I lie on my back on the blanket I share with Hendrix, looking up at the night sky, my hands behind my head. We lie there together in silence, and I listen to the waves roll in, the sound soothing like a lullaby. Hendrix has been weird today, even though we've spent the entire day hanging out together, doing stupid tourist shit, mini-golfing and go-kart racing and playing frisbee on the beach. Yeah, too-cool-for-life Hendrix played frisbee. Obviously something is wrong with him. I'm half-concerned he's about to tell me he has a serious illness.

"Do you ever think about what would have happened if you hadn't been on that show?" he asks, breaking the quiet between us.

"Yeah," I say. "My mom and Grace and I would be back where we were before the show."

"Was it that different?" he asks.

"Yeah," I say, laughing bitterly. "Of course it was that fucking different."

Hendrix tsk-tsk's me, pushing himself up to a sitting position. I can't see his face in the blackness of the evening, but I know he's looking at me and it makes me self-conscious, as I lie here. I feel the familiar heat rush through me at the thought of being under his gaze. "You're always cussing now."

"What can I say?" I ask. "You're influencing me."

"I hope not," he says. "You shouldn't take anything from me."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm not a good influence, Addy-girl," he says. I hear him fumbling for a cigarette, and then his face is illuminated in flickering shadows by the flame from the lighter. He looks at me, the glow of the cigarette giving him an eerie appearance. "I'm not a good person."

"Don't be a dumbass," I say, rolling onto my side to look at him. "Why did you start smoking again?"

Hendrix shrugs. "Because I'm a dumbass."

"You're not a bad influence," I say.

"Says you."

"As opposed to my mother?" I ask. "Or your father?"

"They wouldn't like this, you know," he says. "I shouldn't be here with you. On a road trip."

"So?" I ask. "We can hang out. What's wrong with it? Why shouldn't we go on a road trip?"

Hendrix turns, blowing smoke in the opposite direction, and then he faces the water, not looking at me while he sits in silence. My heart is pounding in my chest, and I sit up on the blanket, drawing my knees up and wrapping my arms around them. I think Hendrix is about to tell me we can't be friends anymore.

It feels like we're having a breakup conversation, except that you can't actually break up with someone you're not dating. The thing is, I don't want to be just friends with Hendrix. Every time he touches me, it's like electricity flows through my body. That's not normal. That's not what happens when the boys I've gone out with have tried to hold my hand, or kiss me, or...go farther than that.

And all I can think about, all the time, is how it would feel for Hendrix to touch me.

"Sometimes a road trip isn't just a road trip, Addy-girl."

"You're so annoying," I say, only because I don't know what else to say.

I can hear him exhale. "You're no picnic yourself, sweet-cheeks."

"Yet you keep hanging out with me."

"What can I say?" he asks. "I'm just a glutton for punishment."

"Now you're saying that hanging out with me is punishment," I say.

He's quiet for a long time before he speaks. "It's goddamned torture," he says. "Every moment of every fucking day I'm near you is fucking torture."

The strain in his voice is evident by the way it cracks around the edges. My heart thumps louder, and I wonder if he's able to hear it in the quiet stillness of the evening. Doesn't he realize it's fucking agony for me to be around him all the time, wanting him the way I do? "So why even hang out with me if you hate it so much, Hendrix?"

"You don't get it, Addy-girl," he says, not moving.

"Get what?"

"Being away from you is a million times worse."

* * *

Being in close quarters with Hendrix after what happened is a form of torture -- cruel and unusual punishment. I wanted to drive myself to the recording studio, but the record label sent a car to take us to the interview with the magazine and then the recording session, as if they don't trust me to show up on my own. So now I'm stuck sitting a foot away from him, pretending as if nothing happened between us. Pretending that Hendrix didn't overhear me speak his name from the other side of my bedroom door.

Just the thought of it makes me flush white-hot.

So we sit here on opposite sides of the car, ignoring each other, Hendrix looking straight ahead and me scrolling through the messages on my phone, trying to distract myself from the fact that I can smell Hendrix's aftershave from where I sit. "You're making a face," Hendrix says.

He's not even looking at me, sitting beside me in the back of the car, so how would he know?

"This is my regular expression," I say.

"No, it's not," he says. "It's your checking-text-messages-you-hate face."

"How do you know I'm getting text messages I hate? Have you been reading my texts?" I ask, my voice going up an octave. "You can't do that!"

"Oh my God, relax, Addy," he says, laughing. "No one is reading your text messages. Well, the NSA probably is, but that's it. I was just making an observation. You've been making that face a lot lately. You need to chill the fuck out."

"Oh." I look down at the most recent text from Jared.

That's message number fifteen from Jared over the past week, since I walked out on him at the club. Four in the morning and he's getting a blowjob in the bathroom of the filthy club he insisted I go to with him and his friends to celebrate his birthday. But I'm the one who's a bitch.

I press the delete button. As if I'd write any song about that douchebag. Besides, the record label is writing and approving all of my songs; they have been for years. I'm just the mouthpiece.

There's a text from my friend Sapphire.

"Oh," Hendrix says. "Is that the boyfriend texting you?"

"Ex," I say pointedly, and turn the cell phone over, face down, as if that will make the messages disappear. "And it's none of your business."

"So it is a text from the ex-boyfriend, then."

"What part of none of your business did you not hear?"

"What did you say?" Hendrix deadpans, cupping his hand near his ear.

"Hilarious, Hendrix."

"You're always complimenting me," he says.

"Don't take it personally."

"That fuckhead better not be texting you," Hendrix says. He's looking in a binder, pouring over the week's schedule even though I know he already has it memorized.

"My last bodyguard wasn't this mouthy," I say. "And he didn't try to insert himself into my personal life."

Hendrix turns to look at me. "Your last bodyguard let you date that shithead."

"He didn't let me date anyone," I say, bristling at his tone. "In case you haven't noticed, this is 2015, not 1815, and I can date whoever the hell I want. Fuckhead or not."

"Not on my watch," Hendrix says.

"Your watch?" I'm so annoyed I think my head might explode. "I'm not a child, Hendrix. And your job description involves being a bodyguard, not some archaic protector of my hoo-hah."

"You're my watch," Hendrix says. "Which means your hoo-hah is part of my watch."

"Nobody is watching my hoo-hah," I say, my voice rising. "Much less my damn stepbrother."

Hendrix turns to face me, his eyes narrowed. "Is that what you think this is about?" he growls. "Some misguided sense of protectiveness, because I'm your stepbrother?"

"No," I say, my voice hushed. The tinted window is up, separating us from the driver, but I worry he can hear every word of what we're saying. "You're just pissed because you can't have me, and you don't want anyone else to have me." The words come out, fueled by emotion, before I can stop them, and I immediately regret speaking them. I clamp my hand over my mouth, mortified. Why did I say that? Just when I was bent on ignoring Hendrix I put my foot in my mouth and say something awful.

Hendrix leans close to me, his mouth near my ear. "If I wanted you, I'd have you, right here, right now, sweet-cheeks," he whispers. "Just for your information."

I force a laugh, but there's nothing funny about the fact that arousal is coursing through my body. "Is that so?"

The car pulls to a stop, and Hendrix walks around to pull open my door. He leans down and speaks to me softly again. "That's a fucking promise, Addy-girl," he says, holding his hand out to help me from the car.

I take his hand and get the same jolt of electricity I always get when I touch him. "Well, then, it's a good thing that neither of us want each other."