Sean

Jolted awake by soft lips traveling south over my heated skin, I pressed my head into the firm pillow. Light from the bathroom spilled into the suite, stopping just short of the king-sized bed. 

Peering at the nightstand, I spied a plastic room key, a half empty bottle of Jack, and a strip of condoms. But it was the glowing red numbers on the clock that had me transfixed. 

3:37 a.m.

Clearing away the alcohol induced cobwebs, I tried to piece together the events of the last few hours. 

The organizers of the South by Southwest Arts and Music Festival had hosted an event to formally announce Caged’s appearance on the closing weekend of the festival. There was an after-party at Maggie Mae’s. And that’s where things got hazy. The whole night blurred into a string of celebratory shots, courtesy of the cute little waitress who kept filling my glass. 

Twining my fingers into the girl’s hair, I propped up on my elbow to get a glimpse of her face.

Before I could form a rational thought, her small hand curved around the base of my thickening cock. She took me in her mouth, and with the alcohol dulling my senses, my mind wandered to places it had no business going. Dangerous places. Before I could stop myself, a name coiled around my tongue.

“Anna-baby . . .” She responded with a soft moan, and teetering on the edge, I gave her silky locks a gentle tug. “Look at me.”

My heart stalled when she lifted her gaze, blinking up at me with sable eyes. Her hair turned muddy brown in my fist as the illusion slipped away.

I fell back against the pillows, and with my free hand, I made a clumsy grab for the bottle on the nightstand to wash away my disappointment. The whiskey went down smooth, numbing the empty spaces where only memories resided.

“Finish,” I grunted, tightening my grip on her hair.

If the girl was offended, she didn’t show it. Hollowing her cheeks, she took me all the way to the back of her throat, where I stayed until the last spasm of my release shuddered through me.

 Shafts of morning light poured through the floor to ceiling windows as Kimber stalked around my suite at the Driskill Hotel, plucking her clothes from the floor.

Perched on the edge of the bed, my head in my hands and the wrinkled sheet wrapped loosely around my hips, I welded my back teeth together to keep from engaging.

Kimber must’ve noticed because the room went mercifully silent. She stopped in front of me, her bright red toenail polish a blur as she tapped out her agitation on the plush carpet.

“Well?” she demanded.

I made a feeble attempt to sit up straight, and quickly decided it wasn’t worth the effort, so I merely lifted my gaze. “Well what, Kimber?” 

Her eyes rounded. “Are you fucking kidding me right now?” Tipping forward, she poked my shoulder with a manicured, red talon. “I came all this way for your big party, and now you’re acting like . . . like . . .” She trembled with rage. “Like you’re not even happy to see me!” 

If I wasn’t so hung over, I might try to play it off, pretend I cared, but as it stood, I was in no mood for any of Kimber’s games.

Heaving a sigh, I roughed a hand through my hair. “What do you want me to say? You weren’t invited.”

Kimber took my cold demeanor in stride. After all, we both knew why she was here. Caged was big news again. And with our upcoming gig at the festival, there was lots of press around. Plenty of opportunities for her to get her photo in the tabloids.

“You didn’t have to ask.” Kimber’s soft tone did little to mask the calculating gleam in her big brown eyes. “I’m here to support you.” 

A laugh rumbled low in my chest. “Sure you are,” I scoffed. “And I suppose it has nothing to do with the new reality show you just landed?” 

Surprise flashed across her features, followed by mock indignation and a quivering chin. Since I knew damn well the girl could cry on command, I wasn’t moved. This little stunt was too reminiscent of our first encounter at Coachella over a year ago.

Kimber had shown up at one of the after-parties, setting her sights on me from the beginning. Not that I’d resisted. On the contrary, I’d ushered her straight to the limo and took what she had to offer.

Over the next few months, Kimber popped up at several of our gigs, usually with a swarm of paparazzi in tow. A few strategically placed articles in the more prominent gossip rags and we were the new “it” couple. 

After Caged fired our manager and retreated to Austin to lick our wounds, Kimber’s interest had waned.

Until last night.

Coincidence? Hardly.

Silence swelled between us as Kimber mulled over my accusation.

“That’s not the only reason I came,” she finally said, turning her head to wipe away a nonexistent tear. “I missed you, Sean.” 

“Really?” With my aching head, I couldn’t offer more than a bland stare. “I heard you signed with Lindsey. Was it her idea for you to show up here?”

Kimber shifted, and even though I knew our old manager had probably put her up to the impromptu visit, I was still surprised when she didn’t deny it.

“She’s not that bad,” Kimber said quietly—as if she’d forgotten that Lindsey had spent the last year trying to ruin my career.

If I could glare without causing more pain to my eyes, I would’ve. But she wasn’t worth it.

“Whatever, sugar. You do you.” I lurched to my feet, my stomach pitching from the sudden movement. “I’m going to grab a shower. Feel free to order some breakfast.” Stalking to my backpack where I kept a clean T-shirt and a travel toothbrush, I added, “But I’ve got a busy day, so you need to clear out as soon as possible.” 

Blowing the girl off was a dick move, but there was no way Kimber was accompanying me to any press events, and with the SXSW show around the corner, the band had a shit ton of media commitments.

“Are you serious?” Kimber watched me with cold, brown eyes as I snatched my jeans from the floor.

“Yep.”

Bits and pieces of last night filtered through my foggy brain, none of them good. So I grabbed my phone to check my social media and find out how bad the damage was.

I was mere feet from escaping into the bathroom when Kimber’s voice rose up behind me.

“Who’s Anna?” 

Her question detonated like a grenade, and I rocked unsteadily from the explosion as I turned to face her. “Who?” 

“Anna,” Kimber repeated coolly, the barest of smiles curving her lips as she closed the gap between us. “You said her name last night when we were fucking.”

An image popped into my head of Kimber’s eager mouth on my cock. Not exactly fucking, but I wasn’t going to argue the point.

“She’s nobody.” Icy fingers closed around my heart, protesting the lie, but I schooled my features well enough. “You must’ve heard me wrong.” I gave her a smile, then spun on my heel, the world spinning along with me. Pausing at the bathroom door, I closed my eyes, cursing last night’s foolish slip of the tongue. “Maybe breakfast isn’t such a good idea. It’s getting late, and I’ve got shit to do, so you should probably leave now.” 

The marble floors in the bathroom only added to the chill that settled in my bones. Dropping the sheet, I slipped into the shower where I stood under the multiple jets for longer than necessary, hoping Kimber had the good sense to heed my advice and get the hell out. My killer headache, burning stomach, and general sour mood didn’t bode well for further conversation.

Feeling somewhat revived after the long soak, I cracked open the door on the pretense of letting out the steam, but really, I wanted to see if Kimber was still around. Hearing nothing, I peeked my head out and scanned the room. There was no sign of Kimber, but I laughed out loud when I got a load of her parting shot. Scrawled on the mirror above the dresser in red lipstick was one word—Asshole.

Given her flair for the dramatic, it didn’t surprise me a bit that Kimber added a smiley face and even signed her name.

After pulling on my clothes, I grabbed a washcloth, a kernel of guilt working its way to the surface as I cleaned the goopy mess.

Sure, I hadn’t invited Kimber to the party. But that hadn’t stopped me from asking her to come back to my room or letting her deep throat me like a champ. 

The mangled condom wrapper on the floor proved I’d at least tried to return the orgasmic favor, though, I wasn’t sure how satisfying the venture had turned out to be. I didn’t remember shit. And that bothered me. Most of my hookups came courtesy of some type of alcohol haze, but usually, I could recall the basics. 

Escaping to the living room to put some distance between myself and the scene of the crime, I dropped onto the couch to scroll through my phone. Finding nothing too urgent, I rang up room service, ordering a pot of coffee and the greasiest breakfast on the menu. 

While I waited, I sorted through the newspapers on the table. Settling on the Austin Statesman, I flipped through without seeing much at all until I reached the back page.

My stomach clattered to the floor when I spotted a familiar picture nestled among the obituaries.

Annabelle “Belle” Murdock, 71 years old, formerly of Austin . . .

That’s as far as I got before the words blurred together. Skipping the bio about her life, which I could recite by heart, I zeroed in on the names at the bottom.

Mrs. Murdock was preceded in death by Douglas Murdock, her husband of 42 years. She is survived by her two daughters, Alecia Dresden and Patricia Crenshaw, and three grandchildren, Anastasia Crenshaw, Alexandra Crenshaw Burke, and Annabelle Dresden Kent. 

Running a finger over Anna’s married name, a wave of emotions crashed over me. Anger, frustration, and above all, soul-deep regret.

Shifting my gaze back to the picture of Gran, I whispered, “I’m so sorry, Anna-baby.”

And I was. So fucking sorry, I could barely stand it. And only a little bit of the apology had to do with Anna’s grandmother, though that stung as well.

 A sharp knock on the door pulled me out of my haze.

“Room service!” a cheery voice called.

“Just a minute,” I responded as I painstakingly tore the tiny tribute from the paper. 

I fished my wallet from my pocket, and as I tucked the obituary into the secret fold behind my driver’s license, my finger brushed the only photo I carried with me—the last picture I ever took of Anna. Things were already going south between us, evident in the sadness that dulled her sparkling green eyes.

I stuck the photo back in its cubby, my throat thick with emotion and the reminder that my worst moments with Annabelle were still better than my best moments with anyone else.