounds in my chest
as I flip open the journal. I know I have at least a few minutes, if that, to
look through this and put it back before he catches me.
After a few lines of reading, it becomes clear that what he writes in this
is different from what I write in mine. Where mine has become a place for a
dump of random thoughts and feelings, his almost feels like an essay… or a
diary.
My eyes scan the first page, my stomach lodged in my throat as I do.
I met Caspian early on here. He intrigues me. Of course, I knew who he
was prior to coming here. I mean, who doesn’t know who Caspian Gray is?
Everything about him interests me, and I’m dying to know more about him.
He punched me once. It was an accident because I snuck up on him—
his words, not mine—and he didn’t hear me coming. He mostly acts like I’m
annoying and he wants nothing to do with me, but I hope that’s not true.
I don’t bother finishing the page. Flipping through, I see other pages
filled with similar content. He outlines times we’ve hung out, what we’ve
done. In great fucking detail. Pages and fucking pages detailing things
we’ve done—both sexually and not—the stuff we’ve talked about. The shit
I’ve opened up to him about. His theories for why I’m the way I am.
Everything.
Everything we’ve shared since being on this fucking island is outlined
in here, presumably for him to share during his therapy sessions with Dr.
Fucking Nosy.
The blood is roaring in my ears so loud; I miss the bathroom door
opening.
Rowan clears his throat. “Um, what the fuck are you doing?”
My head snaps up, gaze connecting with his, ignoring the way he’s
standing before me in nothing but a towel. “What the fuck is this?” I growl,
pushing to my feet.
“It’s not yours,” he says in place of an answer, crossing his arms over
his water-glistened chest. “Do you always rummage through people’s shit?”
He’s getting defensive.
“I was looking for a pair of pants to wear since mine were still in the
bathroom.”
“And you what? Decided it was a good idea to read what isn’t yours?”
“Don’t you even fucking try to shift this around on me.” I hold up the
journal between us. “Care to fucking explain this shit?”
“Uh, no.” He tries to grab it from me, but I don’t let him. “It’s not any
of your business.”
“It is my fucking business when you’re writing about me,” I growl, my
voice getting louder than it should. “What am I, just a fucking experiment
to you? See how close you can get to me and how much shit I can confide
in you, so you can run and tell the fucking therapist?”
“What?” His brows knit together in confusion. “No! What the fuck.”
“Tell me, lad, are you working with that fucking bitch to try to get
information out of me?”
“Who, Dr. Weaver? You’re fucking crazy. Of course not.” He tries to
snatch it away again, and this time I let him.
Realization dawns on me, my blood running cold, a red-hot anger
gripping every fiber of my being. How the fuck could I have missed this?
“It’s Sebastian, isn’t it? He sent you here to spy on me and get me to admit
something so he can keep me here longer and kick me out of the band.”
He shakes his head rapidly, eyes narrowing. “Do you fucking hear
yourself, Caspian?”
“How could I have not seen this sooner? You’re a fucking plant.” I huff
out a laugh through my nose, shoving past him, into the bathroom to grab
my shit. “Fuck you, Rowan.”
“Caspian, stop!” He is right on my heels, tugging on my arm. “Will you
fucking stop and listen to me?”
Shoving his sweats down, I kick them off to the side before grabbing the
clothes I wore yesterday. When he seems to realize I’m not stopping and
I’m not listening, he lets his towel fall to the ground, and he pulls on the
sweats I just discarded, following me as I storm out of the bathroom.
I can’t fucking believe this.
Blowing past him, I rip the door open and make my way down the hall.
I don’t even have shoes on, but I refuse to go into my room and be next
door to him right now. I need air. Space. I need to fucking clear my head
before I do something I’ll regret. I can hear Rowan following after me, and
know if I take the elevator, he’ll just hop in and trap me.
Making a beeline for the stairs, I pull the door open and jog down them
as fast as I can, knowing he’s still following me. “Leave me the fuck alone,
Rowan.”
“Not until you fucking talk to me. You’re being ridiculous.”
I laugh. “I’m being ridiculous? You’re the fucking spy.”
He groans. “Do you even hear yourself, Caspian? A spy? What is this, a
James Bond movie? I’m not a spy.”
“You’re something,” I spit out, not bothering to look back at him as my
feet hit the bottom floor. “Why else would you write out detailed pages of
every time we hung out together? You wrote everything, Rowan.
Everything.”
This is what I fucking get for opening up, for trying to trust, even a little
bit. How fucking stupid could I have been? Thinking Rowan actually saw
me, understood me. It’s a lie. It’s all a fucking lie. He was clearly out for
something. This is why I don’t fucking let people in.
The sun feels like it’s mocking me as the warmth hits my skin as soon
as I’m outside of the resident building. He doesn’t say anything else for a
moment, as we both walk along the path toward the main building. I need to
get away from him. My blood pressure is soaring, and I know if he doesn’t
leave me the fuck alone, I’ll do something I shouldn’t.
“Caspian,” he calls out after me. “Will you please fucking stop and talk
to me for five minutes?”
“Rowan, I’m warning you, leave me the fuck alone if you know what’s
good for you.”
A hand wraps around my bicep, pulling me to a stop, and I see red.
Whipping around and coming face to face with Rowan, my arm snaps back,
fist colliding with his jaw before I even have a chance to think it through.
The blow knocks him on his ass as he cups his face, staring up at me with
wild eyes.
“Dammit!” I shout, shaking out the hand that’s now radiating with pain
from colliding with his fucking face that’s apparently made of granite. “I
fucking said leave me alone, and you couldn’t fucking listen, could you?
Always being a fucking pest and going where you’re not wanted. Fucking
pathetic.”
“Mr. Gray!” My name is hollered from behind me, and when I turn to
look who it is, my fucking blood boils over when I see the stupid fucking
director of the facilities standing there, arms crossed over his chest. “Come
with me, please.”
“Fuck off,” I snarl. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”
“Now,” he grits out. “Either you come with me willingly, or I call
security and have them forcefully escort you. It’s your call.”
Fucking hell.
As if on cue, two hefty ass security guards come up behind him, looking
ready as ever to tackle me, drug me, and drag me into his office. That will
absolutely fucking not be happening. Refusing to look back and see Rowan
watching me, I groan, running a shaky hand through my hair as I follow
after this fucking asshole.
This isn’t going to end well. I can feel it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Caspian
“I
t’s unfortunate, Mr. Gray, that we are meeting again under such
unfavorable circumstances.” The director, whose name I don’t even
fucking care to remember, is sitting across from me with his hands
clasped together on top of the wide cherry oak desk, a look of displeasure
on his face.
Two huge security guards are behind me, posted up on either side of the
door that’s since been closed. They don’t say anything, but their presence is
loud enough.
I know I should feel bad for hitting Rowan, and I know I should be
pleading my case and promising to be on my best behavior, but I simply
don’t fucking care. Not anymore.
Fuck this place.
Fuck Rowan.
Fuck my cunt of a manager, because I know he’s behind this somehow.
So, instead of begging and apologizing to the man in front of me,
instead of fighting for the chance to stay at this godforsaken place for
another few weeks, instead of trying to keep my life from crumbling and
shattering before my eyes, I say nothing. Not a damn thing. What’s the
point?
This is who I am to my core, isn’t it? This is how I’m bound to end up,
right? Just like my drug addicted father and my mentally ill mother. I’m
following in their footsteps like everyone always knew I would. Why fight
it? Why try to postpone the inevitable?
“Do you have anything to say for yourself?” he asks, bushy brows
furrowed, lips pressed into a thin line. This probably isn’t how he wanted to
spend his morning.
Yeah, well, me either.
When it becomes clear I won’t be participating in this conversation, he
heaves a sigh, typing something on his computer before dragging his gaze
back to me. “I believe I made myself abundantly clear last time you sat in
this chair, that you would get no other chances. I’m afraid I’m going to have
to dismiss you from the program, Mr. Gray. My assistant is already in
contact with your emergency contact person—a Mr. Sebastian Monty—and
travel arrangements back to the States are already in the works.”
That’s just fucking great. Bet Sebastian is getting a big ol’ fucking kick
out of this. I can already hear the speech full of disappointment and the I
told you so’s.
“Unless you have any questions,” he goes on, setting a freshly printed
piece of paper in front of me. “I’ll just have you read through this document
and sign at the bottom, stating you understand you are being dismissed from
the program.”
Not bothering to read through it, I scrawl my signature, shoving the
document back across the desk.
“Very well. I will take your wristband now, and one of the guards will
escort you up to your room to pack your things. Once you’re finished, one
of the Black Diamond Liaisons will then drive you to the airport. I deeply
wish your stay could’ve ended more favorably, and I do wish you the best
with your future endeavors.”
Yeah, I bet you do, asshole.
Rowan
My heart is lodged clear in my throat, and I haven’t stopped pacing since I
got back to my room ten minutes ago. I’m about to wear a hole in the floor
with how panicked I am. Pain radiates along my jawline, into my cheek,
where Caspian punched me, and my eye sockets sting from trying to hold
back tears that desperately want to spill over.
Everything this morning happened so fast. One moment, I was watching
Cas sleep, feeling something scarily close to hopeful, and the next, I’m
knocked onto the ground with a solid fist to the face over something I still
don’t fully understand.
Mid-pace, something snags my attention, and as I glance over to the
dresser in the corner, the floodgates I was trying so hard to keep closed
burst open, moisture spilling over and falling hot down my cheeks, because
sitting there is the mug I gave to Caspian not even twenty-four hours ago.
How could shit change so drastically in such a short amount of time?
I have to talk to him. Get through to him and talk some sense into him.
He thinks I’m doing something shady, but I can explain to him that I’m not.
I can make him see the truth; I know it.
He’ll believe me. He has to.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, hands braced on my knees, my head
hangs between my shoulders as I try to steady my breathing.
Everything will be okay.
Faintly, I hear noise coming from the hallway. Jumping up, I grab my
wristband off the desk and rush over to the door, pulling it open. Two Men
in Black looking dudes stand in front of Caspian’s room, and when I step
into the hall, his door’s propped open. I can’t see him inside, but I can hear
shuffling around in there, so I’m sure he is.
Both men glance at me, faces unreadable.
“Um, who the fuck are you?” I ask the one to the left of the door.
He says nothing.
Okay.
“Caspian!”
The shuffling inside stops, and I wait to see him appear in my line of
sight. Except he never does.
“Cas, I know you’re in there.” Taking a step forward to go into the
room, I’m stopped with a hand on my chest by the mute Man in Black. “Get
your fucking hands off me,” I bite out, trying to shove past them.
It doesn’t work.
“You can’t go in there, sir,” the man to the right of the door says.
“Fuck off.” I huff, taking a step back like I’m going to retreat. As soon
as the quiet one’s hand is back at his side, I dart between them, ducking
before they have a chance to grab me.
Stepping into the room, they thankfully don’t follow me. A suitcase and
a duffle bag sit on the bed, open, as Caspian is grabbing shit out of his
dresser.
“What are you doing?” I ask, voice shaky, dread filling me up like
sludge.
“Go away, Rowan,” he replies quietly, not even looking at me.
“Where are you going?”
Silence.
I cross the room, rip the pile of clothes out of his hand, and toss them
onto the bed. “Answer me!”
“What in the fuck does it look like I’m doing, Rowan?” he shouts,
finally bringing his gaze up to look at me. His steel-gray eyes are hardened,
full of anger, and it’s a knife to the chest, having that look directed at me.
“I’m fucking leaving.”
Panic wraps around my being, dousing me in ice-cold realization. “You
can’t leave,” I say in a hurry, my voice getting higher. “We still have a
couple weeks left.”
Caspian’s shoving shit into his bags now with zero finesse, like he’s
trying to get done and away from me as quickly as possible. “Yes, I fucking
can.”
“Caspian, will you stop and just talk to me?” I wrap my hand around his
forearm, feeling more desperate by the minute. “We can talk this out. Let
me explain. You don’t need to leave. Finish the program, you’re so close.”
He shoves my hand away. “They fucking kicked me out, Rowan!” he
barks. “I have no fucking choice.”
One of the men from the hall steps into the room, getting in front of me.
“It’s time to go.”
“Fuck off. I’m not going anywhere!”
“Yes, you fucking are,” Caspian growls from behind the guy. “It’s done,
Row. Walk away.”
My gaze lifts to the man in front of me, his stern, emotionless face. He
tips his chin toward the door. “Let’s go.”
Thick emotion claws at my throat, a dull ache making itself known as
tears spring to my eyes. My vision blurs, and they spill over, falling hot
down my cheeks as my world feels like it’s slowly imploding, and I can do
nothing more than stand back and watch the destruction.
“Caspian…” His name comes out broken, drenched in despair.
He doesn’t respond. Not a single word of acknowledgement.
The suited man escorts me back to my room—not that it’s a very far
journey, but he makes sure I get inside before closing me in. As soon as the
door’s shut, I drop down onto my knees, with my face in my hands, and I
sob.
I don’t even know how long I sit there like that, crying until there’s
nothing left. Truthfully, I don’t know why it’s affecting me this much. In
hindsight, Caspian and I don’t know each other all that well, but it still feels
like a chunk of me has been ripped away. I somehow feel less whole than I
did yesterday.
He can’t leave.
He can’t fucking leave me here.
JOURNAL ENTRY NO. 3
To be fucking honest, I’m not even sure why I’m writing in this thing. I’m
currently thirty-something-thousand feet in the air, flying above the Pacific
Ocean on my way back to fucking reality. Technically speaking, I don’t even
need to use this fucking journal anymore. I won’t be forced to sit in a room
with Dr. Weaver and have her tell me all her best guesses on why I’m fucked
up the way I am. So, this isn’t a requirement.
So, why am I?
To pass the time, probably. I’m wide awake despite my body feeling
utterly and completely exhausted. I can’t sleep, and there’s still hours to go
on this flight.
I don’t know what waits for me when I land in LA, or what type of
trouble I’ll find myself in once I get home. I very well could no longer be a
member of Wicked Hearts. I could be jobless. My entire world could be
turned upside down.
But I can’t find it in me to care.
About anything.
I once read this quote, I don’t know who it’s by, that said:
“The songs all speak of the rage of Achilles.
But what about his love?
It was not his rage that brought Hector to his death.
But his love.
It was not his wounded pride that fueled his fire.
It was his broken heart.”
That quote has stuck with me for years, and I never understood it. Until
now.
I think I get it now.
My mind keeps replaying earlier, when Rowan was in my room, trying to
get me to talk to him. The last fucking time I’ll ever see him.
Part of me feels like I should’ve talked to him. Heard him out because
I’ll probably always regret not knowing what he wanted to say.
But the other part of me… the larger, enraged part of me, wants to
forget every single moment we spent together. It wants to erase all the
memories—all the times we hung out, everything we talked about, every
kiss, every touch. I want to forget I ever knew him, because his existence in
my life fucked me up even more.
I want to go home, and forget Rowan Davies touched me in more ways
than one. Living in solitude is safer and better than living with these
cracked and wide open wounds I’m left with because of him.
It was all a mistake. I should’ve known better. Nothing good ever comes
from opening yourself up, letting people in.
I should’ve fucking known, and you know what? Shame on me for that.
But it’ll never happen again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Caspian
“C
aspian Gray, where are you?”
I’m startled awake, the room blanketed in darkness as I try to
grip my bearings for a moment, remembering where I’m at. A
quick glance around the room clears up a little bit of the fog. I’m at my
house. In my own fucking bed for the first time in months.
By the time I landed back in L.A. last night—well, this morning—it was
already nearly sunrise. I didn’t catch a wink of fucking sleep on the plane,
and exhaustion had set in strong. A driver hired by my fucking manager
picked me up at the airport. I would’ve rather taken an Uber than accept any
help from that tool, but I didn’t have any of my cards on me, since they
were all taken prior to being sent to Black Diamond.
Thankfully, Sebastian wasn’t in the car when I was picked up.
But he’s here now, I think, as he shouts my name from the front of the
house once more. It’s like he expects me to run up to him like some sort of
fucking dog. Has he forgotten I’m not that obedient?
Glancing around my bed, I find my phone plugged in by my pillow. I
spent almost the entire flight back here going through and deleting all the
notifications I missed while being on the island with no fucking cell service
or internet. Unplugging it, the screen lights up, damn near blinding me.
Notifications are piled back up, several of them from Sebastian.
I roll my eyes, tossing the phone off to the side as I move onto my side,
pulling the covers up to my chin, and burying my face in the pillow. The
last thing I want to do right now is deal with whatever bullshit Seb has
waiting for me, but I don’t have much of a choice as he kicks open the door,
filling up the space with his tall, wide frame.
His hardened gaze falls to where I’m at on the bed. “I’ve been calling
your name.”
“I’m aware,” I reply, voice raspy from sleep.
“Get your ass out of bed.” He snaps his fingers, flicking on the light.
“We have a meeting to get to in twenty minutes.”
“A fucking meeting for what? I just got home.”
Like the asshole he is, he rips the blankets off the bed. Sebastian’s eyes
fall to my flaccid cock and balls, and he rolls his eyes, looking annoyed by
my nudity, as if he wasn’t the one who just ripped the covers off me in my
own goddamn house. “A meeting to discuss your future with this fucking
band.”
I scoff, rolling out of bed. There’s a pair of discarded sweats on the floor
that have been there for who knows how long—since before I went to Black
Diamond, that’s for sure. Tugging them on, I amble over to my closet,
plucking a t-shirt off the hanger. “I fucking did what you wanted, Sebastian.
I went to rehab. What the fuck is there to discuss?”
“Caspian, you got kicked out of the program for fighting. That wasn’t
part of the deal.”
Spinning on my heels, I shove my finger in his face. I don’t miss the
way he slightly flinches. “Fuck you,” I spit out. “I’ve done everything
you’ve asked of me, you asshole. If it weren’t for your little fucking spy, I
wouldn’t have been kicked out in the first fucking place!”
His brows pinch. “What the fuck are you talking about? I didn’t have a
spy.”
“Oh, fuck off. You don’t get to fuck with my life and take away the
band. I don’t fucking think so, and you know damn well none of the guys
would go for that.”
He smirks. It takes all my self-control to not deck him in his smug
fucking face. “I’m not the only one sick of your shit, Caspian.”
“Yeah, we’ll fucking see about that.” Shoving my feet into a pair of
sneakers, I blow past him, out the door. “Let’s go.”
“YOU’RE BEING a little fucking harsh, don’t you think, Seb?” Atticus, the
guitarist for Wicked Hearts, and my best friend, cocks his head at Sebastian,
twirling a green lighter between his fingers as we all sit around the table in
the building the label owns.
We’ve been here all of twenty minutes, and it’s already going exactly
how I expected it would. Sebastian is demanding the band replaces me for
the length of the international tour, and Cory, our bassist, and the biggest
kiss-ass I’ve ever met, is trying to side with him, stating I didn’t fulfill my
end of the deal, and I’m too much of a loose cannon. Atticus and Harlan,
our lead vocalist, are both very adamantly on my side.
“I’m not being harsh, Atticus. I’m being responsible. Something all of
you should work a little harder on.”
“You know damn well the fans want Caspian,” Harlan interjects,
removing the toothpick from his mouth. A red bandana tied around his head
hides most of his shoulder-length brown hair, and the white shirt he’s
wearing is ripped up and bedazzled. It matches the jeweled bell bottoms
he’s got on. Harlan’s style is… different. He stands out, but it’s something
the fans go fucking crazy over. “If we show up to any of those shows with
anybody on drums besides Caspian, you know we’ll fucking hear about it.”
Sebastian pinches the bridge of his nose, exhaling an exasperated sigh.
If he wasn’t such a fucking dick all the time, I might even feel sorry for
him. It can’t be easy managing five adults, making sure they’re always
staying in line, not getting into trouble. But I’m positive he could do it
without being such an asshole.
“Man, just give him a fucking break.” All eyes turn toward Quinn, our
keyboardist and back-up vocalist. Out of the bunch, he’s the biggest stoner
and the most chill, go-with-the-flow guy. He never causes trouble, never
acts like a diva, and he certainly never gets involved in drama with the other
band members and Seb. Ever. Not because he doesn’t care about us—
because I know he does—but because it’s just not his personality. So, I
know I’m not the only one gawking at him currently. He ignores it all,
though, eyes meeting Sebastian’s. “He did what you asked, Sebby. Yeah, he
got kicked out for fighting, but he had what? A few weeks at most left. Cut
him some fucking slack.”
“Yeah, Sebby, cut me some slack.”
Sebastian’s eyes narrow as they drag to meet mine. “This isn’t a fucking
joke, Caspian. A woman died. How do you think that looks on you? On all
of us?”
“I don’t think it’s a fucking joke,” I reply, trying my best to remain
calm, but he’s pissing me off. “Yeah, she died, but I didn’t shove the drugs
down her throat. She was a grown ass adult who chose to do them. Her
death wasn’t my fucking fault, and you know it!”
He shakes his head, hands planted on his hips. “And how do you think
it’ll look to the public that you had basically zero repercussions, Cas, huh?
You got kicked out of the treatment center that we publicly announced you
were going to. Then, the world gets to watch you go on tour after you were
kicked out.”
“So, don’t fucking tell them I was kicked out, Sebastian!” Raising to my
feet, the chair I was sitting in is kicked back, scraping along the floor.
“There are NDAs in place. Black Diamond can’t disclose I was kicked out,
so keep your fucking mouth shut, and we’ll be fine. Jesus Christ, do you
always have to be such a fucking asshole all the time? I’ve done what you
fucking asked me. I did the work, even when I didn’t have to or want to.”
I reach into my pocket, pulling out the leather-bound journal, slapping it
onto the table.
“What the hell is that?” Sebastian asks, the rest of the room silent.
“It’s proof that I did what you asked.” I pick up the journal, flipping
through the pages, not letting him read it, but at least showing him there’s
shit written inside.
His normally perfectly slicked-back hair is a mess from all the times
he’s raked his fingers through it since he’s picked me up earlier. “And what
about the drugs, Cas?”
“What about the drugs?” I ask through gritted teeth. “Yes, I enjoy them,
but what fucking rock star doesn’t? I don’t do them any more than anybody
else in this room, and you fucking know it. Besides, I’ve been in rehab for
the last however long, so clearly, I don’t need them that bad.” Grabbing the
journal, I shove it back into my pocket with a quick glance around the room
before making my way to the door. I don’t have the energy to deal with him
and this bullshit. I haven’t even thought about drugs once since I’ve been
back, but I don’t bother saying that, because I doubt it would make a
difference. “You know what? I’m exhausted from the flight. I’m going back
to bed, but you let me know once you’ve decided if I’m worthy enough to
go on your precious fucking tour, okay?”
Then I’m out. He doesn’t try to stop me, but I can feel his eyes burning
a hole into my back as I make my exit.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Caspian
I
t’s been twenty-four days.
I want to kick my own fucking ass for even knowing that
information. Why the fuck should I care that it’s been twenty-four days
since I last saw Rowan? Twenty-five days since I last kissed his full, pink
fucking lips.
I should hate him.
I do hate him.
I don’t, actually, but I fucking want to.
“Hey, man, we’re going out to that bar across the street for some drinks.
Want to come?”
Glancing to my left, I brush the hair out of my face as my gaze connects
with Quinn’s. We’ve all been preparing for the tour coming up. It’s taking
up most of our time. The non-stop is helping to keep my mind off shit I
shouldn’t be thinking about… like Rowan. It’s not working one hundred
percent, but it does an okay job.
“Nah, I’m kind of tired and want to get some shut-eye. Thanks for the
invite, though.”
Quinn looks at me like I’ve got three heads. I don’t blame him. Prior to
Black Diamond, I would go out every single night. Life of the party. Since
coming back, I’ve barely gone out at all. What’s the fucking point? Get into
shit I shouldn’t be doing and get myself kicked out of the band once and for
all? I’m good.
It’s more than that, but I refuse to admit it.
“Well, if you change your mind, you know where we are.” He pats me
on the back as he leaves.
The traffic back to my condo is horrendous. Wouldn’t expect anything
less for Los Angeles on a Friday evening. It takes me an absurd amount of
time to get there, and by the time I park, all I want to do is take a hot
shower and pass the fuck out.
I know good and fucking well the latter won’t happen. No matter how
tired I am, I always lie there for hours. Nothing I do helps. I’ve tried
smoking weed before bed, edibles, sleeping pills, working out. Nothing. My
mind never wants to shut the fuck up.
After I climb out of the shower, I dress in a pair of old sweats and a
Wicked Hearts tee, tossing my towel in the hamper before climbing into bed
with a bottle of water and my phone. Turning it on, it’s ridiculous how
many notifications I have. It’s a constant thing. I ignore all of them except
the ones from Atticus.
Atticus: Why didn’t you come out tonight?
Atticus: Are you sure everything’s okay? I know you say yes, but it
seems like ever since you got back from BD, you’ve been a bit more
sulky than usual.
Atticus: Okay, and yes, it is nice that you aren’t partying and
getting as fucked up as you were before BD, but still… worried about
you, man. I’m here if you need to talk.
A half-ass grin tugs on my lips as I breathe out a laugh through my
nose. Out of the whole band, Atticus is the papa bear. Harlan calls him
“Atti-daddy” constantly. It drives Atticus nuts, but it’s oddly fitting. I know
he’s worried about me. I wouldn’t be surprised if they all are, but he’s the
only one to voice it. Probably because we’re the closest out of all of us.
He means well. Before I went to Black Diamond, I feel like the
questions he sent me would’ve pissed me off. I don’t take well to people
meddling or trying to be there for me. I never have. More than once since
coming home, I’ve wondered if maybe that fucking place had more of an
impact on me than I realized, because as I re-read the texts, I don’t feel
anger or annoyance.
Me: Just wasn’t feeling it tonight. I’m fine, but thanks for checking
in, man.
My mind is racing a mile a minute, so I pull up my Spotify app, turning
on a playlist to help drown out the noise. It doesn’t fucking work, though,
because as Sleep Token’s The Love You Want plays, all it does is remind me
of the first time I met Rowan, when he sat down, uninvited, at my breakfast
table, shoving his way into my life without warning. This was the song
playing in my ears.
Rubbing my heel of my palm into the dull ache in my chest, I flip to the
next song, because reminiscing is the last fucking thing I need to be doing. I
hate how frequently he plagues my mind. It’s even worse when I sleep.
Every single morning, I wake up with the ghost of his touch fluttering over
my skin, a painstaking reminder of what I had. What I left.
What he fucked up.
My phone sits in my hands as I stare at it, trying to talk myself out of
doing what I’ve wanted to do for weeks now. Honestly, I’m shocked I’ve
held off this long. The urge is getting to be so strong, it’s almost a
compulsion at this point, because I know if I start it, I won’t be able to stop.
That’s how it is with all things Rowan. One taste, one touch, one look is
never enough. He’s worse than any drug I’ve ever consumed. It’ll never be
enough.
But it has to be.
Rolling my eyes at my own pathetic obsession, I grab the phone, unlock
it, and pull up Instagram. It takes no time at all to find his account; he has
hundreds of thousands of followers. Doesn’t surprise me. This is the first
time I’ve ever looked at his page. He has a very typical L.A. influencer feed
—music festivals, fashion shows, pictures with friends at the beach, at
parties, food aesthetic pictures.
I click on the most recent post. It’s from yesterday.
He’s home. That means we’re in the same city right now…
Truthfully, it’s not surprising he’s home. I don’t know exactly how
much time he had left, but I know it was only a couple of weeks at most.
It’s right there in the tip of my thumb to hit that loud message button. It
would be so easy to see how he’s doing. How he’s been. How home life’s
been treating him.
Would be so easy to migrate back to him.
But I can’t.
I won’t let myself. What he did was fucked up, and as much as I hate to
admit it, it hurt me. It’s not often I give people the opportunity to hurt me.
Not often I let people close enough to have that chance. But I let him, and
look what fucking happened. I should’ve known better.
Hell, I did know better. I knew letting him in would bite me in the ass,
but I did it anyway. There’s something in those mossy green eyes that hooks
you right in. His angelic features, his addicting scent, and the little noises he
makes when you touch him. He’s a goddamn siren.
Something dark and bitter spreads from the pit of my stomach, traveling
through my veins, weaving around every muscle and tendon as I open his
stories, watching each and every one. Watch the smile on his face as he dips
his toes in the ocean, hear his laughter as he flies down the highway, the
wind in his lack of hair that he seems to have cut and bleached since the last
time I saw him, and the feeling morphs into something vile and twisted,
leaving a sick taste on the back of my tongue as I start envisioning me there
with him, seeing his bright smile, hearing his laugh, feeling his presence
near me. Annoying butterflies flutter around in my gut without my
permission, but they’re quickly snuffed out when the story on my phone
flips over to a video of him dancing around a handful of people.
I don’t recognize any of them except for the Stephenson twins.
Fuck them.
Fuck social media.
And fuck Rowan Davies. As far as I’m concerned, he’s a fucking
nobody who never should’ve had the ability to hurt me. And from here on
out, he won’t anymore.
I’m fucking done.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Rowan
One Month Later
I
will never understand the people who stand up the second a plane lands.
Like that’ll get them off any sooner. The guy I’ve had the displeasure of
sitting next to for the last fifteen hours jumped up the moment the
seatbelt sign went off. He’s standing there, head ducked down, taking up
half the aisle, bag already in his hand as he taps his foot incessantly, waiting
to move.
The way he’s stomping on the ground reminds me of that iconic scene
from Legally Blonde, and I can’t help the snort that bubbles out of me at the
thought of this dude-bro guy in front of me saying, “Don’t stomp your little
last season Prada shoes at me, honey.” He throws an annoyed glare over his
shoulder at me, which only makes my sleep deprived self laugh harder.
As soon as I step foot off this plane and grab my luggage from baggage
claim, I am checking into the hotel and passing the fuck out. Pulling my
phone out of my hoodie, I power it on, finding my chat with the twins, and
shooting out a message.
Me: I just landed. The guy next to me is a major douche canoe.
Can’t wait to sleep.
I don’t even know what time it is back in L.A., but it doesn’t take but a
few moments before a response comes through.
Brielle: Such a long flight. What time is it there?
Brynn: What time is the show tonight?
Me: It’s just after eleven in the morning. What time is it there? I
don’t even know what the time difference is. And the show is at 8pm
tonight.
Deboarding finally starts, my douche of a seat neighbor hightailing off
the plane. Tucking my phone away, I stand and grab my backpack from
under the seat. Most of the passengers have gotten off by the time I leave
my seat, so it’s not too crowded. I’ve never been to Sydney, or any part of
Australia, for that matter. If everything goes the way I want it to, maybe I
can explore a little before heading home.
The airport is crowded and loud, but finding my way to baggage claim
is easy enough. The carousel hasn’t started turning yet, so I take out my
phone again, finding messages waiting from me.
Brynn: It’s a little after 6pm here. We’re a day behind you right
now, right?
Brynn: Also, how are you feeling about it? He doesn’t know you’re
coming?
Me: Negative. It’s fine. Whatever happens, it’ll be okay.
It’s been a few weeks now since I got home from Black Diamond.
Finishing out the rest of the program without Cas fucking sucked. I hate to
admit how attached I got to him. And with absolutely no way to contact him
while I was there, I basically went out of my mind. At one point, I sat in Dr.
Weaver’s office sobbing about all of it, and like the professional she very
much is, she listened and let me get it all out, and only kind of tried to
psychoanalyze me afterward.
When I got home, I realized I had no way of contacting him other than
social media. It’s not like we would’ve exchanged numbers while in rehab.
His stupid Instagram is set up to where he can’t receive messages from
people he isn’t following and, of course, we don’t follow each other.
Checking the rest of his band, I found they all had their pages set up in
similar fashion, which is fucking stupid. Getting random DMs from
strangers can be so entertaining sometimes.
So, with no means to contact him, much to my annoyance, I’ve resorted
to the only option I can think of… stalking him on tour like a fucking
groupie. All I want is to be able to explain myself. Make him see my side.
He clearly has this whole story in his head about what happened and what
he thinks I did. He believed it enough to punch me before he got himself
kicked out. I just need to talk to him, see where his head was at.
Alas, here I am, in a foreign country, ready to find him. Also, who the
fuck starts an international tour in Australia, of all places?
With my suitcase in hand, I make my way outside, where I have a driver
waiting for me. There’s no way I was going to rideshare in a foreign
country. I’m not looking to die today.
It’s still early, and way before check-in time at the hotel but, thankfully,
I’m able to pay a little extra and check in now. I consider showering before
passing out but, ultimately, my heavy eyes and exhausted body win. I
swear, I’m out before my head even hits the pillow.
THE STADIUM WICKED HEARTS is performing in tonight is fucking
massive. And jam packed. It’s a sold-out show. I had to pay, like, triple the
regular price to even get a ticket in a half-decent seat. None of the VIP
passes were available, and my whole plan is to get backstage and force
Caspian to talk to me, so without the pass, I don’t know how I’ll manage.
Maybe I can sweet talk one of the security guards or something.
The lights dim as they get set up on stage. The opening act was good.
Not anybody I’ve heard of before, but I wouldn’t mind listening to more of
them. This isn’t the first Wicked Hearts concert I’ve been to, but it is the
first show of theirs since I’ve been become ridiculously and annoyingly
infatuated with their drummer. It makes the show feel so different from the
previous ones.
My focus is solely on Caspian tonight. I’ve never played the drums, nor
will I ever pretend to know anything about the instrument, but the way he
holds himself while he plays exudes confidence and knowledge, and it’s
beyond sexy. He gets lost in the music and the routine in the song, arms
going wild as the sticks strike the drums. He never stops moving, never
misses a beat.
His dark hair hangs in his face, stringy and stuck to his skin from
perspiration, and he’s in an all-black tank top and black skinny jeans. I can’t
see his feet, but I’d be willing to guess he’s in a pair of all-black Converse
to match the rest of his outfit. Rings adorn almost every single long finger,
and tattoos cover almost every square inch of exposed flesh. They’re all
patchwork, all done at different times, I’m sure, yet they somehow match
perfectly among one another. He’s a rock ‘n’ roll work of art up there,
performing song after song.
It’s not often he looks into the crowd, his focus mainly inward, but
when he does, I swear, it’s like his gaze finds mine—which I know is
absurd. I’m in shitty seats up high, so there’s no way he can see me through
the flashing lights attacking the stage. But for now, I find solace in thinking
he can see me, or sense me, in the crowd, and when he looks up, it’s to find
me. I find comfort in pretending he finds comfort from my presence.
After the show is over and they’ve done their final encore, the lights
dim and it becomes a stampede, everyone trying to race for the exits.
Similar to deboarding a plane, I’ll never understand everyone’s rush to get
out as fast as possible. Something obnoxiously close to butterflies flutters in
my stomach as I make my way to the stage, hoping to schmooze my way
back, my throat dry and achy, tongue feeling too big for my mouth. Every
single ounce of nervousness I’ve tried to avoid and shove down as far as
possible since making the decision to come here has emerged, refusing to
be ignored.
I actually think I might get sick if they don’t calm the fuck down.
All of this, me flying down here, is simply in the hopes of getting him to
listen to me. The look on his face after he found the journal haunts me. The
anger, the hurt, the betrayal, it was all so harsh. So sharp. At first, when I
saw the journal in his hand, a flush of embarrassment passed through me.
The shit I wrote about him, about us, probably sounded obsessive and
ridiculous. There’s no way he’d want to be with me after reading that.
But then it quickly became abundantly clear that he’d gotten the wrong
idea. That I somehow did him wrong. It happened so fast.
Standing in front of what looks like the only way backstage is a man
who is abnormally tall. He’s bald and wearing black shades, despite us
being inside and it not even being bright in here, and he’s got his massive,
tree-trunk arms folded over his chest, the word “SECURITY” scrawled
across the front of his black shirt in large, bold letters.
“Hey, man,” I murmur with a smile and a wave. “Great show, am I
right?”
Deadpan face, zero expression. Alright. “Exit’s the other way,” he
states, his voice deep like thunder.
A nervous laugh comes out of me. “Actually, not trying to leave. I’m
trying to get back there to see my friend, Caspian. You know, the drummer.”
“I’m well aware of who Caspian is.”
“Right, of course.” This isn’t going as well as I’d hoped. “Well, I’ll just
push by you and be out of your way.”
Inching forward one single step, his wide hand comes to my chest,
stopping me in my tracks. I have to crank my neck back in order to meet his
gaze. “I don’t think so, kid. Exit’s the other way,” he repeats.
“Oh, come on.” One single thick brow arches above the black shades at
the whine in my tone. “Please? I swear I really do know Cas. Ask him!
Well, maybe don’t, because I don’t know if he will want to see me, but—
Shit! Let’s pretend you didn’t hear that last part, okay? What I meant to say
was, of course, he’ll be happy to see me, but it’s a surprise. Can you help
me out? Please!”
With a terse shake of his head, he points behind me. “Get the hell out of
here before I escort you out myself.”
Rolling my eyes and heaving a loud sigh, I mutter, “Thanks for fucking
nothing,” before doing a walk of shame out of the stadium.
What a fucking fail.
I pull my phone out of my pocket as the evening air brushes over my
face. It’s a warm night, but not too warm. It feels nice. Finding the twins’
numbers, I hit the video call button. It doesn’t take long for both of them to
answer.
“Shit, did I wake you guys up?”
Both of them are in bed, hair all over the place.
Brynn croaks out a raspy,” Yup,” and Brielle says, “No. I’ve been lying
here for the last hour, awake.”
“What time is it there?”
“Eight,” Brynn groans.
“Damn. It’s ten at night here. This time difference is wild.”
If I learned one thing from Dr. Weaver, it’s that I need to be better about
letting people in. Especially those who love me. She made me realize just
how much I kept Brielle and Brynn at an arm’s length. I always knew I
closed myself off, even to them, but it wasn’t until those therapy sessions
that I realized just how much.
They’re my best friends and have been my entire life. I promised myself
before coming home, I’d make more of an effort to let them in. Which is
why I told them all about Caspian and my plan to get him to talk to me, and
I’m glad I did. They’ve been nothing but supportive.
Another big thing I promised myself was that I would stop trying to beg
for my parents’ affection. Because even though I didn’t realize I was doing
it, I was. In the form of partying and drugs and being rowdy. I was acting
out with the subconscious hope of getting their attention and care. Their
love. Well, fuck that. I’ve seen them once since coming home. My father
had the audacity to look shocked that I actually finished the program, but
didn’t even congratulate me or anything.
Fuck them. I’ll get my act together and succeed without them.
“How did it go?” The question comes from Brielle, pulling me from my
stray thoughts.
Leaning my back against the hard wall, I slide down into a sitting
position, my knees bent, arms rested on them. “Ugh, horribly. The stupid
fucking security guard wouldn’t even let me step foot backstage.”
“Why didn’t you just buy the VIP tickets?”
My eyes roll so hard, I’m surprised they don’t get stuck. “Don’t you
fucking think I thought of that already? They’re sold out.”
“Wow, someone’s in a bad mood now,” Brielle murmurs as she props
her phone on the kitchen counter before reaching into the cupboard in front
of her and pulling out a coffee mug. “What about their Instagram or Twitter
pages? Surely, you can figure out what their after-show plans are that way.”
“That’s… a really good idea, Bri.”
She laughs softly. “Like I don’t always have good ideas.”
A text message comes through our group chat, at the same time Brynn
says, “Found them. Sent you their location. They’re at some dive bar about
twenty minutes away. You’re welcome.”
I gawk at her for a moment. “How the hell did you find that so fast?”
With a sugary-sweet grin, she says, “A woman never tells her secrets.
Go get your man, Row. I’m going back to bed.”
She drops from the call without another word, causing me and Bri to
bust out laughing. “Alright, guess I’ll go try to find him, and let you know
how it goes.”
“Good luck, Row,” Brielle says sincerely, before we end the call.
Calling my driver, Reggie, to find where he’s at, he meets me in front of
the stadium, which is now basically empty. I give him the address to the bar,
and sit anxiously in the backseat, nerves swimming rampantly.
This has to go well. It just fucking has to.
The last thing I want is to fly across the fucking world—quite literally
—only for him to turn me down. How fucking embarrassing would that be.
Reggie drops me off in front of the entrance to the building. No shocker, it’s
fucking packed. I have to wait in line for close to a half an hour and pay an
absurd entry fee, but alas, I’m in.
The scent of liquor and body sweat fills the small space, bodies lining
almost every inch of this place. I have to squeeze and push my way through
the crowd to get to the center of the room, where I can finally see the band.
Well, the band, minus one member.
Climbing onto the chair beside me, I scan the room—twice—not seeing
Cas anywhere.
What the fuck? What if he left with someone? A brick drops in my gut,
a wave of nausea washing over me at that thought. It’s a very real
possibility—one I’m not sure why I didn’t consider when I made this dumb
fucking plan to come here unannounced like a stalker.
This was a horrible fucking idea. I should go back to my fucking hotel
and book a flight back—
“Looking for someone?”
The voice startles me so much, I nearly fall off the chair I’m standing
on. A firm hand wraps around my forearm, steadying me as I climb down,
feeling much safer on the ground than up there. My gaze slides up to the
body standing in front of me, a few inches taller than me, black, curly,
unruly hair and piercing blue eyes. Atticus St. Browne, guitarist for Wicked
Hearts and Caspian’s best friend.
“Oh, uh, hi,” I fumble, running my sweaty palms down the front of my
thighs.
He grins, the deep grooves of his dimples popping as he drags his lip
between his teeth, probably to avoid laughing at me. “You’re Rowan
Davies, right?” He holds out his hand for me to shake.
How does he know who I am? Oh my gosh, did Caspian tell him about
me? That has to mean something, right?
“Uh, yeah.” I slip my hand into his, feeling a twinge of embarrassment
at how moist my palm is. It’s fucking hot in here. “How do you know that?”
Atticus cocks his head slightly, his eyebrows raised. “You’re all over
social media. Who doesn’t know you?”
“Oh…” Duh. That’s much more logical than Caspian telling anybody
about me.
“It’s fucking packed in here tonight.” Stepping closer, he murmurs in
my ear, “Can I get you a drink?”
Atticus pulls back with a sultry grin on his face, his eyes a little
bloodshot. He’s flirting with me. My cheeks heat as I glance around the
room again, still not finding Caspian. Returning my attention to Atticus, I
clear my throat. “Actually, uh, I’m looking for Caspian. Do you know
where he’s at?”
“Caspian?” He says his best friend’s name like he’s flabbergasted
anybody would be asking for him.
I nod.
A smile ghosts across his lips, the silver hoop glinting in the lights. He
tips his head to the left. “C’mon, let’s go outside and smoke.”
He doesn’t give me a chance to say anything in response as he
effortlessly weaves through the crowded space, people parting for him like
the red sea. Before we make it to the door, he stops in front of Harlan
Granger, the band’s lead vocalist, saying something in his ear. Harlan’s gaze
lands on mine as he listens to whatever Atticus is telling him—most likely
about me—before throwing me a cheeky grin.
Outside, he pulls out a pack of Marlboros from his pocket, grabbing one
and tucking it between his teeth before offering me one. We take a few
drags, neither of us saying anything for a few moments.
How fucking awkward.
Finally, blowing out a cloud of off-white smoke, his gaze lands on me.
“So, why you looking for Cas?”
“Uh, because I want to talk to him?” I don’t mean to phrase it as a
question, but his takes me off guard.
The gruff sound of his laughter meets my ears, a shiver going down my
spine. “No shit. Why, though?”
“Is he here?”
Atticus takes another long drag from the cigarette, watching me as he
does, his eyes squinting from the smoke trailing up. After what seems like a
fucking eternity, he shakes his head. “Nah, he ain’t here.”
My heart sinks.
“Did he leave with someone?” The question leaves my lips in a hurry
before I’m able to even try to stop it.
His eyes widen a fraction, the smile growing a little brighter. “How do
you know Cas?” he asks, completely ignoring my question, only making me
more anxious.
Thinking for a moment on how to answer that without giving away too
much of Caspian’s personal information, I settle on, “We were at Black
Diamond together.”
Atticus watches me while he takes another drag, really keeping me on
the edge. What I wouldn’t give to know what was rolling through his mind
right now. My fist clenches at my side as my heart races in my chest, blood
roaring loudly in my ears. The silence and the staring are unnerving.
“He’s not here,” he finally says.
I roll my eyes. “Yeah, you already said that, buddy.”
He chuckles. “You’re feisty.”
“So, I’ve been told already tonight,” I grumble, dropping the nearly
dead cigarette on the ground and putting it out with the sole of my shoe.
“He didn’t leave with anybody,” he mutters. “He never came.”
That surprises me. “Why not?”
Atticus shrugs. “Beats me. He’s been in a weird mood since coming
home from Black Diamond.”
There’s so much more I want to ask right now, but I have a feeling I’m
pushing my luck as it is, so I don’t. Instead, I ask, “Can you give him my
number, please? Have him text or call me?”
Again with the unnerving stare. Finally, he nods. “I can do that.”
Letting out the breath I’d been holding, I smile. “Sweet, give me your
phone and I’ll plug it in.”
After returning his phone to him, I pull my own out and call an Uber.
Something vaguely similar to hope blooms in my chest. It’s probably stupid
and futile, the chances of him actually reaching out to me slim to none, but
at least when it’s all said and done, I can say I tried.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Caspian
T
he sound of knuckles rapping on the door to my hotel room has me
rolling out of bed much earlier than I would have liked. After the
killer show we put on last night, I could probably sleep for a week
and still feel exhausted. This always happens the first few shows of a tour. I
don’t think being away at Black Diamond helped me any, though. I didn’t
have my drums and wasn’t able to practice every day like I would have had
I been home.
It takes a lot of upper body strength to put on a show—way more than I
think most people realize. But fuck, if it isn’t exhilarating as hell being up
on that stage, a stadium full of people chanting our names, the bright lights
beating down on us, sweat pouring, heart racing, the adrenaline that only
comes from a performance like that. There ain’t nothing like it. I’m fucking
thankful I was able to come on this tour. After Sebastian decided to quit
being such a bitch about the whole situation.
He and I have barely spoken since he let the band know his final
decision about the tour, and I prefer to keep it that way. He does nothing but
get under my skin, and not in the good way.
Dragging a hand through my sleep-tousled hair, I pull the heavy door
open, coming face to face with Atticus.
“Why the fuck are you up so early?” I grumble, turning and walking
farther into the room, leaving him to follow me. Switching on the
coffeemaker, I put in a K-cup before heading back to the room to put a shirt
on. This room is fucking chilly.
Atticus doesn’t bother following me. Instead, having a seat on the white
leather sofa in the living room area. “Why didn’t you come out with us last
night?” he asks once I’m out of the room and dressed.
Here we go.
“Just didn’t feel like it, man. It’s not a big deal.”
Oh, but it is a big deal. To the whole damn band. It doesn’t make any
fucking sense. First, before I was forced onto rehab island, I partied too
much. I was too wild. Out of control. Then, I come home, have no interest
in going out and living like I used to and, suddenly, it’s a fucking concern?
Make it make sense.
“It was fun,” he murmurs as he rolls a joint for us over the coffee table.
“You missed out.”
“I’m sure I didn’t,” I drawl.
Pulling out his lighter and sparking up the bud, he takes a couple of
puffs, glancing at me with a glint in his eyes. There’s something he wants to
say, I can fucking feel it.
“Just fucking say it, Atticus.” I roll my eyes as he passes me the joint.
Placing it between my lips, the sweet, earthy smoke fills my mouth, then
my lungs. It relaxes me.
He shrugs innocently, a devilish grin taking over his features. “You were
missed last night, that’s all.”
“Well, I’m here now. No need to miss me.” He’s being fucking weird.
Even for him.
Atticus chuckles, the sound deep and raspy. He’s got a real smoky type
of voice that the fans go feral for. He isn’t even a vocalist but, man, they
fawn over him when he speaks.
“Not me, you dipshit.” He takes another hit before passing over the
weed. Raising from the couch, he strolls over to the mini fridge, grabbing
out a water bottle like he owns the fucking place. Bringing the plastic bottle
up to his mouth, he pauses before taking a swig to say vaguely, “Somebody
was asking about you.”
I sit back, my legs kicked wide, arm across the back of the couch.
“Okay… who? Why are you being so fucking weird?”
Atticus waves me off, taking a seat beside me on the couch. “Met this
cute guy last night.” Apparently, we’re moving on from whoever asked
about me.
“Good for you?”
“Seems to be a fan,” he goes on like he’s talking to no one in particular.
“He’s got a fucking perfect set of DSLs. Bet he’d look real nice with a cock
shoved between them.” Why the hell do I need to know this?
“Okay… so did you fuck him?”
It wouldn’t be unheard of for Atticus to fuck a fan; he’s done it before.
He’s usually one of the more tame ones in the band, though. Unlike Harlan,
who seems to find a new piece of ass in every city we wind up in. That boy
well and truly takes full advantage of his rock star status.
“Nah,” Atticus responds, pulling me back to the conversation. “I tried,
but he was looking for you.”
“Aww, Atti, you don’t gotta be jealous that they want me instead.”
Reaching over, I squeeze his cheeks between my fingers, making his lips
pucker. Laughter bubbles out of him as he rolls his eyes.
Shoving my hand away, he says, “He wanted me to give you his
number.”
“Oh yeah?” I lift a brow.
He pulls out his phone, and five seconds later, mine dings with a new
message. Of course, it’s the phone number. It’s a Los Angeles area code…
that’s interesting. I don’t bother saving it in my contacts.
The aroma of vanilla and coffee beans hits my nose, reminding me that I
started the Keurig before smoking that joint. I jolt up, crossing the room
until I reach the counter. Thankfully, it’s still pretty warm.
“Do you want some coffee?” I ask Atticus over my shoulder.
“I’m good. I had some before coming over here.”
“Why are you even up so early? How late did you stay out?”
“I don’t know. Two or three, probably.”
It’s not even ten in the morning yet.
“Don’t you want to know the name of the hottie who gave you his
number last night?” Atticus asks, tone dripping with amusement.
Rolling my eyes, I say, “I guess. Don’t know why it matters so much.”
He fucking giggles before blurting out, “His name’s Rowan.”
My face falls, stomach bottoming out as my heart decides to fucking
gallop like it’s a racehorse. I can’t breathe. Everything clicks. The Los
Angeles area code, asking for me, the fucking lips. How did I not see this
coming?
Why is Rowan in Sydney? Why would he be here? There’s no fucking
way he’s here specifically for me. Surely, this is one giant coincidence.
We haven’t spoken a single word to each other since I was kicked out of
the program. Sure, I kind of figured I’d hear from him once he got home—
he has a chatty motherfucker, who doesn’t know how to take a hint, after all
—but it never happened.
Which was for the best, my brain so desperately tries to remind myself. I
convinced myself when I left the island, I hated him. That he was nothing to
me. And I’ve tried to cling onto that notion, but as more time passes, and as
I don’t hear from him, that feeling lessens, and I’m starting to believe it
more and more. Do I hate him? What if I got it all wrong?
“I fucking knew it!” Atticus shouts, startling me.
“Knew what?” I ask, trying to hide the defensiveness from my tone. I
fail, miserably.
“Your fucking face said it all, Cas. You do know him, don’t you? He
was at Black Diamond?”
I have to remind myself to breathe. My head is light, and I feel dizzy.
There’s a reason I haven’t told Atticus anything about Rowan or Black
Diamond yet. Like Rowan, Atticus is nosy as fuck, but he also has this
uncanny ability to read people. Like scarily well.
Squaring my shoulders, I reply with, “Yes, he was, but so fucking what?
Doesn’t mean shit.”
The room feels like it’s closing in on me, and if I don’t get up and move
right now, I’ll just continue to spiral. Raising off the couch, I cross the
room, unlocking the sliding glass door that takes me to the balcony. It’s a
chilly morning, but the air hitting my skin has the same effect as splashing
my face with cold water. It clears the fog, even if only marginally. Pulling
out my pack of smokes, I light one up, taking a long, simmering drag,
trying to steady myself, both physically and mentally.
“If it doesn’t mean shit, then why do you look like you’re about to have
a panic attack?” Atticus asks from behind me. I didn’t even realize he
followed me out here.
I don’t respond.
Rowan is here. In Sydney.
Why?
Why is he here?
With a hand planted on my shoulder, Atticus spins me, so we’re face to
face. “Is he why you’ve acted strange since coming home?”
“I haven’t been—”
“Cut the crap, Caspian,” he interjects, annoyance creeping into his tone.
“Since when do we lie to each other? I don’t know what’s going on with
you—how can I, when you won’t talk to me—but I think it’s about
goddamn time you tell me.”
He’s right. I may not open up to many people, but Atticus has always
been my closest friend, and we’ve always confided in one another. Since
Black Diamond and Rowan, I’ve shut down, because the shit I was feeling
there wasn’t like me. It confused me, and I didn’t know how to handle it.
So, instead of dealing with those feelings, I buried my head in the sand.
“Who is he?” Atticus asks, softer this time. “And why is he such a big
secret?”
My eyes find his—big, bright blue, and questioning—and my throat
tightens like an invisible hand is squeezing, cutting off my oxygen. Pressure
builds behind my eyes, palms coated in sweat. Why the fuck is this so hard?
Blowing out a shaky breath, I take a seat on the chair behind me,
gesturing for Atticus to do the same. “You got anymore weed?” I ask with a
dry chuckle. “Because if we’re getting into this now, I need a little
relaxant.”
He nods, reaching into his pocket, and pulls out the tiny Altoids tin that
he keeps his bud in. Making quick of work of rolling a joint, he lights up,
right as I finish my cigarette, and we pass it back and forth while I tell him
all there is to know about Rowan and what happened during my time at
Black Diamond, ending with the journal I found and why I got kicked out.
By the time I finish, I feel cut open, like my chest has a huge gash,
everything inside on display. It’s vulnerable. I hate it.
Atticus doesn’t say anything for a moment. He lights a cigarette, taking
a drag, and simmering with everything I just told him. His thumb flicks the
metal ring through his bottom lip absentmindedly. Something he does when
he’s deep in thought.
Finally, his gaze shifts, connecting with mine. “You had a journal too,
yes?”
I nod.
“Did you show the therapist what was written inside of your journal?”
“Fuck no,” I mutter. “That shit’s personal.”
“Okay, so is it possible that maybe Rowan didn’t show her either?”
He says this like I haven’t already considered this a hundred times over.
“But she had written out prompts for him—in her handwriting—and he
had detailed accounts of us hanging out, Atticus. There’s no way he didn’t
show her, man.”
Thinking for a moment, he says, “Even if he did share it with her—
which I don’t think he did—who’s to say he did it maliciously? I know that
you aren’t a talk-about-your-feelings type of guy, but what if he is? What if
talking through his experiences and his emotions helps him understand
them and understand himself?”
I fucking hate how much sense Atticus is making. Rowan is a talker. It’s
the one thing that annoyed me the most about him at first, and one of the
things I’ve found myself missing since leaving the island. It’s a confusing
as fuck juxtaposition.
Atti seems to know I won’t respond to that. He nods silently, reaching
over to squeeze my knee before he stands, stretching his arms over his head.
“Think about it, man. For what it’s worth, he really seemed pressed to find
you last night. Desperate,” he adds. “It may be worth it to, at the very least,
hear him out.”
When he leaves, the silence weighs down on me. My phone sits in my
pocket like a brick, heavy and obvious. It’s like the phone number I didn’t
save is calling to me, begging me to use it.
My mind, without permission, takes me back to Black Diamond before I
left. How torn up Rowan looked, the way he begged and pleaded with me to
just listen to him. Maybe Atticus is right, and I was wrong. In the same
breath, I also remember that fight with Sebastian when I got back. The
confusion on his face when I brought up Rowan, and his quick dismissal
that he had anything to do with it. At the time, I was so angry, I assumed he
was lying. But what if he wasn’t?
I scrub a hand down my face before raking my fingers through my
greasy hair, heaving a sigh as I grab the damn thing out of my pocket. It
unlocks, Atticus’s message already pulled up, the number sitting there,
taunting me. With a quick copy and paste, I start a new message, staring at
the blank space for a while.
Typing out a few different variations of a text message, I end up
deleting them all. Either sounding stupid, too much, or not enough, my
frustration grows, boiling over. This shouldn’t be so fucking hard.
Me: Atticus gave me this and told me you wanted to talk.
I read and re-read the message a dozen times, my finger hovering over
the send button. My mind at war with itself… to send or not to send?
Since fucking when did I become Shakespeare?
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Rowan
T
his time difference is fucking me up.
After coming home from the bar in my failed attempt at finding
Caspian, I was up most of the night, only to finally fall asleep around
sunrise. The bed in this hotel is one of the most comfortable beds I’ve ever
slept in. I’m lying under the fluffy down comforter, surrounded by pillows,
and I can tell the sun’s about to set based on the way it looks outside the
window I left open last night.
Wicked Hearts play the same stadium tonight before they leave for their
next stop on the tour—Japan, I think. I have tickets to this show too. And
the next. I should probably drag my ass out of bed, get some food in me,
take a hot shower, and get ready at some point soon. Groaning and turning
to rub my face into the pillow, I reach over, grabbing my phone from where
it’s charging on the nightstand.
It lights up, notifications piled up, waiting for me. One in particular
catches my eye and makes my throat plummet to my gut.
Unknown: Atticus gave me this and told me you wanted to talk.
Caspian.
Leaving that bar last night after talking with Atticus, I didn’t fully
believe he’d pass the number along. He seems like a genuinely nice guy, but
I’m sure they get crazy fans doing shit like this all the time. I probably
sounded like an obsessed groupie.
My breathing comes out fast and ragged as my heart works in overdrive.
With shaky fingers, I exit out of his message, pulling up my group chat with
the twins and hitting the FaceTime button.
Brynn answers, clearly in bed in the dark, but Bri doesn’t. “Row, what
the hell?” she grumbles, rubbing her fist into her eye socket. “It’s the
middle of the fucking night.”
Wincing, I say, “Oh, shit. Sorry. I forgot.”
“You always forget,” she deadpans. “What’s up?”
“He texted me.”
Her eyes widen. “Who? Caspian?”
I nod.
“So, you saw him last night, then?”
Shaking my head, I say, “He wasn’t at the bar when I got there, but the
guitarist was. They’re best friends, I think. Anyway, I gave him my number,
asked him to give it to Cas, and hoped for the best. I didn’t think he’d
actually give it to him.”
“Dang.” Brynn drags a hand down her face, yawning. “What did the
text say?”
“Just that Atticus gave him my number, per my request.”
“What did you say back?”
“Nothing yet. I called you straightaway.”
She laughs. “Well, respond, you dingbat.”
“B, I’m nervous.” The confession comes out as a whisper, and my face
heats. “What if he shuts me down? I don’t know if I can handle flying all
the way over here, only for him to reject me.”
Her features soften hearing that. “But what if he doesn’t? You can’t let
the what ifs stop you from trying.”
While we were still at Black Diamond, I knew my feelings for him were
growing, but it wasn’t until he left, and I was there all alone, with no way to
reach him, knowing he was furious with me and most likely hated me, that I
truly realized the full extent of my feelings. It feels silly to admit that,
because we were only there a couple of months, but he was someone I saw
almost every day for those months, and when he touched me and when he
let me, for those brief moments of time, see the real him, it made it easy to
get attached.
He made me feel seen.
When you grow up in the limelight with parents who are famous, and
who are never home, surrounded by important people your entire life, it’s
easy to feel invisible, or like you don’t matter as much as the next person.
It’s easy to get lost in the sea of faces and names and statuses. It’s easy to
have fake friends wanting to kiss your ass for a way in. Caspian didn’t kiss
my ass—well, I mean, he did, but in a very different way—and he was
never fake. Him wanting to be around me felt good because I knew it was
real.
Caspian made me feel not quite as invisible, and when that was taken
away, it was crushing.
“You need to respond to him, and at least try,” Brynn says, bringing me
back to our conversation. You’ll regret it if you don’t, especially since you
went all that way. You can’t let fear stop you, Rowan.”
I blow out a sigh that feels like it weighs a hundred pounds. “You’re
right,” I groan. “Sorry for waking you up.”
“It’s all good. Let us know how it goes, but maybe be more mindful of
the time,” she says with a laugh before we hang up.
Staring down at my phone like it holds all the answers, I groan, saying
out loud to myself, “Just fucking text him, you chickenshit. Since when do
you get nervous? You don’t, that’s right. So, fucking do it… right now.”
Me: Didn’t think he’d actually give it to you.
Me: You guys were fucking great last night.
Tension lines my shoulders and nerves swim through my veins
ferociously while I wait for what seems like an eternity before the bubble
pops up that lets me know he’s typing. I’m trying to picture what he’s doing
and where he’s at right this moment as he stares down at his phone—
probably with a bored as hell expression.
Maybe he’s already at the stadium. Eyes flitting to the clock, it’s only a
little past six in the evening, but I’d imagine the band has to be there well
before the show starts to practice and do sound check, and whatever the hell
else they do before the fans arrive and the show starts.
The phone vibrates in my hand, and I swear my heart stops for a beat.
Unknown: You were at the show, or you saw it online?
Me: I was there. Albeit in shitty ass seats, but I was there.
Unknown: What brings you to Sydney?
An idea pops into my head, a smile forming on my lips.
Me: Two truths and a lie?
The text bubble pops up and disappears a few times, and it makes me
laugh knowing that he’s probably scowling so hard right now.
Unknown: Fine.
Me: I flew coach the entire way here. I’ve thought about you every
single day since you left Black Diamond. I flew here for the sole
purpose of finding and talking to you.
Three minutes pass, no response. Fuck. Throwing the covers off my lap,
I jump off the bed, staring down at the phone while I pace in front of it,
praying for it to light up.
Come on, Caspian… come on. Give me a response. Give me something.
When another few minutes passes with nothing, I bite out a clipped
“fuck,” before deciding now would be a good time to take a leak and splash
some water on my face, if only to distract myself.
By the time I head back toward the bed, my body is practically vibrating
with nerves. Heaving a sigh, I grab the phone, my chest tightening as I see a
response waiting for me.
Yes!
Unknown: I was going to say you’d never fly coach, but then again,
you dress like you shop in the dumpster, so now I’m not so sure.
The laugh that comes from me is loud and unexpected. He isn’t wrong,
though. I wouldn’t fly coach.
Saving his number into my phone, I go to type out a response, but he
beats me to it.
Caspian: You coming to tonight’s show too?
Holy shit.
Me: As a matter of fact, I am.
The text bubble appears and disappears again, my stomach churning.
Caspian: I’ll leave a ticket with security if you want to come
backstage after the show.
Holy. Fucking. Shit. Holy shit. He wants me to come backstage. That
has to be a good sign, right?
Me: Yeah. That’d be cool.
Caspian: Sweet.
Me: Break a leg.
Me: Do people say that to musicians or is it only theatre?
Caspian: … Only theatre.
Me: Oh, fuck off. I’ll see you tonight.
Even typing those four words makes butterflies flutter all around my
insides.
I’ll see him tonight.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Rowan
F
uck, I really should be drunker for this. I don’t know why I thought
being sober was the way to handle tonight.
Terrible fucking idea.
My seats tonight aren’t as bad as they were last night, but still not
incredible by any means. I would love to be in the pit, as close to Cas as I
can get. Be able to watch as the sweat pours down his face as he plays, see
his facial expressions up close and personal as he beats the sticks down on
the drums.
Okay, I probably wouldn’t be able to see him that well from the pit, but
a guy can dream.
It’s hot as hell in here, and I’m burning up. The place is packed again
tonight, another sold-out show, and for good reason. The opening act just
finished their set, and they killed it. I looked them up last night when I
couldn’t sleep and added a bunch of their songs to my Spotify. They’re
good.
The whole crowd roars as Wicked Hearts takes the stage, the energy in
here unmatched. There is something so freeing and exhilarating about
concerts. The way the music flows through your veins, so loud you can feel
it in your bones. It’s the most alive I’ve ever felt, losing myself to the
music, to the beat, the lyrics that feed my soul—lyrics that say so much
more than I ever could. They give a voice to feelings that people don’t
know how to express.
Being surrounded by people who share a mutual love of the same thing,
seeing and feeling their bodies move to the beat, hearing and witnessing the
true, raw emotion in the words being sung. It’s indescribable hearing an
entire stadium singing along to the music.
There’s truly nothing like it.
But tonight, similar to last night, I can’t seem to focus on anything other
than the man behind the drums. I can’t take my eyes off him, watching him
get lost in the feeling. If the energy out here is all-consuming and
overwhelming in the best fucking way, I can’t even imagine how euphoric it
is for them on stage.
Halfway through the show, Cas rips his shirt off, tossing it to the side
before opening a bottle of water he pulled out of who the fuck knows where
and dumping it all over himself. The crowd goes feral at the sight of him
drenched in water. Shaking his head, his long, wet hair flies out of his face
as he gets started on the next song. It’s one of my favorites from them and
has a fucking incredible drum solo in the middle of it.
Like I’ve said before, I may not know shit about instruments or how to
play them, how they work, none of it, but I know for a fucking fact, Caspian
is beyond talented in what he does. Watching him play, watching him get
lost in the music, is insanely attractive. Something I could watch for hours
and never get bored.
They all are. The way they move with one another, the way they
complement each other. They perform like they were made to do it together.
They put on one hell of a show.
Before I know it, they’re saying their final goodbyes to the crowd,
exiting the stage through the back. Everything hits me all at once. The rush
of what I just experienced, the anticipation for what’s to come—it wraps
around my limbs, spreading and gripping me tightly. I force myself to take
steady, even breaths as I wring my hands out at my side. My skin tingles,
something like hope or trepidation blooming in my chest, warming me
almost uncomfortably. Sweat lines the back of my neck, dripping down into
my shirt, soaking it.
I wish I had some extra deodorant.
In the time it takes me to get from my upper one hundred level seat to
the area near the stage, where the security blocks the entrance, I’ve played
and re-played every single way this encounter could go. Every pleasant
way, and every single horrible, heartbreaking way it could play it.
By the time I stop before the giant man blocking my access to Cas, my
mind is a foggy, mushy mess, and my heart feels like it’s about to claw its
way out of my chest with how fast it’s racing. The man, of course, says
nothing. Watching me with a dull expression.
“Hey, I believe there’s a ticket waiting for me to go back there.” My
voice shakes, giving way to just how nervous I am. I’d really like to get that
under control before I come face to face with Caspian for the first time in
over a month.
“Name?” he asks, unfolding his massive arms and peering at the
clipboard I didn’t realize he was holding.
Clearing my throat, I say, “Rowan Davies.”
“Right wrist, please.” Doing as he says, I present him with my arm, and
he fastens a hot pink band around it. He steps to the side to let me through.
“Go through those doors, follow the hallway to the end. Through the door
on the left is where the band’s at.”
“Thanks,” I murmur, brushing past him.
It’s now or never, Rowan. Let’s do this.
The walls in this place must be pretty thick because I can’t hear a
fucking word coming from that room at the end of the hall, even as I near it.
My hand wraps around the surprisingly cool silver knob, twisting it, almost
expecting it to be locked, then pushing the wide, heavy door open. The
noise from inside finally reaches my ears, the room coming into view. It
reminds me of those party rooms you see in the very back of pizza places.
It’s an open concept with couches set around the room, a beer bong table,
and an air hockey machine. Photos line the vivid white walls, displaying the
various artists who have played here.
There aren’t too many people inside. Nothing like what I had in mind. I
figured it would be packed with horny, feral groupies begging for a morsel
of attention from anyone in the band, but it isn’t that at all. Sure, there are a
few people in here who don’t belong with them, but they seem more like
friends than fans. The beer pong table is lined with liquor bottles and solo
cups, and the earthy, slightly skunky scent of weed hangs in the air, the
room having a thin layer of smoke all around.
I spot Caspian before he sees me, and I take the moment to observe him.
Admire him. He’s sitting on one of the couches, across from Cory, the
band’s bassist. They’re talking about something I can’t hear from here, but
it must be funny because Cas throws his head back onto his shoulders, a
guttural type of laugh coming from him—a laugh I think most people don’t
get the privilege to hear. It’s a melodic sound, one that pebbles my skin and
swirls in my gut.
There are parts of Caspian hidden from the public. Parts of him that,
should you witness them, you’d feel lucky. That laugh is one of those parts.
He’s closed off, slightly jaded, and he tends to take life a little too seriously
sometimes, so watching him be free and light and almost child-like is
remarkable.
“You again,” someone says beside me, their lips close enough to the
shell of my ear, they faintly brush against it.
Turning my head, my gaze locks with Atticus’s. “Me again.”
He smiles, toothy and bright. “Glad you came,” he states, hands shoved
into the pockets of his tight skinny jeans.
My brows furrow at that. “You are?”
Nodding, he hums, “Mmhmm. And I don’t think I’m the only one.” He
tips his head to the left. I follow it, my eyes locking on Caspian, who’s
already watching me.
Glancing back at Atticus, he’s walking away, leaving me standing here
alone with no choice but to cross the room toward Cas.
It’s really now or never.
My limbs tremble as my feet carry me across the open space. We never
break eye contact, though out of my peripheral, I can see Cory getting up
and walking away. The closer I get, the quieter my mind gets, and everyone
vanishes. By the time I reach him, sitting where Cory was, it’s just him and
I.
He never put his shirt on after the show. He’s got it shoved into the
pocket of his jeans, the patchwork tattoos adorning his skin on full display. I
can smell him from where I’m sitting, an intoxicating mix of sweat, musk,
and something spicy. His steel-gray eyes flit all around me, cataloging
everything. It’s as unnerving as it is exciting.
“Hi.” His voice is horse, I’m guessing from the show. He doesn’t sing,
technically, but I’m sure he sings along and probably shouts while he’s
playing. The raspy, gravelly sound of that one word shoots through me,
landing in my groin. I try to ignore it. Try being the operative word.
Clearing my throat and swallowing around the enormous mound that’s
made itself a home in there, I blurt out, “Hey, you guys were great tonight.
You were great. You’re always great, though.”
I clamp my lips shut, biting the inside of my cheek, feeling my face
heat. Way to keep it cool, Rowan.
Caspian chuckles softly. “Thank you.” We stare at each other for a
moment with no words exchanged, the air seeming to grow thicker. The
blood roars in my ears. I feel high with his eyes on me.
“Wanna go outside and smoke?” he asks, breaking the bubble.
I nod. “Sure.”
The chilly night air does nothing to tamp down the inferno raging on
inside my body or my overheated skin. A cold sweat breaks out along my
neck as we sit down, our backs pressed against the building. It looks almost
like a loading dock out here, and I know if it were daylight, we would be
able to see the water.
Caspian reaches into his pocket, retrieving his pack of smokes and his
phone. He turns music on, Fugitives by Above Waves, the volume low
enough that we can still talk, but loud enough that we can clearly hear.
Once he sets the phone on the ground between us, he flicks the top lid open
on the Marlboro pack. He lights two, handing me one, and for a while, we
sit side by side and smoke, not saying anything, not even looking at each
other. Being near him is comforting in a way I don’t even know how to
describe.
The cigarette between my lips, I take a drag, the toxic smoke filling my
lungs, my skin buzzing. “Did you know Sydney has over a hundred
beaches?” I ask pretty much out of nowhere.
“You’re so fucking random.” He laughs, the sound lighting me up. I
glance over at him, our eyes meeting, the smile falling from his face as his
Adam’s apple rolls in his throat on a harsh swallow.
“I’ve missed you,” I breathe, returning my gaze straight ahead, not
willing to see him as he potentially rejects me.
“Have you?” he asks, not unkindly, but almost… hopeful.
I nod, my mouth suddenly too dry to speak.
He clears his throat, taking another drag from his nearly gone cigarette.
“So, how many shows did you buy tickets to?”
My heart spazzes out, ricocheting all around my chest. It’s erratic, and I
wish I could make it stop. Gnawing on the inside of my cheek, I consider
how fucking crazy I’m about to sound.
“All of them,” I reply plainly.
His gaze burns a whole in the side of my face. I can’t look at him. “No,
you didn’t.”
I huff out a laugh through my nose. “Yup. Yeah, I did.”
“Why?” It comes out as a whisper. A barely-there question.
Finally, I turn my head, meeting his gaze and holding it, a flood of
emotion rushing through me. He’s looking at me questioningly, but his gaze
is full of… something. Surprise, probably. “Because whether you like it or
not, you’ve become somewhat of a need for me, Caspian. The way you left
the island fucking crushed me, and I needed to talk to you and set things
straight. This was the only way I could figure out how to do that.”
“I don’t…” He shakes his head absentmindedly. “I don’t know what to
say to that. I agree we need to talk, but the fact that you bought tickets for
every single show…”
Before I can respond, the back door is flung open, startling us both.
Atticus peeks around the door, grinning at us. “Sorry to interrupt the fun,
but, Cas, we gotta go. They’re waiting for us.”
Glancing back at Caspian, he winces as he looks at me. “I’m so sorry.
We have this paid meet and greet at a bar across town. It’s a required thing
by the label. I’d invite you to come along, but it’s a sold-out thing, and
they’re pretty strict on headcount. But I’ll see you at the next show, right?”
“Oh, yeah. It’s okay. I’ll definitely be there.”
He nods. “Okay, I’ll text you, and we can meet up again. Uninterrupted
this time.”
Well, I guess this could’ve gone worse, But I still can’t help feeling
disappointed.
I pull out my phone, updating the twins before calling an Uber to bring
me back to my hotel. By the time I get to the room, disappointment weighs
heavy in my gut. I wish we got to say more to each other. Now he’s going
out to do God knows what with God knows who.
Fuck me.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Caspian
T
he room we’re in is dim and stuffy. The LED lights cast the space in a
red glow, but aside from that, it’s dark. Fans are all around, excited to
meet us, and normally I’d be all about this. But tonight, my mind is
across town where I left Rowan.
When I asked him to come backstage earlier today, it was on a whim,
and I completely forgot about this event. I would’ve loved more time with
him to talk. It’s like I’ve been so closed off on hearing any side of the story
since I was kicked out of the program, but Atticus’s words seem to have
gotten through to me, because now, all I want is to hear Rowan out. See if I
made a mistake, if maybe the situation wasn’t how it seemed to me.
Having him near me again, though, and hearing him admit that he
bought all those tickets because he needed me to hear him out… it was a
lot. I’ve built up this wall that I can now only describe as a defense
mechanism because I thought he was somehow working with Sebastian.
Because in my childhood trauma riddled brain, there was no possible way
that someone as good and pure as Rowan could actually want me for any
reason other than a gain of some sort.
Tomorrow morning, we fly to Japan. We have several shows there, and
while I know there will be time for Rowan and me to talk about everything
while we’re there, I don’t want to wait. I don’t want to fly to another
country, sit through radio interviews, more meet and greets, more shows,
without knowing what he wants to tell me.
I need to know now.
“You were great tonight,” someone says from beside me, pulling me
from my thoughts.
A woman with jet black hair down to her waist stands next to me, a
dazed grin on her face.
I return the smile as best as I can, but I know it doesn’t reach my eyes.
“Thank you.”
“I’m a big fan,” she says, her words coming out slurred. “I’ve seen you
guys every time you’ve come here.”
“Thanks for coming. Appreciate the support.”
She leans in, the scent of the vodka strong on her breath. “I live just
’round the block. Want to get out of here and party back at my place?”
“Appreciate the offer, darling, but I’m gonna have to pass. We got an
early flight in the morning.”
Glancing at the time on my phone, it’s been about two hours since we
arrived here. I don’t wait for her to reply, brushing past her, deciding to
have a smoke. I weave my way through the bodies littering the space, until I
reach the back door, thankful no one follows me.
After I light up, I shove my lighter and the pack of smokes back into my
pocket, grabbing my phone instead. I unlock the screen and pull up my
message thread to Rowan, typing out a quick message.
Me: You still up?
Staring down at my phone, fully expecting him to be passed out already,
my pulse races as the bubble pops up, letting me know he’s responding.
Rowan: Should I be star struck that the big ole famous rock star is
“you up” texting me at two in the morning? ;)
Me: As a matter of fact, you should.
Rowan: Figured you would’ve had your pick of the litter at the bar.
His insinuation is clear, and it’s valid, but what he doesn’t understand is
that I haven’t had eyes for a single other person since he walked up to my
breakfast table, stealing my blueberries and bugging the shit out of me.
Me: Probably could’ve, but I wasn’t interested in any of that.
Rowan: Why’s that?
Instead of responding to that, I send him a song that makes me think of
him every time I hear it—Talk by Hozier. Like me, Rowan speaks with
songs, and I love that about him. Music has been a huge part of my life for
as long as I can remember. I feel a deep, spiritual connection with music
and the way it makes me feel, so to find people who enjoy it just as much as
I do is a nice feeling.
Rowan: Love that song. Hozier is on a different level. He could
make grocery lists sound sensual.
I snort at that because he’s right.
He sends a song back with a winky face emoji and the melting face
emoji, which makes me smile as I click on the link. ORYL’s High filters
through the speakers on my phone, a chill racking down my spine. The
lyrics remind me of the last time we were together. The bath, his gentle
hands, the care overflowing from his eyes. Then after, the way we fucked.
The way he felt, the way we felt together. How my chest ached with the
strength of my feelings for him.
One song, and all of that comes rushing back.
Me: Meet up with me.
Rowan: Right now?
Me: Yes.
Rowan: Where?
Me: My hotel?
Rowan: Okay… send me the address and I’ll be there.
BY SOME MIRACLE, I’m able to get back to my room before he makes it
here. As quickly as humanly possible, I change into fresh clothes and throw
on some deodorant. I probably smell like a dirty sock after the show.
A soft knock sounds at the door, and my pulse races. My body is
thrumming with nerves. It’s a feeling I’m not used to. I still can’t pinpoint
what it is about Rowan that demolishes all of my resolve, all of my barriers.
He destroys them, and he doesn’t even realize it.
I pull open the door, trying to steel my shaky hands. Rowan stands there
in the hall in what looks like pajama pants and a faded Wicked Hearts band
tee. Something about seeing him in my merch makes my stomach flip.
Stepping aside, he walks in, his scent wafting all around. He smells a little
different from when we were at Black Diamond, but that could be because
he’s using his own body wash and shampoo now, instead of the facility
provided brand.
He smells warm and fresh, tropical, with a scent mixed in that is all his
own.
“Do you want a drink?” I ask, walking over to the bar area.
“Uh, sure. Thanks.”
He looks as nervous as I feel in the way he stands there stiffly, hands
shoved into the pockets of his fleece pajamas.
I nod toward the sliding door. “If you want, I can make the drinks while
you take a seat out on the balcony. We can talk out there.”
Rowan nods, wordlessly disappearing outside while I make us
something to drink. I go with a simple rum and Coke.
Once outside, I hand him his glass, taking a seat beside him. There’s a
breeze, making the air feel slightly chilly, but it’s not uncomfortable. I grab
my phone out of my pocket, turning on some music, setting it down on the
small table that separates the two chairs. Bringing my glass up to my lips, I
take a long sip, willing my body to fucking relax a little bit.
“How’re you feeling about the tour so far?” Rowan asks softly.
“Really fucking good.” I glance over at him, finding him already
watching me. A thing about Rowan is that he always makes me feel like he
hears what I have to say. I never feel like I have half his attention. “The
response from the fans has been amazing, and almost all of the shows are
sold out.”
“That’s awesome.” He smiles at me. I feel it everywhere. “I’m happy
for you. You deserve it.”
The song switches over to Eternally Yours by Motionless In White, the
air around us shifting. The electricity between us is palpable, the tension
thick. It’s enough to choke me. Every part of my body is screaming at me to
close the distance, take him the way I know he’s dying to be taken. But my
heart is telling me we need to talk about the elephant in the room before I
can allow myself to go there again. Because once I do, I’m not sure I’ll be
able to stop.
Clearing my throat, I say, “Tell me what happened at Black Diamond.”
Rowan rubs his lips together, swallowing hard. “I just don’t think it’s
what you thought it was, Cas.”
“So, tell me. I’m listening now.”
“Okay, so I kind of assumed everyone was doing the same thing I was
doing. Or, at least everyone who was seeing Dr. Weaver.” He grabs his glass
off the table, downing a couple of swallows before continuing. “My parents
—I’m sure you know them. Everyone knows them—they weren’t around a
lot growing up. I spent a lot of time by myself. My nanny practically raised
me. It was lonely, and as I got older, I started partying more. Being around
all those people was comforting. It was better than going home to an empty
house.”
Rowan’s body is rigid as he admits all of this to me. It’s clear it’s a hard
topic to talk about. I meet his mossy green gaze, and I offer what I hope is a
reassuring smile, urging him to continue. He does.
“But the people at the parties, they were never more than a surface level
type of acquaintance. Aside from Brielle and Brynn, my two closest friends,
I never allowed myself to have deeper connections. I didn’t even realize it
was something I did until Dr. Weaver pointed it out. She nailed it right on
the head, and I’m shocked I never noticed it before.”
Rowan downs the rest of drink, and I follow suit.
“In one of the first few sessions I had with Weaver, she gave me the
journal, tasking me with trying to allow myself to be more open with
people. She wanted me to try to find a deeper connection, or at least log
what kind of relationships I would find myself in. She never asked to look
at them, and I never shared with her any specifics or names, only vague
scenarios. Writing it down was mostly for me; a conscious effort at making
deeper connections.”
My blood pressure raises, and I grind my molars together. “So, you only
started talking to me as part of your social experiment with the therapist?”
The question comes out harsh, clipped, but I can’t help it. This is exactly
what I was fucking worried about.
“No!” Jumping out of his chair, he kneels in front of mine, reaching for
my hands. It happens so fast, I don’t have time to withdraw before he’s
holding them in his soft, warm palms. “That morning I sat down at your
table was before I even met with her. I met you the day after I arrived at the
island. I hadn’t had a chance to go to any therapy sessions by then. Cas,
everything we shared was real for me. My feelings for you are genuine, and
I fucking need you to see that.”
Breathing out a sigh through my nose, I run through everything we did
and said on the island. I want to believe him. I want to trust he’s being
genuine, but I feel like trust like that has never gotten me anywhere good.
“Getting to know you was the easiest part of my time at Black
Diamond,” he continues, squeezing my hand as if trying to convey how
much he means what he’s saying. “Spending time with you, getting to see
sides of you I know the world doesn’t get… it was the only thing that made
that stay bearable. You have to believe me, Caspian. My need to be around
you—to consume you—was a hundred percent genuine and real. You have
no idea how fucking painful and lonely it was when you left, especially
with how you left.”
I chew on the inside of my cheek as I take in what he’s saying, as I
really hear him. “I want to believe you, Row…”
“So, do it,” he says plainly. Like it’s that fucking easy. “Or at least try.
Please. Do you really think I’d fly across the fucking world, buy tickets to,
like, thirty fucking shows, if I wasn’t serious?”
Shrugging, I say, “I mean, you could.”
He rolls his eyes dramatically, and it makes me chuckle. “Be fucking for
real, Cas. No, I wouldn’t.”
Sitting up, I take one of my hands out of his grip, using it to cup the
back of his head at his nape. My thumb runs idly across his smooth cheek,
gaze searching his. For the truth in what he’s saying, and I finally see it, I
think. Rowan melts into the touch, and I melt into him. Having my hands
back on him, having him be this close to me again, it’s ethereal. It’s familiar
and comfortable and everything I’ve been missing.
I truthfully don’t know how he’s weaseled his way into me the way he
has. He’s somehow clawed his way beneath my skin, wrapped around every
fiber, every muscle, and managed to chip away at the walls I’ve spent my
entire life enforcing. As I look into his mossy green eyes that are looking at
me with such awe and such adoration, I can’t help but believe him. I can’t
help but want to wrap myself up in him, bury all of my concerns and
feelings inside of him, where I know they’re safe.
So, I do…
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Caspian
O
ur lips brush, a tidal wave of desire and need, and another emotion I
can’t quite name washes through me. Rowan’s breath hitches, his
body stiffening, but it doesn’t take long for him to relax and give
himself over to me. His lips part, letting my tongue slip into his mouth,
licking and tasting every crevice. The hands once holding mine slide up
until they wrap around my neck as Rowan climbs into my lap with fervor.
Breaking the kiss, he reaches over, grabbing my drink, tossing some
back. He uses two fingers to grip my chin, forcing my mouth open and my
head back. Rowan towers over me, a mischievous smirk tugging on his lips
as he spits the drink into my mouth. I swallow automatically, my eyes
gazing up at him with awe and arousal and something else entirely as he
sets the drink down, crashing his lips back onto mine.
Mouths moving together in perfect synchrony, my hands wrap around
his middle, slipping underneath his shirt, the pads of my fingers caressing
featherlight along his bare back before dipping beneath his pants, grabbing
two handfuls of his taut, round ass. He moans, a needy little sound I gladly
swallow down before slanting my head, allowing the kiss to grow deeper as
my body grows needier.
Rowan grinds his ass on my lap, the blood in my body quickly moving
south as my cock fills for him. His fingers reach up, threading through my
hair, pulling roughly, our mouths separating as my throat is exposed to him.
Searing hot lips create a path down to my neck as he kisses me all over,
sucking the flesh into his mouth, no doubt leaving marks. The idea of
performing with marks all across my neck from him turns me on more than
it should.
I shove his pants down over the swell of his ass, a single digit dragging
through the crease, circling his tight pucker, teasing him. A full body shiver
runs through his body, and I relish the way his hole tightens and wrinkles
under my touch.
I’ve fucking missed this so damn much.
Working his way back up, Rowan licks along my jaw, flicking his
tongue into my mouth, along the back of my teeth before sealing his lips to
mine, the fire behind this growing hotter by the second. I grab him by the
backs of his thighs, raising us from the chair as I carry him inside blindly,
never taking my mouth off his.
I’m somehow able to get us into the bedroom without knocking
anything over or seriously injuring us, tossing him onto the bed as I shuck
the rest of my clothes off. His hungry eyes devour me, his bottom lip tucked
tightly between his teeth, cheeks a brilliant shade of pink.
“Fuck, princess, do you have any fucking idea how beautiful you look
right now?”
He smirks. “You’re one to talk.”
Crawling on the bed over to him, my fingers go for the hem of his shirt,
yanking it off and tossing it to the side. I shove him back until he’s lying
flat, grabbing the waist of his pants, and removing those too. Sitting back
on my haunches, I take a moment to just admire his naked body. His long
limbs, lean torso, the deep, defined Adonis belt leading directly to dark,
neatly trimmed hair at the base of a thick, mouthwatering cock, balls that
are pink and full.
Slowly, I drag my gaze back up his body, landing on his pretty face. His
features are sharp and sleek, lips full and pouty, and his eyes are dilated,
endless pools of blackness laced with a need so strong, it's staggering. His
forehead glistens with sweat my tongue aches to lap up. Leaning down,
hovering over him, I press my lips to the soft flesh of his abdomen, his ab
muscles flexing at the contact. I make my way all across the surface, letting
my tongue dip into his naval before moving up to his chest.
Nipples pebbled and tight, my tongue teases them before sucking each
one into my mouth, eliciting the most erotic sound known to man—a sound
that goes straight to my balls, my slit leaking.
Rowan’s leg weaves between mine, and he uses the arch of his foot to
rub along the length of my cock. It’s something that shouldn’t turn me on,
but fuck, it really does. He continues rubbing while I work my way all over
his body; lips, teeth, and tongue tasting every inch I can reach, making up
for all the time I went without him flooding my every sense.
Moving back down his body, I bury my nose in his groin and inhale. His
scent is heady, my body tingling and thrumming with the need to devour
him already. My tongue slips out, lapping up along the base of his cock, the
whimpers coming out of him a strong shot of lust to the veins.
As if reading my mind, Rowan grabs the backs of his thighs, bringing
them to his chest, holding himself open for me as I slowly, but surely, slide
down to where I’m craving to be. I’ve been dying to touch him, taste him
since the last time I got to. Even when I was furious and thought I hated
him, I still had this underlying itch to consume him again. He’s addicting.
Peering up at him, our gaze connects as my tongue circles his rim. He
lets out the sexiest little moan, his thick, dark brows knitting together while
his heavy eyes fight to stay open. I use my hands on his cheeks to spread
him wider as I really get in there. My tongue laps all around his hole, up his
taint, getting him nice and filthy wet.
“Fuckkk…” The single word comes out of his mouth, long and guttural.
I’m torn between wanting to take my time tasting him, and wanting to
sink into him and destroy him, and each breathy sigh and sharp curse from
his lips makes me grow more impatient.
Circling my thumb around his spit-slick rim, I push inside while taking
one of his balls into my mouth. I swirl my tongue around, sucking eagerly
as more of my thumb disappears inside him. He’s panting, moaning,
writhing beneath me. I can’t get enough.
“More,” he cries out. “More… please.”
I sit up on my knees, leaning down to spit on his hole that’s pulsing with
the loss of my thumb, inserting my index finger, followed quickly by my
middle. Glancing up at him, I smirk. “What is that you’re needing,
princess?”
His eyes darken at the pet name, and trust me, I get it. I fucking love
calling him that as much as he loves hearing it. I don’t even know where it
originally came from. I’ve never called anybody that before, and while yes,
it started as something condescending, it always got my dick hard, even if
only a little bit at first.
My fingers graze that sweet button inside of him, his eyes rolling back,
jaw slack. “I need you to fuck me, Cas… ahh, fuck! Please!”
The smirk on my face grows as I remove my fingers, his bottom lip
poking out into a pout. “Well, since you asked so nicely,” I coo, draping his
body with mine, fusing our mouths together. My tongue slips inside, and he
sucks on it, his hand reaching between us to pump my cock in long, languid
strokes.
“Please,” he breathes into my mouth. “I need you, Cas.”
He needs me.
Resting my forehead against his, we breathe in the same air, the
connection between us electric. “I don’t have any lube,” I whisper
regretfully.
“Uh… I do.” If possible, his cheeks grow even pinker at that.
Pulling back, I grin down at him. “Rowan Davies, did you come here
with the intention of getting laid?”
A cheeky smirk tugs at his lips. “Shut up.” He shoves my chest
playfully.
“Go get it,” I instruct him.
He does as I say, but when he comes back, before climbing on the bed,
he freezes. For a moment, I think he’s having second thoughts. Rowan’s
wide, dark eyes meet mine, and he blurts out, “I haven’t been with anybody
else since you.”
A choked laugh escapes me, no words coming to mind.
“I just wanted you to know that in case you were worried about STIs or
anything. I know we didn’t use condoms on the island, but we were also
tested during intake.” He shrugs. “Just wanted you to know… there hasn’t
been anyone but you.”
I’m at a loss for words. Hearing that causes heat to spread in my chest,
my heart racing. Hearing he’s been with nobody else since me is a relief.
It’s something I didn’t even know I needed to hear until just now.
Without another word, he hands me the packet of lube before climbing
back onto the bed. He spreads his thighs wide, letting me slip in between.
Propping himself up onto his elbows, he watches me rip it open and pour
some onto my fingers before bringing them to his entrance.
Before I go any further, I glance up at him, meeting his lust-filled gaze.
“I haven’t either,” I admit quietly. “Been with anybody since you.”
Rowan seems to let out a breath he’d been holding, and I know with
absolute certainty, he needed to hear that as much as I did.
He doesn’t say anything back. He only nods.
With that out of the way, I coat him nice and slick before moving to
lather my length. His body trembles with need as I line myself up, wrapping
his legs around me and pulling me closer.
He's desperate for this, and I’m desperate for him.
My tip breaks through the tight muscle, his body welcoming me—
pulling me—inside. We let out a shared groan once I’m fully seated, the
velvet heat of his channel almost too much. I haven’t even thought about
sleeping with anybody else since him, and I’ve been so busy getting ready
for the tour, I’ve barely had any time to spend with myself in this
department, so to say I’m jonesing for this right now would be a massive
understatement.
“Shit, princess,” I groan, my head falling back onto my shoulders. “You
feel like fucking heaven wrapped around me.”
Rowan bites down on his bottom lip, fighting back a smile.
I pull out to the tip, sliding back in, nice and slow. His hole clenches, his
cock leaking a puddle onto his stomach. Leaning down, my tongue laps up
the mess, his salty, sweet flavor erupting on my taste buds.
It doesn’t take long for me to lose all sense of resolve, my thrusts
getting sharper, rougher as my pelvis grinds against his ass. I don’t hold
back, but neither does he. His fervid cries fill the room, his hands fisting the
sheets below us so tight, his knuckles blanch.
“Oh, fuck… oh, fuck! I’ve missed this,” he moans. “I’ve fucking missed
you.”
“I’ve missed you too,” I growl, the words surprising me as they come
out. Not because I don’t mean them, but because it’s not something I’d
usually admit to.
Wrapping a hand around his neglected dick, I pump him to the same
rhythm I’m fucking him with. He gasps, grappling at my wrist. “I’m going
to come if you don’t stop.”
“Good, I want you to. We have all night,” I tell him, feeling the tell-tale
sign of my own release start to creep up. “This is only round one, baby.”
As if that was his permission, his body tenses before his cock pulses
thick spurts of cum all over his stomach. He cries out, a long, low,
continuous moan that sets me off, balls tightening as I spill deep inside of
him.
Rowan doesn’t unwrap his legs from around my waist, so when I
collapse beside him, he rolls onto his side with me, my softening cock still
inside of him as he buries his face into my neck. The hot breath on my skin
gives me chills, sending goosebumps all over.
Everything about this moment feels right. It feels like I can finally
breathe.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Rowan
I
woke up alone this morning.
At first, I didn’t remember where I was. Thought I was just in my
hotel room, waking up like usual. But then, Caspian’s scent washed
over me as I buried my face in the pillows, everything about last night
flooding back in. I started to panic, thinking he left, maybe regretting what
happened between us.
Thankfully, he was just in the shower. He hadn’t left me. In fact, when
he strolled back into the room, water droplets glistening from his skin, and
saw me awake, he smiled before coming over and giving me a kiss. His
warm breath was minty and clean, whereas mine probably reeked of
morning breath. If it did, though, he didn’t seem to mind, even when his
tongue slipped into my mouth, softly licking against mine.
It made my morning wood harden up a little more, but when he noticed,
all he did was chuckle, telling me we didn’t have time for that this morning.
We finally tapped out after three rounds, passing out close to five in the
morning. It’s nine now, and my eyes burn from exhaustion, but he has to get
a move on. The band flies to their next stop today. I’m flying out too, but
my flight isn’t until much later. Part of me is wondering if continuing to
follow him on tour is foolish. What if, after last night, he doesn’t want me
to come with? I, of course, want to, but I’m nervous to see how he feels.
I roll out of bed and go take a shower while he gets dressed. The plane
ride from here to Tokyo is about ten hours, and I most definitely plan to
spend at least the majority of that time sleeping. By the time I get out and
dry off, Caspian’s sitting on the balcony, the French doors open, letting the
breeze inside. He’s smoking a cigarette, and there are two cups of coffee on
the table beside him.
He made me coffee. I don’t know why that makes my heart squeeze, but
it does.
With clammy palms and nerves coating my insides, I step outside,
sitting beside him. He wordlessly hands me his pack of smokes and a
lighter, raking his gaze over me without shame. Lighting it, I take a drag
before grabbing the coffee and taking a sip. It tastes like it has hazelnut in
it, maybe.
“Thank you,” I murmur, holding the mug up when he glances at me to
see what I mean. “It’s good.”
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t worried about him freaking out now that
the sun can shed light on everything that happened last night. It wouldn’t be
unlike him, but that wouldn’t make it hurt any less.
“I’m uh…” He clears his throat, clearly preparing himself for whatever
he’s going to say. It makes my stomach clench. “I’m not good at any of this
shit.”
“Not good at what shit?”
Caspian exhales, shaking his head. “I’m really glad you’re here,” he
admits softly. He won’t look at me and his jaw is clenched tight, body
language disagreeing with his statement.
I remain quiet while my insides scream and flutter at hearing that,
smoking the rest of the cigarette while he gathers himself.
“Look, I’m sorry I assumed the worst at Black Diamond, and I’m also
sorry for hitting you that day. You didn’t deserve that at all.”
“Cas, it’s okay,” I interject.
He holds up a hand to silence me. “Please, let me finish. You need to
hear this.”
Swallowing against the lump in my throat, I nod. Caspian isn’t the type
to open up easily, so I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t anxious as hell to hear
what he has to say.
“After my mom left and my dad died, I moved to the States to live with
my aunt.” Caspian rubs idly along his bottom lip with his thumb, seemingly
deep in thought over what he’s about to tell me. “She wasn’t exactly
parental material, but she was the only living family they could find. She
had a drug problem.” He laughs, a dry, humorless sound. “But even worse,
she had a man problem. The revolving door of men never stopped.
“Some of them were mean—some hit her, hit me, some just yelled… a
lot—but some weren’t so bad. They never lasted, though. My aunt would
wring ’em dry and get rid of them. By the time I was old enough to move
out of there, the damage was done. I had zero desire to get close to anybody.
What good would it do anyway?”
He finally looks at me, emotion twisting up his face. “The two people
who were never supposed to leave, did, and the one who was supposed to
protect me and take care of me after they left, failed me. I couldn’t hold a
friendship to save my life, not that I even wanted to, because my anger
would always get the best of me. Everybody left.”
My chest aches hearing those words come out of his mouth. Hearing the
truth behind them. Caspian was failed. Everybody who should’ve mattered,
and who should’ve been there, failed him.
“The guys in the band were the first and the closest I ever felt to a
family, but even with them, I’ve always kept at an arm’s length. Atticus,
I’ve let in slightly more, but still, never all the way.”
My heart is pounding in my chest, moving a mile a minute. “Why are
you telling me this?”
I can feel his anguish, can see how hard this is for him. Part of me wants
to tell him we don’t have to keep going, with whatever it is he wants to say,
but the other—selfish—part of me desperately needs to know.
“Because, Rowan, I don’t want to do that with you. I want to be better
and try harder because you deserve someone who does.”
His admission tightens my chest, making it hard to breathe. I don’t even
know what to say. Hell, I don’t want to say the wrong thing and shatter this
bubble we’re in. Pressure pricks the backs of my eyes, and I chew down on
the inside of my cheek, afraid if I don’t, something ridiculous like a sob is
going to come out.
Caspian drags his fingers through his hair, and I watch him inhale and
exhale heavily before continuing. He reaches over, grabbing my hand, the
touch calming me more than he probably realizes. “I can’t promise
everything will be fucking roses and butterflies from here on out, but if it’s
okay with you, I’d really like to at least try, because you’re the first person
to ever make me feel not so alone, to make me feel safe opening up to, and I
can’t pretend that doesn’t mean something. It does.”
Throat dry, tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth, I attempt to lick my
lips to moisturize them. “W-what are you saying?”
“I know you bought tickets to all the shows, and I’m not sure if you still
planned to go to all of them now that we’ve talked. I’d understand if you
didn’t want to, but I’d love it if you came on tour with me.” He emphasizes
the last two words. “As in, cancelling your flights and flying with me and
the band, sitting backstage during the shows, really being there with me.
Not in the crowd.”
Holy shit… “You really want that?”
He doesn’t skip a beat. “More than anything, Rowan.”
I nod a few times before my brain finally catches up and I can form
words. “Yes,” I mutter. “I’d love that too.”
Caspian smiles. It’s big and wide. Genuine. He looks truly happy, and
it’s such a beautiful look on him. Knowing he’s smiling like this because of
me is unlike anything I’ve ever felt. I’m on cloud nine.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Rowan
Three Months Later
“R
owan…” My name slides off Caspian’s tongue, half whine, half
growl. It makes me chuckle, this power exchange. He throws me a
pleading look over his shoulder. “Come the fuck on, Rowan. I’m
ready.”
Clucking my tongue at him, I say, “Patience, grasshopper.”
“Oh, fuck off,” he scoffs, pushing himself back.
“I don’t want to hurt you, princess.” I’m surprised I can even get the pet
name out without cracking up, especially when he throws me the dirtiest
look I’ve ever seen, eyes narrowed into slits. I have to bite the inside of my
cheek to keep from busting up.
“Don’t even start with that shit, Row. That wasn’t part of the deal.”
“But you make it so easy, baby.” I giggle, slapping a hand over my
mouth as he rolls his eyes.
We’re currently some odd thirty thousand feet in the air, flying over the
Atlantic Ocean on our way back to the States. Wicked Hearts wrapped up
the last show on the European part of their tour last night. It was a huge
success, and fun as hell to witness. It was unlike anything else I’d ever
done, and I’m so fucking happy I got to come along for the ride.
About a week ago, Harlan told us all when we were shit-faced drunk
that he wasn’t going to hook up with any more people while on tour. Mind
you, this is the same man who has a different body in his bed every. Single.
Night. There’s apparently someone back home who he’s got his eye on, but
they won’t give him the time of day because they state he’s an “insufferable
playboy, who can’t keep it in his pants,” and I mean, they aren’t wrong.
Anyway, he insisted, hand to God, he was turning over a new leaf, and
he wasn’t going to sleep around anymore. Cas was being all super
supportive bro-dude, sticking up for him when all the rest of us laughed our
fucking asses off, saying he wouldn’t even make it to the end of tour… a
week before he was getting his dick wet.
So, Cas and I did the logical thing in this situation… we made a bet
about whether or not Harlan would stay true to his word. If Cas won, he’d
get to pick a tattoo for me to get when we got back to L.A. It could be
anywhere and anything as long as it wasn’t on my face, neck, or hands. If I
won, Cas would have to bottom for me for the first time.
It’s something I’ve been dying to do for months, but Cas is stubborn and
a control freak and always told me “maybe later,” when I’ve brought it up.
The closest I’ve gotten is a finger or two up the butt during a blow job—
which he fucking goes feral for, so I don’t know why he’s so against
bottoming.
Harlan did so well; he wouldn’t even make-out with anybody after the
shows or at the bar or anything. That is, until the last fucking night of the
tour, this fine as hell French guy came on to him at the final celebratory
party the label threw for us. Shots were had, weed was smoked, clothes
were shed, and Harlan was fucked like a dirty mistress in the back of the
banquet hall the party was held at.
He couldn’t deny it even if he wanted to. Sebastian walked in on them
and told us all about it. Not only that, but his neck was also riddled with
bruises. French man was apparently part piranha.
The look on Caspian’s face when he realized he lost the bet he wholefucking-heartedly thought he had in the bag was priceless. Plus, it worked
out perfectly because I’ve always wanted to join the mile high club, so what
better time?
So, that brings us to where we are now… in the bedroom area of the
private jet, naked, with Cas on all fours, and my fingers working him open
for me. The best part? The entire band knows about the bet, so they all
know what’s going on in here, and I am fucking hysterical about it.
Caspian, on the other hand, was very scowly about the whole matter, per
usual.
But right this moment… well, let’s just say, he’s practically panting,
begging me to put him out of his misery and stick my dick in him already.
And oh my fuck, I can’t wait to do just that. It’s been so long since I’ve
topped anyone, and usually it’s only when I sleep with women.
I remove my fingers from his ass and lean down to press my lips to one
of his tight, round globes, but before I do, I sink my teeth into one, making
him yelp. Swiping my tongue across the affected area, I chuckle against his
flesh, peppering it with kisses.
Beside us is a bottle of lube. Reaching over, I grab it, flicking the cap
open with my thumb. Cas looks over his shoulder, watching me lather
myself up before moving to do the same to his entrance. I meet his gaze, his
silvery grays filled with so much need and lust, and what I think is love, but
can’t be sure because we haven’t said that yet, despite me dying to scream it
from the mountaintops already. My heart thumps a little faster, chest tight
and warm. Because I do love him. I love him like I’ve never loved anybody
else. Back when we were at Black Diamond, it’s clear now that those
feelings were infatuation at best. Sure, I wanted him and felt like I needed
him, but this… this is different. The connection we share now is so deep. I
can’t fathom carrying on with surface-level relationships anymore.
It's jarring and terrifying, but it’s also the best goddamn feeling I’ve
ever experienced. Loving Caspian is like the lazy Sunday mornings, when
the world feels calm and right, like nothing could go wrong. It’s that
moment right at dawn, when the world starts getting brighter, and you can’t
help but smile like a fool at the sky painted in cotton candy pastels. Loving
him is listening to a song so good, you get full-body chills and hot tears
sting your eyes, but you don’t know why because it’s just that good.
Loving Caspian is a beautiful experience, and I can’t fucking believe it’s
only been a few months.
A rush of confidence and bravado cascades through me. It’s the only
reason I can think of to explain why I blurt out what I say next, moments
before sinking my cock into his ass.
“I love you; you know that?”
His mouth drops open, literally too stunned to speak. Turning over so
we’re face to face, he shoves my shoulder. “You cannot fucking say shit like
that for the first time right before we have dirty fucking airplane sex.”
My head drops back onto my shoulders, a full belly laugh erupting out
of me so hard, I have to grab my stomach to keep from keeling over. That’s
not what I expected, but alright. It’s such an out of character thing for
Caspian to say.
Wiping the tears away from my eyes, I drop my gaze back on him. “But
I do,” I say with full sincerity and a grin on my face. “I love you, you big
ole grumpy fuck.”
His face softens, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows, and I swear I
see moisture collecting in his eyes, but he’d probably deny that if ever
asked. He reaches out, slipping his warm, calloused hand into mine, tugging
on it until we’re mere centimeters apart. Caspian’s whiskey-laced breath
fans across my lips as his gaze alternates between my mouth and my eyes.
The energy in this room is supercharged, and when he reaches up with
his free hand to rub an idle thumb across my cheek, it feels as if the all the
air has been sucked out of the cabin.
Exhaling a shaky breath, he says so quietly, I would probably miss it
had I not been as close as I am, “I fucking love you.”
Our lips seal together, this kiss declaring everything we just said, and
saying everything else we can’t quite get out. His tongue slips into my
mouth, moving with mine with such adoration, there’s no way I could ever
doubt the words he just whispered to me.
Resting our foreheads together, we work on steady breathing. “Is this
the part where I lie you down now and make sweet love to you?” I ask,
barely holding back a smirk.
Even with our proximity, I can see his eyes roll. “Not if you fucking say
it like that.”
I chuckle, pressing another quick kiss to his snarled lips. “Lie back,” I
tell him.
Spending a few quick minutes stroking us both, I apply more lube to my
shaft before getting between his spread thighs and lining myself up. Cas
opens up for me, bearing down as I push my tip through the tight ring of
muscle.
He’s impossibly tight, so it’s work to get the whole thing in, and when I
finally do, I have to pause because I’m so worried I’ll bust before we can
even get started. His face is pinched, and he looks like he’s holding his
breath. Knowing him, he’s freaking out on the inside, but won’t say
anything. Reaching down, I slip my hand into his, lacing our fingers
together as I move slowly.
After a minute or two, his body starts to relax, and his face morphs into
one of pleasure instead of pain. Glancing down, it’s a heady sight watching
my cock disappear into him. The fact that he’s even trusting me to do this,
or willing to be vulnerable enough to let it happen, speaks volumes of how
far he’s come, and how far we’ve come together.
The hand not holding his wraps around his thigh, holding him in a
bruising hold. Our eye contact never falters, my heart pounding in my chest,
trying desperately to burst through my ribs and flesh, if only to wrap around
his, fusing together. This moment, here with him, feels so much more
significant than any other. It makes it hard to breathe. Hard to think. My
entire being, mind, body, and soul, existing for this moment with him.
Caspian’s jaw goes slack, his eyes heavy, and the long, drawn-out moan
that comes out of him when my cockhead drags over his prostate has my
balls drawing up, a molten heat spreading low in my spine.
“Fuck, make that sound again,” I groan, squeezing his hand.
“Feels… so good,” he grits out.
Leaning down over his body, our joint hands resting on the pillow
beside his head, I say against his lips, “You’re taking me so fucking well.” I
flick my tongue into his mouth, relishing the shiver that works its way
through him when I do. “You have no idea how fucking sexy you look right
now.”
He groans, the sound vibrating his chest as his hand flies up, wrapping
around the back of my neck and pulling my mouth onto his. He kisses me
like I’m his only source of oxygen, and I greedily drink it up.
“I’m so close,” he breathes. “Don’t stop.”
I rest my forehead on his, grabbing his other hand and pressing it into
the pillow beside his head. His grip tightens around my fingers as I thrust
into him with reckless abandon. Cas’s first to go, hot spurts of cum coating
his stomach and chest as he cries out in a way I’ve never heard him before.
It’s fucking sexy, and it sets me off, my release barreling through me with
such force, my vision goes black around the edges as I empty myself inside
him.
We stay there like that for a moment, catching our breath, my body too
fucking tired to even think of moving. Someone bangs on the door, startling
me. Next thing we know, Harlan, and what sounds like Cory, are hooting
and hollering on the other side, making Cas and I bust up laughing.
“Holy shit, that was fucking amazing,” Cas mutters as I roll off him,
crossing the room to grab a towel for us.
“Hell yeah, it was,” I say with a smirk. “Knew I could dick you down
good, babe.”
I wink, and he rolls his eyes. “Get the fuck out of here with that huge
ass ego.”
Laughing, I toss the towel to him so he can clean up. “Did you mean
what you said?” I ask, suddenly feeling a little more cut open than I’d like.
Cas glances up at me, and I know the minute he realizes what I’m
asking. He gets off the bed, crossing the room until he’s in front of me.
With a hand behind my neck, he pulls my forehead down on his. “With my
whole fucking heart, Rowan. I love you.”
This time, I couldn’t even stop the river of emotion falling from my
eyes even if I tried. “I love you too, Caspian.”
The End.
SAY MY NAME SNEAK PEEK
Chapter One
Travis
College, Senior Year
Nathaniel: Sorry, babe. Won’t be able to make dinner tonight.
Someone called out at work, so I gotta cover the shift. Won’t get off til
2. Will make it up to you. Xoxo.
Staring down at the phone in my hand, I try to block the lump of
disappointment trying to make itself known in my chest. It’s not his fault
that he has to work, but fuck, I was really looking forward to our date.
It’s our six month anniversary, which I know seems like a silly thing to
want to celebrate, but for me, it’s a big deal. Nathaniel is my first actual
relationship, so six months feels like a big deal. I really wanted to treat him
to a nice dinner, then take him back to his place—because he lives off
campus, while I live in the dorms—and show him just how happy he makes
me.
I need to quit sulking. There are other nights we can do this. Like
tomorrow or next weekend. It doesn’t have to be today, I guess.
The door to my dorm shoves open, peeling my focus from my phone to
my roommate, Xander, who’s waltzing in. A boyish grin tugs on his lips,
his already bloodshot eyes squinting as he sees me. “What’s up, man?” He
must notice my dreary mood because the smile slips. “What’s wrong?”
“Nathaniel and I had plans to go to dinner tonight, but he has to work.
It’s dumb, but I was looking forward to doing something tonight.”
“Where does he work?”
“He’s a server at the burger place a few blocks from campus.”
Nathaniel is here on a partial scholarship but his family doesn’t come
from a lot of money, so he works a few days a week to have extra cash.
“Well, shit, I’m sorry, Trav. But hey, I’m heading to that party the
sorority is throwing tonight. Want to come? It’s Friday night after all, may
as well still make the most out of your night, even if it’s not with him.”
“I don’t know,” I mumble. “I’m not in the greatest mood, I probably
won’t be any fun.”
“Oh, shut the fuck up,” he drawls. “Let’s smoke a bowl and head over.
The weed will help get you out of your head. It’ll be fun.”
Glancing down at my phone and seeing no new texts from Nathaniel, I
heave a sigh and agree. Xander rolls us a blunt that we smoke on the walk
over to the sorority, and by the time we make it there, my mood is already
improving. The house is overflowing with people, a damn near unlimited
supply of liquor fills the kitchen counters, kegs lining the backyard, music
blaring and vibrating the walls.
We both grab a drink before heading out back. A few of our friends are
out there playing a heated game of beer pong.
Party Up by DMX is playing through the bluetooth speaker they have
on top of one of the kegs out here, a group of chicks dancing to it on the
grass, oblivious to everything around them. They’re probably in the sorority
if I had to guess. Xander jumps in and plays the winners next. His partner is
a guy in one of our classes that he’s been trying to hook up with now for a
few weeks.
I watch them while occasionally checking my phone. Nathaniel hasn't
texted me, but then again, maybe it’s busy at the restaurant. Deciding to be
a nice boyfriend, I send him one.
Me: Hope your shift is going okay and you’re making lots of tips.
Miss you.
It’s right there on the tip of my thumb to tell him I came to this party
with Xander, but I don’t. He can sometimes get jealous or upset if I spend
too much time with Xander or if I go to parties without him. He knows I’ve
hooked up with a handful of the people who frequently come to these type
of things, and that makes him feel some type of way.
Nathaniel also thinks these types of parties are lame and a waste of
time. He much rather prefers to stay in together or go out to dinner just the
two of us. Since we started dating, I’ve actually cut back on a lot of the
partying. Which, honestly, has saved me a lot of hungover mornings, so I
really should be thanking him.
I hit send on the message, shoving it back into my pocket before
downing the rest of my drink. Catching Xander’s eye, I let him know I’m
heading inside for a refill. The house has gotten significantly more packed
in the short time I’ve been outside, but that’s not all that surprising seeing as
how it’s only getting later. It’s barely ten, and the bodies in here will
probably easily multiply by midnight. This sorority in particular is known
for it’s ragers.
Weaving my way through the crowd, I finally make it to the kitchen,
and as I’m pouring the vodka into my solo cup, I see him. Nathaniel. He’s
on the other side of the kitchen, more toward the dining room, standing
around with all of his buddies and a few guys I don’t even recognize,
laughing and talking and drinking.
The blood in my body runs ice cold and a pit so deep and so sharp
forms in my gut. Why is he here? Did he get off early? Did he text me and
maybe I didn’t see it? Grabbing my phone out of my pocket, I pull up our
message, and nope. Nothing.
When I glance back up, he still hasn’t spotted me yet. I watch him in his
element for a moment. Maybe he’s about to come find me. Maybe he just
arrived and wanted to say hi to his friends first.
That’s a logical idea.
He’s not in his servers uniform, though.
Maybe he went home to change after his shift that must’ve ended early.
The person who couldn’t work, maybe they ended up being able to.
One of the guys I don’t recognize leans in, whispering something in
Nathaniels ear. I can’t make out what was said obviously, but whatever it is
makes Nathaniel grin as he wraps an arm around the guys shoulder,
dragging him into his side.
The room goes silent. I can’t hear anything despite knowing the music
is on and people are talking. I can’t hear anything other than the sound of
my pounding heart in my ears.
Thump, thump, thump.
My mouth goes dry, tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth as I watch
him.
I should go over there. Say hi.
I’m sure there’s an explanation.
Before I can even decide what to do, his eyes lift, scanning the room
like he can feel himself being watched. They land on me, and the smile on
his face falters for a single moment before he rights it. He doesn’t
immediately remove his hand around the other guy, but his body visibly
stiffens as he takes me in.
We stay locked in this vortex of eye contact for a few beats before he
finally drops his arm, saying something to the group of guys he’s with—
probably excusing himself—before crossing the room to where I’m frozen
in place.
His signature pretty boy smirk—the same one he always flashes to get
himself out of trouble or off the hook anywhere he goes—tugs on his lips as
he stops only a foot or so in front of me. “Hey, babe,” he nearly shouts over
the music and the loud chatter that I surprisingly can hear again. “I didn’t
know you’d be here.”
Yeah, clearly, I think but don’t say. “Xander invited me last minute.”
“Did he?” he asks, his lip turned up almost into a sneer. Nathaniel really
doesn’t like Xander and I don’t get why.
I shrug. “Yeah, well, I thought you’d be at work, and he didn’t want me
to sit at home all night on a Friday.”
“It was slow,” he explains. “So, they sent me home.”
And you didn’t think to let me know? “Who’s the guy you had your arm
around?” I ask, hating how thick my throat feels currently.
Nathaniel glances over his shoulder toward the friend group he left.
“Oh, him? He’s just a friend from class.”
“Looked awfully cozy with him before you saw me,” I mumble so
quietly, I think he won’t hear me.
But he does.
“Don’t be like that, Travis.” His face falls. He almost looks sad. “You
know it upsets me when you act like you don’t trust me.”
My chest squeezes, a pang of guilt hitting me right in the heart. “I do
trust you,” I say.
“It doesn’t seem like it when you say stuff like that.”
“I do. It’s just…” It’s just, what, Travis? Why do I always assume the
worst at any given moment? “It took me by surprise seeing you here after
you told me we couldn’t hang out because you had to work. That’s all.”
“Well, I told you, babe. They sent me home. I thought you’d be asleep,
and I didn’t want to bother you.”
“It’s barely after ten,” I argue. “When am I ever asleep that early?”
His gaze hardens as he takes a step back. “I told you what happened,
and you’re still acting like you don’t believe me. I’m not doing this with
you tonight, Travis. Let me know when you’re ready to stop being such a
drama queen.”
“Baby—” I start to say, but he walks off, back to his group of friends,
leaving me standing there like the cat got my tongue.
Why do I always do this? I always overreact and make him mad. Why
can’t I be a more laid back boyfriend who trusts him more?
I fuck everything up. Always.
Scanning the room, I gnaw on the inside of my cheek as I consider what
I should do. I know better than to try and argue with Nathaniel right now.
It’ll just make things worse. I consider going back outside to hang out with
Xander, but my mood has plummeted, so I probably won’t be fun to be
around, and then he’ll hound me to tell him what’s wrong, and I’d rather not
deal with that.
I should just go home. Maybe some sleep will be the best thing.
The walk home is only a couple miles but it’s a little chilly. By the time
I make it to my room, exhaustion has set in, mixing with the guilt and the
anger toward myself. I always fucking do this.
Climbing into bed, it takes no time at all to fall asleep, and when I wake
in the morning, I have a text from Nathaniel waiting for me.
Nathaniel: Sorry for getting so mad, but babe, you know how it
makes me feel when you do and say shit like that. Let’s grab brunch in
the morning, and forget it ever happened. Xoxo.
I let out a deep breath, feeling so much better. He’s not mad at me
anymore.
Say My Name was originally in the Anti-Valentine Anthology as a short
story, and will be released as a full-length novel on September 6th, 2023.
Be sure to preorder your copy here.
NEED MORE?
There are thirteen stories in this collection from thirteen authors. If you
would like to spend more time at Black Diamond, you can find the rest of
the series on Amazon here.
Or make sure you’ve downloaded them all:
Broken by Andi Jaxon
Wounded by Ashley James
Unfortunate by Nicole Dykes
Damaged by Hayden Hall
Exception by Cora Rose
Volatile by J.R. Gray
Consumed by Bailey Nicole
Abysmal by Marie Ann
Splintered by Isabel Lucero
Scandal by T. Ashleigh
Exiled by Jessie Walker
Reckless by Becca Steele
Shattered by Charli Meadows
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My daughters. As always. They’re my reason for everything in life. My
reason to push and keep going. My reason to try harder, be stronger. If it
weren’t for them, I wouldn’t be where I am today.
My family. So supportive. Such amazing cheerleaders. I couldn’t ask for
anything more! Thank you.
Katie. My alpha. Welp, it’s love note season again. At this point, I’m
becoming pretty redundant, don’t we think? You’re literally the best
alpha/best friend I could ever ask for. Your constant support, love for my
characters, and willingness to always talk everything out with me is
invaluable. I’m sure—okay, I know—I’m not always the easiest author to
work for, but you take everything I give you, no matter how random, and I
can’t thank you enough. Love you soooo big.
Mads. I adore you so hard. You’re a top notch PA, and your excitement
over these two when you beta read was so reassuring and appreciated.
Thank you for always being there, no matter what it is I need from you, and
for being one of my biggest cheerleaders.
Shann. The devil on my shoulder. Bitch, I love you. You have quickly
become one of my favorite people, and your support and love for the worlds
I create means the most to me. Thank you so much.
Holly. Girl, I forever thank you for everything! For beta reading, for giving
me your honest feedback, for being an amazing girls girl, and for being
such a fucking incredible friend. So lucky to have you in my corner.
JR & Andi. Thank you, thank you, thank you for being fucking amazing,
and for body doubling with me while I wrote this book. It helped me get it
done SO MUCH. I appreciate you both more than you know, and I’m so
thankful for y’alls friendship. Love you both.
The Unlucky 13 Crew. I’m so happy we did the damn thing! The
friendships I’ve gained from this experience, or the friendships I had that
strengthened during this process, are incredible.
Kerry at Rebel Ink Co. These covers you’ve made for this series are
seriously incredible. THANK YOU for putting up with all 13 of us.
Kenzie. I say this all the time, but I freaking mean it every single time…
thank you for being the best editor ever. You’re so easy to work with and
you’re always there to talk stuff out with me. I truly couldn’t ask for
anything more. Love you, girl.
My Smutty Buddies. The best street team ever. Thank you for all being so
freaking awesome. All the love and support, all the sharing you do, and
recommending my books to anyone who will listen… thank you. You guys
are amazing.
My readers. Whether this is book number 1 of mine for you or you’ve been
here since the very beginning… THANK YOU. If it weren’t for y’all, I
wouldn’t be here. I wouldn’t have the privilege of writing full time and
getting to share all these incredible stories with the world. It’s insane to me
that this is my job, and I’ll never stop being grateful for each and every one
of you!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Ashley James is an LGBTQIA+ author who enjoys writing (and reading) the toxic, swoony, broody,
filthy talking, red flag men. She is originally from Washington State—and no, not Seattle—but now
resides in South Carolina with her two daughters and her three Sphynx kitties, Goose, Maverick, and
Houston. And if you’re wondering if those names are Top Gun references, you would be absolutely
correct.
ALSO BY ASHLEY JAMES
The Deepest Desires Series
Barred Desires (Book One)
Forsaken Desires (Book Two)
Illicit Desires (Book Three)
Hidden Affairs Series
Brazen Affairs (Book One)
Storm Clouds and Devastation (Book Two)
Insatiable Hunger (Book Three—Preorder)
Standalones
Kismet
Say My Name (Preorder)
Whiskey Nights and Neon Dreams (Preorder)