Copyright © 2017, Eden Butler

All rights reserved as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior permission of the Author. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Author Publisher.

Edited by Kay Springsteen

Copy Edits by Judy Lovely

Cover Design by

Cover Image by Vania Stoyanova

Cover Models: Aaron Dominguez and Hilda Santiago

Formatting by Tee Tate and Chelle Bliss

All song lyrics by Eden Butler except for the

collaboration of Randi Laing and Eden Butler on 1221.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

The author acknowledges the copyrighted or trademarked status and trademark owners of the word-marks and references mentioned in this work of fiction.

For Chelle Bliss, who believes in my words like no one else.

I love you.

“Things come apart so easily when they have been held together with lies.” 

—Dorothy Allison, Bastard Out of Carolina

PROLOGUE

WILLS LAGER WAS A GOD—LITTLE g, not big. 

“This is unbelievable, si?” Jamie’s voice went loud, shouting over the massive crowd as Hawthorne played. The arena was filled to capacity, lights and smoke spilling over the crowd and I was right there, with my best friend, singing and screaming and laughing because this was the music of our souls.

“Look how close we are!” I could make out the sweat on Lager’s brow and the cigarette he had tucked behind his ear. “How did we get so close?”

Jamie bent down, gaze flashing on the stage, to Lager and the sweet moan his guitar made. He held his hand next to mine, but didn’t touch me. “Chica, we got here five hours early, gracias a Dios for general admission!” We were supposed to be at the freshman end-of-year dance. Together. But Jamie’d landed tickets from his uncle and we caught three buses to get to Indy. Damn the dance. This was Hawthorne.

That moaning guitar went silent, and the lights fell. Darkness draped around us like a cloud and I held my breath, grabbing Jamie’s arm, needing to touch him, too excited to know what would come next. There was a hum around us, and shadows moved on the stage, but no one made a sound, no crew, no band members; it was just the buzz and bated breath from the crowd that kept the arena from being void of sound.

And then, a slow inhale and Lager belted out two words, dipped in that low note, shooting excitement and joy and utter thrill through my bones.

Hurt me...

Next to me Jamie laughed, a soft, low sound that was awed, not amused. Glancing at him, I saw the same thing I always did—his sweet, warm smile, his beautiful face, and the shine of happiness that only crowded his eyes when he heard great music. To us, Lager was the greatest.

“Dios mio,” he said, amazed, smile stretching as the voice bellowed, echoing across the arena. “It’s magic.” Jamie looked down at me, pulling me to his side. “This music can take us anywhere, mami. Don’t you see it?”

I did, but what I found magical wasn’t on the stage. Jamie tilted his head, squeezing my shoulder before he leaned down and kissed my forehead. “I’m glad it was you I saw Hawthorne with. Only you would understand this.”

He’d never called me mami before. It was sweet, and I liked the way it sounded coming from him, like its own melody.

Everyone has a Know. It’s a fingerprint of the heart, something made for you alone. Something you search for without ever knowing why. But like most good things we want for ourselves, the Know is elusive. I was getting ideas about my Know.

Lager stood then, the music shifting, but I only noticed Jamie at my side, his sweet smile never lowering, the scent of his skin, the warmth of his kiss still there on my forehead.

Damn, I thought, wondering what had happened. A glance at him, a return of that smile and it hit me.

He was my Know.

My mother promised it would happen. She swore it could come along from no apparent place at all—the smoky confines of a bar, deep in a lonely corner where you think you can hide yourself from the rest of the world. Maybe, in the back row of a large bookstore, where you’re set to disappear to fictional worlds you only dream of visiting, with men that make the trip well worth the rocky road you took to get there. Sometimes, your Know comes right at you, lays on a smile that is equal parts tease and invitation.

Then, there is a touch—like a kiss. Something small, seemingly inconsequential—the smallest graze of fingertips on skin; the swift, cool brush of lips on cheek. Then the inconsequential becomes anything but.

You see. You touch. You taste and in that moment, with that person, you simply know. They are the end all, be all. They are the memory you fight never to lose. They are the part of yourself you never knew was there, but miss with a passionate desperation.

They are the one; the person in all of space and time, the whole of every particle, that you simply cannot do without.

I was fifteen that night, watching Lager and filled with the magic his music made. Right next to me was my Know. He came at me like a bolt of lightning; sudden, without the rumbling announcement that he’d be my one. My Know came in a leather jacket with a Ramones patch sown into the shoulder and dirty threadbare Levis. It came with the background sound of Hawthorne playing and the sweet, cool whip of surrender behind every word.

Jamie was my Know then and, though he didn’t deserve it, he was still my Know today.

CHAPTER ONE

It happened like a cascade. One domino falling against the other—clicking together until a rhythm formed, sound and noise like the world around me, the shock of it all. But, realization took a moment. 

Paris was hot, scorching already in June; my thin linen shirt stuck to me like a wet tissue, but it didn’t register. Nothing did whenever I heard his name.

“Dash Justice...”

The first domino fell, and my body tensed.

Camera at the ready, Mikee waited for my count down. “Someone turn off that radio,” he called, black-eyed glare thrown toward the open door of the Range Rover and the blaring sound of an obnoxious DJ. Then came the loud, scorching whine of a rhythm guitar and his voice again.

Every curve of her figure like sweet retribution

Came like a bomb, left in confusion

The second domino.

His voice was deeper, had a bit more whiskey in the tone than I remembered.

Every thought of her body a filthy, sweet memory

Pushing her ass against the front of my jeans

I blinked, shaking off the small stupor that voice set upon me.

“We’re live in thirty!”

Leaving me weak like a high dollar shot

A serial fucker, gave her what I got

Then there was nothing to do but speak. Cascade and chaos. And that fucking name, that beautiful voice, that infuriating man.

Mikee counted down with his fingers, the slow crawl from five to one, pointing in my direction, and I blinked, pulled it together despite the bustle around me—paparazzi elbowing, groupies swarming and the crowd, thick and stupid, teeming near the hotel room waiting for Wills Lager to make an appearance.

A wave of Mikee’s hand, then that quick pointing finger, and I forgot for a second about the music still humming to life, despite the activity that surrounded. I forgot Dash’s voice and what I swore was my name when the rhythm sped, spinning a bass line that reminded me of a freight train.

Third domino and the music, lower, quieter, still did something wild and stupid to my gut.

I forgot that this wasn’t my normal gig—I was a writer, not on-air talent, but the assignment was Paris and the reunion tour of The Plebs for a mid-sized industry blog with a growing audience. Then, Lager announced he was leaving Hawthorn and my gig got upgraded and I got sidled with Mikee and his small crew.

I shook my head, plastering a subdued, blank expression on my face before I opened my mouth.

“Wills Lager’s camp still refuses to comment on the drunken Instagram announcement he made late last night. After nearly twenty-five years in the groundbreaking, Grammy and Oscar-winning band, Hawthorn, Lager is cutting ties...”  No need to mention what the man himself had told me just before that Instagram post went live. “Sources close to the band mentioned infighting and pending legal challenges implemented when long-time Hawthorne’s manager, Rita Davis, died suddenly in April.” 

Lager was still broken up over the death. “My fecking heart is twisted,” he’d admitted when I caught him at a dive bar fifteen minutes out of the city.  It was luck, finding him there. Luck and a little intel only real fans would know about Lager. Rita had discovered him there over thirty years ago.

“Since that time,” I continued, keeping my voice even, controlled, “founding members have battled over the band’s catalogue since Davis was a majority shareholder...”

Hawthorne was legend. They were gods in the indie genre, and I was a willing disciple, had been since I’d first heard their record back in Willow Heights, before Dash Justice became a legend himself. That memory was tied up in the boy he’d been, Jamie, and the moment and music that captivated me.

It became a ritual for us; finding records Lager and Hawthorne cut before they became legends. The first one coming out of nowhere. We were fifteen. One song, then we were addicted. We built a mini shrine to them out of old posters Jamie’s mother had and her worn album covers. She’d claimed to know Lager, but Jamie never believed her. “She’s loca,” he’d promised and then dug into her closet looking for more vinyl. The search continued as we went through high school, always Hawthorne, always those obscure records they’d claimed were lost ages before. Three years after that first listen, Jamie played Heartache in Blue on vinyl and changed my life with one sweet, devastating kiss.

Lager’s decision to leave wasn’t about money, he’d promised between long, slow pulls on the bottle of Jack he held. “Fuck the money, if I’m being honest.” His thick Irish brogue was exaggerated, the cadence thicker the more he drank. “Loved her, I did. She was my heart. The devil take the money and the ruddy band.” He’d slumped onto the table, drunk and despondent, as I pushed away the full ashtray from his wobbling head. “Jaysus, I want her back.”

But that was strictly off the record, unfortunately.

Lager knew me. Knew my work, a fact that had a proud little smile threatening to break across my face as I spoke into the mic. It had been the piece I did two months ago on the decay of great lyricists and the decline of real rock artists that had caught his attention. Lager had agreed with my opinion during the six-hour, drunken tirade he gave as I listened, too mesmerized, too shocked to interrupt him.

“These bloody kids haven’t a clue, have they? Writing about violence and fucking and money like that’s all there is in the world.”

“Lager’s lawyer has scheduled a press conference tomorrow afternoon to address the abrupt announcement. I’m Iris Daine in Paris.”

The red light atop Mikee’s camera faded to dark, and I caught the tall man’s gaze, wondering why he offered me only the smallest nod before he turned to address his small crew.

“Hey,” I said, crossing toward him near black gas lantern just blinking to life in the haze of sunset light. “Was that okay?”

“You’re good.” He had his back toward me and packed up his camera case as three of his guys moved toward a black Range Rover with its back hatch open. “I’ll get this to Amelia for edits, and you should be...” A loud laugh toward the front of the Range Rover caught Mikee’s attention, and the sound had the man frowning. “The fuck did I say?” he asked the two men congregating in the cab. “Turn that shit off.”

“Why?” a balding short man answered, gaze shifting between Mikee and me as he went on cackling. “She will know of it soon, non?” The man’s eyes looked wet, beady and he had an accent so thick I barely understood him. “Belle dame, would you like to show me your...”

“I said that’s enough,” Mikee cut him off, squaring his shoulders and the small movement made the bald man throw up his hands, still laughing.

“What’s going on?” I only just noticed my surroundings; the congregation of the skeleton crew leaning against their SUV, the hurried French commands of “rejoue-le,” telling whoever manned the stereo to play whatever had consumed their attention again. Mikee, though, ignored them, ignored everything but the work he made of packing away his gear.

“Look, why don’t you take off?” He seemed nervous, shooting glares back to the crew, leading me away from the vehicle as though there was something he wanted me to avoid. No clue why. I’d known him for a whole three hours.

“I don’t think there’s much more that’s going to happen until the press conference tomorrow.” He shot a glance toward the hotel across the street, nodding at the crowd when two cruisers pulled into the crowd. “Looks like the cops are breaking everything up anyway.”

He wasn’t wrong. With the arrival of two squat white crossover cars, POLICE emblazed across the side, and several officers outfitted in dark blue caps, the crowd began to thin. “I guess you’re right...” I started, trailing after Mikee as he returned to the Range Rover and shoved his gear inside. “But what has the crew all...” The men in the front of the cab laughed and the volume to the stereo went louder. Despite the quick slam of the truck door Mikee made, and how he hustled to silence the stereo, I managed to catch the chorus.

The damn chorus was all I needed to hear.

Let me drag my teeth over your cold shoulder

Let me burn my hand inside your flame

I’d pay the price to push my mouth against your ice

Crave the days I stayed inside Iris Daine.

“What the hell was that?” My voice shot up several octaves. My feet slamming against the pavement as I darted toward the cab.

“Listen, it’s a song. It’s not...it probably won’t...”

Mikee had no idea what he was saying. Of course it wasn’t just a song. It was a Dash Justice song. That meant gold, at least. That likely meant platinum, and my God, my name was all over the song.

“Play it again,” I told the skinny kid holding an iPhone. The long white chord stretched from the device to the auxiliary cord in the center console, but Mikee cleared his throat, waving two fingers across his throat –a silent threat for his man to ignore me—and the men went quiet.

“Look, Ms. Daine, maybe you should just lay low.” He pulled me away from the barely disguised chuckles coming from the assholes in the cab. Mikee didn’t stop directing me until we were near a clear patch of sidewalk that made hailing a taxi easy. He looked down at me, his features set tight, no glimmer of humor shining in his eyes. “I don’t know you, I know that, but I get the feeling this isn’t the first time Justice has tried fucking with you.”

Something cold crept into my chest just then. It was a sensory alert that made the tiny hairs on my arms stand at attention. Mikee was a nice enough guy, the sort that looked like he could handle himself should shit get twisted in his vicinity, but he had no idea about me and Dash Justice.

That cold sweat feeling doubled when Mikee frowned, eyebrows pinched together when the song keyed up again. The sidewalk started to grow crowded and I moved away from the pedestrian crossing when Mikee turned to step in front of me. I tugged on his loose shirt and brought his attention back to me. “What do you know about me and Justice?”

“Like I said, not much.” He led me farther down the sidewalk, lifting a hand when a cluster of taxies shot away from the hotel. “But I was at that London concert.” I tilted my head, not immediately catching the reference when Mikee squinted, his answer coming out low. “Um, the one where Justice talked about super bitches.”

“Oh.”

Dash had never called me out personally, but he mentioned reporters, especially female reporters who used their bodies to get interviews. Then he badmouthed the magazine, Reverb, I’d interned at ages ago. The one I’d landed right out of college with super editor Kylie Pierce. My mentor. My Yoda. The same bitch who Dash slept with and who fired me when I stupidly asked her about their relationship. It was a not-a-scandal for Dash. The fans ate up his whore-mongering alpha male persona like they were starving for it. But me and Kylie? We came off as catty idiots fighting over the God of Rock.

Five years later, and Dash was still laughing about the situation and, apparently, mentioning it and us “super bitches” in his concerts.

Mikee nodded, seeming to understand I caught his meaning and waved in earnest for a cab. “I don’t know what the hell happened with you two, but being here, with that crowd,” he nodded toward the paparazzi still lingering around the hotel entrance, “well, they catch wind of the song or you being here, and they’ll start hounding you.” The taxi stopped at the curb and Mikee opened the door, shooting off my hotel address where I’d met him that morning. “Don’t worry about the report. I’ll file it for you.” He looked back toward the crew, frowning when three paparazzo leaned against the Range Rover to talk to them.

“Why are you helping me?” I asked, my stomach churning when the sound of that damn song blasted from the taxi’s speakers.

Mikee shrugged, a small movement that made him seem younger. “I got a kid sister who looks a lot like you. Same olive skin, same dark eyes and hair. You Hispanic?” he asked, nodding in the vicinity of my face.

“Lakota Sioux. My mom’s from South Dakota,” I clarified, shrugging because my nationality and his made little difference, especially at the moment. 

He took my bag off my shoulder when one of the paparazzi walked toward us. “Guy pulls the kind of shit Justice does with you, and he deserves to get knocked the fuck out.” He waved a hand, ushering me in the cab and leaned inside, blocking me from the photographer’s view. “I hope someone does it for you.”

“No,” I said, mouth hardening when I caught more of my name and foul little things Dash claimed he’d done to me from the speakers. It wasn’t the first time he’d linked me to something rude. But I’d make damn sure it would be the last. “I don’t need anyone to fight my battles.” A quick wave to get Mikee to step back and I shut the door. “I can handle that shit myself.”

Never thought I’d have to. Once, there hadn’t been a Dash Justice. Once, we would have laughed at his brand of showmanship—videos of half-naked women gyrating on the screen, him dressed in leather and white face paint. He was the predator seeking vengeance on the weak. Nothing like the kid I knew back in Indiana.

The same kid who convinced me to sneak out of Social Studies and walk with him to Old Crooked Creek Bridge.

“Here. I only have two left,” I recalled him saying. Paris moved around me, all lit up, illuminating the ancient stone buildings we passed, but in my mind I was under that bridge with Jamie, helping him smoke his last two Marlboros.

“Thanks. I owe you,” I’d told him, huddled next to him to block off the worst of the cold.

“De nada.”

It had been quiet that day, the cold keeping everyone with any sense inside. But Jamie had a mother who let drunk men into her bed. I had a mother who spent too much time researching projects that would make other people rich. We stuck together to ward off the loneliness. We stuck together because there was magic in the music that bonded us.

He’d begun humming then, something obscure, something I couldn’t place, but it caught my attention. Jamie had a beautiful voice.

“Ow,” he said, rubbing his arm when I elbowed him. “The hell?”

“Why didn’t you tell me you could sing?”

The frown moved from his face, replaced by a shy smile. “Um...I don’t know...”

“Sing for me.” I’d been bold, bossy, but Jamie never complained. He shook his head, and I goosed his ribs. “Come on, don’t be a chicken shit.”

It didn’t take much convincing. I was his best friend, aside from his cousin Isaiah. There wasn’t much he kept from me, so it only took a handful of seconds for Jamie to shrug, inhaling deep before he started in on one of our favorites—Midnight Soul by Hawthorne.

Take me for a walk

Underneath your dark night sky

Cover me in starlight

Until we soar and fly

I’d settled next to him, head on his shoulder as he sang. He sounded like honey set to music, with the smallest deep inflection that reminded me of smoky rooms and a slide guitar.

You look good in moonlight

Shattered, frayed but whole

Wrap me in your shadows

Touch me with your midnight soul 

His voice was sweet. Sexy, seductive. I’d sat up, remembering where I was. Remembering that whatever I thought of Jamie, felt for him, to him I was just a friend.

He finished, turned toward me, smile shy again, a little amused. “So?”

“You’re...that was fantastic, Jamie.”

“You think so?”

“Hell yes, of course I do.” I’d nudged him, grazing my hand near his wrist. He didn’t move it when I’d rested it on his leg. He never did. Jamie never got those lame subtle attempts I made to have him touch me back. But he did move his fingers closer. I’d swallowed, laughing at the proximity, a little desperate to distract myself from his smile. “You could be great. I mean it. You could be a famous.”

He shook his head, shrugging, eyes light but serious. “Coño, I don’t want to be famous. I just want to make some magic.” 

And he had. Jamie found his way to that magic, starting a war against the boy he’d been in the process, and I’d just become one of his causalities.

CHAPTER TWO

Bessie Lincoln had no time for bullshit. At least, that’s what she told the person on the other end of the phone. He should have known that already. They’d managed ten years of marriage before Dash Justice’s interests got in the way.

“Utterly ridiculous and you know it, Nathan. I have the paperwork in my hand. It’s just waiting on a signature. I called as a courtesy.” There was a pause, and I glanced at my lawyer, taking in the way her eyes narrowed into a squint and how her thin mouth puckered as she listened to whatever Dash’s attorney had to say. “No. Absolutely not,” she said and that puckered expression hardened. “Her name was directly used in the song. Your client is courting a slam dunk libel suit and you know it. Yes. Of course, but...no.” She looked at me, tilting her head so that the phone rested between the side of her face and her shoulder. She motioned me over, furiously scribbling on the yellow note pad with a million jumbles of other random notes and cat scratches. On the only clean space left available she wrote, you sure you still want to meet with him?

I did. At the moment, that’s all I wanted. I wanted to see if there was anything left of Jamie in that hardened rocker’s eyes. I wanted to see if there was anything decent left of him at all. More than that, I wanted him to know I wouldn’t back down no matter what he said or thought about me. I’d done damage, but I refused to pay for it forever. The understanding, patient Iris had died a long time ago. Somewhere around the time that Dash decided to bed my mentor. 

I gave Bessie a nod and ignored the exaggerated eye roll and the litany of cursing she invoked under her breath when the voice on the other end of the call said something that got under her skin.

“Nathan, you know damn well Iris isn’t going to take a payoff. She’s got more integrity than that. She wants a meeting...I don’t care how important that presumptuous, misogynistic asshole thinks he is...” Bessie cleared her throat, pulling the receiver away from her face as she breathed in through her nose, exhaling between her parted lips. Then she continued, as though she hadn’t just lost her temper. “He can take a half hour and have a conversation.”

She wasn’t wrong. Dash Justice was all those things. Presumptuous—he did seem to believe every woman wanted him. Misogynistic—that too, if his lewd lyrics and videos with half naked women in all sorts of common, unimaginative arrays of activity and dress were to be believed. Asshole—well, it did take a special kind of asshole to invoke the name of his first girlfriend as fodder for laughs and ridicule.

But he hadn’t always been that way.

The rocker persona, that shocker rock asshole, hadn’t always been there.

Once, he’d been awkward and sweet. Once, he’d been shy and fumbling. Once, he’d only cared about the volume of an old stereo and if the vinyl did justice to Will Lager’s deep baritone.

But that was a long time ago.

WILLOW HEIGHTS, INDIANA

October 2007

On Wax was a grungy little record shop that skirted the Raymond railway tracks and Brighton Circle—the poor end, which meant homes in the high six figures, not like the rest of the Circle and those seven-figure monstrosities. Indianapolis was miles away, Chicago even farther, and Willow Heights, Indiana, our tiny home, was a world away from resembling anything that wasn’t small town. But there were no monetary classes inside that record shop. No one bothered me and Jamie, except maybe his uncle Hector whose glare Jamie skirted for keeping me company instead of dusting the shelves of the vinyl records at the back of the store.

Jamie was smooth like bourbon, just the look of him—skin like a river bed, eyes like melted chocolate. His handsome face was like his mother’s. Or at least, what that face had been before the men. Before the booze. I’d seen pictures. Ms. Vega as a girl, looking flawless, stunning. But Jamie had more of that striking Puerto Rican beauty than even his mother. 

I’d noticed it that first day during freshmen orientation when Jamie sat next to me, ignoring the looks he got from the blond-haired, blue-eyed Midwestern hordes that surrounded us. We were the only brown kids in the school. Made sense we stuck together. That day, as Mr. Mellings went on about starting our first year of high school with the last in mind, Jamie Vega passed a note to me, asking me a question that required zero thought:

Nine Inch Nails or Seether?

There was only one response I could give him:

Led Zeppelin

Then Jamie smiled at me, a real, honest, heart-wrecking smile, and I tuned out Mr. Mellings and all those gawking Midwesterners. That smile stole all my attention.

There was a curve at the top of his mouth, and a natural pout that had all the girls in our senior class tripping over themselves to hold his attention. They never could.

“Too vapid. Too common,” he’d always tell me any time one of those Barbie dolls at Willow Heights High shot long, hopeful looks his way. Then Jamie would affect that half-held pout and look me over, side eye sharp, smirk set firm. “Not my type,” he’d promise with a voice so deep, so sweet I half-hoped his type somehow added up to me—round butt, big boobs, and a small gap between my front teeth. I couldn’t have been more different than the Willow Heights Barbies.

That was a hope I still held onto that day sitting on the floor in the back of his uncle’s record store. 

“I found the unicorn,” he said, holding up the record like it was sacred, some holy object that could only be handled with reverence and care. “Mami, I promise. This one will change your life.” Jamie pulled the black record from the sleeve and placed it to the player. There was a smoothness to his movements, like the air around him stilled, slowed because this moment would be monumental. “Hawthorne,” he said, coming to sit next to me on the floor. “I almost feel like we should listen to this record with the lights off and burning candles flickering around the room, but...”

“But your uncle would call you a pendejo for letting wax melt onto his hardwood floors?”

He smiled then, looking impressed before he settled at my side. “You catch on quick, florecita.” 

My skin wasn’t pale like the Barbies, but I was still lighter than Jamie. That meant he could call me florecita, Little Flower, something I didn’t mind so much, and he’d know, the second he did that I liked it—a pleased blush would shoot over my cheeks no matter how hard I tried to hide it. 

“There it is,” he whispered, but I ignored him, choosing instead to wrap my lanky arms around my lankier legs and wait for the crackle and pop of the record to give way.

“What year is this?” The guitar was low, like a whisper, and the sound did something to my stomach when that melody moved around notes and rhythm.

“Listen.”

The music came slowly, the flux of notes that felt like a seduction, the spin and moan of a bass line, then the low, deep timber of a voice that felt like brutality and a fevered kiss all at once. My eyes slipped closed all on their own, pulled down by the weight of what that music did to me. I didn’t know anything just then but the heady mix of lyric and melody and how it consumed. It felt like haven and home.

“Hawthorne,” Jamie said again this time awed, reverent, his voice coming closer, his proximity like a weight I’d gladly carry. “Heartache in Blue.” The air grew warmer at my side, with the heat of his body close, his scent just a swift inhalation away. “Nineteen eighty-four at the CBGB. Only five hundred pressings, and Lager never performed this one again.” Jamie’s breath fanned down my face, and I blinked, surprised when I looked up at him and my friend didn’t move away. There was an energy in the room I guessed had nothing to do with the music. 

Four years was a long time to skirt around something I was sure was a figment of my imagination. Maybe it was just wishful hopes. But even I knew something drew us together. Jamie was my friend. I was his, but there was something pulsing between us unwritten, unspoken that we never talked about.

We told everyone who asked that we were friends. Even Isaiah seemed to believe the story. It was old hat: ‘no, we’re not dating’ or, more often, ‘no, he’s not seeing anyone that I know of.’ That was an irritating little blanket statement that I always complained to him about.

But there had been times when hope wasn’t the only thing clogging my head. Something I couldn’t fully ignore. Like what happened the night of Rachel Baker’s eighteenth birthday party.

“We got a gig!” Jamie had told me, slamming against my locker after sixth period.

“What? When?”

“Tomorrow night.” He’d bounced on his feet, seeming unable to keep still. “Rachel Baker hired us. A hundred bucks!”

“She’s never heard Omen play,” I said, tilting my head. I’d wondered what Rachel thought that hundred would buy her.

“Who cares?” Jamie had said. “It’s a gig. Can you drive me?”

I had, bringing Jamie to the sprawling farmhouse on the outskirts of town. Cars had lined the driveway and Rachel had made a big deal of centering the party around the band; the tables full of food and drink, the games and favors all circled around the back patio, facing a mock stage. Jamie had looked nervous, kept holding onto the mic and searching the small crowd for me.

You got this, I’d mouthed, hoping my nod was encouragement enough to relax him.

He’d smiled, returned my nod and counted off the music. The notes were flatter than the beer, but Jamie sang like a real artist, raw and passionate; the only way he knew how to sing. I wasn’t the only one to notice.

Two hours later, Rachel had moved closer to the band, only agreeing to blow out the candles on her cake if Jamie sang to her. Just her. He’d agreed because a hundred bucks was still a hundred bucks even if got split between him and the three other guys in the band.

“Coño, help me,” he’d shouted, grabbing my wrist when Rachel and her greedy, grabbing hands, went right for him. We’d hazarded one quick look over our shoulders before we took off, leaving Isaiah and the rest of the band to Rachel and her friends.

We drove my mom’s Blazer to Crooked Creek Bridge, our favorite spot to hide, laughing, listening to Zeppelin and Hawthorne as Jamie passed a joint between us.

“She wants you,” I’d declared, howling with laughter when Jamie made a face. “No seriously.” I took the joint from him after he inhaled deep. “She’s, um...nice...pretty even.” Rachel Baker had terrible acne, she never cleared away the crumbs from her mouth or kept the plaque from her teeth, and she wore a bra two sizes too small so that her huge boobs made bumps and bulges under her shirts, which were also always too tight. “You should go for it.” 

“Mierda,” he said through a gasping choke of a laugh. “So not interested in the little pendejos around here.”

I’d been a little high. Drunk on laughter and pride of how brightly Jamie’s star shined that night. I hadn’t realized what my question implied until after I asked it. “Not any of us pendejos in Willow Heights?”

The smile had left Jamie’s face, and he’d lowered his hand, pinched joint smoking between his fingers as he watched me. “Mami, you’re nothing like these people. They can’t fucking touch you.” 

I didn’t think about what I did just then. One minute my hand was on my thigh, the next it was by Jamie’s. This time, he rested the top of his hand against mine. The air in the cab of that Blazer crackled as Jamie watched me, mouth bobbing open and closed as I tried to find words, sentiments that wouldn’t make me look like an idiot. None came to me, and when Jamie’s dark gaze flicked from my eyes, down to my mouth, then up again and I still said nothing, he hesitated, leaning toward me before the ash from the joint had him yelping, flailing his hand to shake away the pain, and we laughed until our stomachs hurt.

Then the semester ended, and Jamie convinced Hector to give him a job, and I’d gone off to New Mexico with my mom, spending the summer with her cousins. Jamie and I texted. We chatted online, but we never discussed that almost kiss again.

Now there was no burning ash to stop Jamie. There was no joint to dull my senses as he went on watching me, breath warm, close enough to shift the loosened hairs from my pony tail against my cheek. It tickled and I scratched my face, fishing for anything that would loosen the tension in the room. “Lager?” I tried, a little breathless when Jamie inhaled, working himself up to do, what, I didn’t know.

Then he touched me.

“Fuck Lager,” he said, long fingers against my face, thumb sliding down to graze my mouth. The smallest sound moved up my throat, pulsing right along with the slow throb of my heart as Jamie moved his hand, navigating my face closer. “Mami...” he tried, a question in that endearment I thought he might want me to answer.

I didn’t.

Jamie was light, the swirl of brightness that had shaken loose all the dark gray that made up the life I led with my mother in our two-bedroom rented Queen Anne. Until he’d come along there had only ever been books and libraries and Women’s Studies lectures up in Indy, where my mom loved dragging me once a month. Jamie brought in color, music and sound and laughter, so much laughter that sometimes I couldn’t remember what my life had been before he moved to Willow Heights.

All that time, probably even since that first note-passing introduction, I’d wanted him. Now he inclined, moved inch by inch closer toward eradicating everything we had resembling a platonic friendship.

He stopped short, left the smallest space between our mouths, both hands now holding my face still, damp forehead against mine as he made his decision—like he wondered if I’d stop him.

I tilted my chin, moving closer, laying the smallest brush of my mouth against his. He tasted of the peppermints he liked to lift from the fishbowl on his uncle’s front counter and something else I couldn’t place. Both scents left me a little drunk, a little desperate and I chased the sensation running through my veins. I wanted him. It was a compulsion I’d never felt before; something that worked up fear right along with thrill.

“Jamie.” It was the last sound I heard as we came together, soft, sweet, barely a brush of our lips before the record went silent and Hector fired off a litany of fierce Spanish cursing that had Jamie jerking away from me in his mad tumble to leave the floor and pretend as though we hadn’t just been close to something we might regret.

I caught the loud chants of “pendejo” and “cabrón,” as Jamie’s uncle went on fussing, all insults I knew he didn’t mean.

“I’ll see you later,” I told Jamie when the old man pushed his nephew toward the front of the store, shoving a broom against his chest.

“Wait,” he called when I was nearly to the door. Jamie tilted his head, tugging on my jacket before I had it over my shoulders. He shot a quick glance at his glaring uncle, lowering his voice when he spoke again. “That was...”

“Yeah,” I supplied, uncommonly shy with him.

He tried, I could tell, to keep himself from smiling too broadly, but his mouth was wide, lips trembling as he fought for some semblance of cool. “So tonight...”

“Tonight is...well.” I shook my head, remembering things aside from how soft Jamie’s mouth felt and how warm his fingers had been on my face. “Today...oh.” I only just remembered, shrugging when he moved his eyebrows up, as though he expected me to explain myself. “Today is my...”

“Birthday.” That wide smile stretched farther, broke out into a gesture he didn’t fight and he stepped closer, earning a low mutter from Hector as he fiddled with a stack of CDs behind the counter. “You think I forgot? Eighteen is a big deal.”

“Well, you didn’t say anything...”

“I wanted to surprise you.” Hector cleared his throat, stopping his nephew before he could elaborate. After another quick glance behind him, this time with an added wave of his hand, and Jamie’s attention was mine again. “Tonight, after your mom does the pie...” one dimple deepened when I lifted my eyebrows, telling him with one look that I was impressed he’d remembered the tradition my mom and I had for cake-less birthdays. She could work pudding and store-bought pie crusts, but not flour and mixers. “Maybe I can drop by. Give you the present I’ve been working on for you.”

Curiosity had me stepping toward him. “Working on it as in...”

“As in, you’ll see.” He started to advance, and I laughed at the frown that tightened his mouth when I stepped back. “Where are you going?”

“I need to walk away now.” Hand already on the doorknob, I shrugged, not sure why I felt like laughing. “If I don’t...well I’m not sure what I’ll do.”

“Promise or threat?”

Another shrug and I opened the door, taking two steps over the threshold before I stopped and looked back at him. “That kiss?” He grinned, the only answer he’d give me. “Was that planned?”

He waited, moving his lips together in another half-hearted attempt to keep from smiling too broadly, but then Jamie grinned, lowering his voice to something that had my stomach twisting pleasantly. He took a step, dropping the humor, but not his grin.

“Only for about four years.”

“Oh.” It was stupid to feel nervous, shy around him. Jamie Vega knew more about me than anyone, except maybe my mom. He was my friend, closer than a brother. But just then, I didn’t see him as my brother. I only saw the honesty and raw emotion at his admission. It made every wild daydream I’d ever had about him seem boring and stupid. But, I couldn’t quite get my mouth to work or remind myself that this was Jamie. My friend. Jamie, who I desperately wanted to try to kiss me again. “Well...” I finally said, unable to look at him for too long.

“You liked it?” I nodded, and Jamie stepped closer, bolder than I’d ever seen him, he grabbed my hand and held it. “You...” He cleared his throat, looking shy and self-conscience. “You wanna do it again?”

His smile was hopeful, easy, reminded me of all the times he teased me, all the times we laughed together in my mom’s Blazer.

“Would that be my present?”

He relaxed his features, mouth easy. “Maybe.” The fight to suppress his smile died, but his eyes were sharp, piercing, as though he wanted me to see something he couldn’t say with his uncle watching us like a prison guard.

Jamie moved his lips together again, breath held as though he waited for me to speak, but the fierce glint in his eyes did not dim. I nodded, stepping out of the shop. The wind kicked up, whipping my hair into my mouth, but I still smiled, shooting a glance at him, before I turned, tossing an invite over my shoulder. 

“Be there at ten. Tap my window as usual.”

I didn’t catch his expression, was in too much of a hurry to leave the shop and see his reaction. But as the old door creaked to close, I heard Jamie’s laughter and spotted the shadow of his fist punching the air as he shouted, “It’s a date.”  

“DO YOU LIKE IT?”

“Of course I do.” The chain was pure silver. I’d played with it for as long as I could remember when she kept it on her nightstand. It stayed there forgotten most days, because my mother only remembered to wear it on my birthday or the middle of June. She never mentioned why. Now she gave it to me. The charm was different, a dragonfly, tuzueca, as she always called me. “Are you sure you want me to have it?”

There were remnants of chocolate pie on her plate and the fluffy glob of meringue around the crumbs she’d left on the edge. “You’re my only daughter. My huku gave that to me on my eighteenth birthday, just before I left for Purdue.”

A shadow moved across her face, and my mother’s forehead became a map of furrowed worry. Her mother had died the summer after she’d left for college, but I didn’t think it was that memory that had forced the smile from her features. Her face was mostly smooth; that came from genetics and the organic diet she’d forced upon us ten years before. My mother never ate sugar or touched caffeine, with the smallest indulgences for special occasions—like my eighteenth birthday. 

“Why do you do that?” I asked her, slipping my hand next to hers on the table. A small brush of my fingers across her knuckles, and my mother stopped drumming the table. She glanced at me, eyebrows raised in question. “Anytime you mention college, you get all sullen and sad.”

“That’s your imagination.” She deflected, like she always did, hurrying to clear the table in attempt, I guessed, to avoid this conversation. We’d been having it my entire life.

She stood at the sink, washing clean the plates from dinner and the bowls she’d used for the pie. The sink, like the rest of the house was old; relics from the 40’s. The white porcelain stretched across the counter, taking up at least two feet. The cabinets were a muted Army green nestled snuggly into rich butcher block countertops. Overall, the small cottage had an earthy, homey feel, mostly because my mother kept it immaculate and filled with varying varieties of herbs and plants. There was always lavender in a pot on the large windowsill and something cooling on the grated rack near the stove.

“Fondness,” she’d always say, “comes from routine.” She meant the traditions we kept—canning our own vegetable and drying our own herbs, and leaving a plate of food out on the back porch as a mark of gratitude to the spirits. Traditions she kept and honored. Memory and disclosures were another story. Mom was never good at recalling the past. Not to me at least, no matter how much I’d pushed her toward it.

Slipping off the glittered birthday crown she’d given me, I tossed it on the table, before I brought the empty glasses to the sink, and Mom moved over, making room. “Is it...was it because you didn’t finish?” I asked, recalling the forlorn look that had taken over her expressions when she remembered Purdue. 

She stopped washing, straightening her shoulders when I looked at her, and I hurried to ease the tension that had made her bearing stiff.

“Because you can go back. Single woman, lower middle class? Plenty of grants and such. And there’s online classes you can take.” She glanced at me, twitch moving her bottom lip. “University of Something.” I relaxed a little when she continued washing. “I bet you can get those clown lessons you’ve always wanted.” Now she didn’t hide her smile at all, snorting when I did mimicked a Farmer Brown style dance, feet kicked up, side to side. “You can call yourself Penny Wiser.”

“You’re being silly...”

I stepped behind her, hugging her waist, cheek against her back as she continued with the dishes. “Thank you for my present, Ina. I love it.”

She dripped water against my hand when she touched it, squeezing my fingers, I knew, because she liked when I used Lakota words. Maybe it made her feel like I wasn’t a completely hopeless case; maybe it made her believe I did pay attention when she tried to teach me.

“There was new snow on the ground that morning.” I smiled against her back, closing my eyes as she spoke. I’d heard the story a thousand times, but I never got bored of the way she told it. “My car was broken, worthless thing that it was.”

Her tone soft, but she lifted her chin, like she always did and went on speaking, recalling how she’d walked two miles in the snow to get to the hospital.

“They asked for my card before even looking at me. Like I wasn’t there at all. Another face. Another body.” Then she cursed, still irritated by the system, how it treated the sick and dying, before she went on. “I took no medicine.”

I let her talk, returning to the table to sit and watch her. She was so animated, her features so expressive when she told that story. Sharp, high cheekbones against a smooth face, my mother’s barely graying hair, down to her waist, waved against her back when she spoke. Every emotion—pain, anger, then finally joy and elation—came across as she talked about the day I was born.

Then she recalled the last part of the story. The part she never really explained. “They asked if you had a father.” Her movements slowed as she finished the last dish, drying the metal pot with a damp towel. My mother went on looking out the window, her narrow, dark eyes glinting in the moonlight outside. “I told that white lady, ‘I am her father and mother. That’s all she needs.’”

She had been. My whole life. There had been a husband, I knew that. The man who made me, but he was gone now. “Lost.” That’s all she ever said, but sometimes, when she drank whiskey, when she stayed on her phone talking to her cousin for hours, drinking until the whole house smelled of Johnnie Walker, I’d catch her memories. Then I’d see her tears.

“Stupid man,” she’d say. “Stupid, beautiful man.”

My mother blinked, folding the towel over the sink to dry and offered me a slow smile. “You should be out with your friends tonight.”

“Ina, you know Jamie is my only friend.”

The muscle around her mouth tightened and she crossed her arms, rubbing her nails over her triceps. “Hmm...”

“Don’t start, okay. It’s not...” I couldn’t lie to her. She’d see right through me. Instead, I tried deflection—I’d learned it at her feet. “Nothing is going to happen with me and Jamie.” She didn’t have to push. My mother didn’t have to pry. She had a way of narrowing her small, dark eyes, of pursing her full lips that would leave me nervous, anxious. The steel in that look would have me confessing inside two minutes like a man heading for the gallows.

When she went on staring, gaze sharp, appraising, and I could not take the flood of heat working up my neck. I gave up, waving my hand just to get her to stop staring at me. “Fine,” I said, breath rushed. “I like him. He likes me. We like each other...”

“This is not new information, Iris.”

“Ina...”

She paused, head tilted, squinting as she watched me. “Did something change?”

I busied myself with the newspaper on the kitchen table; stacking it together, pushing in the chairs under the table as I mumbled and tried my best to seem flippant. “It was just a kiss...nothing that, you know...”

A quick glance and my mother exhaled, shoulders lowering. “What did I say about distractions?”

“Jamie isn’t a distraction.”

“Oh, I think he is.” She stood in front of me, brushing back the long hair from my shoulder. “Even if you don’t see it, I do. For a long time, tuzueca.

“It was just one kiss.”

“The first one counts the most.” She hugged me then, staring a little longer than normal as she held my face. “Almost as much as the last.”

I wanted to ask her what scared her so much about me and Jamie. Had it been the same thing, the same type of decisions that put the sad, morose look on her face anytime Purdue was mentioned? Was it just her fear that I might give up all the things I wanted for myself for whatever was happening with Jamie? I meant to ask her, just then, but there was a strike outside the window, a sound I knew too well, low and harmless. Jamie was polite, kind to my mother, but he knew to keep his distance. Everyone did. Kimímela Daine wasn’t friendly. She didn’t like strangers and to her, everyone but me was a stranger.

Another rock sounded against the thick-paned window, and my mother nodded toward it, stepping away from me. “Make good choices. Today lasts a long, long time.”

She left the kitchen soundlessly, disappearing into the darkness of the hallway as I moved toward the back door. The snap of wind rustled the thin curtain that covered the door window when I opened it, and I pulled my sweater tight around my waist, staring out onto the driveway as Jamie bent to pick up another rock from the ground.

“Hey,” I called, smiling when he jumped, surprised that I stopped him before he threw the small rock up at my bedroom window again.

“Mierda,” he said, palm against his chest. Jamie brushed his foot around the guitar case at his feet and straightened, head shaking. “You scared me.” He moved his chin up, looking behind me. “Is this okay? She still up?” He walked forward, stopping just in front of me with his attention over the top of my head and into the kitchen behind me. “I don’t want to piss her off being here...”

“It’s fine,” I told him, opening the door wide enough for him to come inside. “She just went to bed, and she knows you’re here.”

He took a half a second to stare down at me as though he expected me to laugh, tell him I was joking, but when I only shrugged, he came inside, carrying the guitar case with him.

“Back porch?” I asked, leading him out of the kitchen and through the mudroom when he nodded.

The air had turned colder, and it felt like snow was looming. It made me wish for spring and the heat of the sun on my skin. Jamie and I always went to Brighten Park in the spring, usually to listen to whatever new music Hawthorne released, sometimes just to revisit the songs that we’d committed to memory.

Last spring, I laid next to Jamie on a blanket, our heads leaning together, sharing a set of ear buds so we both heard Lay Me Down, a solo track Lager released for some new Clooney flick. But I hadn’t thought about Clooney or Lager that day. The only thing that consumed me was the look on Jamie’s face as we listened, how he grabbed my hand and pressed my palm against his.

“You’re my family, florecita. You’re my home.” And right there on that patch of grassy ground, listening to the voice that had always connected us, I fell helplessly for my best friend. Now I was overboard, drowning in Jamie and he had no idea.

We walked outside, onto the porch and I looked up, watching the sky. There was a stillness in the night, like the world held its breath until the flurry of wetness crystalized and set around us. But my mother had thought ahead when she rented this place. There was a makeshift chimney at the base of the porch, with a row of steep steps that led down onto the small stone patio beyond the porch. Jamie and I sat on the ledge, our feet resting on the brick that made up the lower layer of the pit, a fire already roaring from when my mother and I had shared a nearly empty bottle of wine.

“Good pie?” he asked, pulling his guitar from its case. It was an acoustic Gibson with a horribly worn fret board, likely older than the pair of us put together. Jamie had saved his paycheck for over six months to pay for it, and it went everywhere he did. 

“Great pie.”

I didn’t know what to make of the quietness that fell between us. It wasn’t awkward, sitting there, listening to him strum random notes together. We’d done that a thousand times before. But when Jamie started humming, that deep, rich voice like something out of a grimoire, magical and wicked, old, timeless, the silence grew heavy. It felt different—a prelude to something unfamiliar but sweetly anticipated.

There was no preamble. The best songs get their point across without any explanation.

“Happy birthday, florecita,” Jamie said, then leaned back against the column holding up the porch roof and looked right at me as he sang.

She’s rushing forward

Out of control

Reaching for something too hard to hold

He owned the music. There was something ethereal about what happened to Jamie when he sang; like the words and melody were just things he used, elements he crafted to put form and function to beauty. I was frozen, caught in his spell as his focus grew sharp, as his attention remained on me and he worked each note, each line like a weapon, making my chest feel tight and my eyes burn.

She has a hold on me

Has all the power

What I wouldn’t give her

What I wouldn’t do

To be loved by that sweet little flower

There may have been other words. There was probably a chorus, but I didn’t hear anything. Just Jamie. Just that voice, the sweetest sound. That spell was heady, controlling, and I felt something weighted take root in my stomach as he continued to play.

He looked beautiful then, with the moonlight dripping over his dark skin and the hint of stubble inching around his face. The facial hair made him look older, his baby face hidden beneath that dark stubble.

What I wouldn’t give her

What I wouldn’t do

To get lost in that scent

Clear thought all a blur

Without her I’m in pain

Smallest touch, it’s never enough

Addicted to my sweet Iris Daine

When I went on staring after the last vibration from the strings went still, Jamie set his guitar down, keeping his gaze focused on my face, likely looking for the smallest shift in my expression.

There was none. The only thing I was sure was moving my features was utter shock and disbelief, maybe a bit of overwhelming pride.

His guitar leaning against the porch, Jamie sat forward, raking his top teeth over his bottom lip as he watched me. He kept still, silent, but his focus on my face sharpened, and I caught sight of blazing fire that came from his dark eyes.

Finally, when I couldn’t take the silence, when he kept staring, I exhaled, somehow managing to think of words and how they’re meant to move together to make sentences.

“No one has ever...” I stopped talking to clear away the thickness in my throat. I wished Jamie would speak. I wished he’d say something that would get me thinking coherent thoughts again. The only thing that came to me was, “Did...did you mean it?”

The smallest shift of his eyes, right at my mouth, and Jamie offered me a slow nod.

“Okay...”

We’d barely kissed. We’d never discussed anything remotely close to a relationship that didn’t include Dutch-treat movies on Friday nights in Indy and Saturdays in the bleachers laughing at the blond horde that liked to run around trying to kill each other on the football field.

This, though? This was new. It was exciting. It was a little overwhelming. My tongue got twisted again, and I only managed to stare, taking in the way he kept watching. We’d ended up here alone, four years of looks, mild flirtation hidden behind long talks, precious hopes that we could only share between each other. Those four years pulsed between us like energy, drawing us close, making the cooling temperatures seem mild.

Jamie’s face hid nothing. I suspected mine didn’t either. I’d wanted him for a long time. Now he was there, waiting to be taken, but I couldn’t move.

We sat there for a long time just waiting, watching. My heart thundered in my throat and, despite the frigid air around us, I started to sweat.

Jamie, though was cool, settled. If he was nervous, if he was anxious, I couldn’t tell. 

Over head the night was black. The only disturbance of all that darkness was the wafting smoking moving above us from the fire pit. I licked my lips, inhaling to catch the whiff of fire and burning logs. The only thing Jamie moved was his gaze, then the smallest twitch vibrated against the corner of his mouth. Then, he leaned forward, offering me his hand. Right there. So easy. Entirely mine after so many lost attempts. I rested my palm in his hand, and he closed his fingers around mine.

“Come here, mami.”

He’d called me that a million times before; in class, in the hallway, when he laughed with me, when I was consumed with worry over my GPA or SAT scores. Somehow now, that tone, thick like bourbon, made it sound sensual and primal.

He didn’t have to ask twice.

He pulled me close, right next to him, sliding his hands to my shoulder, threading his fingers through my hair at the back of my head. He felt warm and his skin smelled like wood smoke and peppermints.

I thought he’d kiss me fast; some desperate, movement that would leave me panting and eager. But Jamie wasn’t one to rush a thing. He liked slow. He liked to think things through. Kissing me was no exception.

“I can’t get in a hurry.” His thumbs felt smooth against my cheeks when he held my face. Jamie’s eyes were darker somehow, his focus sharper and he didn’t smile as he finished. “I want you. You drive me loco.” Breath across my face, he inhaled like it took effort not to take what he wanted. “You listen like no one else does. You never stop surprising me. There ain’t no one like you, belleza. And I’ve watched you, wanted you a long damn time. But you matter to me. You matter a lot. I can get over wanting you if you don’t feel the same. Florecita, I can’t lose you.”

Jamie’s hands shook against my face, and I held his wrist, settling the movement as I looked up at him. “You won’t.”

“It’s not...it’s not simple for us. I’ve waited and wanted because this...our friendship? Merida, it’s the most important thing to me in the world. But, kissing you, it was like finding home.” He inhaled, swallowing so thickly that I heard the sound. “You found me, and I didn’t know I was lost. I...I don’t want to date you and see if this will work out.” He kissed my forehead, smiling against my skin. “I already know it will. I don’t need months to find out your favorite ice cream or to see if we like the same music. That’s all filed inside my head.”

“So, you’re saying...”

He pulled back, but didn’t move his hand from my face. Jamie licked his lips, gaze flicking between my mouth and eyes. “I’m saying I don’t want you telling any of the pendejos you don’t think I’m seeing anyone. From this second on, I am. Quiero que seas mía. Always. And you... you’re...”

“Jamie” I said, covering his mouth with my hand. “You had me at day one. I was yours from that Zeppelin note.”

There was the smallest twist of his lips against my palms and he kissed my hand, pulling it away from his mouth. “I wanted to kiss you that night at the creek, last year.” Jamie moved closer, tugging on my leg until it draped over his thigh. He moved his fingertips over my cheek, tracing the bone that stretched up to my brow. It was a simple gesture, slow and sweet, and a look glinted in his eyes, something that made me think he could go on touching me, finding things he’d never noticed about my features because he’d never been this close before. 

“I know you did.” As he touched me, I stretched my thumb over his long fingers; he had beautiful hands, a musician’s hands with thick veins covering the tops and clean, trim nail beds. I even found the small callouses on the fingertips an enticement. It took a lot of control to keep those long fingers from my mouth. I inched closer, arching my neck when Jamie kissed along the curve, to just below my ear, making me shudder and grab his shoulders. “I...I wanted to kiss you, too.”

“You can now.” Jamie’s voice dropped several octaves and he watched me straighten, watched as I breathed in, touching his face, the bottom of his mouth, debating how to do this. I’d kissed boys before, but no one like Jamie. There had been nights I’d planned this in my mind, analyzed how to best approach his luscious mouth, how to kiss him so fully that he’d be left weak-kneed and panting. In the end, all my plans went right out the window. I bit the inside of my cheek and swallowed hard, a little shocked, a lot breathless when Jamie grabbed my face, moving toward my mouth with excruciating slowness. The last thought I had was that he must have had coffee with cinnamon and then, he pulled me close, mouth against mouth, and kissed me thoroughly.

My body felt electrified, like a bundle of raw nerves collected on my skin, in all the places Jamie touched as he kissed me—the curve of my neck, the shell of my collarbone. Everything felt exposed and I loved the sensation it stirred in me. I loved how Jamie responded to the soft sounds that came from my throat when he slipped his tongue against my bottom lip.

I took the invitation he offered, leaning to straddle his lap as our mouths opened, and I felt the tremor working in our limbs. We both shook, both grew breathless as the kiss deepened.

It wasn’t uncommon to forget yourself. It happens all the time. When you want something so long, the thing you’ve dreamt of, the solitary thing that has consumed your free thoughts, and it finally comes to you? It’s easy to forget were the line between fantasy and reality blurs.

Jamie Vega had been my best friend. He’d been my constant dream and right there on my mother’s back porch, with the fire in the chimney flickering bright, I forgot I wasn’t supposed to want him so badly, so quickly.

“Mami,” he whispered when I moved against him, legs trembling and the sweet, hot throb of pressure pulsing between my thighs. He seemed to be conflicted—Jamie gripped my hair, moving my head back to lick a path up my neck, then pulled away, breath heavy, head shaking. “Ah...what are you doing to me?” he said when I tugged on his ear, fevered and dazed. But Jamie knew what I was doing to him. It was the same thing he did to me.

“I can’t...stop...”

It was honest. It was raw and for a few minutes I let myself indulge in the taste and touch of him. Jamie took over, holding onto my back, securing my legs around his waist as he moved us to the cold brick in front of the fire. It was warmer there, even with Jamie discarding his jacket for me to lay on. Not once did he stop kissing me. Not once did I think about asking him to.

“This...ay Dios mío, we have to...” but whatever Jamie thought we should do got lost between the feel of our bodies moving together and the desperate, greedy give and take of our mouths and fingers and eager touches.

We went on that way for a while, minutes, days, I couldn’t be sure. There was only sensation—the feel of Jamie’s mouth hot and wet against my neck, to the cleft of my breast; his nose rubbing against mine, his palm heavy and grabbing my hip.

Then he moved my legs apart, something done quick, likely without thought as the moment escalated and heat and fire took over sense and reason. When the heavy weight of his dick throbbed sharp and quick against me, we both froze.

His breath puffed into the frigid night air as he stared down at me with a stricken look of worry and fear darkening his eyes. We’d gotten too carried away, too quickly. Too overcome by finally having what we wanted.

I couldn’t take the anxiety on his features, the tightened muscle around his mouth pulling at his lips and so I hurried to calm him, the smallest graze of my fingers against his temple.

“I’m sorry...” he started.

“Don’t be.” I took a breath, eyes closed as I released it and then watched him again. “Don’t ever be sorry for wanting me. I like the way you want me.”

“It’s not going to stop. I promise.”

And for a long time, I believed him.

CHAPTER THREE

Maria Vega had been twenty when she died. I read about it, hated that I had. When I knew her, Maria was the knobby-kneed cousin who always irritated Jamie on Thanksgiving and Christmas breaks. She’d liked the snow, she’d confessed to me once, because Arizona was so hot. She didn’t like the sandy desert near the home she shared with her mother or that the yards were covered in gravel and rock. Those breaks were her favorites because she preferred the cold to the heat and because her father, Jamie’s uncle Hector, let her have everything she wanted, eager to compete with the spoiled way his ex-wife treated the girl.

Maybe it was the tug of war between her parents that led Maria down the wrong path. Maybe it was that Jamie had changed once he left Indiana behind; he forgot about his family and them needing him. I’d read that he lived in the studio, a habit that hadn’t changed in the ten years since he became a success. Whatever the reason, Maria got lost in the tide of neglect. Hector died when she was sixteen, and her mother remarried, had other children that didn’t remind the woman of the mistake she left behind in Willow Heights.

Maria grew up skirting the line between excess and need. By the time the tabloid Blotter reporter had her spying on Jamie, for an in-depth view on the evasive Dash Justice, Maria was too thin, too broke, and too hooked on H to understand what a betrayal it was to expose her cousin. Fifteen hundred bucks was the price she got for ending her life and any faith Dash had in the media. 

Attention was a drug worse than the poison she shot into her veins. Maria overdosed and Dash, from what I’d heard, laid the blame entirely at the media’s feet. “Parasites,” he’d called them.

I was one of them.

Maria’s OD and the hidden camera she wore around Dash—the one that depicted him drinking too much whiskey, smoking too much weed, and entertaining too many young girls, was a disaster that frequently got echoed any time reporters mentioned Dash’s refusal to ever do interviews. A Dash Justice interview was the unicorn everyone wanted, but no one could get. It was also that very interview I promised Joan Wein, the editor of Stage Dive, I’d land after I left Bessie’s office. I had to do something. 

“They’ll bury us in delays and appeals,” Bessie had told me, leaning back in her office chair to reach for a bottle of Jack she hid in the bottom drawer of her desk. “I know Nathan. He’ll convince Dash to countersue and any other damn billable conniving ace-up-the-sleeve he can think of. We’re not gonna win this one, Iris.”

“He ruined my reputation!” My voice had gotten loud, a fact made apparent when I glanced through Bessie’s window looking out over the lobby and two secretaries stopped to stare at me. I waved them off, a weak apology. “Amelia won’t even use the report I did in Paris now and that story is trending. She said they’d be the laughing stock if ‘Iris Daine’ got mentioned, even though my report was one of the firsts.”

“Didn’t you say you met with Lager?”

I nodded, not comfortable with the look Bessie gave me. “Before you make suggestions, I told you, that was off the record.”

“Let me think,” she’d offered, drumming her long, red nails against the class top of her desk. But I didn’t need my lawyer imagining loopholes and Hail Mary plays that would have me paying Dash Justice back for calling me a whore on the air waves. I had my own means, and I intended to use them.

Two days later, I sported black skinny jeans that I could barely breathe in, a black motorcycle jacket, three-inch heel boots and a gray lace tank and stood next to Daisy Duke, the groupie. That was a stage name according to her, though the piece I’d written four years back on the road life of rock stars had showed me exactly how Daisy liked to perform. Technically, I hadn’t seen the performance, but Grant Ennis, The Plebes fill-in bass player certainly seemed to enjoy the show. He screamed and moaned loud enough to rattle the windows on their tour bus.

“So, Dash is a little strict with his crew, but I’ve been doing his tour manager, Blake for ages so I can always get in.” Daisy flipped her head over, rustling her long nails into her curls before she righted herself, fluffing out the ends before she led me to the loading dock at the back of the venue. There was already a line of groupies flirting with two security guards, one of which was waving a backstage pass at a girl who didn’t quite fill out the red leather bustier she wore.

We approached the small crowd of women, none of whom paid attention to us, until Daisy walked through them, barging toward the front of the line with a death grip on my wrist. I’d promised her four hundred bucks if she got me in to see Dash, and by the look of her scuffed boots and pinned-together skirt, I figured she could use the money.

There was a press pass in my back pocket, but with me being something of a joke in the industry, thanks to Dash’s stupid song, I knew it would be pointless trying to use it. Wein hadn’t given me approval for the Justice interview. She didn’t believe I could land it, that much I could tell from how quickly she dismissed me. But she’d take an excerpt, so I was on my own getting in and funding this trip to New York.

“That’s her?” I heard behind me and jerked my attention at a redhead with purple eyelashes. Her teeth were yellow, but she had a pretty face; young, a lot younger than me from what I could tell. She spoke behind her hand to her friend, elbowing the blonde while they both looked away from me as though just my attention would somehow bar them from getting through those doors.

“Daisy,” the taller bodyguard called, waving my companion through the red rope behind him. I warranted a once over, then a shrug, but not more than that. Daisy brushed a kiss on the man’s lips in thanks and we went through. The dismissal was understandable. Though my jeans were tight and the jacket certainly made me look like I belonged backstage, I wasn’t dressed like Daisy or her ilk.

“You know,” she confessed, weaving through the thick crowd as we approached the backstage. “I wasn’t sure you’d get in with me.” She looked over her shoulder, giving me a glance before she marched ahead, chin in a lift. She navigated the hallways like she owned the place and demanded a few impressed grins from the crew and stragglers that passed us. “You dress like you’re in the band. Like you aren’t interested in...” Daisy waved a head, leaving the rest of her sentence unspoken.

“Well, I’m definitely not interested in the...extracurricular activities,” I told her, catching up when we got separated by a roadie pushing a rack of clothes through the small corridor.

“Oh, I like that. Extracurricular.” She snorted, smiling so broadly that two roadies stopped to watch her. “Well, you’ll do, I suppose.” She stopped just in front of the stairs leading to the main stage. To the left, Blake Lewis, Dash’s tour manager, stood thumbing through his phone while a harried-looking balding guy barked orders at the crew around him. Daisy caught Blake, her wide smile growing eager and lethal, reminding me of a lion who just spotted a gazelle.

“Give me five minutes and I’ll have two backstage passes.” She adjusted her skirt and pulled up her boobs in a weird, one-handed cup and lift maneuver that impressed me before she walked straight for Blake.

The bald guy next to Lewis rolled his eyes when Daisy approached, ignoring her to glance at me, frowning. The man was overweight and looked like the sort who always itched for a worry; as though he wasn’t content unless something had him anxious. I stood there, arms folded, staring up at the stage as Dash wailed on the mic. In my peripheral the bald man continued to gawk like he knew me, or at least recognized me, until I dug the press page from my pocket and waved it in his direction. After that, I was left on my own while the man went off to worry someone else and Daisy followed Blake into a closet down the hallway.

The music was loud, thumping and I recognized “Love Is a Vampire,” one of Dash’s earlier tracks that had done well from him. The stairs were clear and I took them, coming to the side of the stage behind a thick curtain, near a collection of speakers. He couldn’t see me because of the risers to my right, but I had a perfect view of him.

Despite the heavy make-up—white face paint, black eyes smeared down his cheek, to the jet black paint over his mouth, he hadn’t changed much. Shock rock. That’s what he liked to be called. There was a lot of glitz and glam in his shows, of the macabre variety. There were pentagrams and weird alters around the stage and near the speakers, and a mock graveyard erected around every free space not directly in line with the stage front. Above the speakers and behind the drum kit, flames and ridiculous pyrotechnics arched and stretched fifty feet in the air, burning so bright it lit up the entire arena. I felt the heat from those flames and the quick whip of air that fanned my hair off my shoulders when they shot up.

Showmanship. Theatrics. Distraction—all things Dash Justice didn’t need. All things Jamie Vega would have never considered using in his shows ten years ago. Under all that noise and fanfare, there was still that low, whiskey-soaked voice and the magic in his words. This one was an older song, something he’d done when he first started out. Something that was wildly different from his new releases. Those, the record company seemed to want simple, shocking and rocking to the top of the charts. But even as he sang, I caught something of the boy I knew in the rocker on the stage.

Through the make-up, I saw he had the same pout overtaking his wide mouth. Eyes dark, though they were hooded and hidden behind his long bangs. The jaw was still sharp and angular, his eyebrows unchanged but his body was wider, more muscular and the cut definition of his stomach when he stretched his arms out and his black T-shirt exposed his abdomen, was more pronounced, sharper than they had been when I knew him.

That bastard was still so beautiful.

Just for a second I let myself watch him, pushing back the irritation and humiliation I felt. He’d taken my reputation, something I’d worked hard to build, and destroyed it with a few biting lines. Dash Justice had no right to hate me. Jamie Vega, though...well. I didn’t ever expect to earn his forgiveness.

The music changed, and he took a breath. From my vantage point, I saw him turn, wipe his face dry with a towel, smearing more of the make-up, then a slow exhale he released that looked like exhaustion. It wouldn’t be unusual to be worn after such a high energy show, but I’d known his expressions. I’d known his features and what a shift in his mood looked like. That was the man irritated, completely ready to walk away. I shouldn’t notice. I damn sure shouldn’t care, but I seemed unable to help myself from worrying.

Isaiah, his cousin, backed away from the front of the stage, still playing on the bass, and I managed to catch the quick question he asked Dash. “You cool?” There was a moment when Dash looked decidedly not cool, but he downed a bottle of water, threw it on stage and gave his cousin a nod.

“I’m straight, pai.” And then they were off again, lost in the music, in the screams and energy of the crowd.

The music went on for another half hour, coupled with the wild hysterics of the crowd when Dash called for their roars and fed their mania with his theatrics. When he took to spraying the crowd with red paint, meant to emulate blood, I left the stage, spotting Daisy and a pleased-looking Blake leaning against the wall next to the stairs.

“There you are,” she said, offering me a yellow pass connected to a lanyard. “Blake, baby, this is my friend...”

“Carrie,” I offered, sticking out my hand.

“Hmm.” The man watched me close, eyes narrowing as he examined me but I turned away, pulling the pass over my head. “Carrie what?” I heard behind me, but Blake seemed immediately uninterested in an answer when Daisy whispered something in his ear, distracting him.

“They’re almost done?” I asked, still watching the stage.

“Last song, yeah.” Blake tugged Daisy toward him, arm around her shoulders and they stepped in front of me, watching as the bodyguards and five roadies with flashlights lined up near the stage. “The boys will lead the band off the stage and into the dressing room. That’s where they’ll chill for a minute and then we can all go party with them. Twenty minutes.” He turned, looking behind Daisy to watch me. “First time at a show?” He looked over my body, appraising, then smiling as his eyes lingered on my breasts. “First time backstage?”

“Something like that.”

The last chord sounded and the crowd roared, their voices like a chorus I’d never heard before. The crew stood watch, then quickly shot to the stage and I stepped back, toward the hallway not lit with fluorescent light.

“Is there a bathroom down here?” I asked Blake, stepping back when the rumble of feet sounded as the band descended the stairs.

“Yeah. Two doors down.” He wasn’t paying attention to me, and I was glad to be ignored. Daisy, though glanced my way, shrugging when I waved her off. I didn’t want to be spotted, not just yet.

The lights went up in the auditorium and as Dash made his way toward us, I slipped into down the hall, needing a reprieve from the crowd and the sudden chanted they’d started. I tried to tell myself it was white noise, but didn’t quite pull it off. Blake whispered something in Daisy’s ear, then patted her ass as he joined the band walking away from the stage.

Seeing him live, seeing that performance had done something to me; something I couldn’t quite understand. Ten years was a long time. I’d told myself what I’d done had been for the best. It was what he needed. But his behavior had made any happy memories with Jamie seem stupid and naive. I didn’t trust them anymore.

CHAPTER FOUR

This must be what a party in hell looked like. In this business you hear rumors—most you disregard as something akin to an urban legend. But a Dash Justice meet-and-greet? Those weren’t exaggerated.

Around the room, bodies lounged on cushions and sofas that lined the walls. There were areas sectioned off by curtains, thick, lush blankets topped one after another and covering them? More bodies. I recognized a few of Dash’s band mates, some casually relaxing on couches or plush tufted chairs; some near the thick wood table covered with liquor bottles and very little food.

Daisy walked ahead of me, shooting glares over her shoulder that I suspected she thought I deserved for lingering too long in the bathroom. She disappeared into the crowd, my four hundred tucked in her cleavage and I ignored her, turning toward the largest sofa in the center of the room and the small group that lingered around it. I said a small prayer of thanks that Dash wasn’t among the crowd. Like half an hour before, I still wasn’t ready to see him, which was why I’d shot away from the band as they left the stage. The moment to see Dash had come too quickly, and I needed to find some air, a brief moment, to control my nervousness and the biting anger that caught hold of me when the band exited, and the speakers blasted Dash’s new release—the one that promised I was a whore.

“1221,” the crowd had started to chant, and I hurried my steps down the hall and into the small bathroom at the end of it. It was a stupid name for a song, but one I immediately got. The date had been significant, and I’d bet Dash knew it would sting me the most. That music, those words, and the high-pitched laughter demolished the memories that caught in my mind and any lingering sense of nostalgia I might have felt watching Dash and Isaiah on the stage.

I spotted the latter of the two talking to Russ Reynolds, a beat reporter for the Village Voice, and a syndicated disc jockey called Rowdy Ricky. He scrubbed white and black stage paint from his face as both DJs shoved small recorders in front of Isaiah. He was in mid-explanation over why they’d ended their set singing an old Hawthorn record.

“Dash was in his feelings, and he has a soft spot for Lager.”

He did. I knew that.

I wondered if that soft spot would stick if Dash knew what Lager had talked about that night in Paris. Waxing on about Rita and him leaving Hawthorne hadn’t been the only drunken monologue he gave.

Isaiah shifted against the leather sofa, his skin glistening in the dull light overhead and I stared longer, examined the differences I spotted in him. He hadn’t changed much in the past ten years. Though the last time I’d seen that frat boy-looking face, so different from his cousin’s, it had been bloody and bruised, the full lip throbbing and split. Isaiah was a Vega, but he looked more like his gringa mother than the Boricua father, who’d left him with Jamie’s mother when Isaiah was only ten. Isaiah’s father landed in prison, was likely still there, and Ms. Vega got left with the responsibility of raising the boys together. They’d weathered the mania of life in that house together, and Jamie had always talked about Isaiah as though they were brothers, not cousins. 

Isaiah’s face was square, the chin sharp, and his skin was light, not dark like Jamie’s or the rest of the Vega family I’d once known. But Isaiah had the name his mother had given him and her eyes, hazel, nearly green. When I knew him, he had an effortless smile and easy laugh, but that had been a lifetime ago. Now he seemed guarded, if not unfriendly. The smile was changed, as though he was wary of whatever the reporters asked him.

He went on talking, playing to the two men in front of him, flicking ash from a Marlboro into a tray at his side. I thought of Isaiah all those years ago, convincing me what I did was for the best. Promising me I wouldn’t regret it.

I had, almost immediately.

Two girls with halter tops and skirts so short the curve of their asses peeked from the hem when they moved, walked in front of me, pulling Isaiah’s attention from the reporters for half a second. That seemed all it took for him to catch sight of me. 

He held a cigarette between his fingers, head tilted in my direction, stopping before he took a drag to watch me. There was a flicker of recognition in his features, a spark of light shining in his eyes and then a crooked smile twitched against the side of Isaiah Vega’s mouth. The room was dark and heavy with a cloud of smoke, the stench of it burning my sinuses and making my eyes water, but I still spotted something I might call relief shifting the guarded expression on Isaiah’s face. It lasted only a second and then he blinked, drew in a long inhale from his smoke before he smashed out the cigarette, and waved off the reporters.

“That’s all,” he told them, shaking his head as he stood, attention on me as he straightened, brushing his fingers through his hair. In six steps he was in front of me and the group that had encircled him on the sofa—most of them half-dressed party girls waiting for the interview to end before they pounced—dispersed with his chin-jerk of a dismissal.

Anger still felt sweet in my chest. It warmed me, kept me fueled for the words and litany of curses I had rehearsed the past week. There was a lot of had to say to Dash Justice, none of it pleasant or even remotely kind, but Isaiah wasn’t his cousin.

“How did I know you’d show up?” It was the only greeting the man gave me. My shoulders straightened, and I kept my fingers tightened into a fist, ready for anything rude or teasing that might come from Isaiah’s mouth. But then he smiled, a real, welcoming smile that reminded me of the kid he’d been and some of the tension in my tightened fist lessened.

“Iris.” It came out as a whisper, like he didn’t want anyone to hear my name and he moved his arms, hands reaching as though he meant to grab me but stopped himself before he could touch my arm.

For a second, a flash of him ten years ago came to me—the violent shock of bodies, his and Jamie’s, as they fought and the loud peal of my own cry breaking through the noise of their fight, but then he stood closer, shaking his head at a girl when she began to approach, and I remembered where I was and why.

“How are you here?”

He frowned, rubbing his chin, I guessed subconsciously. “My cousin is forgiving.” I cocked an eyebrow and Isaiah shrugged. “When it’s blood, si?”

“Where is he?” I said, not bother to respond to his explanation. My voice was sharp, professional, not rude. I surprised myself at keeping my tone even. 

Isaiah scratched the stubble on his chin, considering me with each slow rustle of nails on whiskers before he dropped his hands, tilting his head toward me. When he spoke, his voice was deep, a rumble that reminded me of whiskey and the pack-a-day habit of menthols I gave up five years back.

“Big ass can of worms you’re trying to open, caramelo.” One eyebrow cocked, Isaiah considered me, bringing his eyes into a squint. “You sure you’re ready for what happens next?” He had a smooth, stone-still way of standing, like close consideration was some sort of art form only Isaiah could pull off. He moved his gaze around my face, as though he wanted to see if I’d flinch, maybe lean toward chickening out of this confrontation and he wanted to catch my decision in the steely features he watched. But all he got was a slight movement, a definite nod that was all the answer I was willing to give.

“Coño,” he muttered, exhaling hard as he rubbed those long fingers through his thick hair. “This will be a mess. I feel it in my gut.” 

“One I didn’t start.”

Isaiah had always been the peacemaker. He fit in more with the Willow Heights Midwestern horde, had an easier time than Jamie or I’d had. It was always Isaiah running interference anytime some jealous boyfriend brushed up against Jamie itching for a hard time—and someone was always itching for that very thing. But Isaiah had a way about him, one that made Jamie calm when I couldn’t. One I suspected Jamie had continued to lean on through the years, despite everything that had happened between them.

“Blood is life,” Jamie would always say. “And loyalty is sacred.” Isaiah had proven that more than once.

“No,” Isaiah said, head in a slow shake. “Not this one.” Another low, soft curse, something that sounded like ay, bendita and Isaiah nodded, making a decision he didn’t share with me. “Fine then.”

He didn’t have to tell me to follow him. I did it on my own, traversing through the curious crowd, a few that watched as Isaiah deflected a few groping groupie hands, pausing once to take a kiss from a petite Asian girl with pink pigtails. Then, he stopped in front of a curtained area with two bodyguards standing sentry.

“Give us some space,” Isaiah said, nodding behind us and the beefy men exchanged a glance, then a shrug before they stepped aside. “He’s not expecting this.” It was a warning I knew he meant for me alone, but it didn’t keep me standing in one spot or turning away from the makeshift private room when Isaiah pulled back that black curtain and waved me behind it. “After you, chica.”

The lighting was dim, with only the flickering movement of candlelight covering every available surface of the small tables that circled the room breaking the darkness. I could make out the thick rug under my feet and outline of furniture, mostly sofas, around the room but otherwise, I was virtually blinded by darkness. Next to me, Isaiah took my arm, ushering me through the room, the light of his iPhone illuminating up the blackness around us.

“He gets headaches after shows,” he explained, voice quiet, serene. “But he still likes to meet the fans and the...well...”

It was the “well” that I understood immediately as Isaiah stopped us just a few feet in front of the largest sofa in the room. There were two women lying across it, one on the seat, the other draped on the back and in the center of both, strumming a guitar was Dash Justice.

He didn’t see us, not immediately, but my heart still raced, thudding like a drumbeat as Dash kept his attention down and his two companions passed a bottle of Jim Beam between each other.

“Pai?” Isaiah tried and the small syllable cracked, as though he wasn’t sure how to sound or what that small question would do to his cousin.

Two things happened simultaneously: Dash brought his gaze up, haunting black eyes peeking out of the half-gone make-up, glancing at Isaiah without moving his head or his fingers from the guitar and then, when the man shot a look at me, lingering on my tight features, then jerked his attention to Isaiah’s hand on my arm, Isaiah stepped back from me, as though he only just realized what a bad idea it was to touch me at all.

The air seemed to still in the room and despite the darkness that was only marginally lighter with Isaiah’s light illuminating his face, Dash Justice looked surprised. I could only watch him, anger rolling into my veins, breeding contempt and venom the longer we watched each other. But there was something more than shock fracturing the quiet composure on his face.

Jamie had always been handsome—it was the reason so many girls went stupid anytime he was around, and time had done nothing to diminish his looks. It had, in fact, seemed to age him perfectly. The roundness of his cheeks had gone completely, replaced by angular features that intensified the fierceness of his eyes. Where once Jamie had only managed to grow sporadic bunches of facial hair, now there was a precise, finely groomed line of stubble that accentuated the sharp lines of his jaw. The eyes were still dark, darker than the room around us and somehow smaller, with a steely sheen that would have rattled anyone else who didn’t know him.

I did. Despite the distance, despite what we’d both done to each other. I still knew Jamie.

But Dash Justice, not Jamie Vega watched me just then. He watched me, replacing the shock and surprise with something I knew would be insulting.

He took the guitar from his lap, resting it on the empty seat beside him and leaned back, gaze still sharp, focused on me as though no one else stood between us. Isasiah stepped forward, waving a hand as though he meant to make excuse, but Dash frowned, curling his arms so that the collar of the black leather jacket he wore bunched up against his white button up.

“Out,” he said, not bothering to acknowledge anyone. His focus remained on me, not shifting to watch the two girls scramble from their lazy spots next to him or to Isasiah, as he took two steps back.

“If you need anything...” Isasiah tried, whispering to me.

“I’ll manage.” I stopped staring at Dash long enough to acknowledge Isasiah before he left the room.

That silence leveled up as the room emptied and when Dash stretched one long arm across the back of the sofa, relaxed, but still gawking, it thickened so much that all the hateful insults and loud curses I wanted to volley at him left my mouth completely. Silence would keep, sure, but even if words failed me, I was excellent at death glares. 

“There a reason you’re here?” I cocked an eyebrow, silently answering him. He knew me, knew my moods and expressions. Those hadn’t changed. The long look he gave me was sharp, grew sharper as though he wanted me to say the thing I kept to myself. When I remained silent, let the accusation and insult weave between us, Dash slumped back against the sofa, head shaking. “It was one pequeña song. Nothing to get worked up over.”

“You called me a whore.” When he didn’t deny it, I tried again, stepping forward. That movement brought me closer to him, his face lit brighter against the flicker of candlelight from the tables around the room. “You destroyed a reputation I’ve spent ten years building in under two minutes.”

Dash moved in his seat, lighting a cigarette before he threw the pack on the coffee table in front of him. When he moved his chin, one jerk that indicidated a half-assed offer for me to smoke, I exhaled, long and slow through my nostrils.

“I stopped five years ago.”

He shrugged, taking a drag. “Your loss.” He watched me a few seconds longer before he finally moved his cigarette toward a tufted chair to my right. “Sit. You’re making my neck hurt looking up at you.”

“I really don’t care if you’re uncomfortable, and I’m too pissed to sit down.”

He blew a long circle of smoke into the air, watching me, gaze moving over my body as I walked around the room. The light was dim, pathetic and I wanted to see his face. There had to be a switch somewhere.

“You came here to yell at me? Call me a pendejo?” I hated the laugh in his voice. It only fueled my anger until it simmered, brimming close to rage. Dash coughed low, a sound that might have been an outright laugh, but it died when I glared at him. “Get to it, Iris. I’ve got mierda to do.”

I moved the curtain back, frowning. “You have zero shame.” There were no switches that I could make out, no walls that marked the space as a real room at all.

“And?”

“And?” I jerked around, his indifferent attitude had me abandoning my search for a light. I could yell at him, make my threats without seeing him clearly. He barely moved when I approached, only shifting to lean against the arm of the sofa when I kicked the coffee table in front of him to the side. “You fuck with my work, and all you can say is ‘and’ to me?”

Dash looked down at the floor, squinting at an upturned candle that bled melted wax onto the plush rug. He reached down to tamp out the flickering flame as though my anger was an afterthought.

“What do you want? An explanation? An excuse?” He inhaled again, returning to his cigarette to blow out a cloud of smoke that hung heavy above him. “I was drunk and Isaiah was talking about Daphne Craig from high school. You got mentioned. Made me think about that night at Hector’s shop.” The cigarette hung between his fingers, the cherry nearing the filter as Dash again looked me over. Despite the disguise of his smeared make-up, I recognized the expression. It was the same one he gave the world when he stood for photos on his album covers. Corporate desire and manufactured need. That signature Dash Justice smolder—it made girls wet for him and sold a fuck-ton of posters. But it had come from somewhere real. It had been the look only I’d seen from him a decade before.

It didn’t have the same impact on me now and when he went on giving me that look and I didn’t flinch or look away, Dash shook his head, as though he’d half expected my reaction. Next he tried evoking memories, possibly believing that our past would make me nostalgic.

“You remember that?” He licked his bottom lip, smothering  his cigarette without looking away from me. “You surprised me while I was doing inventory. The song got written in five minutes. I started rhyming and writing and...” he waved a hand, dismissive. “Well. Here we are.”

“You called me a whore,” I said again, not caring about his excuses.

“I called you horny. Big difference.” He stood then, stopping in front of me. “And you were, if you remember.” Dash lowered his voice, reaching for the ends of my hair hanging against my shoulder. He invaded my space because he thought it would intimidate me. It didn’t and I let him touch me because the worst he could do had already been done. I’d let him perform, let that egomaniac misbehave just to make him believe he had any pull over me. He’d soon realize how wrong he was.

Dash slipped his fingers though my hair, pulling the ends to his nose. “You fucking begged me for it.” He stepped closer and I could smell the clove on his breath. When he spoke, his voice was deep, a seductive rasp I couldn’t ignore. “Te ves bien, chica.”

I shuddered, trying to push down the heat that built between us as I watched him. I didn’t care if he thought I looked good and I knew I had to say something to get him to back off. “You can’t use my name, Jamie...”

He dropped my hair, stepping back as though I’d smacked him. “Don’t call me that.”

“Or what?” I tilted my head, walking toward him as he retreated. “The thing about losing everything is that you become a little fearless. I have no reasons to worry about your threats.” He moved back to the sofa and I pulled the coffee table back in front of him, sitting down to face the asshole who’d sabataged my world. The anger was still there, boiling in my stomach, but my plans, my goals had brought calm and composure. This was the still moment, the quiet sea before the tempest came. And that mother fucker would breed destruction.

“You’ve taken my job. You’ve destroyed my reputation, so there really isn’t anything else for me to lose.”

There was the smallest twitch working against his mouth, the nervous worry I knew my easy manner had delivered. Dash thought he knew me so well. I bet he imagined there was no difference in the girl I’d been and the woman who glared at him now. He was so damn wrong. Still, Dash Justice had a rep. He had a schtick that didn’t allow him to show weakness. He tried to maintain it, pulled another smoke from the pack, but didn’t light it. “Again...and?”

“And, Mr. God of Shock Rock, that means I give absolutely zero fucks what you or anyone else thinks about me. Or you, for that matter.”

I took the cigarette from him, then the pack, but Dash seemed too distracted by my words to fight me for them. Instead, some of his cool calm fractured, and his broken voice went higher, nervous. “The hell is that supposed to mean?

I leaned forward, breaking through his personal space enough that Dash moved back, pushing away from me. “You want me to remember the past? You think it gives you some sort of permission for telling the world what a whore you thought I was.”

“I didn’t...”

I shrugged, stopping another excuse before it came. “I don’t care what reasons you’ve worked up in your head. They don’t matter. You don’t, not to me.” He flinched, tried to hide it with a frown, then disregarded the insult by taking the cigarette from me. I let him. Wanted him relaxed, distracted when I lowered the bomb.

“I remember a few things too, Jamie.” The snarl curling his lip had me smiling. “I remember things you might not want the world to know.” I slipped next to him on the sofa, arm along the back, next to his shoulders. It was easy, working the lie he chose to tell about me; playing into the role he swore I knew so well. Dash forgot about his cigarette, not subtle with his interest when I moved so close that the curve of my breast, already pushed upward by the lined lace tank I wore, brushed his arm. He swallowed, the sound loud as he turned to watch me, gaze heavy on my mouth. “Like how you touched me, that first time.” I released an exhale, slow enough that collar of his shirt shook. Closer still, I came to my knees, letting my breast drag along his bicep. “You remember that, Jamie? How wet I was? How hot my skin felt?”

Dash lowered in his seat, carefully moving his hand away from his thigh to rest on my hip. For a self-professed God of Rock, his movements were tenative, his expression wary. I helped him along, touching his wrist, moving his palm against my waist. Then Dash held his breath, gaze sharp as I straddled him.

Our faces were inches apart, breath coiling together. “I remember.”

His attention was mine, and I used it to my advantage, slipping my fingertips along his cheek, thumbing his bottom lip like I’d done a thousand times before. “You slipped inside me and filled me up. Everything was so raw...so...” I adjusted, putting more weight on my knees as I brought my center close to his cock and Dash moved his hands, fingers clamping against my hips. “So...tight.”

“Coño, you were,” he said, pulling me against him. He was hard already, but still calm, holding onto the last vestiges of control, but I doubted that his hold was tight enough to keep him from losing it completely.

“And you...hmm...” I closed my eyes, affecting a low, soft moan as though the memory of Jamie inside me, taking me, making me his completely was sweet and so arousing that I couldn’t contain my emotion.

“What was I?” he asked, those large hands stretching across my back, down to push me forward against him. “Tell me, chica.”

I pushed back the small disappointment in my mind. Jamie had never called me anything but mami. That little pet name had been for me and me alone. Every other female he was around got called chica. Him lumping me into a group with every other woman meant I wasn’t affecting him as much as I’d hoped. Still, I had to try.

Dash swallowed again when I came up on my knees, pushing my fingers through his thick hair, resting my palms against the back of his head to move his face closer. I hovered my open mouth close to his lips, breathing him in like his breath would give me strength and Dash responded. That hold on my back grew tighter and he lowered his hands, palming my ass to push me hard against his cock.

He shifted his hips, rubbing his arousal against my pussy and I smiled, tongue barely tracing his bottom lip. “You, Jamie...God...you were...so...fucking...pathetic.” He stilled and dropped his hands form my body. “You cried. You had no clue what you were doing. You didn’t know how to touch me. I had to teach you, remember that?”

“Que te den,” he laughed, not remotely pissed and I sat back, resting on his lap to glare at him. His smile was wide, obnoxious. “What? You think I bought your little seduction? Iris, I thought you knew me better. No soy estúpido.” When I shrugged, doubting that assertion, Dash pushed me off his lap. “But you? Coño, you’re a bitch. You know that?”

“Yes. I am,” I told him. A quick thrill of pride worked through my chest as Dash grabbed his cigarettes, trying to hide the slow shake in his fingers as he fumbled with his lighter. “I’m the monster you made me.”

He released a quick humorless laugh before he leaned back against the sofa, cigarette held in his left hand while his right scratched over his face.

Just then, he looked tired, maybe a little weakened by my insult. I wasn’t stupid either. That was him hard and throbbing against me. And despite my anger, a small voice inside my head reminded me of that first time at his mother’s home where Jamie sat on his floor, anger shooting so starchly through him that he couldn’t keep his hands from shaking. But then he went on laughing at me, and I remembered why I’d made plans to insult him. He’d fucking started this shit. 

“Mierda, that made me laugh.” Another inhale and the forced smile left his face. “You done? I got business to handle.”

“No,” I told him, stretching my legs out to rest on the table. “I’m not done. Not by a long shot.”

Dash flicked ashes on the floor, missing the ashtray as he stood, pacing around the makeshift room. Beyond those curtains, the party kicked up; music thumped and played, and there was a constant chorous of laugher, most of it high-pitched and saccharine sweet.

He stood with his back facing me, the slow funnel of smoke around him as he shook his head. His shoulders were set in a rigid line, as though he waited for the insults I had stored up for him. Finally, when I kept silent, Dash looked to the right, not watching me, exactly, but still acknowleding me. “Say what you want and then leave.”

“You owe me.”

That made him turn, and the movement advertised his loss of composure. Mouth set firm, Dash pointed at me with his cigarette. “Vete pa’l carajo! I owe you nothing.”

“No?” I shot up, standing a foot from him as I did my best to keep calm. “You announced to the world what a whore I am. You destroyed everything—”

“Sucks, doesn’t it?” That was a slip I knew Dash didn’t mean to make. It came back to the past. It always would. I’d done something I wasn’t proud of. I’d destroyed eveyrthing Dash thought he knew about love in the process and he’d never forgive me for it. But he’d done his own share of hurting. He was still doing it.

“What I did to you was ten years ago. I let that shit go, and I thought you had too.” When he stepped back, dragging a long inhalation from his smoke and then releasing it with a laugh, I knew it was time to make my demands.

“I’m over it,” he promised, not convincing me.

“Yeah? So why am I the topic of your songs? Still?” I stepped forward, arms crossed to keep myself from smacking him. “You wanted my attention, you got it.”

“I didn’t want—”

“Now you’re going to have to deal with it,” I interupted, not interested in his deflection. “And you’re going to have to make amends.”

Dash worked his jaw, eyes narrowed as he watched me. “I can’t pull the song or change it. The label loves it, and I’ve sold millions.”

“Fine,” I said. “Then you’ll give me something to make up for it.”

He moved the cigarette between his fingers, watching the orange flame as it burned the paper to ash. “What do you want?”

I hurried with my demand, already geared up for the refusal I knew he’d unleash. “A no-holds barred, in-depth interview.” I held up my hand when he opened his mouth, head already shaking. “I’m not talking about some bullshit trash piece like the one Blotter got by buying Maria. That was low and disgusting.” Dash didn’t move the frown from his face or lessen the fire working in his glare, but I caught the shift in his features, the small brim of emotion that came to the surface at the mention of his cousin’s name. It disappeared as quickly as it came. “I’m talking about something real. Something honest. I’m talking about explaning yourself, your real self.”

“The label will take issue with that.” He pulled his fingers through his hair, tying the length back with a plastic holder he pulled from his jeans pocket. “I have an image.”

He sounded a little sad, a lot petulant, and I couldn’t hold back the biting sarcasm that came out in my tone. “I didn’t realize you were their little bitch.”

Nostrils flaring, Dash dropped his hands at his sides, stepping in front of me, a silent warning. “I’m. Not.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

He looked over my face, quiet, considering, taking a breath before he answered. “This,” he said, waving a hand toward the worn and flaking make-up from his face, “is my bread and butter. It’s what I am.”

“No,” I said, the tension in my face easing when I remembered Jamie playing his guitar for me on my eighteenth birthday. He might have destroyed me, but I couldn’t deny the truth, even if he didn’t see it. I’d seen a glimmer of who he was tonight between the screaming fans and the jarring music. Somewhere behind all that make-up, all that showmanship was the artist. “That’s what they want you to be. I know you, Jamie. I remember. This isn’t you.” I touched the leather sleeve of his jacket. “I can show them who you really are.”

I had an agenda and Jamie knew it, saw it clearly when he looked at me because I wouldn’t hide it. We’d made a mess of each other over the years and there was too much anger and resentment to change that. But the music brought us together. It always would. Even if I hated him, I couldn’t go on letting him believe he was nothing more than a face painted up for the audience.

“You must want this interview bad,” he said, curling his mouth into a twist. “Bad enough to stroke my ego.” I wouldn’t correct him. Dash didn’t deserve an explanation from me. When he’d finished running through scenarios or likely his own ideas about my agenda, he lowered his shoulders, folding his arms together before he settled a firm glare down at me. “If I say no?”

I didn’t hesitate, had the answer loaded before I’d walked into this room. “Then the shock rock God bullshit gets called out for the crap it is.” He moved his head, tipping it toward me and I met his glare with one of my own. “Then the world goes on thinking I’m the whore you promised, but they also find out what a hapless little virgin you were.” That stung him. The insult was sharp, came out across his face, twisted his mouth so that his top lip shook. But Dash was cool, a pro at hiding his disappointment. It came from years of dealing with his mother’s drunken anger and the racist Willow Heights assholes that loved and hated him in equal measure. I added to it on principle, because I knew insulting our first time together was something that would cut the deepest. “They’ll find out how I had to tell you what to do. How you needed my direction to get me off. How you cried when it was over. But that wasn’t all, was it, Jamie? What about your promises? What about the music? How you promised you’d never sell out to a label and that’s the first damn thing you did.”

He grunted, glaring at me with a mix of disbelief and fury. “Unbelievable,” he said, lowering his arms. The light in the room brightened when somewhere on the other side of that curtain, the party went on, strobes flickering around the ceiling. Dash didn’t seem to notice it, but there were streams of red and blue circcling us, shooting light across his face so that his irritation was exaggerated. “You want to destroy me? You want me to pay, don’t you? That kind of piece would erradicate my brand.”

“Sucks, doesn’t it?” I said, mimicking his earlier words. I hated that my voice shook, that my anger had crested the more hurt and devestated he seemed. Him? Devestated? There was no comparison. I blinked at him, pushing back the zip of rage I felt when the music on the other side of the room shifted and 1221 blasted through the speakers. We both turned toward the song, but I was the only one trying to control my anger. “Don’t worry,” I said, doing my best to bring the conversation back to what I wanted and how he could give it to me. “I’m looking to save my reputation. I won’t do that by writing some fluff piece. It has to be real and honest.”

Dash nodded, though I didn’t think he was agreeing that quickly. Instead, he stepped back, pulling off his jacket to fling it across the sofa. He ignored me for the most part, only looking back up at me when the chorous sounded and the party-going crowd started to drunkenly shout along with the song.

Let me drag my teeth over your cold shoulder

Let me burn my hand inside your flame

I’d pay the price to push my mouth against your ice

Crave the days I stayed inside Iris Daine.

There was something a little sad behind that sinister grin, something that made my stomach coil and my fist shake. But I wouldn’t let him see it. Instead, I walked around the makeshift room, draging my hair through my fingers.

“No shame,” I said, wondering how close he stood. “No respect for the memory.”

“Didn’t you just insult that memory too?” His voice sounded close and I moved my head up, glancing over one shoulder, surprised when I noticed him just behind me. He smelled mildly of sweat and cigarettes and a smell I couldn’t place. A scent that shifted the anger into something reminding me of need. He hated me, I knew that and God knew I couldn’t stand him either. But we’d never be able to keep the energy between us cool. Even lions will go on wanting to be filled when they catch the scent of their prey. Problem was, I wasn’t sure who was the predator in this scenario.

Dash stood so close I could feel the outline of his thigh right against my hip, but he made no move to touch me. “What did you call me? Hapless? That right, chica?” He moved closer, mouth hot against my ear. “I remember you moaning my name. I remember how wet that chocha got the harder I drove inside you. I remember how hard you came, how soaked we both were when it was over.” I ignored him, crossing my arms, clenching deep inside, trying to remind myself of the asshole Dash had become. Still, he tried, exhaling a little to toussle my hair off my neck. “I remember I got good at it.” He lowered, moving his nose up my neck and I tried to repress the shudder that took over my limbs. I failed miseribly. Dash smiled against my skin and I tightened my eyes, swallowing as he hummed the melody still thumping in the background. “I remember we both got muy bueno. Caliente, even.” Dash slipped a hand over my stomach, coming closer and, God help me, I let him. “You still buena at it?”

I out of his touch. The song faded into another track, and I watched those dark eyes simmering with something I hadn’t seen in a long time. Something that told me Dash still wanted me.

“You’re never going to get an answer to that question, Jamie.” He smiled, but it was weak, barely a movement of his lips at all. “So?” I said, ignoring the way he moved his gaze over my face, how it lowered to my neck and around my breast. I snapped my fingers and he returned his attention to my face. “The interview?”

Dash sighed, looking disappointed but stepped away, giving me a breath as he slumped onto the sofa. “The label might actually go for it...if it can calm the shit storm some of my songs have caused.” I followed him, settling back on the coffee table as he went for another smoke. “There are bullshit PC groups that protest my shows and boycott my vendors.”

“That happens when you act like a pig, Jamie.”

He rolled his eyes, shrugging as he exhaled a plume of smoke. “You know I’m not that guy. Mierda, it’s just an act.”

I leaned back, studying his features when he looked up at the ceiling. “Exactly my point.”

He still did that, the same little eye roll and shift in his gaze upward when he tried to figure something out. “I’m on tour.” It was a pathetic excuse. Tours meant traveling. It mean long roadtrips and a lot of idle time. He was grabbing for reasons to put me off. Nothing would.

“I don’t have a job and can’t land one because of you,” I told him, waving away the smoke when it floated in my direction. “I can tour with you.”

There wasn’t much I could make of the look he gave me then, but something in it made me shudder. My mother had always called it a ghost walk—some spirit walking over your grave in the distant future. Whatever it was shot warning bells off in my mind. It had me debating the wisdom of being anywhere alone with Dash.

“You want to be seen with me?” He leaned forward, arms resting on his legs. That cigarette hung from his fingers and I moved away from it.

“No particularly, but I can handle gossip.”

He inhaled, watching me closely. “You aren’t plotting something?”

“I’m always plotting things, Jamie.”

“You gotta lay off calling me that, chica.”

He took another drag and I pulled the cigarette from his mouth. “I will if you quit this shit when I’m around.” He watched me as I leaned over, smashing the the lit cigarette in the ashtray. “It stinks.”

He rested against the sofa, arm stretched along the back, legs spread as he relaxed. “Same Iris. Bossy as hell.” It was a lull, but only a small one while he seemed to decide what to make of my offer. As he thought, he took to watching me again, gaze lingering over my body as though he needed a moment to check me out, see how different, how similar I was now. But the look he gave me wasn’t appriasing, and that feeling came back to me, the one that made my anger dim and lust course right along with the rage the harder he looked. Finally, Dash broke the spell, flashing a slow, sinister smile that made him look hungry. “I get final approval.”

“Maybe,” I answered, instinctively hesitant to agree.

“Yes or it’s no deal.”

I sat up, copying his earlier move and rested my arms on my legs. “Fine, but nothing is off topic. Nothing.”

“Fine,” he agreed, mimicking me with a lean forward. We sat across from each other staring, watching, just a foot apart. “But you stay clear of Isaiah.”

I blinked, head tilted as him. I couldn’t have heard him correctly. “Why?”

Dash rubbed his lips together, an effort, I knew, to keep from frowning. He’d done that a thousand times when we were kids, anytime one of his mother’s boyfriends got a little loud. She never wanted him pissing off whatever asshole was warming her bed. But I’d never take Dash Justice for the jealous type. Not after so long anyway.

“You have to ask?” He went on staring, fighting to keep his expression neutral before he shrugged, waving off his answer like it wasn’t the big deal it sounded like to me.

For the first time that I’d seen him in years, I realized that Dash’s anger came from a long-ago committed sin. Mine, not his. And despite what he’d promised me years ago, he hadn’t gotten over it. “You told me you didn’t live in the past. You remember that?” He nodded, but it was barely an acknowledgment of the conversation we’d had outside of Kylie’s hotel room. He’d been half naked then, and so fucking cruel. It was the day I’d started hating him. “That was a lie?”

“It wasn’t a lie, chica.” He grabbed the bottle of Jim, downing a guzzle like it was water. “I got over you a long time ago, get that squared away in your head.”

“Didn’t feel like that when I was on your lap.”

Dash laughed, low and quick, but kept no smile on his face. “I get hard hearing a sweet riff. I’m not a liar, and you’ll never hear me telling a soul I don’t think you’re hot. You are.”

“So I’m a good guitar riff? Worthy of a hard on, but not your cousin’s company?”

“No. You’re not.” He stood, walking to the curtain before he turned to me. “I might think you’re fuckable. I might think you’re hot. I might even agree to this loco interview but don’t for a second think we’re going to walk down memory lane. I don’t do that.” He nodded toward the curtain, telling me to leave with one jerk of his chin. “There will be a contract to cover my ass. I don’t like what you write, it doesn’t get it printed.”

I stood in front of him, waiting, wondering how much of his bravado was the rock god act and how much was Jamie hiding. He gave nothing away as he pulled back the curtain for me.

“If you’re honest, if you’re real, then this might come out okay for both of us,” I told him, turning to stare up at him. “You’re not the only one refusing to live in the past, Jamie. I don’t either and I will never stop hating you.” Heat flared between my legs, but I squashed it

“Back atacha, chica,” he said, mouth twitching again and something that reminded me of fire buring in his eyes.

CHAPTER FIVE

My mother never liked Jamie. God knows she told me that enough.

“He’s going to hold you down.” It was a dictum she was sure of, said she knew it like she knew when rain was coming and how twisters would inch into Willow Heights before the weathermen had even spotted them.

“He’s needy, and you’re the thing he needs most.”

Ten years later, my mother still warned me about Jamie Vega, but this time she did it with a lot of more cursing.

“Vindicitive, misanthropic, revolting son of a bitch!”

“Ina.” My voice did nothing to calm her. She’d been gearing up for the lecture for more than a week. I knew it was coming which was why I had avoided her calls.

“How often did I tell you? So many times, Iris. I told you over and over that he was a user and look now...”

“You aren’t telling me anything I don’t know.”

Her sigh was heavy, lilted with something I recognized as impatience. My mother loved being right, probaby because it happened so often, but where Jamie was concerned, she took greater joy in being proved right about him.

“Your lawyer is an idiot, by the way. No attorney worth their salt is going to tuck their tails between their legs when it comes to suing a celebrity. Especially one who is so blatant and obvious. Not one who has a multi-million dollar record label behind them.” She inhaled, the sound issuing a quick rasp that she tried to cover up by clearing her throat. “You should sue.”

She wasn’t any more interested in money than I was. My mother didn’t raise me with a sense that wealth eaqualed success. Instead, she encouraged me to make big plans, set big goals. I had. I’d done a lot more than anyone expected. My work was good. My reputation, up until a week ago, had been stellar, despite the small hiccup of pissing off Kylie as an intern.

Now I was starting over. Now I had a game plan to put me back in the fold and turn this...situation on its ear. In the process, Jamie would be dealt with, but I had no plans to inform my mother of how I’d go about seeing this through. 

“I’m not interested in suing him. I’m interested in doing something great. You taught me to make good in bad situations.”

“I also taught you to steer clear of Jamie Vega. You didn’t listen.”

“Yes, Ina. I know. Lesson learned.”

“Good. Now tell me what you have planned.”

I didn’t. Not really. She was marginally satisfied with vague mentions of getting something from him, of the chance I might have exaggerated, to restore my reputation with an exclusive interview. I just neglected to mention who’d promised me that exclusivity.

“How long will you be gone?” she asked, droning on over something I didn’t quite catch.

“A few months.” The sigh was loud and it signaled her irritation. “What now?”

“It just makes no sense to me why you can’t find something stable. An office, with a nine-to-five schedule, maybe a great retirement. Iris, you’re so smart...”

On she went. It was the same lecture I’d heard since I was ten. “Get something stable. Something that will set you up for an early reitrement.” My mother had pushed me to excel, but had never understood that could be done anywhere, in any field. She loved books, loved newspapers and politics, especially when the focus was women championing women, but she’d never understood why I couldn’t fight the good fight while punching a clock or doing something that would provide some stability.

“Journalism, especially print, is so fickle, tuzueca and it’s dying. Everyone knows that.”

“Maybe...” I tried, not able to get more than a grunt of acknowledgement out before she started in on law school. It had broken her heart that I’d abandoned that game plan.

“You’re not too old, you know. Laura Anders has a niece, around your age, and she got into Yale just last fall and...”

She always knew someone who didn’t give up. My mother made sure she surrounded herself with “tryers” and people who tipped their noses at hurdles. There was always a story, most told to show me how much more I could do with my life if only I’d give up on writing about music and the industry.

My mother didn’t understand what it was to live with a passion—that one thing that lit you from the inside. It was craving and sweetness, what I felt for music. It was also tied up in the kid I’d been and the boy I’d loved so completely. Her story went on, droning into details I’d never remember, and I let her talk, walking around my apartment as she continued.

It was a small place, cheap for Washington Heights. I was a slave to the A train and there was little night life to speak of, but the pre-war building was rent controlled because my college roomate, Desi, married the building manager and they took pity on me when I’d shifted from one magazine to the next and got close to moving back to Indiana. Thank God, I hadn’t sunk so low that I returned to my childhood home.

The place was cozy, but homey, and mine for as long as I wanted it. I’d fallen in love on spec, smiling at the four oversized southern windows that let in the sunlight all along the front of the building. The floors were oak with mahogany trim and the lobby looked like something out of Doris Day and Rock Hudson Rom-Com. The building was at least seventy-five years old and had wide terrazzo hallways, two elevators and wrought iron doors leading to the street. No more than one person could be in the galley kitchen at a time, but the appliances were new and the white subway tile freshly grouted.

If those oversized windows and view of the park hadn’t swayed me, then the spacious closets had. It was there, among boxes and bins of my old Willow Heights junk that I sat, pulling out shoe boxes and envelopes to search for something I promised I’d never look at again. But seeing Jamie tonight had me reverting; curiosity was a hell of a thing. Especially when we’re curious about things that are immensely bad for us.

“Are you still there?” my mom said, voice coming out in a half sigh.

“Yes, Ina, I am, but I need to organize a few things and do laundry so I can pack, okay?” I didn’t give her the chance to start in on another story. They all ended with the same point: Iris, get a grown-up job.

“Fine,” she said, and I heard the pause, the intake of breath, that told me she had no intention of hanging up.

I stopped her before the lecture could continue. “Ina, really. I’ve got to go. I’ll call you when we get to Chicago.” I ended the call, ignoring her low exhale and brief “wait” before she could go on talking. The phone rang again three seconds after I hung up and I spotted her picture—my mother wearing a floppy garden hat, winking at the camera—but didn’t answer. My attention got diverted by a worn envelope in the last box on the top shelf.

The label was curled and the adhesive on the back had long-since dried, but the looped scroll of his handwriting was intact. “Florecita,” it read. Jamie had given me the card for my sixteenth birthday, and the envelope was large enough to hold most of our pictures. The card was gone, but the envelope was still there, the nickname he gave me embellished with filigree and flowers along the bottom.

Inside there was a small stack of Polaroid pictures, the edges rounded by wear. We looked fearless, so young. My face was round then, the curves of my body still layered in a small amount of baby fat. Jamie looked sweet, so different from the man I’d seen tonight. His eyes were brighter, his smile soft and genuine and as I stared down at those faces, I wondered where those kids had gone. I wondered if we lose the best parts of ourselves in the mad dash to loosen the shackles of childhood. We were in such a hurry to be free of Willow Heights that we both somehow forgot to take the best parts of who we were with us when we left. 

There were at least a dozen pictures, some sweet—Jamie kissing my temple as I slept; me on his back, getting a piggyback as I smiled with my chin on his shoulder; Isaiah and Jamie playing in the basement of Hector’s shop, eyes closed, brows pushed together in concentration. There was so much passion, so much heart in each expression. But not all the pictures were innocent. It had been my idea to buy that camera. Jamie and Isaiah’s band, Omen, had landed regional gigs, most in Chicago or Cincinnati and he’d be gone sometimes the entire weekend. I’d wanted to remind him what waited at home for him. 

In one shot, I knelt on my small bed. The linens were black and gray, some pathetic attempt, I imagined, to not seem like the little girl I had been at eighteen. But there was a stuffed unicorn on my headboard and a Hogwarts poster hanging on the wall. In the center of all that innocent seduction, I sported nothing but red boy shorts and one of Jamie’s denim shirts. There was a soft, barely there smile on my face and a hell of a lot of fire burning in my eyes.

I laughed, thumbing through the other pictures, coming to one of Jamie’s naked chest, that defined stomach and the low fall of his boxers. I remembered the night vividly: Jamie undressing for me, his right hand holding the camera, his left slipping beneath the band of his shorts to grasp his hardening cock.

God, we were young.

Careless.

Free.

Completely in love.

The last picture was my favorite and it showed in the frayed edges and the slip of film coming apart. Me and Jamie together, his mouth against my forehead, dead asleep. He held my naked breast and was draped over my body. That had been the weekend I followed him to Cincinnati, despite my mother’s protests. She’d called me foolish, irresponsible, but didn’t stop me from going.

We had a room to ourselves for the first time; no distractions, no sneaking around to avoid being discovered alone and naked. Just the two of us, high off the incredible show Omen had pulled off, uninterested in anything but each other.

“Tan bueno,” he’d whispered over and over, every time my mouth met his skin. And it had been. So very good. Every time with Jamie had been like the first. Every time together had been magic. It hadn’t ended that way. It had ended in anger and fury and rage. But once, there had been a beginning. Once there had been him leaning on me, touching me, wanting me to take the pain away.

I did.

For a little while.

WILLOW HEIGHTS, INDIANA

December, 2007

There was a lot to celebrate that Saturday afternoon. The SAT had seemed easier this time around and I didn’t struggle through the Trig section like I had the summer before when I took the practice test. Internally, I congratulated myself, shooting up a small prayer for having a bossy boyfriend.

“One more time,” he’d said the week before, nudging my knee when I fell back against the sofa. Behind us in the kitchen, my mother cooked garlic chicken and quinoa. The scent had my mouth watering and I’d flashed a look over Jamie’s shoulder, smiling when I heard my mother humming.

“No, florecita.” Jamie had laughed when I glared at him. “What? You wanted to study. Hola? The test is next weekend. Let’s go over the formulas again.” My stomach growled and I went on glaring at him, rolling my eyes when Jamie refused to break my stare. “So vicious. You should be my bodyguard.”

“I don’t want to guard your body.” I’d looked again toward the kitchen, contemplating an escape, but he knew me too well, dropped the flash cards on the floor and knelt in front of me.

“Si, you do,” he’d say, “and you can.” Jamie stretched, moving his body to hover above me, pulling my leg over his hip. I hissed, holding my breath when he slid his fingers against my thigh, pulling on my hips to bring our centers close together. “You study hard, and I work you harder,” he’d whispered, stealing a quick, fierce kiss before he broke away from me. He’d glanced over his shoulder, smiling when my mother went on ignoring us, focused on cooking before he faced me, flash cards back in his hand. “Then you can eat.”

His irritating persistence paid off. I was confident I’d done well, didn’t struggle at all, and Jamie’s text that morning added to my good mood. He was excited, the demo he and Isaiah recorded the night before had come out “badass” in his words and he hoped it might land them more gigs in Chicago, maybe even set up dates in New York when we finally graduated.

My Blackberry sounded off with a message, and I frowned looking at it.

Another one bites the dust.

Isaiah’s number flashed against the screen and I stopped walking from the bus stop near my house, bundled my coat closer to my neck and my hat farther down my head, and ran in the other direction, heading for the four block trek into downtown and toward the Vega’s home.

“Another one” meant a man. Jamie’s mother had rotten luck when it came to keeping anyone more than a few months and when those relationships went south, the entire town knew about it. She didn’t let them go quietly. 

I was winded, and my side ached a little by the time I reached Jamie’s house. The screen door hung off the hinge, and I stopped short, shifting my bag on my shoulder as Isaiah worked to fix it.

“Hey,” I said to him, coming onto the front porch, gaze shifting inside through the open front door. But no one was there and there was a deathly quiet I didn’t like coming from inside.

“Hola,” Isaiah said, biting a screw between his teeth. “It was bad, chica. Real bad.”

“Did he try to get in the middle of it this time?” Isaiah glanced up me, arching one eyebrow. That look was answer enough. “He’s in his room?”

“Yes, and my tia is probably already passed out.” Isaiah stood, taking the screw from his mouth.  “She followed this one into the street, screaming at him like some sort of loca bitch. It made me sick, and when Jamie tried to stop her, she slapped him.” I covered my mouth, already moving in front of Isaiah to walk inside. I only stopped when he called my name. “He might not be in the mood for you coddling him. He might want to just be still and quiet.”

“Yeah,” I told him already walking inside and toward the stairs. “I know what he wants.” But the truth was, I hadn’t a clue. Jamie had so many different moods, so many worries when it came to his mother. He was embarrassed by her and who wouldn’t be? She’d somehow landed in Willow Heights because of a man; one that promised he’d marry her, give her the life she wanted. But Ms. Vega was a bit of a drunk and a lot clingy.

“She calls it passion,” Jamie had told me one night two years ago when yet another boyfriend, this one only a few years older than Jamie, had left in the middle of the night. “I call it weak and pathetic. She’s clingy. Muchachos don’t like that.”

Jamie liked it even less. He swore he liked strong women; women who did things for themselves. Women like my mother, in fact, who’d been so damaged by love that she had completely turned her back on it altogether. Her focus was me and the work she did at the university. She got paid to be a researcher, and it kept her busy. Too busy for anything but me. Too busy for any social life at all.

I made it to the top landing, peering over the railing to glance inside Ms. Vega’s open bedroom. She was passed out horizontally across her bed. An empty tequila bottle was on the floor next to her open hand, and I could make out her loud snores from the second floor. She was out for the night, something that would likely keep Jamie from lashing out. It would at least give me peace and quiet to pull him from his mood.

The only noise coming from underneath Jamie’s closed door was the low, sweet sound of Hawthorne, Lager singing something haunting. Something sad. It seemed to fit Jamie’s mood and got only marginally louder when I opened the door.

The room was dark, lit only by a grouping of blue and purple lava lamps near the radiator cover by the window, and there was a mild smell of smoke, likely weed, that clung to the curtains. The window was open, and a quick whip of cold air moved the curtains back and forth. I reached them first, pulling the window closed as I looked to my right, catching Jamie’s gaze when he stared up at me.

“It’s cold in here,” I told him, dropping my bag before I got to my knees in front of him as he leaned against his double bed. He trembled when I ran my hand up his bare arm, hoping the friction from my gloves would warm him. “You’re gonna get sick with that window open and no shirt on. It’s dropping down to almost freezing tonight.”

“No importa,” he said, not looking at me.

“It’s important to me,” I fussed, moving my hands faster up and down his arms.

Jamie focused on his fingers, held together in front of his face. He didn’t move close when I squatted in front of him or move at all when I continued to rub my hands over his chilled arms. “You shouldn’t have come.” He swallowed, clearing his throat to hazard a glance at my face, making a double take when he looked up at my hat and coat. “You walked here?” He sat up straight, frowning as he leaned toward me.

I didn’t let him get too far, stopping him with my hands against his cheek. I moved his face, angling it to the right to examine the small blue bruise that had formed against his mouth and the cut on the right side of his lip. Thumbing against it gently, Jamie let me touch him, let me have a look without an argument at all.

“I should wake her up and smack her around a little. See how she likes it.”

“She was drunk,” he told me, seeming more embarrassed than mad at how his mother had lashed out at him. “She’s always drunk when they leave.”

“Jamie...” He exhaled when I brought our foreheads together, feeling my chest tighten as he circled my waist with his long arms. He smelled good and though his skin was still cold from the chill in the room, my body warmed the closer he came to me. His hold was tight, it always was, but this time when Jamie held on to me, I got the impression that he didn’t want to let go. Just then, I knew he needed something solid, something steady to keep him anchored. I’d do anything to give him that.

“Sometimes, I want to run. Pack a bag and steal you away. I want to be alone with you with no one else in the world to stop us from just...being.”

I sat back, watching his features when he frowned. He looked so young then, staring at me, like he wanted me to make his world make sense. Like he expected me to have answers I couldn’t possibly give him. Still, I did my best.

“We can be. Right here. Right now. No one will stop us.”

He watched me for a long time, pulling off my hat and tugging my body closer to his. I didn’t know what to make of the look in his eyes; they glimmered with hope, as always, but something else made them seem darker, like there was so much hiding beneath all that black color that he wanted to keep to himself. It scared me. It thrilled me, and I wasn’t sure which sensation I liked best.

“You save me. My florecita, you always save me.”

That look deepened, became something that shifted between sweet and seductive as Jamie went on looking at me, fingers pulling at my coat. He wanted me close, I knew that. It was written in his features.

“Jamie?” It was all I could manage. Two syllables, one question that demanded a lot and expected very little. I loved him. Right then, I loved him more than I understood. I’d have given anything he wanted to make that look leave his face. He was lost and I wanted to help him find his way, wherever that might be.

But he shook his head, watching, staring as he pulled my gloves off and popped open the buttons of my coat. “Come here, mami.” Like always, I listened, letting him hold me, kiss me because he needed it, because I wanted it. “The only time I feel alive is when I’m here...” Jamie touched my chest, his fingers stroking up my neck. “You’re my life line.” He planted an open mouth kiss against the hollow of my throat, shifting us as he came to his knees, pulling my coat to my arms, but he didn’t lower it beyond my elbows. Instead, Jamie turned me, leaning my body against the bed as he continued to kiss my neck. “I can’t breathe without you. I don’t want to.”

He grabbed my hair, fingers between the thick strands, and moved my head, pulling me out of the haze his mouth and tongue had put me in as he kissed against my skin.

“Four years. Four years I’ve wanted you and it feels like seconds. Sometimes it feels like an eternity.” Jamie moved the coat from my arms, picking me up by my thighs to lay me in the center of his bed. He hovered above me, fingers slipping along my ribs because he knew how much I liked it. “Four years I spent on this bed daydreaming, wishing you were here with me, just like you are now.” He lowered his body over mine, bringing the small shock of coolness from his touch underneath my shirt and onto my stomach. “You’re my dream.” He set a kiss on my stomach, fingernails against each rib, shifting up until the flat of his hand rested under my breast. He felt heavy against me, his knee on my thigh, his mouth against my cheek, over my forehead until Jamie pulled back to stare down at me.

“You know, don’t you, mami?” I shook my head, pretending to be clueless but couldn’t keep the slow pulsing twitch from moving the side of my mouth upward. “You have to know.”

“Tell me anyway.” I wanted the words. I wanted impossible promises that I’d believe right then. Jamie never disappointed.

“There’s only space enough for you in my heart.” He looked across the room, toward the door. “She made a mess of love. She doesn’t respect it. But you...” Jamie looked down at me, hand moving along my stomach. “You made me realize love shouldn’t be a mess. You made me realize what I wanted.”

He smiled against my palm when I touched his face. “What do you want?”

Jamie exhaled, and the sweet scent of mint and clove fanned against my face. “Mi amada, with everything in me...I only want you. I only love you.”

My mouth open, I was ready to tell him I loved him too. It was there, flirting against my tongue, but Jamie shook his head, lowered over me to steal a kiss. “I don’t need you to tell me,” he said, shifting to his side with his hand firmly on my stomach. He looked nervous, swallowing like his throat had gone dry before he would look at me again. “But will you show me?”

I paused, watching him, not sure why he wanted this now. Why he seemed a little manic, just then, eyes wide, breath held until I answered him. “I touch you and it’s...coño, it’s so sweet. It’s so good. I love the way you feel.” He moved closer, leaving an searing kiss against my stomach. “I don’t want to pressure you...” Jamie shot a look at me, wary, a little hesitant before he moved his fingers under my shirt. “I want to get closer. I want to be as close to you as I can.” He exhaled, eyes shut tight as he shook his head. “I want to be inside you. So much.”

Something happened to me then. Something sure. Something determined. The only answer I gave him was a smile and then Jamie kissed me, holding my face, slipping his tongue inside my mouth until the only sensation I knew was the taste of him, filling me up. Then I pulled away, pushing his shoulder so he’d lay against the mattress.

He’d been my only friend for four years. We spent weekends together and most school breaks except when my mother dragged me off to the desert. There wasn’t much social interaction Jamie and I had with other people. That meant there had never really been time for experiences that didn’t include each other. We were both inexperienced, but we weren’t innocent. There is a lot of play that happens when you’re finding your feet. There is a lot of touch and testing limits that happens when lust and affection collide. We’d tried and touched many times before this night, but had never moved past the point of no return.

We would now.

I sat up, straddling Jamie, loving how quiet he went, like the shock of the movement had rendered him mute, but he still touched me, holding my hips, helping me when I pulled my shirt over my head. There was a half-smile on his face, the left side threatening to twist into a grin, but the expression left him when I pulled his hand against my breast.

He didn’t breathe just then and moved his eyebrows together as I directed his fingers over the curve of my breast, leaving them over my nipple as I reached behind me to unhook my bra.

“What do you like?” he asked, voice awed. “Before, when I’ve touched you...”

“This,” I said, showing him with my free hand on my other breast. I pinched my nipple between my fingers, eyes closing for a long blink when the sweet ache left me tingling. “I like it to hurt, just a little.”

He sat up, taking both breasts into his hands. “Do you...have you touched yourself like this?” He demonstrated by running his thumbs over my nipples, making them pebble when his touch grew sharp.

“Yes,” I moaned, arching back a little. “I think of you doing that to me, just like that.” The pinching got sharper and I felt myself growing wet. “Harder. Please.”

He was stiff against me, his jeans tightening, and I moved one hand down to his button, popping it open, and he teased my nipples and kissed my collar.

“This...this okay?” he asked, licking one nipple, holding it onto his mouth. I moaned, fingering his hair, guiding his lips and tongue with a shift of his head.

“That’s more than okay. Suck it. Yes...like that...”

He was awkward, a little nervous and it unsettled me, just a bit. Jamie was so confident most of the time expect with this. “I want to taste you, mami.” He flipped us over and I bounced against the mattress, pussy throbbing and wet when he reached for my boots and pulled then off, in a hurry to divest me of my jeans. There was no stealth to his movements, no slow seduction like what I’d read in some of my steamier romance novels, but everything Jamie did put me closer to the edge. He tugged down my jeans, kissing his way along my calf, to the inside of my thigh and then he stopped, staring up at me as he rubbed his thumb right next to my hip.

“Um...Isaiah said...”

“Isaiah’s done it?”

Jamie nodded laughing when my mouth dropped open. “Last summer with Daphne. They fuck a lot.”

“Still?”

He nodded again, that half smile returning. “He said...” his voice went soft, low, as though he thought his cousin might be listening. “He said it helps, if the girl hasn’t done it before...it helps to get her really wet.”

I sat up, leaning against the pillows on my elbows, shooting a quick glance the bedside table. “Do you think maybe lotion or baby oil?”

“I wanted...” Jamie cleared his throat, moving his fingers against the top of my thong. “Can I use my mouth?”

No one had ever kissed me there, but it was something I thought about. Something, in fact, I thought of Jamie doing if I ever worked up the nerve to ask him. “Um...yeah.”

He was slow, kept glancing at my face, some silent confirmation that I was okay with him kissing my hip, along my stomach, that I didn’t mind his fingers against my skin, pulling down my thong.

When I was naked, Jamie slid down my body, landing awkward, slow kisses over my hipbone, to the top of my pubic area, right along the cleft of bone and skin that joined my leg and ass—everywhere but on my clit.

He managed one more look, then licked along my pussy, moving his warm tongue between my lips, using his thumbs to spread them apart. Then Jamie brought my clit into his mouth, sucking, teasing around my skin like he didn’t mind the taste, like the sounds I made all heady and moaning, encouraged him onward.

“Like this?” he’d ask, but I was never able to answer. The sensation he worked inside me, the heat and wetness grew too much. and I could only manage to shake my head or move my body this way and that to get him closer, to have him touching the right spot.

“Use...use your fingers,” I told him, shuddering, gasping when his listened, slipping two inside of me, feeling around, listening for the sounds I made to know what I liked best.

“Mami...” he started moving faster, finding a spot deep inside that had me out of breath, had me clutching onto his hair, the pillow at my side.

“There! Right there...”

And whatever he did to me, whatever his fingers touched got full, got teased enough that my orgasm shot inside me all at once, sending me rocking toward oblivion. It wasn’t like all the times I’d touched myself. I had vibrators and bullets. I’d chased that edge for a long time, but nothing had every made me soar like Jamie’s mouth on me or his long fingers deep inside.

It took two full minutes for me to catch my breath. Jamie laid beside me, kissing against my neck, fingers still damp as his circled my nipple, then licked it clean. He did not wait, seemed unable to, before he stood, and I watched him at my side, unbuckling his jeans, lowering the zipper.

“We don’t have to...” he started. The words were sweet, and I knew he meant them, but he’d never looked so worked up. Those dark eyes had never been so black.

I controlled my breathing, sitting up to touch him, hand over his and I brushed his fingers aside, finishing the job of lowering his zipper. I wanted to taste him too, feel that thick, warm skin against my tongue. Moving forward, I opened my mouth, seeing him, long and thick, licking the head just once before Jamie held my shoulders, pushing me back.

“That’s... coño, que rico.  It would be too good.” He shoved off his jeans and boxers, standing in front of me naked. My mouth watered as I watched him, sliding my palm against his hard cock. Jamie shuddered, head shaking. “If you went on touching me like that, we wouldn’t need this.” He grabbed a condom from the bedside table and waved it between his fingers, ripping the foil edge before he stroked himself, slipping on the latex. “And I really want to need this.”

Jamie wobbled when I laid back, grabbing his hands to get him on the bed with me. His laugh was loud, surprise making him yelp, but the humor died quickly when he bounced on the mattress, his cock nearly slipping inside me when he moved over me.

He lowered to kiss me, tongue thick, eager, hands sweaty as he held one side of my face. “You... Dios mío, you sure?” he asked, gripping himself, rubbing the head against my pussy. His voice was breathy, gasping, as though he could barely manage to control myself.

“I’m sure. Come take what’s yours.” Jamie’s arms shook as he hovered above me, gaze shifting between my face and the space where he guided his dick against my wet lips. “Am I...wet enough?” I asked, getting only a quick head shake.

When he slipped the head inside, Jamie closed his eyes, nostrils flaring. “Coño, que rico,” he breathed, holding the headboard above my head as inched deeper inside. “Que...que bueno...”

He moved closer, filling me up but when I grabbed his arms, nails sinking into his skin and hissed, Jamie stopped, eyes shooting open to watch me. “Belleza...I’m sorry...”

“No,” I told him, moving my hips. “Kiss me...behind my ear...my neck and go slow.”

Jamie listened, shifting over me to lean on one arm, licking a hot path up my neck, biting on the curve of my ear. The sensation was immediate, shot chills and tingles over my skin and I felt myself relaxing, legs spreading wide to accommodate his small movements. He moved his hips, lifting my leg with his free hand and in one swift thrust, breached deep inside, earning the smallest hiss from me before I urged him on.

“Jamie, yes...like that. Keep...keep going.”

We lost ourselves just then, movement and moment coming together as our sweat slick bodies glided and slid and became a tumble of delicious friction.

“Mi amor...ay...” he cried, hips moving fast, holding my leg and I loved the jarring way he moved. This was Jamie at his most vulnerable. This was Jamie raw.

Minutes more and he worked hard inside me, movement sloppy and awkward, but sweet. I felt tight, filled up to the brim and my pussy throbbed, wet and hot and greedy for everything he gave me.

“Keep going...Jamie! Oh, God, Jamie!” And I crested once more, nails once against scratching along his arms, nipples against his chest as Jamie landed on top of me, holding me closer, hips slamming hard, harder still until he cursed and shouted and went slowly still.

Above me, Jamie issued a litany of words I didn’t understand. They were sweet and unrecognizable. He didn’t move, except for the throb of him still nestled inside me and slow shift of his mouth against my neck.

Then, I felt the warm drip of wetness slipping down his cheek coming to stop against my chest. “Jamie?” I asked, holding his face between my hands. There were tears brimming from his eyes and he tried to hide them, pushing his face between my breasts. “Did you...”

“I love you, mami,” he whispered, nestling against me, holding my arms. “No one has ever made me this happy. Please...please,” he begged, voice low. “Don’t ever stop.”

He went quiet and the air around us cooled. My skin was sticky, my hips ached but I couldn’t keep the smile from my face. Jamie owned me. He had a part of me that no one in the world ever would. I moved my nails in his hair, loving the feeling of his breath on my damp skin, casting glances around the room, my gaze stopping on the calendar pinned to his wall.

“December twenty-first,” I said, thinking he couldn’t hear me.

But Jamie looked up, shooting a look at the calendar before he kissed me, face dry now. “Are you my early Christmas present?”

“Maybe...” I tried, my skin tingling, chilling as he looked at me. His eyes looked lighter, somehow, and his kiss was sweet as he touched my lips.

“No, florecita. You’re no present. You’re mi tesoro, my treasure. My forever.”

And he was mine.

CHAPTER SIX

He had been honey on my tongue. Sweet. Indulgent. That taste of something I craved like a junkie aching for a fix. Six months. It was such a short space of time. Jamie and me, together, loving, experimenting, wanting things we’d never had. Needing each other because we were hungry for the attention.

I loved that sweet taste.

Until it came back up.

Until I could not have any more.

Until my teeth rotted from the sugar.

I had not lied to him. I did hate him, and it had become the fire that kept me warm. I thought I’d never let it live inside me. Not as long as there was Jamie holding me, touching me, devouring every hope I held for myself. He took it all and I let him.

Until he wanted me to do the same.

“What am I doing?” My breath fogged against the cab window, pressing into the line of Chicago as we sped down Michigan Avenue. Jamie was at the empty auditorium. The arena vacant, waiting for voice and song to fill it. He was there and I was coming, running toward the lion’s den. Expecting to be devoured if I wasn’t careful.

Landon, Dash’s panicked, rushed-sounding assistant had left a message on my cell the night before. Just like the God of rock, the man seemed filled with bite and exasperation.

“This is Landon Winter, Mr. Justice’s assistant. I’m texting you the confirmation for your ticket. Plane leaves at eight a.m. Be at the United Center tomorrow at three. You’ll be assigned a bus when you get here. The contract is on its way to you now. You won’t be given any access until it’s signed.” Then a pause, some hurried words mumbled in the background and the man returned to the call. “Mr. Justice says you’re not to refer to him as anything other than Dash or Mr. Justice. It’s in the contract, but wanted to be clear about that point and...the other one. Isaiah Vega is off limits.”

No goodbye. No manners. This guy likely did well as Dash’s assistant. He sounded like an asshole too.

A squeak of breaks sounded and the cab stopped, coming to park near the back entrance. It was different from a normal auditorium. There were no fans, no loud music filling up the air. Only a small group of roadies and other crew members milled around the loading docks. The cabbie dropped me there, per Landon’s request, sent along with the contracts. It had been a few ticking points I needed to know, likely coming from Mr. Justice.

No photographs without his permission.

No questions about his cousin or her death.

No inquiries about why he wore make-up on stage and absolutely no candid shots of him without said make-up on.

I’d folded the list into quarters then shoved into the trash on my way out of my apartment, irritated already about the demands. Jamie Vega, it seemed, had grown utterly full of himself.

“Iris Daine?” I heard, taking my rolling suitcase away from the cab after I handed the driver some small bills. To my left a tall guy with short blonde hair walked toward me, holding a bright yellow two-way radio in his hand. He didn’t greet me with a smile or do more than lift his eyebrows to acknowledge me. “I’m Landon.” That was all the direction I was given, that and a quick nod, instructing me to follow.

He led me past the loading docks, through one of three massive doors, all open, and into the backstage area. There was equipment everywhere; bins and racks with wires and speakers being carted through the weaving hallways, up onto the massive stage being erected for Dash’s show.

“Tony?” Landon called into the radio, the scratchy feedback signaling to its mate that he’d said what he needed to. When there came a low “yeah?” from the speaker, the assistant spoke again, walking a foot ahead of me and I struggled to keep up. He had impossibly long legs. “Meet me at Dash’s dressing room. I need you to take care of the writer’s shit.”

He stopped in front of a large door, center of the hallway, and I glanced at him, eyes narrowed at his calling my things “shit.” He shrugged, waving off my irritation like it wasn’t a consideration. “I’ll leave it by his door.”

“You will not,” I said, ready to demand I keep my things with me when a noise sounded from the other side of a large dressing room door. It was familiar. Basic. Something I’d heard so many times backstage at venues, so many common noises that filled up rock shows along with bass lines and aching guitar riffs. Sex and rock and roll. They are linked together, fused like glass and light on a church window. 

For a half second, I wondered if Dash had planned this: get the ex, who he didn’t really want to be around, all awkward and uncomfortable by bedding some groupie within ear shot. It seemed like something he’d do. It would make good on that long-uttered promised to keep on hurting me. But Landon frowned at the noise, his nose curling in disgust when a particularly ruckus round of “oh yes! Oh yes!” peppered the air and took to slamming his fist against the door. Kind of figured he wouldn’t have the balls to do that if his boss was the source of all that pleased screaming.

“I’ll, um, see to your stuff,” Landon tried, awkwardly flipping through a phone he pulled from his jacket. “Hey, what’s going on with...”

The noises started up again and this time it was the deep boom of a male voice, satisfied oaths of coño, así and si! bueno! filtering into the air that had my chest tightening. I knew those phrases. I’d heard Jamie screaming them a thousand times when we were together. Despite my hatred of the man, despite everything I reminded myself we’d done to hurt each other, I couldn’t shake the stinging pain that filled my throat the louder those screams and moans became.

I turned away, suitcase trailing behind me as I walked down the hall, the clicking roll of the wheels echoing against the tile. “Cruel, careless, son of a whor...

“Those insults meant for me, chica?”

To my left, that voice shot out, pulling my attention away from the sounds of sex and right at Jamie. He was alone in a room at the end of the hall. He sat in a leather wingback chair, holding a guitar on his lap as he scribbled on a notebook resting atop the coffee table in front of him. His face was clean of make-up, and I blinked, unable to do more than stare at him while he watched me. It was the first time I’d seen him without all the theatrics. It was the first time in years I looked at Jamie, the real Jamie.

“Who’s got you pissed?” he sat, sitting back against his chair when I didn’t answer. That full mouth opened, maybe he meant to say something, but the loud oaths rumbled down the hallway again, this time the language a bit more colorful.

“Ya me vengo,” they said right before the heavy roar of a groan that clearly marked a finish to the escapades. Happy ending met.

Despite my seasoned experience on the road and around bands, my face heated and I caught Jamie’s gaze, looking away from him when Landon approached, peering into the room.

“See?” he told me, nodding to his boss. “I knew it wasn’t Dash.”

“I didn’t say...”

“You thought that was me, chica?” Dash lowered his guitar, stretching his feet onto the table in front of him. I instantly hated the smile he wore and the way he tried to fight it. God only knew what he thought or how funny he must have taken it that I was angry that he might be fucking someone. “Not my style,” he said, leaning on his elbow with two fingers covering his mouth and that threatening smirk. “I don’t have to fuck groupies in the arena.”

“No,” Landon piped up. “They come to his hotel or his bus. Always.”

Dash waved, a small acknowledgement and I shook my head, feeling my face heat again as he went on watching me. Behind us, a door flew open and both Landon and I turned, my eyebrows going up as Isaiah came out of the dressing room. He wasn’t alone, and I nodded, grinning when I saw how wide his eyes became at spotting me. Isaiah blushed a little, took a step toward me, but then stopped short, walking backward when Dash came into the hallway. They exchanged a look, something silent and cool before Isaiah turned around, throwing up a wave over his shoulder before he led the petite redhead who’d followed him out of the dressing room in the opposite direction.

“Sound check,” Dash said, watching his cousin’s retreat without acknowledging me. He kept his attention down that hall, a small guitar pick moving over and under his knuckles. “You can get some shots of the band warming up.” He didn’t look at me, but did manage a tilt of his head in my direction, then Dash grabbed hold of my suitcase, wheeling it to Landon. “Put her stuff on my bus for now.” He finally glanced at me, expression blank, almost bored. “I guess you don’t want anyone fucking with your shit.” He let go of the suitcase when Landon reached for it. “They won’t touch it on my bus.” To his assistant he said, “Is the guest bus ready?”

“Still in the shop. They think it’s the carburetor, but we can rent another one.”

Dash worked his jaw, one brow uplifted as he glanced down at me, then back at Landon. “We’ll figure it out. For now, stow her bag.” He walked ahead of us, waving me forward. “Grab your camera, chica and let’s head to the stage.”

FIVE MEN PLAYED IN front of me. The notes went everywhere, flying like chaos, but somehow managing to come together in some symphony of sound. It was the mark of a Dash Justice performance. He wrote the songs. He set the mood and taught others how to follow him. These guys were new, except for Isaiah. Omen had died a slow death, the members unable to keep pace with Dash, but the ones on the stage seemed up for the challenge. The four other men performing with him got just as lost in the music as I did watching them.

There would be no front shots for me. Not until the band donned their war paint and were set to perform. For now, I got great silhouette pictures of Kyle and Lou, drummer and bass player respectively, backs facing my camera, them against the light flooding the stage. Isaiah and the rhythm guitar player, Mick, stood on either side of Dash, watching as he rifted on his guitar, leading out of the bridge to bring Isaiah into a solo. No one noticed me slinking around the back of the stage. I was a distraction that distracted no one.

Or so I thought.

Dash shot glances over his shoulder as his cousin wailed on his guitar, but he wouldn’t meet my gaze. That, it seemed, was likely too much—even the small looks exchanged were some sort of broken rule Dash had established before the tour even began. But he kept glancing my way, gaze moving just over my head, toward the risers or near the packed-up stage decorations waiting for the sound check to be completed before they were installed. But he would not look at me directly. 

My shots done, I moved to the side of the stage when Dash howled out a final note and sat next to Landon on a stool near the front row. The songs had been a lot of flash and little substance, something I’d sadly found to be the case in much of Dash’s current work. It was disappointing to watch, especially when I knew he was capable of so much more. But you could never count Dash Justice out completely. Just when fans were convinced he was done, that his music was too melodramatic, his schtick too overwrought, he’d pull out something slow and melodic, something that was poetry and light set to sound.

He did that just then, pulling my attention away from my phone. I knew the tune immediately. Isaiah and Mick put down their guitars. Kyle and Lou stepped off stage and Dash rested against a metal stool with a single microphone and stand in front of it. He played a Gibson, acoustic and new, with a warm sound that reminded me of summer and beaches and things I hadn’t seen since I was a kid.

The intro was crisper than it had been on that vinyl record years before and Dash didn’t quite match the whiskey roughness of Lager’s tenor, but he did hold his own. One line in and I got trapped, mesmerized by the sound, the lyric and the memory that made me forget how much I hated the man on the stage.

Take a shot of me

Swallow me whole

I am bitter and dark

But yours to control

Eyes shut tight, I let the music wash over me, and for a second, I remembered the first time I’d heard this song. That record shop. The crackle of sound popping through the cheap speakers. And Jamie, my boy. His sweet, soft lips flirting against mine.

God, how I’d loved him.

Blinking, I watched Dash as he sang, small wrinkles cornering the edges of his eyes as he blinked then he shut them, utterly lost. His long fingers plucked against the strings and I held my breath, watching the movement, wondering if he’d played this by accident. Had he meant to remind me of that day at Hector’s? Had Dash wanted to twist the knife deeper into my heart as some strange reminder that I meant nothing at all to him now?

But as he sang and opened his eyes, glancing around the rows in front of him, completely ignoring me, I began to believe he was just performing a song from the stores of his memory. I wasn’t a consideration just then. His features were soft, relaxed and there was no shake to his hands or tremble in his voice. He enjoyed this song and the moment it created. There was no bitterness.

I am gray

You are too

We share the night

And this heartache in blue

Maybe I was hormonal. Maybe it was the low whispers I heard when I walked with Dash to the stage. Iris Daine had come on tour, and the gossips couldn’t keep from laughing at me. I had thick skin, but even whispered cat calls and inappropriate offers mumbled in low tones could still knock the wind from my sails. Whatever the reason, Dash sang, voice like a heartbeat, and the stinging of tears brimmed around my eyelashes.

He was astounding, still. Dash was cruel and curt. He was careless and mean at times, but no one could deny his talent or the sweet charisma that poured from him when he performed. It reminded me of the past and the boy who’d been buried by resentment and fury in my mind. When he was real. When Dash was open and not playing with theatrics, he was remarkable, an astounding mix of poet and musician.

Part of me still believed in him.

Part of me remembered what is was to have that beautiful man believe in me too.

I leaned forward, gaze not shifting from him for even a blink and the tears caught me unexpectedly. They fell thick and heavy down my face and before I could wipe them dry, Dash shot another glance over his shoulder, this time staring directly at my face. Staring and not jerking away as those useless tears went on leaking down my face.

He stopped singing, expression shifting from surprise to confusion, then realization and I suspected he realized what song he’d been playing. What he thought of me and my tears, I didn’t know. I managed a weak nod before I left my seat and walked away from the stage. The auditorium had gone silent, and I moved behind the curtains wondering what would have become of us, all those years ago, if Jamie and I had kept believing in each other.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Willow Heights, Indiana

May, 2008

Daphne Craig was affectionate. That was a nice way of saying she wanted to tongue kiss everyone when she was drunk.

“Iris! C’mere...”

I tried to deflect her, honestly, but she was on the wrestling team, a fact Isaiah kept talking about while regaling to Jamie all the ways his prom date had pinned him to the bed the weekend her parents went to Indy for a high school reunion.

The girl was nearly a foot shorter than me and her blond hair was stiff with hairspray and what I suspected had been a row of cute crystals her hairdresser put in her up-do when preparing her for senior prom. She spun in a circle, still clutching my arms in the center of Jamie’s living room wearing nothing but one of Isaiah’s Guns N Roses T-shirts and his black boxers, making me feel overdressed in my jeans and tank top. Daphne wore too much make-up, most of which was smeared under her eyes, and she smelled of Mad Dog 20/20, the only liquor Isaiah could swindle from Hector’s stores under his stash in the back of the record shop office.

“Easy, lady,” I said, navigating her back toward the sofa where Isaiah and Jamie sat playing their guitars. It wasn’t an ideal post-prom after party, but we weren’t ideal seniors, either. “Here, man. Handle your woman.” Isaiah smiled, just pushing aside his guitar in time to catch Daphne. She curled her arms around him, laughing against his neck before singing out of tune.

“Ay Dios mío,” Jamie said, shaking his head at the drunken girl. His cousin barely extracted her from his neck before she seemed to catch a bout of energy and ran toward the stereo, squealing when Buckcherry’s “Crazy Bitch” came on rotation. The volume had been low and as she darted toward the stereo, blaring the sound to ear-bleeding decibels, I wondered how she’d even heard it.

“You need to get a calm girlfriend,” I told Isaiah, eyes widening as she opened the cabinet next to the stereo and discovered Jamie’s stash of vinyl records.

“Hey! Watch it.” My boyfriend left the sofa, hands up as he tried to grab The White Album from her drunken hold.

“God, Isaiah, that’s not a Mad Dog drunk.”

He shook his head, scrubbing a hand over his face as we watch Daphne dancing, taking another album from the cabinet and Jamie trailed after her, following the drunk asshole into the kitchen.

“Pretty sure she dropped acid with Ellie Michaels at the dance.” He stretched, eyes rolling when a crash sounded from the kitchen and Jamie started cursing in Spanish.

“Everything okay?” I shouted earning a half-hearted “si” in response from my boyfriend.

“This is serious?” I asked Isaiah, nodding toward the kitchen.

“Not remotely.” He walked across the living room, setting a small stack of scattered records back into the cabinet. The music was loud, nearly as loud as Daphne’s off-key singing. Isaiah peeked around the doorway, into the kitchen, head shaking again before he picked up a half-drank bottle of tequila and sat down next to me on the sofa. “She’s fun to have around—most of the time,” he explained, passing the bottle to me. “But, well, hopefully with the possibility of a tour this summer I won’t have time for girlfriends or Willow Heights, si?”

Something cold and twisting locked itself inside my chest and I held the bottle in front of my mouth, not drinking. I could only watch Isaiah, trying to make sense of what he’d just said. “Tour?”

It took a minute for my shock and ignorance to register. Isaiah scratched his chin, forehead moving to push his eyebrows together as, I suspected, realization came to him. “Coño,” he said, eyes widening as he shot glances between me and the doorway, where Jamie had disappeared. Isaiah sat up straight, scooting to the edge of the sofa as he leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “He didn’t tell you?” I shook my head and Isaiah rubbed his fingers into the corners of his eyes. “Coño,” he repeated, his voice awed. “I thought he’d have explained everything when he mentioned the gig in New York last week.”

“He only said the show had been okay.” I sat closer, fingers squeezing against the neck of the bottle. “I asked. I kept asking, but he’d change the subject.” Isaiah nodded, but didn’t speak, a frustrating little habit he had anytime he wasn’t sure if Jamie wasn’t giving me the whole story. They were thick as thieves. One wouldn’t betray the other’s trust or avoid keeping their secrets, but the proverbial cat was prancing around the bag. No need to stay tight-lipped. “Tell me.”

Once again Isaiah peered across the room, jerking his attention at me, though he kept his distance and remained staring at the doorway. “Ronnie Davies was there. We opened for Six Shooter.” When my mouth dropped open, Isaiah exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Does he tell you anything about our shows?”

“Not lately, but that’s my fault. I’ve been stressed out about getting into NYU. I’ve been a bad girlfriend.”

Isaiah waved off my explanation and I knew it was because both he and Jamie were happy for me. When I got the acceptance letter, they both chipped in on a bottle of scotch and tickets to Hawthorne in Indy.

“He’s doing the modest thing again. My primo does that to a fault. Especially when it comes to you, chica.” 

“What does that mean?”

Isaiah took the bottle, emptying it before he answered me.  “You’re both so tied up in each other that you don’t stop and look at the world around you.” He jerked his chin toward the kitchen. “With the exception of my destructive, drunken prom date, when the two of you are around each other, no one else exists. And, let’s be honest, he’s only in there to protect his vinyl.” He didn’t explain himself, and I watched Isaiah, wondering what I’d missed.

“We don’t...” but one glance at me from Isaiah, and that laugh that was all surprise had me shutting up. Had we become one of “those” couples? The ones whose only focus is each other? The kind of people that say idiotic things like “we are going to bed early” or “it’s our turn to buy the beer.” Those aren’t singular pronoun people; they become some sort of hen-pecked couple monster who can’t distinguish their individual wants and needs from the collaborative “we.”

“Okay,” I said, feeling stupid for how late I’d realized how much I’d missed in Jamie’s attempts to keep me front and center in our relationship. “So, I get it. I’ve gotten all the attention lately. But tell me. What did I miss? Omen has been invited on tour?”

“To open for The Plebes.”

Surely, I couldn’t have heard Isaiah correctly. Their band was good, mostly because Jamie was excellent. But The Plebs? They were mainstream, not quite wide national exposure, but a massive indie following.

“It was the demo. Lily Malcom owns the Redfish. She got our demo to Ronnie who then sent it to Lenny Mars. Ronnie heard us playing and that was enough. It’s only a two-month tour, but is a northwestern gig. If we do okay, they’ll add us to the second leg.” Isaiah exhaled, grabbing his lighter from the coffee table. “He didn’t tell you any of this?” I shook my head and Isaiah watched me, gaze steely and sharp, as though there was something he was trying to figure out but didn’t want my help to do it.

Finally, when the scrutiny went on long enough, I pushed his shoulder, making his look away. “What?”

“It’s not my place, chica.”

“I don’t mind.”

“My primo might.” He grabbed a joint from the small wooden box on the table and lit it, taking two long drags before he offered it to me.

I waved him off, crossing my arms as I turned on the sofa to watch him. “Yeah, well, he’s tending to your girlfriend.”

A thick coil of smoke lifted above our heads and the singing from the kitchen got lower, as though Daphne’s senses kicked in and smelled the weed.

“Here’s the thing,” Isaiah said, moving the blunt between his fingers. When he spoke again his voice was lower and his concentration was sharp. “I love Jamie. And you, chica, I like you. I know he loves you. I know you make him smile more than any other time in his life and that’s bueno, si? Muy Bueno.”

“But?” I asked, trying to keep Isaiah from seeing how my fingers had started to shake.

“But, he can’t be trusted to think for himself. Not when it comes to you. He’s not rational.”

“You think I’ll hold him back? I would never...”

“No, you wouldn’t, but damn Iris, you make it impossible for him to remember the things that he wants.” He inhaled deep, holding the smoke in his lungs before he spoke again. “You’re making it damn hard for him to go after the dreams he’s always had for himself.”

“Jamie would never do that. Not for me. Not for anyone.” I stood then, worried that he could hear us from the kitchen. When I spoke again, my voice was quiet. “The music matters too much to him.”

“Months ago, yeah. Now? No.” He blew out a plume of smoke, head shaking. “He’s already told me he didn’t want to do the tour. He’s going to call Ronnie next week and turn him down.”

“Why?” I asked, my heart thudding.

“He says he’s going to follow you to NYU.”

“Yeah, for gigs and...”

“No, chica. He wants to leave the band. He wants to move to New York and wait around for you to finish. No plans. No agenda.” A crash sounded from the kitchen and Isaiah stood, leaving the joint burning on an ashtray. “Maybe you should put a stop to that.” Isaiah darted from the room, smoke trailing behind him.

Something in my stomach felt heavy, then coiled like bile as Jamie came back into the living room, shouting at his cousin over his shoulder. “Puta loco...” he said, but stopped when he saw me, arm immediately circling my waist.

“Come on, florecita. Let’s go to bed. I need you.”

He did. I knew that, but as Jamie led me upstairs, as he went about kissing me, stripping me naked, I wondered how deep that need went. I wondered if I was enough to fill him up.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Jamie was something I had to unmake. Years ago, when the raw damage I left behind still ached like a bruise long after the deed, I had to learn to forget. He left an impression, one I’m not likely ever to release, but the feel of him, that bone-deep haunting he left inside was something I had to pull apart. Like a tapestry with frayed edges, I pulled on the threads of who Jamie had been, unraveling, unweaving until there was nothing left of his comfort. Until there was only the memory of his angry face and the biting words he’d spoken that night in front of Kylie’s hotel door.

“You don’t even register.”

I’d grown good at segmenting my emotions—putting them in pieces, in boxes locked deep inside me. Jamie was a ghost and in his place came Dash. The latter was a caricature of the boy I’d loved, his edges harder, his tongue sharper. But on that stage last night, Jamie had peeked through.

“There’s breakfast on the table,” he told me, tugging on a jacket without looking in my direction. He donned black sunglasses that covered his eyes completely and obscured half of his nose. “It’s what’s left over. I don’t eat much in the morning.”

“I remember.” It slipped out, something that didn’t need saying, but the confession made Dash pause, glaring at me, the frown moving as though he wasn’t sure he liked or loathed me knowing things about him that couldn’t be found out in all the lengthy interviews he made Isaiah give.

He stared, going still before he adjusted the collar to his jacket. “We’re heading out after lunch...” He didn’t elaborate or give me a clear answer why I was on his bus instead of somewhere else. I’d asked that very thing last night when Landon led me to the massive black mammoth Featherlight tour bus right outside the loading docks.

“Why are we going to Dash’s bus?” I’d questioned, stopping when Landon waved his hand toward the door. I’d avoided the band since the sound check and Dash at all costs. I didn’t know who’d seen the small break down following Dash’s rendition of Heartache in Blue. It would break something inside me, mostly my pride, if he mentioned it.

“Your things are already on the bus, and Mr. Justice said you were to take the second bedroom.”

“Why?”

“Lady,” Landon said, rubbing his eyes as his two-way beeped with alert after alert. “I don’t question my boss’s motives. I just do what I’m told.”

The bus was a high-end red, black and grey monstrosity with marble tile floors, black leather on every plush surface, and a massive main room for eating and relaxing. Separated by a decent sized bathroom were two bedrooms. I hadn’t gotten a look at the one Dash slept in the night before, and I absolutely wouldn’t ever, but the one he’d put me in had a comfortable double-sized bed that took up the entire room. There was a 42-inch television affixed to the wall and a plush, tufted headboard in soft gray linen that matched the charcoal and black duvet and pillows. I’d slept great, in style and comfort, but still didn’t know why I was there.

“I have a question,” I said, stopping Dash before he made it to the door. I’d expected his attitude, but not the passive, unbothered expression on his face. He lifted his eyebrows, as if to say “Yeah? What?” and I hurried to ask before I lost the nerve. “Why am I on your bus?”

That impassive non-expression disappeared and back again was his irritated impatience. “Because I want to keep an eye on you.”

My mouth fell open, and I flopped behind the kitchen table, grabbing a crisp strip of bacon as a distraction. “You want to keep an eye on me?” He nodded, hand on his hip as though he wanted me to hurry along the interrogation. I took a slow bite of bacon and rested against the back of the chair. “Because you don’t trust me and think I’ll do what exactly? Bed the entire crew?”

“I didn’t say that.” His voice was sharp, his irritation evident.

“But you need to keep tabs of me specifically.”

Dash shook his head, moving closer, and I wondered when he’d gotten the small, barely visible lines that shadowed around the corners of his eyes. He still smoked, that would age him, but these tiny lines somehow made him look mildly distinguished. Well. As distinguished as a grizzled rocker can look. He leaned on the table, watching me for several long seconds before he spoke.

“Dios, chica. You think I got time to worry about who you’re fucking?” He leaned in closer, slow, humorless grin inching across his mouth. “You think I care?”

“You said...”

“I said I wanted to keep an eye on you. Not because I’m worried you’ll end up in someone’s bed.” He stood then, exhaling as though he needed a pause to control his temper. “Some of the crew have ideas about you.” I opened my mouth, a rude remark at the ready, but Dash held up his hand, stopping me. “Si, I know. I’m the pendejo who put you in a song and made the world think you were down to fuck. Spare me the insults.” His phone beeped and he pulled it from his pocket, a small hint of a grin shaking the left side of his mouth. Then Dash focused on me again. “The crew gets a little loud and offensive when they drink, and I’ve had to fire a few for getting handsy with some of the fans. I don’t tolerate drunk assholes groping women. Since they tend to come from the same group when we hire a new crew and since I’m busy as hell and can’t do the hiring personally, a lot of times I don’t know what kind of people they are until something happens. Especially if they’re good at covering their asses. You being here,” he waved around the bus, “is just me sending a message. You’re off limits to them. Don’t bother asking them questions for your article. They aren’t allowed to speak to you.”

“Well what about the band or your assistants...don’t they have...”

“You don’t want to be on the band’s bus, chica. Trust me.” He cleared his throat, eyebrow arching. “They tend to entertain a lot, and Landon and his staff have no room on their bus since they’re stuck with the equipment.

Dash watched me for a second, as though he expected me to ask more questions, but I remained silent, pushing back the small rush affection I felt for him at wanting to make sure I was safe. I might have smiled, possibly blushed and Dash picked up on it, his tone sharpening once again.

“While we’re on the subject, I have to warn you.” He leaned against the counter, arms folded. “I might not entertain as much as the band but on occasion, I do have company.” He licked his lips as he spoke the word and it felt like an insult. “You can either get some ear buds to drown out the noise or you can wait until I’m done entertaining before you knock on the door.”

I crumbled the bacon leaving it on my plate, wiping the grease on my hands with a napkin to avoid looking at him. “What if your entertaining carries on overnight? Where will I...”

“It won’t. I don’t let anyone sleep in my bed. Ever.”

He waited for a reaction, I guessed wondering if I’d be jealous at the idea of him sleeping with groupies, but I maintained my composure. I didn’t care who Dash slept with. I didn’t care about anything but getting my story and distancing myself from that damn song.

“Fair enough,” I said, standing from the table. Dash’s gaze slipped below my face, lingering on the black, silk robe I wore. I instinctively pulled it closed.

“If you don’t have any other questions or need anything...” Again, his gaze lingered on my body, staring for several seconds on my chest and the slip of cleavage visible before he looked back at my face. “I do have work to do before we head out.”

Instead of answering, I waved him off, leaving the main room for the bedroom. His attention was sharp, intense, I felt it as I walked to the back of the bus. I didn’t exhale until I shut the door behind me.

Dash entertained and wanted me to know. He wanted me safe, despite his professions that he didn’t care about me. And as I dug through my bag and pulled out an outfit for the day, I realized I’d just agreed to spend mile after mile for three months in a confined space with my first love. The man whose heart I’d ripped to shreds. The man that looked as me as though he wanted to take a bite. Months with him on this bus.

Alone.

IT WAS LATER THAT MORNING, as the crew secured the buses and fans milled around the band that I decided to close my laptop. I’d made notes at the concert, logging the set list and the size of the crowd, the theatrical aspects of the show and, most importantly, the sound. It had been entertaining, no doubt, but all the glitter and showmanship left me a little empty.  By the size of the small grouping of fans that surrounded the bus, I got the feeling I was alone in my opinion.

I spotted Isaiah and Lou through a line of black SUVS, the bodyguards, I suspected, as they talked to fans and took pictures. The band’s bus was large too, but it was blue and gray, not as massive as Dash’s. Our bus, and I hated thinking of it that way, was set a football field’s length away, likely to avoid a rush of fan attention. Likely because Dash thought of himself as too important to lower himself to talk to anyone at all. Especially a bunch of kids, but as I left the bus, noticing that the crew completely ignored me, and spotted the handful of kids on the other side of the bus, Dash in the center of them, I realized my assumptions were wrong.

Dash held a guitar between his hands, signing the back of the neck as a tall kid who looked no more than seventeen watched his every move, grin wide and impossible to hide.

“There you go, Carlos.”

“Mr. Justice, gracias. Really. That’s just...wow.” He glanced to his right, showing the signed instrument to a petite girl I heard him call Anna. She had large black eyes and brown hair that fell to her waist. “Did you see?” She nodded and both kids looked back at Dash as he took a second to talk to a small boy, younger than the first.

The kids didn’t look at me when I approached, but Dash glanced my way, his easy smile growing tight when I stood next to him. Despite the distance between us, I caught his gaze, then the subtle nudge of his chin as he looked back at the couple.

They weren’t a couple, as I first thought. Anna knocked Carlos’s arm, grinning like a kid on Christmas morning and he seemed more interested in Dash and his newly signed guitar than touching the girl. They whispered together, high fiving each other and I realized they were close. Friends. Best friends, I’d wager. Some shared thing hung in the air around them. It was sweet and very familiar. It reminded me of all those summer concerts in the park with Jamie, stealing away to Indy or Cincinnati to catch a live show or hear a new record as it dropped. Guitars and smoke, liquor and laughter. It had been the fucking theme of our lives back then, something I saw sparking and shining between the kids gawking at Dash’s signature.

“Mr. Justice?” Anna asked, stepping forward with the gentle push of her friend. Dash looked up at her, pausing as he signed another autograph. “We...” she looked at her friend, nodding as he smiled at her, “we wondered, me and Carlos, about how you started. What was it like for you, when you started? What did it take for you to get so good?”

“We’re awful, right now,” Carlos put in, laughing with his friend when her shoulders shook. “Sometimes it feels like we’ll never get better.”

“You will,” I offered, the answer coming from my mouth before I could stop it. I looked between the kids and Dash, relaxing a little when they watched me, seeming interested in what I had to say. I nodded at Dash, shrugging. “I first heard him play at sixteen. He had a secondhand Gibson with a fretboard so worn he had to just about squeeze the neck to get the chords to sound right.” Next to me, Dash laughed, and I saw in my periphery the slow smile moving over his lips. “He was decent, but he got better. Every day, every week, he played. Each time he did, he got so much better.”

“Who are you?” the girl asked, her voice curious.

“An old friend of mine,” Dash answered for me, stepping to my side to watch the two kids. “But she’s right. Practice. It sucks to say that, sucks worse that you’ll have to do it, but that’s what it takes. You love the music?” He watched them, gaze shifting over both of their faces. The couple nodded, smiles proud before he spoke again. “Then you can’t cheat the music. There ain’t no shortcuts. Trabaja duro. You wanna be good, you gotta work for it. Plain and simple. Work hard and when you think you’ve done enough, then start all over.”

They seemed satisfied, nudging each other and Carlos pulled out his phone, waving it at Dash. “Do you mind?” he asked. “We’d be honored...”

“Por supuesto,” Dash told them, waving them close as all three stood in front of the bus. Carlos handed his phone over to one of the bodyguards hanging back near the rear of the bus, and I stepped back, not wanting to get in the way.

Dash took one shot with the kids, throwing up a peace sign as he posed, and then the girl stopped, waving at me before the next click of the camera sounded. “Get in the shot,” she told me, stepping out of frame to grab my arm. “Any friend of Dash Justice needs to be in the picture with him.”

“No, it’s fine,” I tried, giving up quickly when Dash cocked an eyebrow and nodded me over. “Just one.”

Carlos shifted to the side and he and Anna flanked both me and Dash in the center of the group. “Squeeze in tight,” he commanded, and I brushed against Dash’s side, feeling awkward and stupid. I had nowhere to put my arms and held them at my sides, likely looking stiff.

The bodyguard fired off several shots, and I held my smile, but it wavered when Dash moved his head, the low wind around us picking up the scent of cigarettes and peppermint from his hair.

“How did you remember that old Gibson?” he asked, holding the smile on his face.

I glanced at him, hurrying to watch the camera again before I messed up the shot. “How could I forget?” I asked, relaxing a little when he shifted closer, his open palm against my back. “That was the first summer you worked at Hector’s to save up for it. I went with you to Joe’s Pawn Shop on Fourth Street to get it.”

The bodyguard lowered the camera and Dash stared at me, the warmth from his breath against my cheek. “How did I forget that?”

“You are getting old. Thirty looms.”

“Yeah well...”

“Thanks Mr. Justice! It was good to meet you,” Anna said, waving to both of us as she and Carlos looked down at his phone.

We stood watching them for a moment, the bodyguards ushering the other fans away from the bus. Carlos and Anna couldn’t have been more than sixteen. So young, so clueless about what might be heading toward them, both with their music and with their friendship. It was a familiar sight, something I could recall with perfect clarity—the wanting. The waiting and the ache of not knowing if either would ever be filled.

“What happened to you last night?” Dash asked, hands in his jacket pockets as he stood next to me looking after the kids as they walked across the parking lot. “I didn’t realize...I mean, playing the Hawthorne didn’t mean anything.” I shook my head, not willing to elaborate. He went on watching the kids walk away. “Were you...did I see that right?”

“Hearing that song, no matter who is singing always does that to me.”

He nodded, gaze still on the parking lot, and I wondered why he didn’t just turn around and return to the bus. I wondered if he saw the same thing in those kids as I did and if he hurt for them too.

“Lager is changing everything,” Dash said, his voice thick with disappointment. “He’s throwing it all away.”

I looked at him then over my shoulder before I spoke. We were alone now, the parking lot was left with only a few cars. “He’s dying.”

Dash jerked his gaze to me, then turned to face me when I kept quiet. “What?”

“Kidney failure. He’s been a bad diabetic for years.”

He came to stand in front of me, the low whip of wind blowing his hair in his face. “You know this...”

“Paris. The day before he made the announcement. I always go to this little dive place Rita discovered him in when I’m there hoping to find him.” I adjust my jacket, zipping it up when the wind blew harder. “I got lucky that weekend. He was drunk. We talked for six hours, drinking bourbon and wine.”

Dash watched me, the muscles in his face tensing, his dark eyes glassy in the wind. I managed a quick glance at his face before I walked forward, my gaze following Carlos and Anna as the neared their car.

“You’re responsible for the drunken announcement?” he asked, leaning against the back of the bus. “I wouldn’t put it past you to encourage that old man to drink and play on Instagram.”

Heading shaking, I lifted my chin, deciding to keep what I thought to myself. It was the most civil we’d been in years. “No. I’m not the spawn of evil you think I am.”

“That’s debatable.”

When I sighed, feeling worn already before we’d even set off and away from Chicago, Dash looked up at me, following my gaze toward the kids piling into a beat-up Nissan Titan. There was rust on the roof, and the gray paint was chipped. It was the vehicle of a kid with barely enough cash to get something drivable.

“I hope they make it.”

“As musicians?” he asked, a low laugh of pity in his voice.

“The music...their friendship...I hope it works out.”

Dash didn’t comment but watched me, his attention back on the truck when the engine cranked and they sped out of the parking lot.

“I should have warned him.” When I looked at him Dash blinked against the harsh wind, lowering his face near his collar. “Should have told him that girl will likely destroy him.”

“You’re cynical,” I said, head shaking.

“Hurt like that? It will make him a better musician.” He pushed off from the bus and walked toward his guards, mumbling low as he left me. “God knows it did for me.”

CHAPTER NINE

Willow Heights, Indiana

June, 2008

Possession held a lot of power—small letters that made up a big word.

I felt Jamie’s mouth, open and wet on my skin. That slick, sweet warmth trailing from the curve of my breasts to the sharp point of my hip. 

“Get on your knees.”

He listened. Love hot, burning in each touch, from the tips of his fingers, into the curve of my leg. Jamie’s dark eyes sparked bright in the low light of my bedroom, and he moved his fingers up the inside of my thighs, smoothing down to cup my ass.

“Here?” he asked, teasing, tempting, tongue licking up the inside of my thigh. “Or here, mami?” He settled his mouth over my pussy, long, slow kisses there until I leaned against the mattress, closing my eyes as sensation hit me.

“There. Just there.” I spread my legs, feet flat against his shoulders, meeting his mouth when he tugged me to the edge of the mattress. He slipped two fingers inside me, index and middle finger, deep, penetrating, hitting my G-spot, rubbing against that little knob that swelled. “More. I need more.” Jamie rubbed faster, moved his tongue over my clit and his knuckle against that knob, just meeting my need, almost, close, so close, and I nearly cried from the need not satisfied. “Use both hands, baby. Front and back.”

He knew what I loved. He knew how to touch me, to work my entrances and consume me until I couldn’t breathe, until all I felt was sensation and pleasure.

“Así mojada. You taste so sweet.” He curved his hand, long fingers inside, thumb breeching the small hole at the back, just the tip slipping in. “So sweet, mi amor. So hot for me...”

He hummed against my clit, that low, soft sound like a motor speeding me forward. Jamie set a rhythm, had my pussy clenching, my nipples hard, my throat raw as I screamed and cried and wanted more from him. Then that thumb went in farther, to the knuckle and all that sensation crested, the edge met. I slid my fingers over my naked breast to pinch my nipples and the sensation sped me right over to oblivion.

My orgasm was sharp, the aching easing the faster Jamie moved his hands, pulling away from my pussy to watch me, tongue still licking, gaze on me, like he always did as that nod expanded and I flooded hot liquid into his mouth, against his tongue.

My skin felt electrified, tight. Everywhere he moved over me, every graze of his wet mouth on my body sent shockwaves of pleasure.

“Hurry,” I told him, savoring the sight of him undressing; the slip of his shirt over his head with one hand, the slid of his zipper lowering, his black boxer briefs falling over his thick thighs. He was beautiful and mine, my chest clenching with need and worry then dissolving until there was only his body over mine, his fingers teasing against my stomach, up to hold my breast.

“Eres mía,” Jamie said, praising my body with his mouth, blessing my nipples, my skin with one touch after another. “Always mine, aren’t you baby?”

“Only yours,” I promised, hands over his hips, pulling him closer. “Please, Jamie...we don’t have much time...”

“Then open up for me.” He didn’t have to beg. There was a rush now, the hot need that built and burned me from the inside. I felt lost, empty without him. I felt incomplete, and that sensation only went away when Jamie came into me, his large cock raw and bare, grazing between my folds until I spread my legs, feet apart, resting on the edge of the mattress to accommodate him.

“Now,” I begged. “Do it now.”

He listened, that heavy cock pulsing as he guided himself into me, one swift thrust and that emptiness went away. Jamie shuddered once, eyes alight, searching as he looked down at me. “I love you.” He came up on his palms broad and powerful over me, shaking as he watched me. “Dios mio, how I need you. You know that? You were made for me.”

It felt that way. Despite the worry I had over what Jamie wanted, what he planned to do about his future, where we would be in the two months that separated this moment and the one when I stepped onto NYU’s campus, I still knew we fit. We were made for each other and no hurdle, no self-sabotage would change that.

“Tan Bueno,” he said, thrusting deep, pulling on my leg, holding it out to open me wider to him. “So fucking good. So much sweeter like this, bare. So caliente with you wet and dripping on me.”

I agreed, silently thanking whatever genius invented the pill. It freed us from worry, from doing anything other than feeling each other completely. “Faster. Please, Jamie, faster for me...” It didn’t take long, two, maybe three long strokes and he slammed into me, hitting my G-spot, shooting friction and light and release straight through me. I arched up, my nails digging into his skin, hips meeting his as I chased that orgasm, and then he followed, forehead down, against my chest, clamping my leg and his free hand grabbing my hair as he lost hold of himself and spilled into me over and over.

“Ay...oh, baby...” Jamie breathed hard and heavy against my chest, slipping away from me as he came down from his orgasm.

“I love you too,” I said, kissing him before I attempted leaving the bed. “What?” He grinned, hold only loosening when I leaned back to kiss him again. “I’m all sticky. Give me a second.”

He watched me walk away from the bed, stare long, lingering. It always was. Like this with Jamie, I felt no shame, no embarrassment. What I had, he loved. What I had, he wanted. We had spent years loving each other, before that meant anything more than friendship. There wasn’t much we didn’t know about each other or much that would cause us shame. I was as comfortable naked around Jamie as I would have been fully clothed in Hector’s shop.

“What time is your mom coming back?”

I slipped back it the room, pulling a tank top over my head. My dresser was large, a solid oak hand-me-down mom had found at a flea market five years back. It held every stitch of clothing I owned, and a few items Jamie had left here. It was his boxers I slid into as I glanced at my Blackberry on top of the dresser. It was nearing ten o’clock and the sky had taken on an eerie, darkness that only came in the summer.

“Half an hour. If you want a shower, you’d better do it now.”

He nodded, slipping from the bed, stopping to pull me against his chest before he moved into the bathroom. “You wanna come with me?”

“Already?”

“We’ve got Cincinnati this weekend. I’m not gonna see you for two days.” Jamie slipped his tongue against my bottom lip, consuming me. He always did that—every touch, every kiss felt like something that would burn me and I loved the pain of it.

“Go grab a shower. There’s not time for anything else.”

“You’re no fun sometimes, florecita.” He laughed, giving my ass a playful squeeze before he jumped into the shower.

The room filled with his scent, with ours together, and I stripped clean the sheets, stuffing them into my hamper by the door before I grabbed a clean set. Jamie sang in the shower, something low and seductive, Green Day from the sound of it, and I hurried to make my bed, smiling at the melody.

The linen closet was wide, right across from my room and when I opened the door, I stopped short, noticing two plastic bags with my name written across the surface. My mother had spent most of the summer buying things for my dorm; small items I hadn’t thought to pick up but knew I needed. This bag contained a set of sheets and pillow cases for a twin mattress, the size I’d be assigned once I got to NYU.

It was a reminder that nights like this with Jamie would be coming to an end. I frowned at the idea, grabbing one of our older sets before I slammed the door.

“What did she go into Indy for?” Jamie asked, stepping out of the shower with a towel around his waist.

“Lecture at Purdue on research techniques related to databases from the old state archives.” I shook out the sheet and glanced at Jamie while he tugged back into his clothes.

“Ten bucks says she fell asleep five minutes into the lecture.”

“No way,” I told him, nodding toward the other end of the fitted sheet for him to grab it and help with the bed. He tugged his side tight, still smiling at me. “She eats that shit up.”

“I know what I’d like to eat up,” he said, grabbing the flat sheet when I offered it, pulling me right down into the center of the bed. “We still have fifteen minutes and thinking of driving all that way to Ohio, without the taste of you on my tongue seems like torture.” He leaned down, pushing me into the mattress. “Five minutes. I promise.” He’d already started teasing the inside of my thigh with his thumb.

“No...there’s not enough time,” I told him, hand on his wrist to stop him. “Jamie...”

“You sure?” He kissed my neck, just under my ear and my body shook at the sensation.

“Sadly, yes.” He didn’t push down my boxers and begin the exploring he seemed desperate for, but Jamie did hover above me, fingers twisting into my hair, then kissed the tip of my nose.

“You sure?”

“Tell me about the tour.” It was a thought that had lain dormant in my mind all night. Since prom when Isaiah told me the truth. Jamie had spent weeks deflecting any questions I had about Omen’s weekend gigs. He only ever seemed interested in classes I’d take or small jobs he might land in the city. He never mentioned the tour or the band or plans that would have been important to him six months ago. 

Jamie looked stricken, then that surprise turned to anger. “That pendejo Isaiah.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about the tour?” I sat up, watching him grab his boots from the across the room. He looked irritated, kept mumbling under his breath about his nosy cousin.

“Because I’m not going,” he said, sitting on the stool in front of my vanity to put on his boots.

“Why?”

It was a simple question, honest, but it seemed like an insult to him. Jamie dropped his boot, his arms on his knees as he watched me. “I want to be with you. You know that.”

I slid to the edge of the bed, coming to my knees as I grabbed the footboard. “And I want you with me, but not at the cost of something you love.”

“Mami,” he said, forgetting his boots as he stood in front of me, hand shooting into my hair, fingers against my cheek. “I hate the band.”

“Maybe, but you love the music.” I pulled his hand down, wanting him to focus, have a conversation that was logical, not something he thought I’d like to hear. “You, Jamie, God, you have such a gift. You could be remarkable, Isaiah too.”

He laughed, shrugging at my suggestion. “A stupid northwestern tour with an indie group isn’t going to make anything happen for us.”

“You at least have to try.”

“No, florecita, I don’t.” He went back to holding my face between his hands, kissing my forehead as though the sentiment would end my argument. It was irritating how Jamie tried to placate me. “You, this right here. This is what I want. This is the only thing I want now. Just you and me. Everything else will sort itself out in the end. You have to trust me.”

It was hard to concentrate when he kissed my neck like that. Jamie was a master at distraction. Usually it was his mouth, his teeth and tongue that could sway me. No matter how angry I got with him, he had ways, skilled, practiced ways that made arguing impossible. But this wasn’t a discussion over who paid for dinner or what movie we saw at the matinée. This was his future. This was an opportunity that he was throwing away for me and he was doing it without listening to what I wanted.

“I do trust you,” I started, leaning out of his touch when it seemed he wouldn’t let me go. Jamie frowned, reaching for me, but I deflected by leaving the bed. “But I don’t want to be the reason you give up on what you want. You’re so good. You have such talent...”

“I only care that I’m good at being with you.” He didn’t touch me when he rounded on me and I worried that the fear in his eyes would make him act out. He did that most often when he was overcome with worry or fear. Normally either me or Isaiah could calm him, but this time, I wasn’t sure. This time he needed to hear me and understand. But Jamie was stubborn, convinced that what he’d had planned for years was something that could be forgotten. He honestly believed that being with me would always keep him satisfied. I knew better. “I love you,” he said, pulling on my waist so that I fit under his chin. I wanted that to be enough. I wanted us, just like we were at that moment, to always be enough for us both.

I knew better.

“I’m best at loving you, mami. That’s all I need.”

“Jamie...”

He didn’t let me finish, deciding instead to silence me with one long, slow kiss and his hands on my ass, pulling my legs around his waist as he leaned me against the wall. “All I need is you...let me show you that’s enough.”

It was likely he intended to do just that thing. Jamie worked his lips to my mouth, tongue licking along my neck as he pushed on my ass, working our centers together until I was breathless...so twisted with lust and breathless that I nearly didn’t hear my mother clear her throat until she stood right in my doorway.

“Merida,” Jamie said, putting my feet back the floor before he turned to face my Ina, tugging down his T-shirt so that it covered his hips. “Mrs. Daine,” he greeted her, nodding.

“Jamie.” It was a cool greeting that clipped name spoken in an exasperated exhale. “It’s getting late.”

He stared at her for a moment, jaw moving as though there was something he wanted to say, but didn’t have the nerve. Instead, Jamie moved his head, a single nod that was forced, then he turned to face me, dropping a quick kiss on my forehead. “Buenas noches, mi corazón. I’ll see you tomorrow.” To my mother he offered a quick, “Night, Mrs. Daine,” then Jamie left through the door.

My mother didn’t watch him leave the room. She didn’t look at me as I shot my gaze after him, vision greedy for the sight of his retreating form, but when the downstairs door shutting sounded through the house, my mother tossed a glance at me, nodding toward my mattress.

I sat, turning toward her when she did the same. “We’re careful, Ina. I swear.”

“You getting pregnant is the least of my worries.” She brushed my braid off my shoulder, tapping my arm to get me to turn around so she could re-braid my hair. “I trust you and know you aren’t foolish.” Her long nails scratched against my scalp and I hummed, loving the sensation. It relaxed me, always had since I was a kid and my mother would take the time to brush out my hair and carefully braid it. She preferred a fishtail, something intricate that I could never quite manage. I suspected she often chose that braid because it kept me still and silent the longest.

Now, though, I knew she had something else on her mind. Something I probably wasn’t going to like.

“That boy loves you.”

I smiled, glancing toward her.

She didn’t smile back. “I should rephrase that. That boy is obsessed with you.”

From the corner of my eyes, I spotted her sharp glance, how she watched my features for a reaction. “It goes both ways,” I told her, not likely how she made Jamie sound weak.

“No, it doesn’t.” She sectioned my hair, using her fingers to work through the knots. “I’ve raised you to love and you do that. You do that beautifully, tuzueca. But I also raised you not to lose your head. Not to forget the plans you’ve always had.” My mother nudged me, and I automatically sat up straight.

“The game plan is pre-law. Then law school...” I hadn’t told my mother that I intended to change my major the second I got to NYU. “And then a practice in the city. Maybe in Indy...”

“Don’t say things you think I’d like to hear.” My mother placed a large section of hair over my shoulder, braiding the hair she held in her hand. “And you’re missing the point.” I remained quiet, certain that she was gearing up for another lecture on high school romances and how they never worked out.

“Come on, Ina, it’s not a big deal.”

“It’s a very big deal. Especially when you’re allowing that boy to think this is okay with you.”

“It is.”

“It’s not. He loves you, I seen that plain enough, but he’s gotten to the point where he’s lost himself in you. You can’t let that continue.” She dropped my hair, turning me by the shoulders to look at her. “You have to open his eyes.”

“I will not break his heart,” I said, brushing away her hand when she reached for me. “I just can’t do that.”

She looked old then, conflicted, and her hard features relaxed, all the tension moving from her mouth and eyes to collect on her forehead when she pushed her eyebrows together. “You can’t let him sacrifice everything he wants just to be with you. What kind of man wants only to see his woman to succeed? What kind of man wants nothing at all for himself?”

“Mother...”

When she touched me again, when the line between her eyebrow softened and my mother took my hands in hers, I let her, not liking what she was saying, but unable to deny the truth. Her voice was raspy when she spoke again, as though there was emotion she fought like hell not to let me hear. “You are so worried about him, about not hurting him, you’re not seeing how you’re letting him hurt himself.”

“I’m not doing anything...”

“Exactly. You’re complicit.” She held her face in her hands, rubbing her eyes. “I swore I wouldn’t... tuzueca, this is what happened to your father.” She looked up at me, inhaling before she cleared her throat. “This very thing you’re allowing to happen with Jamie.”

My mouth dropped open. She’d never mentioned my father. Not really. I knew his name, Rick Daine. I knew they’d married when she was young, and I knew my mother had left Purdue when she got pregnant with me. That was all I knew.

I held my breath, watching how she struggled, fought, I guessed, to disclose secrets she’d kept from me my entire life. “What are you talking about?”

My mother swallowed, pressing her lips together before she spoke. “He had so many gifts. He was just such a talent—singing, writing, performing, he was just so blessed. But he really shined at art.” She closed her eyes, a small grin shifting her lips. “He did so many amazing pieces, it was breathtaking. There must be a hundred pieces of just me, my face and yours when you were first born in storage. I haven’t seen them in years.” She blinked, head shaking as she watched me. “But he lost himself in us, in you and me and our family, and I know that’s not a bad thing. It’s a very, very good thing, actually, to let your family be your world. For a while, I thought it was so perfect. He was so proud...of me, of you...he wanted me to go back after you were old enough. He wanted me to graduate and go on to get my doctorate. He was so excited about it.”

“How is that bad?”

My mother’s grin fell at my question. Her gaze was sharp, focused and I wondered what she saw when she looked at me. I looked nothing like her, aside from my complexion and eyes. Everything else had to be his. I couldn’t be sure. She’d never once shown me his picture. The way she looked at me then, so similar to how she watched me when she thought I didn’t notice, made me think I reminded her of him.

“Because there wasn’t any left for him. Because I let him lift me up, I allowed him to always put me first and because of that he forgot the things he’d wanted for himself. It destroyed us. I’d done so well but, I forgot to pay attention to him. My desires, my hopes came first until one day, there was nothing left of him. Just a man who lived for my accomplishments. He didn’t have any of his own and one day, it blew up in our faces. He was dead there, just existing. Only existing. He contributed nothing. He gave nothing but heartache. By the time either of us noticed, his opportunities were gone. The showcases, the galleries who wanted him all forgot about his talent. They forgot because he drifted from the spotlight. He turned all that passion for the work into this obsession for you, for me.

“I didn’t...he wouldn’t let me breathe. After a while, it just became too much. He wanted to be with me always, every day, every second. And I know I sound selfish for saying it, but I needed space. I had you always needing me to eat and sleep and be taken care of and I had him always wanting my attention, always demanding that we spend all this time together, I just had no time for myself.” She rubbed her face and I took her hand, hoping my touch would take the shake from them. “I...one day I had enough. I couldn’t...” she inhaled, trying to combat the tears that had appeared on the tips of her lashes. “I...I left you both.” Ina looked at me, her fingers squeezing around my hand as though she wanted me to know how sorry she was. The guilt came off her like perfume. “It was a week. I didn’t tell anyone where I was going. I just got in the car and left. I drove and drove and...God, tuzueca, I could breathe again. I could sleep and not worry about waking you or having him roll over wanting to touch me like it was a fever took over him and only my body could make him cool.” Again, she closed her eyes, features hard, as the tears slid from her eyes. “One week. That’s all it was. I was never going to stay gone, I...I promise I was going to come back. I...” Her voice broke and she buried her face in her hands, sobbing so hard that the bed shook. She fell against my chest when I reached for her, clutching to my shirt that went damp with her tears. “Tuzueca, I promise...I swear, I was going to come back.”

“Ina...please,” I tried, hushing her, stroking her hair when she went on crying. She stayed silent for a long time, clinging to me, apologizing over and over until the noises she made went still and her face dried. After a while, I inhaled, wanting to know what had happened, wanting her to finally say the thing she’d never been able to before now. “What...what happened to him?”

My mother took in a deep breath, grasp firm as she sat up. When she spoke, her focus was on me and she lifted her chin. She reminded me of someone who’d stolen to feed his family and would not feel guilty for the crime. “I came home and he was...a mess. You were. I was so angry at him. He just fell to pieces. The house was filthy, you were too, and you were hungry. You wore the same thing I’d put you in the night I left. He...hadn’t taken care of you, and I was livid. I screamed at him, called him the most horrible things...the most awful...”

She went quiet then, suddenly unable to meet my eyes. Instead, she watched her hands, moving the small silver ring with the turquoise inlay around her pinky. She never took it off, said it had come from her mother’s people before the woman died. It seemed to strengthen her, give her the nerve to finally tell me what had become of my father.

“That night, after I refused to let him in my bed for treating you so...” She shuddered and moved the ring around on her finger. “It was three a.m. I know that because you’d waken for a bottle. I’d just got you back to sleep after your feeding and then...it was a crash, a loud thump of noise. I knew it was bad even as I walked down the hall. It was...” She closed her eyes again, as though whatever she saw in her mind, she wanted out and she believed closing her eyes would make it go away.

“He took an extension cord and looped it around the chandelier. He hung himself in the living room right next to your playpen.”

“Ina...”

She held me close, taking strength from me and giving what was left of her own. I’d guessed my father was dead. I’d always guessed the memory of it had haunted my mother, but I’d never guessed this.

“I’m not sorry I didn’t tell you. I didn’t want you to be...”

“No, no, it’s fine,” I said, sitting back up to look at her. She looked tired, worried, and her damp face was pale. I had a thousand questions, but they would keep. Details would come later, and I knew, just looking at her that she’d give them when she could. “I’m sorry that happened. I’m sorry he was so...”

“Damaged.”

“I suppose he was.” On the floor next to my bed was one of Jamie’s shirts, a thick flannel he’d given me a few days before when I got cold watching movies in my room with him. It was red and black, and I knew if I touched it, I’d catch his scent, that sweet, warm fragrance that comforted me. Had my mother done the same thing? Did she smell my father’s shirts and smile at the scent? Did she ever stop doing that? Blinking, I watched her face, wondering how long it took for them to fall apart so completely. “Jamie isn’t like...that.”

“Not yet.”

“Ina...there’s a line, isn’t there? My father crossed it, but Jamie, he still wants...”

She held my hand again, worry inching in her features. “What does Jamie want, tuzueca? Has he told you? Has he stopped talking about all the things he wanted for himself when you were just his friend?”

A slow, sure chill swept over my body, my throat going dry as my heart pounded. He had. Now that my mother mentioned it, Jamie had stopped talking about tours and music and record deals. He stopped mentioning his own label and opening a school to teach kids how to play.

My mother’s mouth tightened, stretching into a line as though she knew the answers to her questions without me uttering a sound. Still, she continued. “Has he stopped thinking about a future without you? Or do all his plans factor you in? Just you? Do those plans work if you’re not there?”

When we first met Jamie told me he was going to conquer the industry. He wanted music to be good again. He wanted to be a musician that lived a legacy. It had only been a few months since we finally came together, but the chats we had about the future always included me; my plans, my goals, the things I wanted. It had been a long time since Jamie mentioned his musical legacy.

My mother sighed, fingers soft, but steady on my wrist. “I know you love him. I’d be a fool to not know how much he loves you, but Iris, you have to put love aside sometimes. You have to remember that love will only carry you so far.” She walked to my door, pausing to watch me. “First love doesn’t always mean your last love. If you don’t think he’ll let you go, then you’re going to have to make him. You’re going to have to be stronger than he is. You’re going to have to fight for him because he doesn’t seem able.”

She left, leaving behind the sting of the past and the truth of what lay ahead of me. Both burned me to the core. 

CHAPTER TEN

Willa’s diner was a hole-in-the-wall place on the outskirts of Memphis, right off I-55 south. We were a five-bus caravan, with two black SUVs flanking the front and back. But the diner was set back from the service road, and the open pasture next to the parking lot accommodated the large crew. Inside, Dash led me toward the back of the diner, to a red pleather booth by the wall of windows. The floors were black and white checkers, likely a throw back to when the place had been constructed, and the counters were a gold Formica edged in silver. Lars, Dash’s beefy German-looking bodyguard with short white-blond hair and a ruddy complexion pulled down the blinds, then waved us into the booth, standing two tables away to block off anyone other than the wait staff so we wouldn’t be bothered.

It was a little ridiculous, the security and privacy, a fact I made well known when I glanced behind me, waving to Isaiah and Lou, both of whom laughed at the gesture, but waved back. I turned forward, looking at Dash, shaking my head at his somber little frown.

“What?” he said, leaning on his elbows. He moved his head to the right, watching his band and crew as they huddled on the other side of the nearly empty diner. “Would you rather sit with them?”

I made no comment, keeping to myself that I hadn’t spoken a single word to Isaiah or anyone else in the band since Landon sent that little “off limits” set of rules per Dash’s instruction. It was juvenile and petty for him to ask me to keep away from them, but I’d let the giant baby have his way. It was his ballgame.

“Do you want to continue?” I asked, pulling my laptop out from my messenger bag, nodding to the open document I’d saved during our last hour ride on the bus. Dash had spent most of the day in his bunk, clearly working on a song that was giving him trouble. When my knock cut through the cursing and the same melody he seemed unable to move past, he’d flung the door wide, giving me ample view of his naked chest, low rise jeans, scruffy beard and disheveled mound of hair sticking out at all angles. He had to clear his throat to pull me out of my obvious gawking—God, that chest hadn’t been nearly as wide at eighteen—and I hurried to make an excuse.

“You’re stuck and I’m bored. Wanna start this interview?”

He’d agreed, but, had been evasive at best; giving one-word answers with no elaboration. I’d hoped the meeting with the kids this morning had softened him, made him a little more eager to open up, but the day, so far, had been a bust.

He stretched out, legs on the seat next to him as he rested against the window. “Depends on the information you’re willing to give up yourself.” Dash moved a silver Zippo lighter around his fingers, opening and closing, the sound coming close to a rhythm that set my teeth on edge. “Because I’d like to know a few things.”

I sat back, nodding to the waitress, a middle-aged gray-haired woman wearing sensible shoes and a tight yellow and blue uniform that didn’t quite fit her. “I’ll have a cup of hot water and a tea bag if you’ve got one.”

“This is Tennessee, honey. Of course, we have tea.” She winked at me then shot a sweet smile at Dash. “And you? You want hot tea too?”

“No ma’am,” he said, sitting up. At first he flashed a smile, something similar to the smolder, but seemed to think better of it. “I’ll have coffee and the number one.” He pointed to the laminated menu and a meal of sunny side up eggs and a rasher of bacon.”

“You hungry?” the old woman asked me, like she knew me well and hadn’t spent no more than a minute in my company, but I liked how familiar she was. I’d always loved the south and how friendly people were there.

“I’ll just take two waffles with maple syrup. Side of powdered sugar if you’ve got it.”

“No meat?” She looked a little surprised and tilted her head as though she expected me to change my order.

“I’m good with just waffles.”

“Suit yourself, honey.” She grabbed the menu and waddled off toward the kitchen.

“So?” Dash said, leaning on his elbows again. “You agree?”

“Agree to what?” He flipped open the lid of the Zippo, then closed it, doing the action again and again and I exhaled, rubbing the bridge of my nose. “You’re giving me a headache.”

He moved back, leaning against the booth, that Zippo still moving. “You give me info, I’ll give you honest answers.”

These were dangerous waters. If Dash knew the truth—the entire truth, then things could get dramatic and messy. But I doubted his cousin had given anything away after that night at his house. Jamie had been devastated. Isaiah had been guilty and I hadn’t been able to look at myself in the mirror for over two months. But what we’d done and why...those were two totally different things. Isaiah had asked me to keep the truth to myself and I had never been eager to spill the secret. Then Dash became an asshole and after I’d discovered him slinking out of Kylie’s hotel room, I’d decided he didn’t deserve to know the truth.

A slow, subtle glance over my shoulder, meeting Isaiah’s gaze, seeing the small head shake and I had my answer. Fine then. Truth, but not all of it.

“What info do you want?” I asked him, nodding to the waitress when she set a steaming cup of water in front of me. The tea bag was on the saucer, still closed and I took my time dunking the thing into the water. Dash, for his part, made a small ceremony of preparing his coffee—three sugars and creamer with a shot of whiskey from the flash in his pocket. He inclined it toward me, but stashed it in his pocket when I shook my head.

“Information...about Lager.”

That surprised me and I could tell, by the small smirk on his face that Jamie likely thought I expected questions about my life, maybe about the past and what I’d put him through. But I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of thinking I was hopeful for some jaunt down memory lane. That shit was done, the exits sealed off a long time ago.

“What could you possibly want to know about Lager?”

He moved the coffee around his mug and a small drizzle inched over the rim and collected in the saucer below. Dash didn’t pay attention to his cup, deciding instead to watch my face, something I’d caught him doing a lot in the past couple of hours. He wasn’t flirting—I’d seen that often enough to know what that looked like, but he seemed somehow curious, less angry at me.

“You said this morning that you spent six hours with him in Paris at that pub.” I nodded, careful to keep my expression impassive. It would do no one any good to let loose anything remotely interesting Lager had told me. Dash, though, wanted details. The look of it moved around his eyes like a cloud. “What the hell did you and Lager talk about for six hours, chica?” He smirked, this time trying to hide the expression behind his cup as he mumbled, “or did you get him away from that pub for something other than talking?”

I slammed my hand against the table, the movement so quick and heavy that the salt shaker and creamer spilled over. Dash grabbed the small cow figurine holding the creamer, wiping it dry. “Dios, Iris...”

“Let’s get something straight,” I told him, waving off the waitress when she headed our way, dishtowel out, ready to help. She dropped it on the table and quickly turned on her heel. “You’ve got a lot of opinions and ideas about me and I know where they come from.”

He snorted, gaze shooting behind me, I guessed to Isaiah before he picked up the rag and sopped up the mess. “Si, I do...”

I grabbed his hand, stopping his small task because I wanted him to be man enough to look me in my eyes. It was long overdue, this discussion. “I broke your heart. I did something that no one who claims to be in love has any right to do. I was selfish and careless.” He’d gone perfectly still when I touched him, not retreating, no coiling away from me like I thought he would. Now Dash’s face paled, likely because I mentioned the thing he’d clearly never gotten over. “But I was eighteen. I was a kid, not much older than the ones we met today.” He exhaled, nostrils flaring until I pulled my hand back, resting against the back of the booth. “If you want to know the truth, I’ve had exactly four lovers in my life, including you and not one of them was Wills Lager.”

“That’s not any of my business.”

“No,” I said, cupping my tea just to keep my fingers still. “It’s not, but you have a habit of assuming I’m a whore. Not just assuming, but announcing to the world that I am.”

“Iris...”

I shook my head, quieting him instantly. “Despite what you think, I’m not just doing this to get back what you wrecked. I’m doing this because I promised Lager I would. I’m doing this for a dying man.”

“Why?” Dash’s face relaxed and he pushed aside the rag, forehead wrinkled up as though he hadn’t heard me right. “What the hell does Lager have to do with an interview about me?”

“Lager thinks you have potential. He thinks you could be great.”

Dash laughed, tossing back his coffee. “I am great.”

“You were,” I said, shutting down his humor with two words. Dash moved his back teeth together and his jaw moved. It reminded me of gears shifting, an engine at the ready to take off. “When you first started. When the music still mattered. When the show wasn’t about make-up and theatrics and what a bunch of suits thought was popular, yeah. You were great.”

“The fuck do you know about it?” He sounded bitter, childish.

“I learned at your feet, if you recall. Four years discovering every obscure artist we could get our hands on. Four years digging through old records and sneaking off to Chicago and Indy to hear bands no one ever heard of because we caught wind of a song or sound that got underneath our skin.” I leaned forward, blocking out the noises around us, disregarding the sound of chatter and the low hum of bad country music on the overhead stereo. “You remember that...Jamie?” I whispered the name like it tasted sweet on my tongue and he didn’t correct me. “You remember how it felt to hear something magical? To play it? To have that same magic come out of your fingers? From your mouth?”

He watched me for a long time and I wondered what we looked like just sitting there, staring at each other—me leaning forward, my fingers flat against the table surface, his curled around a Zippo that he held tight against his palm. We’d been in love once, a lifetime ago, but before that, before the sex and heat and wild, manic passion, there had been the music. It had bonded us closer than blood. Somewhere along the way, we forgot that.

“I remember,” he finally said, dropping the lighter on the table. He went on watching me, silent, and I wondered what he thought about then and what memory had taken over his attention as he went on silently watching me.

“Lager does too.” My tea had gone lukewarm, but I drank it anyway, hoping that music would take control of the conversation, not...other things. “He said you were one he watched. He had reasons, mainly because he said you had so much raw talent.”

“Had?” Dash asked, nodding for the waitress to bring him another coffee.

“Yeah. Had.”

He muttered his thanks when she topped off his cup, adding the sugar and less creamer this time until the dark liquid became warm brown. “Doesn’t think much of me now?”

I didn’t answer immediately, had to sort out the words so they weren’t insulting. Lager hadn’t held back, not from anything and I shouldn’t either, not after all the shit Dash had leveled at me, but I remembered the music and the boy who loved it. I remembered his voice so raw and sweet. I remembered the joy I saw in him every time he played, how Dash Justice hadn’t worn that expression in so long and I decided to push down my anger. I decided to suffocate my hate if only for this one conversation. I’d made a promise to a dying man. I was damn sure going to keep it.

“He thinks you’re lost. He thinks you need a little direction.”

“And you’re the one...”

“I never said I was the one.” My eyes burned a little when I closed them, and I rubbed the lids, trying to alleviate the ache. “Lager read an article I did a while back.”

“Ah. That one.”

“Umhm.” I looked out the window, trying to distract myself, fumbling through thoughts to get myself straight, to make myself calm. Dash had definitely read the article. He’d gone on about it and then blasted the media in his shows afterward. “That one. The one that inspired your little ‘super bitches’ rant.” He blinked, mouth opening, before he shook his head, then laughing when I shot him the bird. “People talk. You can’t keep shit quiet when the ten thousand people you’re playing for have ten thousand smart phones.”

He laughed harder, shrugging before he waved me off. “The article was...” I jerked my attention toward him, narrowing my eyes. I suspected an insult was coming, but Dash only shrugged, waving his fingers like he struggled for the right words. “It was good.” He laughed when I shot my eyebrows up, surprised at the weak compliment. “What? I can’t say something nice?”

“Not about me.”

Dash lost all expression in his features and it reminded me of him as kid, looking young, seeming surprised when he leaned forward trying to kiss me and I didn’t push him away. “You think I have nothing good to say about you?”

I tilted my head, gaze sharp. I didn’t trust him, not at all, but I saw something just then that I hadn’t seen in Dash for a long time—worry. It didn’t belong on his face, not when he looked at me.

“You’re serious?” He sat back, one arm stretched back along the back of the booth. When he didn’t answer, went on looking innocent and surprised, I started humming the tune to 1221. That shock vanished from his features, and he shook his head. I wasn’t sure if the movement was about my sins or his.

There was a brief pause in the conversation when the waitress returned, serving us our food with a speed I was surprised she managed. Could be she felt the tension around our table. Could be she’d discovered who Dash was and didn’t much care for him. Many didn’t. Whatever the reason, she hurried giving us our food and then sped away without questioning if we needed anything else or if she’d missed something.

I looked down at my waffles, my mouth watering, and reached for my fork, pulling back only a knife. Behind me the counter was empty of guests and wait staff. Beyond that, on the other side of the diner, Isaiah and Lou were laughing at something Landon said, and otherwise acting like they were enjoying their meals.

“Qué pasa?” Dash asked, not waiting for me to answer before he slipped from the booth, darting behind the counter to grab a few napkins and a fork for me. “Here,” he said, offering me the utensil, not really paying much attention to my nod of thanks until my fingers slid against his, an accidental brush of skin that had us both stopping.

It felt like that first time. The first touch, back in Willow Heights when Jamie picked up my pen and his large fingers went around my knuckles. No lightning bolts this time, but something sweeter; like a dream I’d had a long time ago and was only just remembering.

“Thanks,” I said, voice barely above a whisper. Just then I decided not to look at him, pretending to be focused on my waffles. He watched me again; that heavy stare, the slow rake of his gaze over my skin felt like a lick, like a breeze I couldn’t see but knew was there.

I hated him, I reminded myself. He’d destroyed me. Destroyed everything I’d worked to build. Forcing that little mantra on repeat, I silently tried to tell myself he wasn’t watching, that even if he was, it didn’t affect me in the slightest.

That wasn’t my nipples hardening at the reminder of how he looked this morning all tussled and gorgeous. My pussy wasn’t clenching, and I wasn’t thinking of the long, deep lines of muscle over his abdomen or the large round curves of his chest as he stood in the doorway of his bunk, arm resting on the jamb, free hand working through his thick hair, waiting on me to tell him why I pestered him.

“You know,” he started, swallowing his bacon before he finished. “I do feel like an asshole for that song.”

“You should,” I said, slicing pieces of waffle, concentrating on the sprinkling of powdered sugar drowning in syrup in each square.

I stopped hacking away at my waffles when Dash brought his hand across the table and grabbed my wrist. For a second, I couldn’t breathe, somehow forgot how my lungs were supposed to work.

I hate him, I repeated to myself, closing my eyes when he took my hand.

“I mean it.”

Do I pull away from him? Do I shrug, blow off his half-assed apology and move on with the interview? Do I run from the diner and forget this whole thing?

“Iris...” he said, voice even, calm. “You don’t believe me?”

I jerked my gaze to him, pulling out of his touch with a slowness I wasn’t sure was rude or not. “You haven’t apologized. Not once.”

“You need me to?” It wasn’t an insult, not the way he said it. The question seemed curious, his tone inviting, but I still held on to so much anger, so much resentment. Dash was infamous for saying one thing and doing another. I wasn’t about to fall into his web.

“What I need,” I said, downing my second cup of tea, “is for you to give me a real answer. I told you what Lager said, now you answer something for me.”

Dash sighed, pushing away his plate, gaze shifting from my face to the window at his left. “Fine, but I want to grab a smoke. Can we finish this on the bus?” He whistled, bottom lip tight and caught Landon’s attention, moving his finger in a “let’s finish up” wave.

“You’ll be honest?” I asked, watching him extract his wallet and way too much cash to cover the entire crew’s bill with at least a hundred left over.

Dash worked his jaw again, as though he needed to pause, take a second and weigh the truth and something resembling what he thought I might want to hear. “The truth is a myth, chica. You should know that. You’re in the business of making up whatever truth falls in line with your story.”

“I don’t lie.”

Dash nodded, his frown steady. “Well, I’m not in the habit of being honest with anyone. Not unless it’s someone I trust.” The insult was silent, but I understood. In fact, I respected it.

“You and me, Dash, we are a lot more alike than you think.”

It was the wrong thing to say. That much I knew as soon as he stood, reaching in his back pocket for a plastic tie to pull his hair off his face. He looked to the front of the diner, nodded at whoever called to him, but didn’t move.

“No, chica. We aren’t.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Willow Heights, Indiana

June, 2008

The sound was like fire on my flesh. Burning, scaring, whelping hair and cells, and I watched it. I smelled the smoke consuming me, taking hold. I tasted ash on my tongue. That sound was a Congo beat; even in rage he made music.

There were words I couldn’t understand. A strange language of anguish, despair.

I’m trying to save you, I thought, body shaking, jerking as I leaned against the front door.

“Iris, please! Don’t do this. How can you... estás rompiendo mi corazón.” Jamie spoke in sporadic phrases of English and Spanish, moving between each language when one failed him, when the words did not hold enough emotion. “Don’t...please don’t leave me.” Two more beats and we rounded the bridge, but this melody was dark. It was rage and fear and dark worry in each pounding beat of his fists on my front door. I thanked God my mother had not been there. She knew what I planned, had encouraged me, but would not stay. Not when I asked her to leave.

I have to do this on my own.

It had been a failure.

I could not make the look on Jamie’s face leave my mind. Rubbing my fingers into my eyelids, pushing my palms into the sockets, still didn’t move that expression from my mind. There it stayed; painful, destroyed.

“What do you mean?” he’d said, hands dropping from my arms. He’d taken a step back, just one, as though he needed that small space to make sure I was me, that it was my mouth that told him a lie, my voice that tore apart his heart in five words.

We have to break up.

That red flannel hung in my hand, swinging against the concrete like a noose. Isaiah hadn’t come yet, but he would soon. I’d planned on it. Jamie kept on staring at me, mouth dropping open and a constant shake of his head telling me he wouldn’t listen. Telling me he’d never believe me.

“No,” he’d said, like I’d asked permission. I hadn’t and still he shook his head. “That’s not going to happen.”

There was panic in his eyes, something that had started as a glassy shine, like tears started to cloud against the blackness in his irises. But that panic twisted, became something dark, something that made me step back.

“You...don’t have a choice,” I tried, voice weak, shaking with emotion I couldn’t repress. “Here.” It was stupid, handing him that flannel, as though that shirt returned to him was some sort of symbol. He’d have it back, and I’d pack him away like my elementary school yearbooks and letters I’d written my mother at twelve while I was at summer camp.

“I don’t want this...” Jamie hadn’t even reached for me. He hadn’t done anything more than move into my space, holding my face, breathing in my scent like I was the oxygen he needed. “I want you. Only you. Nothing else...”

“Jamie, no.”

It had taken everything in me not to cry. God, how I wanted to. The tears were there, on the back of my throat, fighting to move forward. But he’d cried enough for both of us.

“You can’t do this, florecita. No. It’s not going to...”

“It’s done. I’m...I’m done.”

I’d heard the slow clunk of Isaiah’s car as it turned the curve, nearing their house. I waited for that noise to grow louder, for the headlights to illuminate the garage before I left it, using that old Chevelle as a buffer between Jamie and me.

“I’m...I’m sorry,” I’d cried, waiting for Isaiah to leave his car, to hold his cousin back when he darted for me.

“Let me go! Aléjate de mi!”

But Isaiah couldn’t stop him, no matter how tightly he held onto his cousin. I was three blocks from my house when I heard Jamie’s thundering feet coming closer and I sped up, heartbeat pounding, tears hot and burning on my cheeks.

“No, Jamie! No!”

I managed to get inside, to secure the deadbolt but he didn’t slow. He didn’t stop.

“No puedo vivir sin ti.”

“Please,” I cried, face in my hands, sliding against the door, to sit on the hardwood as he went on screaming. Pound after pound Jamie begged.

That ash in my mouth burned, clogged my throat and I thought my chest might splinter.

“Iris...please. Tu eres mi mundo. There is no me without you.”

Something broke in me then. It would not heal. Not this night, likely never. The beating on my door weakened, became softer, as though he wore himself out, but I still heard the sharp rip of panic in his tone, even as his voice got quiet.

“What did I do? Please tell me...”

Willow Heights was a small town. There was never any crime. There was never a need, but patrolmen did circle the roads, and if I knew my neighbors, two old spinster women in their eighties who liked to tell my mother that she should send me to the all-girls Catholic school in Madison, then I knew they’d have something to say about the scene Jamie made out on the front porch.

“Jamie,” I said against the crack in the door, “you have to go home. My neighbors, they’ll call the police. You know how they are.”

“Not...no. Not until you tell me why.”

I want you to be free, I thought. I don’t want you losing yourself in me.

“I...I don’t want any...commitments while I’m in New York.” Even to my own ears that sounded stupid, unconvincing. “I...I want to be free to...”

“Why are you lying to me?” He punched the door again, sniffling, hissing after the small crack of bone. “Tell me the truth. Don’t fucking lie to me!”

“Jamie...”

In the distance, I heard the muffled sound of voices. They were old, but sharp and the pounding stopped for a second. I stood then, moving the thin curtain from the window next to the door and dropped it quickly, stepping away from the glass when I spotted Jamie on the porch, his face pale, eyes swollen.

“We don’t want to have to call the police, fella.” The old biddy sounded rude, saying ‘fella’ like it was a filthy word just meant for him.

“This...this is my girlfriend’s house,” he shouted, clearing his throat when they tried speaking over him. “I’m not lying. Call them, I don’t care...”

The horde was not kind to Jamie or Isaiah. They barely tolerated me and my Ina. Not the old timers anyway. Biddy one and biddy two outside my door were proof enough that the worse among our classmates had learned their rudeness from somewhere and that somewhere was still alive and kicking and being obnoxious in the process.

Knowing what a mess it might make, I opened the door anyway, shooting a glare right at their faces. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Well,” Biddy One said, pulling her thin sweater closer together. “Does your mother know there is a boy here pounding on your door?”

“Does your priest know you’re on my porch being an asshole to my boyfriend?”

That was enough rudeness to send them off my porch, but I didn’t watch them leave. Instead, I grabbed Jamie by the arm, pulling him inside. I kept my attention on the two old women, and watched the street for any cruisers. None came, and I exhaled, realizing that I’d opened the door to a problem, one I didn’t know how to solve.

Jamie’s gaze was hot against my skin, got doubly so the longer I looked out the window until he stood behind me, his breath panting against the back of my neck.

“You can’t stay here,” I tried, gasping when he grabbed my waist, pulling me against his chest.

“The hell I can’t.” Jamie grabbed my hair, pulling out the plastic tie and braid to slid his fingers through my waves. Then he licked against the back of my shoulder, moving up my neck to stop at my ear, teeth biting softly against the bottom. “Don’t tell me what I can’t do. Not when you’re lying to me. Not when I know you don’t want me to walk away.”

“I...I do.” It was a pathetic refusal, something that sounded weak and breathless. He’d never believe me, no matter what I said, not when my body shook, my knees buckling just from the feel of his mouth against my neck.

“Liar.”

Jamie moved my head, directing it so that my face rested against the front door and I stretched out my hand, nails digging into the wood as he moved behind me, sliding his hands up my torso, locking his fingers against my nipples.

“You want me to stop...tell me.” I shuddered, releasing a helpless moan when he fished his way to my bra, reaching flesh underneath. “You’re wet just from this, aren’t you?” Behind me, Jamie’s hard, lithe body felt hot, tempting and without knowing I did it, I pushed back, my ass against his hard cock. “Si. You are. I know it.”  We rocked against each other, him directing, me bending and it was new. It felt so different.

I’d let Jamie have me over and over. We’d spent every available moment together discovering ways to love each other, finding out what turned us on, what would make each other weak and panting, but Jamie had never commanded me. He never took control. He did just then, voice deep, raspy from the yelling, from all that emotion and for once, I let him control me. It did something to me, having him hold me tight against his body, having all that aggression moving around me like a second skin. I knew I shouldn’t have liked it, but I did. God, how I did.

“Let me see,” he said, pressing tighter against me, my face and chest against the door as Jamie kicked my legs apart. He moved slow, fingers teasing, grazing, his thumbs digging into my thighs as he moved his fingers up my legs. “Look at this.” He spoke against my back, rubbing two fingers inside my shorts and against my thin panties. My clit thumped and throbbed when Jamie stroked me there, wetness increasing like my breath the more he touched me. “Coño, que rico, you’re dripping.”

He didn’t wait for me to respond. Jamie didn’t ask permission to touch me to do anything at all. He seemed possessed. He seemed out of control and God help me, I loved him like this. I loved him and knew at that moment, I’d let him do whatever he wanted to me.

He took a second to slip both fingers inside my pussy, thumb on my clit, and just as I neared the edge, as I arched and pushed against his fingers, wanting more, needing so much more, Jamie back away from me, taking my hips and turning me to lean against the door. He knelt in front of me, hands tugging my shorts down, leaning up on his knees to watch me, yanking me free of my clothes completely until I stood there, in my mother’s foyer naked from the waist down.

“You’re gonna to stand there, florecita and watch while I eat you.” His voice had gone to gravel, that lulling accent that he took care to hide exaggerated in his emotion. “I’m going to remind you what I can do to you.” He jerked one leg onto his shoulder, and I wobbled, holding onto his arms to keep my balance and Jamie licked the inside of my thigh, sparing a final look at me. “You’re gonna watch, mi amor, and then, you’re gonna scream my name.”

It didn’t take long.

His tongue was so thick and hot, I’d always thought so, but every time before, Jamie had been careful to kiss me there. He’d been cautious, as though it was more important to gauge my reaction, watch me as he went down on me to see what I liked best. It was always good, but this was so much better. He went at my pussy like he was starved for the taste and scent of me, working his tongue deep inside, sucking hard on my clit, opening me wider with two fingers, then a third.

“Jamie...” I started, feeling so raw, so ready. That rushing sensation already began to crest and I felt my stomach coil tight. “Oh, God, Jamie!” I shouted after only a few minutes of him tasting me, touching me deep, and then I came so hard, flooded him so completely that I felt the slow, warm drip of my release down the inside of my thigh.

My breath was weak, my hold on balance nonexistent, and I barely noticed when Jamie stood, easing down my leg before he picked me up, mouth hard over mine, my taste heady and thick on his tongue. He walked down the hallway with me wrapped around him, his fingers in my hair, turning my head, keeping control over the kiss as he moved us to my room.

I broke apart from him when he kicked the door closed, blinking up at him when Jamie set me on the bed.

“This...we shouldn’t be in here,” I said, still half naked, still aching for more as he shook his head, ignoring me. He pulled his shirt over his head with one hand and immediately popped the button of his jeans. My gaze went to his stomach, to the beautiful dips and contours of those abdominal muscles, then to the black, coarse hair that ran beneath his navel. He touched himself, fingers slow against his stomach, right to his zipper to lower it.

He wore red boxer briefs, my favorite color and had his jeans and shoes off before I could stop him. I knew this would end in disaster. I knew this was just a delay. The inevitable would come and soon. But, God help me I couldn’t resist him. I didn’t even want to try.

“Jamie...” It was a weak effort, the impact utterly wrecked by how I laid back when Jamie crawled onto my bed.

“Shut up, mami,” he said, taking my hand to rub down his chest, to his hard stomach. “Shut up and touch me.” I did, slipping my fingers beneath the waistband of his boxer, taking hold of his hard cock, stroking it so that Jamie sighed, like he’d been waiting for my touch.  He squeezed his eyes, head turning in the sweet pleasure of my touch. “You take this.” Jamie grabbed my hair, moving my chin up as he used his free hand to guide my hand, stroking himself with my fingers over and over. “You take this because it’s yours. It’s only yours.”

He was wet at the tip and Jamie groaned, seeming to love how I rolled my thumb over the top and moved that moisture all over the shaft. He was impossibly hard, his hips moving with the stroke of my fingers around him, then he pushed back, taking hold of himself to rub the tip along my pussy lips. There was moisture there too and the hard searing heat of his cock breaching a half an inch in, then out again, the most delicious tease.

“Tell me you want this.” That grip in my hair loosened, but Jamie still turned my head toward him, sliding his fingers from my hair to my cheek. When he spoke, his voice was softer, the tone with barely an edge to it. “Tell me you want it, and I’ll give it to.” He kissed me, sliding in another fraction. “I’ll give you everything. You just have to say it.”

I could not take the teasing, that sweet lick of heat and fire working inside my stomach, my clit still pulsing from how Jamie had gone at my pussy. And the flash of his face, that hurt, that betrayal, God I couldn’t handle it. I couldn’t bear the thought of ever putting that look on his face again.

I gave up, knowing I was opening us both up for a heartache we might never get over.

“Give it to me, Jamie,” I said, pulling on his hips to bring him closer. “I want you so much.”

And he took me, right there on my bed. He took what had always belonged to him, telling me with his body, with his desperate, needy kisses that I could never make him leave.

“I will always want you, belleza.” He worked his hips harder against me, lifting my leg to push in deeper, but Jamie’s gaze did not leave my face and as he watched me, another glassy shine rose up in his eyes. “You’re my addiction, and I will never be clean. Not ever.”

He loved me hard, for a long time, not coming up for breath, not letting me rest and I felt like a drug, something he couldn’t stop taking hits off. Later, when he was settled, when I couldn’t move away from him without him following, Jamie kissed my shoulder, voice low but fierce. “You’re mine, mami. Don’t ever try to change that.”

I closed my eyes moving my face deeper into the pillow. I didn’t want Jamie to see my tears or realize that I’d understood what I needed to do. The tears came hot and fast, each one taken by the fabric on the pillow, and I laid there still, listening to Jamie snore, praying one day he’d forgive me for what I’d have to do.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Sometimes the title was deserved, self-imposed or not. Dash Justice, God of Rock, held court. His band were his fellow gods. The crowd, his worshipers. The stage, Olympus. He moved around it like he was made to; subtle, commanding, voice guttural, slicing through the arena like a whip.

“Do you want more?” he growled, arms uplifted, an erotic supplication to his followers, making them scream, making them crave his voice; smoke billowing around him as the screen at his back flashed images of white, red and blue lighting. In the screen silhouette, among all that light were women, young, lithe, their bodies perfect, their dancing seductive. “Tell me...show me!” The roar of voices came over the stage in a wave, screams and screeches that could have knocked him over if they’d gone a few octaves higher.

“Let’s go...” Jamie threw his guitar around to his front, slamming into a chord, head back, laughing as Isaiah leaned forward and Dash rested against him, their fingers working over each guitar like a wizard working a spell.

One full minute they played that way, both expressions open, free. This was the life they’d planned, ten years ago. This was the dream they’d wrangled into submission.

I sat backstage, watching them, seeing the chaos that was a Dash Justice show come alive in a Technicolor orgasm of sight and sound. Energy flowed around us, mystery and magic in every aspect of the show—the face paint, the imagery, the mock macabre, gothic sets, it all made sense, somehow, if you didn’t look too hard.

Problem was, I always did.

The music amped up and the roars dimmed, something that Dash seemed to notice. He paused as Isaiah played a solo, scanning the crowd, lost in the adrenaline thrill that pumped in every conceivable space around us. The front row was filled with industry folks, but they were carted off to the side. The center was reserved for women—beautiful, young, eager women barely dressed, who flashed smiles and obvious mouth licks between the band, security and the roadies manning the floor. Someone, anyone, would do usually, could help them on that stage or behind it. And Dash played to those women, eating up their adoration like it made him drunk and he craved the high.

I was not a consideration to him, but that wasn’t old news. Who would be? There could be no competing between the movement of lust and adrenaline pulsing from the crowd or the roar of his name coming at him in waves. Every woman wanted to fuck him. Every man wanted to be worshiped and praised like he was. The ex-girlfriend who broke his heart, the one he barely managed tolerating, would be an afterthought among all that.

“You need anything?” Landon asked, offering me a bottle of water as he came to my side. The man ran all over the arena before, after and during the show. He was sweaty, his face pink and I wondered, fleetingly, how good the money was. I didn’t think any amount would tempt me into this madhouse on the regular.

“Thanks,” I said, nodding toward the stool at my side. “Can you take a break?”

Landon lifted his eyebrows, blinked a few times while he watched me, as though the offer surprised him. He gave a swift look around the backstage, nodding to the Bryan, the tour manager, before he shrugged, flopping onto the empty stool. “God,” he breathed, grabbing a folded towel from a stack behind the curtain. “It’s February. Why the hell is Memphis so hot?”

Water dripped onto my fingers when I opened the bottle and I wiped my palm dry against my jeans. “It’s the humidity.” I waved the bottle, motioning toward the crowd. “See how their dressed?” I didn’t mean the women, and I think Landon understood that. He laughed at least. “Not the groupies who seem to think they’re in Brazil and it’s Carnival, the others. The people here to party. T-shirts and jeans, mostly.”

“A few painted faces and leather pants.”

I shrugged, agreeing. “Those are the die-hards. Jamie and I...” I stopped myself, not sure if Landon would tattle on me for using the name. “I mean...”

“He’s being stupid about the name.” Landon leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Even Isaiah calls him Jamie.”

“Yeah, well, they’re cousins. They’re blood.”

“To tell you the truth,” Landon started, shifting his gaze to the stage. Dash bent over, taking a red lace bra from a girl on the front row. “Everyone mostly calls him Jamie, except when there’s a party. When there’s women and media...and...”

“And I’m both of those things.” Landon’s shrug was apologetic, and he managed a weak smile. I thought of asking him more. Jamie’s answered had been more telling today on the bus, but not entirely honest. Maybe Landon could offer some insight. Maybe he’d...

“Where are my putas sucias?” Dash shouted, interrupting my thoughts and I jerked my attention to the stage, to Dash pacing the front, that bra twirling from his finger. “For you gringos, I said, where are my dirty whores?” He stopped when one girl jumped on her seat, arms waving, tits bouncing.

“I’m right here, Dash! Fuck me!”

“Wow,” I said, lip curling.

“They get a little...obvious,” Landon said, standing when his boss looked to the side of the stage, right at us.

Dash watched me for a small moment, enough to recognize me sitting there before he continued with the act, smiling down at the girl bouncing in the front row. “You want this, chica?” This direct attention made her bounce harder, screaming his name like just the taste of it on her tongue would make her come. “What about now?” he said, taking the bra, sniffing it, licking the cups before he rubbed his face in the fabric, smearing white and black paint all over it. Then Dash dangled it from the stage and a large group of women descended, climbing over each other reaching for the bra.

“Is this...different from his first shows?” Landon asked me. I shook my head, attention on the stage, on Dash as he took a bottle of whiskey form Isaiah, guzzled deep, then poured it over the women still jumping and screaming his name.

“Yeah,” I told Landon, head shaking. “This is nothing like who he used to be. Nothing.” Those shows had been raw, but not like this. This was voyeurism and erotic seduction. Dash would turn on every eager woman in the area, then send them off to whoever they ended up with for the night. This was vulgar and gratuitous, and it had nothing to do with the music.

“Have you had your fill of me?” A resounding scream of “no” waved from the crowd and Dash laughed, drinking again as the band played low, some random tune; it was filler music, a melody they played that was bass line and drumbeat until Dash got ready to continue the set list. From my memory, I recalled “Love is a Vampire,” the track they’d just finished, had been the final song they played in the past two shows. But Dash didn’t look ready to stop. He looked, in fact, like he could play all night, eating up their adoration until it filled him.

The chant started low; the smallest muttered of noise that inched and worked through the crowd. It grew louder, stronger and the music lowered, as though the band wanted to hear what they were saying. Dash waved a hand behind him, having Lou kill the music and the chant grew louder, then became a scream when he cupped his hand to his ear.

His features were guarded, but I watched them anyway as they twitched from surprise at hearing the constant refrain of 1221 to small disappointment that did not linger on his face. He glanced at me, frowning, forehead lined before he grinned and shrugged, taking in their excitement like the elixir it was. Dash wanted to stay high on them.

“I know what you want!” he screamed, playing the intro, riffing hard on his guitar as his band followed suit and that fucking song kicked off; a chorus of voices sang, echoing my shame, that stinging insult all around me.

Dash glanced once more at me, his smile lowering when I stood, handing Landon the half-full bottle of water and left the stage.

LANDON HAD INSISTED I take a bodyguard with me back to the bus. “The fans, at the end of the show, they sneak out to the back and try to catch Dash heading out of the arena,” he’d explained. “Strictly speaking, Mr. Justice hasn’t told me to watch out for you, but hell, Ms. Daines, you’ve been with us for a week. You’re not the bitch I thought...” He stopped himself, scrubbing his fingers through the back of his hair. “I’d feel better if you took one of the guys with you.” He nodded, calling over a beefy Mr. Universe-looking guy with light brown hair and a goatee. His eyes were green, and he had a scar that ran along his chin, up to his jaw.

“Ma’am,” he said, nodding to me when Landon waved him over.

“Take Ms. Daines back to the bus. Make sure you watch over her.”

I opened my mouth, ready to argue, but Landon had already waved and headed back toward the noise of music and hedonistic screaming.

After a silent few seconds, I faced the giant, wondering how long he could stand that still before I sighed. “What’s your name?” I asked him, trying not to smile when he moved his gaze down to my face, but not his head. A slight glimpse at my eyes and then his own moved around the arena, watching, calculating the threat of anyone coming within five feet of me.

“Clay, ma’am.”

It was pointless to ask for Mr. Universe to lose the stiff bearing and I was too irritated and too eager to release some tension to bother trying. “Tell you what, Clay,” I started, tapping his tree trunk of an arm to get him to follow me down the hallway. “They’re gonna go on for at least another half an hour and then there will be a meet and greet, possibly lots and lots of frivolity that I have no interest in being around.” I slipped my gaze up at those green eyes, grinning when his blank stare twisted into something almost resembling a smile. “I’m working on a week of wasted energy and I need to release it.”

Clay stopped, eyes widening as though I’d just asked him to get on his knees. I held up my hands, laughing at that shocked expression. “No. Oh, God no. I don’t mean...” He took a step back, like I’d just admitted to having a pistol in my back pocket, but he didn’t assume any sort of defensive stance. “Clay, I’m used to running ten miles a week and there’s a trail about a block from the arena.” I tilted my head, working my gaze over his body to assess what I thought he did to get that large. “You up for a late-night run?”

The bodyguard looked over my shoulder, then down at his watch, before a slow, barely there smile inched over his face. “I could burn some carbs.”

“Good. Then let’s get changed and I’ll meet you at the bus in ten.” He didn’t agree to that, but Clay did see me safe inside, then returned ten minutes later, sporting Nikes and a gray US Marines T-shirt tucked into his long workout shorts.

Turned out, Clay had taken three rounds to the chest in Fallujah five years back. He’d liked the time on leave recuperating. He really liked the woman and her five-year-old son who lived two doors down in his building so much that he decided not to re-up.

“This bodyguard gig is temporary,” he told me, an hour later as we rounded the end of the trail and the parking lot came into sight. “My buddy Jose said I could make some nice bank if I did a few dates for Justice.” A flash of an older man with a couple dozen tattoos shot in my head. He looked scary, severe but had a nice smile. I wondered, fleetingly, how the hell a straight-laced marine got mixed up with someone like that. “I’m headed back to my girl at the end of the month.”

“Good,” I said, smiling at the glint in his eyes when he mentioned her. “Engaged?” My breath wasn’t as even as his, but it wouldn’t be. Clay clearly ran far more than I did.

“That’s why I’m doing this gig,” he said, shooting a wink when he smiled at me. “Got my eye on a big ring, and Uncle Sam’s pension is crap.”

“A little advice,” I told him, inhaling deep as we hit the parking lot, “the right sort of girl doesn’t give a single shit about how big the ring is.” We came to the back entrance and moved through a small crowd milling around the band’s bus before we stopped. “Trust me, all she wants is you.”

“Noted, ma’am,” Clay said, nodding at me. The smile he wore disappeared when the bus door opened, and Landon moved down the steps. He frowned at us, glancing behind him before he jerked his chin, sending Clay away with one movement. “Night, Ms. Daine.”

“Night, Clay, and thanks.”

I turned, my body aching, bones tingling from the dying adrenaline in my blood, ready to go inside and shower, but Landon blocked the door. One look at his face, and I understood there was a problem.

“Is he entertaining?” I asked, folding my arms against my chest. My skin was sticky, damp and I was sure I probably smelled of sweat and the night air.

“No. He’s just...” Landon walked away from the door, moving his head to the left, a fraction of a movement, like he wanted some distance from the bus. “He was pissed you weren’t there when he got back. I don’t...” Landon looked over his shoulder, then turned to watch the thinning crowd of roadies as they packed away the equipment. “We’re set to leave in an hour and get right back on the road so I’m not sure why he was...”

“Does he not want me on the bus?” I was tired; tired of the endless night. Tired of the noise and smell of fog smoke. Tired of the perpetual child in a grown man’s body who ruled by the whims of his bipolar moods.

Landon shrugged. “He didn’t say anything like that. In fact, he seems to be...waiting for you.”

“Then his funky mood isn’t my problem.” I stretched my shoulders, twisting my arms from one side to the other. “I haven’t broken any of his little rules and I haven’t pestered him tonight with any questions. He’s got zero reason to be pissed at me.”

“But Mr. Justice is...”

“You know, what, Landon? I don’t care. I’m tired. I want a shower and eight hours of sleep.”

Landon might have followed. He might have watched my retreat and muttered some sort of warning. I didn’t know if he did. My focus was on the closed door and the small button I punched to open it. As soon as I walked inside, the rush of a cold hit me, and I exhaled, blissfully content at the frigid air chilling my hot skin.

The front room and kitchen were both empty, but I greeted Charles, the bus driver, as he adjusted the cooler next to him and moved a bag from the passenger’s seat.

“Good show?” he asked me, a practiced smile lighting up his face.

“Something like that,” I said, waving at him before he shut the door and I turned, intending to head right into the shower.

But Dash was sprawled out on the long sofa beyond the kitchen, his legs stretched across the cushion, blocking the hallway.

“‘Something like that?’” he asked, leaning up on one elbow. “What’s the matter, chica? You didn’t like it?”

“The music was tight,” I said through a sigh, not caring enough about what my attitude would do to Dash. “Isaiah was on point, and your vocals were strong.”

“Isaiah was on point?” He sat up, pulling off his jacket, the same one he’d worn during the show. His eyes were bright, but red-rimmed and he leaned forward, fists curled on his knees.

“Yes,” I said, not bothered by his attitude. “And your vocals were strong.”

“Damn straight.”

I rolled my eyes, walking toward the hall but Dash stopped me, shooting a long leg to block the way again. “You angling for a fight?”

“With you? Always.”

“Well, I’m not. I’m tired. I’m sweaty and I want to take a shower and crash.”

As if he’d only just noticed my tight workout pants and sports bra, Dash moved back, smile slow as it stretched over his lips, eyes appraising, approving as he shifted his gaze over my stomach, straight to my chest.

“Nice run?”

“Very.”

He stood, leaning toward me and I could not move. Behind me was another small sofa, to my right a table. Dash took advantage, slinking off the couch like a snake, lithe, long body grazing against mine.

“You work out all that aggression?”

I tilted my head, eyes narrowing to watch his expressions. “What aggression do you think I have?”

“You looked pretty pissed tonight.” He wobbled a little, and when he exhaled, blowing his long hair out of his face, I caught the strangling whiff of whiskey. He was drunk, more drunk than I remembered ever seeing him. He reached for my face, resting an arm against my shoulder as though it was too much effort to hold his touch against my cheek. “You know, when we played your song. You looked...”

“Not my song, Jamie.”

“You’re not...supposed to call me that.” He wobbled again, losing his balance and I pushed on his shoulders settling him down against the cushions.

“And you’re supposed to be a professional.”

“I fucking am, chica.”

He swatted away my hand when I tried to take the glass in front of him. Melting ice cubes moved around the bottom; there was no liquor left at all, but Dash still tried drinking it down.

“Yes. I saw your little display of professionalism.” The window next to the kitchen was large, darkened by tint, and I caught Dash’s reflection, spotted how closely he watched me. His gaze moved up, over my shoulder and arms when I reached for bottle of water, then down, focused on my thighs, my ass when I bent to grab the ice from the freezer. “You do that in all your shows?” I asked, shifting my gaze back to that reflection to watch him. “Get those girls all worked up and then just leave them hanging?”

He made a sound, something akin to a grunt, his nostril flaring when I pushed the ice water in front of him. “Sit,” he said, nodding to the seat across from him. When I glared at his face, then down at the full glass of water, Dash shook his head, releasing a sigh as he picked up the glass and drank. “Pain in the ass...”

“So?” I said, wondering what about this night had made him want to get twisted. He actually had been a professional so far in the tour. He did the shows, worked the meet and greets and came back to the bus before midnight. From what I’d heard the roadies saying, it was out of the norm for a Dash Justice tour. The early nights, the good behavior in the shows, none of it was he usual M.O.

“So, what?”

“What’s going on with you?” I pulled the empty bottle of Jim across the table, motioning it in his direction. “Tonight was different.”

“Tonight was epic.” He frowned when I laughed, mouth hard, severe. “You don’t agree?”

“No, sorry. I don’t.” Dash went on watching me, eyes brightening, mouth set firm as though he expected an explanation. He’d be disappointed.

“You’re loca, chica. I was solid. My vocals...”

“Yes. Those vocals. You’re right.” I leaned forward, patting at my bangs as they moved across my forehead in the stream of cool air coming from the vent overhead. “You’ve always had strong vocals, no one can deny that. You’ll never hear me say you aren’t talented.”

“But?” he asked, holding his cup in front of him mouth, eyebrows lifted.

“It’s the same thing over and over. It’s the same schtick you’ve perfected. The showman, the dark Goth bastard who disrespects women and offers himself up as some sort of god they should worship.”

He downed the water, the ice cubes clinking together. There was a bout of nervous energy, likely remnant adrenaline still working through my body. Dash had a crew that went around cleaning the buses, but they hadn’t been in yet, not since that drunken asshole said goodnight to his fans and crashed on the sofa. I left the table, looking to burn down some of the adrenaline, picking up crumpled chip bags and empty whiskey and beer bottles. I rinsed a few cups and one or two plates, the whole time feeling that sharp, hot gaze over my body.

“I shouldn’t be worshipped?”

He didn’t flinch when I jerked around to face him, my hands dripping water onto the tile floor. “Wow.” Head shaking, I watch his face, wondering how much of this ego was genuine and how much was fueled by liquor. “Are you...” I sat in front of him at the table, laying the wet fork in my hands onto the surface. “You think they should worship you? You can’t truly...”

“No one does what I do. No one...”

“A hundred guys do what you do, Jamie, for fuck’s sake!”

He sat back, bottom lid curled and twitching as he watched me. There was still a wobble to his stance, but his eyes were clearer now. I didn’t know if it was the water or his anger that made him seem sober. I didn’t care. Watching Dash, I wanted to find something familiar, something sweet. Since I’d joined the tour, it had been that very thing I wanted to see—recognition. Jamie had always been honest. He’d always been sweet and genuine. But since that night all those years ago, since I’d ripped his heart from his chest, that sweetness had vanished.

We all grow. We all become more cynical, a little wounded by life, but all the things I’d loved about Jamie hadn’t just left him. They’d been exorcised, extracted like an infection. Now there was only ego left. It made me sick.

“What happened to finding the magic?” He shook his head, laughing under his breath as though he found my question ridiculous. “One night at Hector’s you and Isaiah did an acoustic set,” I started, eyes closing, trying to recall the image of him on that small stage, the him he had been. The boy I’d loved. I glanced at Dash, ignoring his frown and the sullen way he glared at me.

Hector had built the stage in an empty section of the shop where normally he kept tables and chairs for small listening parties. “There had to be thirty people in that shop, both our mothers included. They’d wanted to see what everyone in town talked about. Jamie Vega and his band. It was something else. It was such a treat to hear you sing. And I remember sitting there in the back of the shop, on top of Hector’s metal filing cabinets, not watching you, not at first, I watched the faces around you. Seeing how they damn well absorbed the music. It seemed to float out of you, it poured into their cells and ran over them like the wind. Everyone in that room fell in love with you. They saw what I always had.”

Dash’s face softened, his glare less vicious as he watched me, and I wondered what he thought. I wondered if his memory of that night was anything like mine. I wondered if there was anything left inside him but vanity and ego.

“Then I watched you singing, playing. Your voice was so magical, it was everything we’d loved about the music that connected us, and I thought that’s what everyone else felt when they watched you; that they’d found the music of their souls, in you. I’d...I was so proud of you then. I was so proud that I’d been there, watching it happen, watching you get better. Watching you work your own magic.”

If Dash was still drunk, he hid it well, pulling his Zippo from his pocket to move it around his fingers, the action quite this time, soundless. He remained still, but there was a question working in his eyes, something that made his irises dark.

“Now,” I started, closing my eyes. The loop of Dash teasing, seducing those girls, how that seemed more important him, how it sullied him, played over and over in my mind. I rubbed my eyes, hoping to diminish the memory, but it remained, making my stomach tighten. “Now you perform to the crowd, like you’re trying to fuck them. Like you crave their reaction more than the music.” Dash didn’t speak, didn’t do a thing to deny my accusation and after several minutes, I got tired of the silence. “Well,” I said, exhausted. “I keep waiting for the magic, Jamie. I suspect it’s there somewhere, deep down.”

I left the table, tossing the fork and empty cup into the sink. Behind me that Zippo started clicking, the rhythmic noise working over and over like nails on a chalkboard. “You don’t know me,” he said, and the clicking stopped.

I was at the hallway entrance, half a step from my room. I should have ignored him. I should have proven that I didn’t care what he thought or how he felt.

“You can’t change the music inside you,” I told him, turning to watch him as he left the table. “It’s like a fingerprint. It’s deeper than that. It’s like a gait or an accent or the exact color of your eyes. Something core deep that doesn’t disappear no matter how hard you try to be rid of it.” He stepped close and I turned around fully, mesmerized by the slow movement he made to stand in front of me. “It’s not something you...can...”

Dash had me against the wall, whiskey breath not as strong, one hand above my head. I flinched when he lifted his free hand to grab my face, moving my chin close to his mouth. “You don’t fucking know me, chica.” Something wild and primal shifted in my chest, and I hated the sensation, hated that it was Dash that worked it so quickly inside me. “I am a god on that stage. Soy una bestia! It pours from me.” He pressed closer, breathing in, coming so close that when he inhaled, our chests moved against each other. Dash followed my shudder and brought his gaze down to my breast and the hard points of my nipples against my sports bra.

He didn’t speak, seemed as surprised by my reaction as I was, and he tilted my head, bringing my mouth toward his. I should have resisted, told myself I would, but all I managed was to lick my lips, a subconscious invitation that made Dash grit his teeth and release a guttural noise that sounded just like sin.

“Coño, así ...” he whispered, slamming his mouth over mine, fingers tight on my chin, holding me still, acting as though he wanted me to take his kiss, brutal thing that it was. Like he wanted to take, not caring if I gave him back a thing.

But Dash Justice wasn’t the irresistible God of Rock that he believed himself to be, and I was no weak-willed woman that would receive, taking nothing for myself.

Dash’s tongue consumed, demanded, and his hand slipped to my waist, pulling me until we were hip to hip and I felt the thick outline of his hard dick, pressing against his jeans. He wanted me and fuck me, I wanted him too. But I would not stand there and be taken.

“Iris...” he growled, hand squeezing my ass and I pulled away from him, making him go still and quiet.

Two seconds. I counted, while we stared, challenging with a look, tempting with the heat that pulsed between us, then I smiled.

“My turn.”

He caught me, sliding against the wall when I pushed him, landing his fingers in my hair as I went after his mouth, tongue rubbing against his, hands greedy, desperate for his body, for the feel of his cock against my palm. I opened my eyes to watch him, smiling at the way he shuddered, at his hissing cry when I pulled his face closer and bit his bottom lip.

“Coño, ay...fuck me...” he said when I touched him, when he shifted our positions and threw me back against the wall, Dash moved his hands to my breast, seeming to remember what I loved best, pinching my nipple, making me arch against his touch, then he licked a hot, wet path against my neck, pulling the skin there between his teeth.

He was different like this, showing me for the first time hints of the Jamie I’d known. Attentive, passionate, not like the pig on the stage. Not like the asshole laughing as he sang a song that called me out for being a whore.

The thought felt like a bucket of ice water against my skin, and I jerked my mouth from his, steadying myself with my fingers grasping his biceps.

“Stop,” I said, shaking my head, trying my hardest to erase the taste of him from my mind. “No. I can’t...” He’d humiliated me. He’d destroyed me, and he wasn’t the man I’d fallen in love with at eighteen. This grungy, half-drunk rocker in front of me, giving me a disappointed frown would likely never be my Jamie again. “No,” I repeated pushing him away. “Not with you.”

Dash lowered his shoulders, then threw his fingers into his hair, scrubbing, grunting as though he was about to lose his shit completely. “Then who, chica?” he asked stepping toward me when I retreated. “Who do you want?”

He looked at me like defeat was something he knew but never got used to. He was a champion at his game, a success in all ways that mattered to most people. But just then, the frustration, the drunkenness seemed to make him slip; that composed air shifted and I saw plainly how frustrated he was, how disappointed.

I knew the feeling.

Head shaking, I decided the truth was better. The truth would likely sting but at least it was real. In my view, Dash didn’t see much real in his life. “I want the boy who made magic.” It was honest, and came out in a rush, my voice raspy. “I want Jamie.”

He watched me, the tightness around his eyes and in his jaw relaxing only for a second before he took to frowning again. “Any magic I had in me, died a fucking long time ago.” He brushed pass me, pausing to face me, head shaking as his gaze worked from my hair, down to my mouth. Dash pushed a knuckle under my chin, lifting my face up. There was something haunted in his expression, a look that made something tight and choking form in my throat. “It ain’t coming back.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

We drove all night, barreling down the highway like a caravan of Goth misanthropic maniacs hiding behind those midnight tinted windows. During the night the bus jarred me a couple of times and I rolled over, catching myself before I fell out of the bed, then returned almost immediately to sleep. Once or twice in my fit to get comfortable, I thought I heard the door slide open. I swore I saw the outline of someone standing there, watching, silent. It might have been Dash. It might have been some twisted fantasy I’d invented to excuse my reaction to him and all that kissing. Me and Dash. With the mouths and tongue and... Dash. Who I hated.

Right?

I didn’t see him much as we hit Nashville, but I did hear him from the other side of my closed door. Since that ridiculous display in the hallway, I wanted to avoid him. I didn’t leave my room until I knew he’d gone out. Peeking out of the window I’d spotted the massive grass park of the Ascend Amphitheater. Seats had already been erected for the show and the crew had begun to assemble the set. I’d moved closer to the window, squinting, wondering if that was a running trail I spotted, or at least something I could use for one, then stupidly jerked back from the window when I spotted Dash walking away from the bus. He and Isaiah, both donning huge shades that obscured their faces, walked toward the stage, cupping their hands over the cigarettes they tried to light.

I’d picked up my phone, texting Landon to send Clay to me. I needed a run, especially after that ridiculous display with Dash the night before. He’d been drunk, I’d reasoned. I promised myself that it was the adrenaline, still pumping in my veins that had me so willing to attack him like he wasn’t the asshole responsible for my present ruination.

Which, just to recap, now included a score of gossip blogs posting pictures of me backstage; me in my workout gear talking to Landon before I climbed onto Dash’s bus. Those bastards moved fast and had invented a lot of untrue bovine fecal matter that had caught on in no less than twelve hours and had been picked up by bigger media entities. Blotter, especially seemed to be having fun with the story of the jaded ex-girlfriend desperately clinging to the rock god high school boyfriend who shamed and humiliated her. I avoided the internet altogether when a ridiculous piece went live, this one on Gawker about my supposed sub/dom relationship with Dash.

Clay and I ran twice as long in Nashville, and I’d managed to spend the rest of the day writing and editing the pictures I’d spent most of the tour taking. Happily, I’d returned to the bus before the show ended and managed to keep away from Dash altogether. The man in question, though, hadn’t forgotten about me or done much to avoid me. Just this morning, as we pulled into Atlanta, he knocked on my door, which I ignored, then congratulated myself for remembering to lock it the night before and when the handle turned.

Dash’s sigh was loud, frustrated, but he didn’t speak. “Landon,” I heard him call, his voice lowering as he moved away from the door. “Check on her, si?” And then footsteps moved through the bus and the door slammed shut.

Five minutes later I heard another knock and a quiet, “Ms. Daine?” Landon stepped back when I slid open the door, sweet smile widening when he spotted me.

“Yes?” I said, wondering if Dash had told him what had happened that night in Memphis. But Landon’s smile wasn’t mocking, seemed in fact, friendly.

“Just wanted to let you know we’ll be here for a couple of days.” He nodded toward the window, letting himself inside my room to pull back the blinds. “Mr. Justice wanted me to tell you that you’ll have a room to yourself and that he’ll be out for most of the morning.” He turned, hovering near my door. “He’ll be available to sit for more questions at three if that’s a good time for you.”

My cheeks curved when I squinted and a warning sounded in my head as Landon’s words sunk in. “What gives?” I asked him, folding my arms.

“I’m...sorry?”

“Why is he being so...accommodating?” The last I’d seen Dash he was grumpy and insulted, then acted like I was a tree he wanted to climb. I didn’t trust this open, cordial attitude, extended by his assistant.

“I apologize for asking, but isn’t that the reason you’re touring with us? To get this interview?”

“Yes, but...”

“When you’re ready, you can check into the hotel.” The kid looked irritated, possibly insulted on Dash’s behalf, but remained polite as he fished his phone from his pocket, thumb working over the surface. “I’m texting you the confirmation number. You’re listed as Flora Loca under the Hector Wax register.” I snorted, making Landon twist his head to glance at me. “Is that a problem?”

“No,” I said, waving him off. “It’s fine. Thank you, Landon.”

Four hours later I was relaxed, my limbs like rubber after a deep tissue massage Landon suggested I get. “This job does have some perks,” he’d said, nodding toward the spa door off to the side of the lobby as I waited for the front desk clerk to give me my key. “Everything is comped so you may as well take advantage.”

I had and left the penthouse elevator smiling, my mind calm, even though I knew Dash was down that lush, marble hallway. Even the sound of his voice, loud and pestered, didn’t move the smile from my face. I walked farther into the massive place, glancing at the chandelier, all gold and crystal and gaudy—something out of a Trump tower wet dream—coming closer to his raised voice.

Then, Dash mentioned me, specifically with a threat, and I stopped just in front of the foyer table that separated the space from the sunken living room where he stood in front of Clay, arms folded tight, held tilted as though he wanted to intimidate the marine but wasn’t having any luck at it.

“You need to tell me the truth. Is that what you do with Ms. Daine? Run? Nothing else? I’ll know if you’re lying, si? I can tell.” Clay’s expression didn’t change, though I swore I could see him gritting his back teeth together behind his closed mouth. Dash seemed oblivious, then annoyed when the man didn’t respond. “She’s beautiful. Any pendejo can see that so I might not fire you if you couldn’t help—”

“Are you serious with this shit?” I shouted, dropping my bag on the table behind the couch as I came into the room. Dash whipped around, eyes wide, mouth open as I came close. Both men were taller than me by at least a foot, but that didn’t intimidate me, or keep me from screaming. “You are such an asshole, you know that?” Dash didn’t seem insulted, he seemed, in fact, like he enjoyed the attention I gave him. A low, barely recognizable twitched moved across his bottom lip and he moved his thumb over it, holding his bottom lip. I didn’t care if he enjoyed my anger. I had too much of my own warming my stomach. “Clay, Mr. Justice is being a bastard. Ignore him, please.”

“There was another article in Blotter,” Dash explained, waving toward his open laptop on the coffee table. “They took pictures of the pair of you jogging and you all...half naked.” When I glared at him, Dash stopped speaking.

“There is always another article, another ‘confidential informant’ or exclusive photo. Shit, Jamie, how long have you been at this? Who the hell cares?”

He at least had the decency to look embarrassed, nodding at me, mumbling “well, si, but...well...,” before he looked up at the marine, automatically reaching for his wallet. “Sorry, acho. I just...” he glanced at me when I cleared my throat, stepping next to Clay so I could look directly in his eyes. Dash exhaled, head shaking as he pulled out a wad of hundreds. “Here.” He waved the cash at Clay, frowning when the man didn’t move. “Take the afternoon off and go catch a flick or grab dinner, workout, whatever the hell it is your soldier boy types do to relax.”

But Clay only blinked, his frown tightening the muscles around his square jaw before he glanced at me. There was a small plea in that expression.

“Take it,” I told Clay, grabbing the money from Dash’s hand. “He’ll only pout and bitch if you don’t, and trust me, you don’t want to stick around for that.” That frown deepened and I gave him a smile. “Chain of command, I get it. You want Landon telling you what to do since he hired you?”

“No, ma’am. But this is...” he nodded at the money, glanced at Dash before he went silent. I figured Clay wasn’t sure who to call boss. Landon had done the hiring, but Dash was Landon’s boss, and I guessed the way Dash wilted just now—something highly out of character that I suspected was some sort of ploy—had me seeming like I had some semblance of command.

Dash’s face was tense when I looked at him, as though he wasn’t sure what to make of someone like Clay. Usually his people did what he asked, whatever he asked, but Clay wasn’t accustomed to the lifestyle or the excesses that surrounded these people. I nodded at Dash, gesturing toward the couch, and he got the hint, ambling away to flop onto the cushions. I led Clay into the foyer.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Daine, but I wasn’t sure what you wanted me to say,” he admitted, straightening his shoulders as I pressed the button to call the elevator.

“There’s nothing to hide, and Dash is just being a bastard because I haven’t spoken to him for a while. Trust me, this is not about you.”

Clay looked back into the living room where Dash rested his forearms on his legs, pretending to mess around on his laptop. But his gaze kept drifting back at me, head moving, then jerking away when I met his eyes.

“You two have history, Jose told me,” Clay admitted, rubbing the underside of his chin. “That’s not my business at all, but if you want me to stay...”

“No worries, really.” The elevator bell sounded, and I motioned for Clay to enter.

He turned to face me, automatically holding the Door Open button. It was sweet the way he worried, made me smile.

“Take off and make sure you call your woman. If Dash isn’t exaggerating, then she might see the pictures and think there’s trouble where none exists.” He again glanced over his shoulder, but then the elevator bell sounded again, and he faced me, returning the smile I gave him. “Really, don’t worry about him. I’ve been dealing with his moods since I was fifteen. He may have gotten bigger and a lot more obnoxious, but deep inside, he’s still that punk kid. Him, I can handle.”

DASH WASN’T HIMSELF. That much I knew by just watching him. The damn Zippo was back and he flicked the asinine thing open again and again as I pulled out my notes and searched for my interview doc. I adjusted against the couch, pulling the coffee table closer as I sat on the floor. Dash was next to me on the couch, leg moving in a nervous rhythm that made the cushions shake.

My fingers stilled over the keyboard when I looked to my left, eyebrows up as if to say, “do you mind?” before the shaking stopped.

“How long will this take, chica?” Dash moved the lid open and shut open and shut and I inhaled, a headache already starting at my temples.

I didn’t look at him when I spoke, focused on the mass of folders over my desktop. I needed to get more organized. “You have somewhere better to be?”

He fell back against the couch, slumping with his arm resting on his forehead as he leaned back. Dash waited three full seconds before the clicking started again, then stopped altogether when I shot a glare at him. He cleared his throat, leaving his seat to stand in front of the bar. “You want something to drink? I think there’s beer in the fridge.”

“I’m good,” I offered, finally finding the password protected folder under two mock up drives on my desktop. I’d been burned once before by snooping writers angling to see what I had in the queue. No way would I leave myself open for hacking with this interview. The folder was protected with an impossible to crack password, and so was the laptop itself.

“You don’t drink anymore either?” he asked, his voice drawing my gaze from the screen and to his face as he watched me, standing in front of the mini bar.

“Either?”

“You said you stopped smoking.” He mixed a Jack and Coke, swirling the liquid against the ice as he came back to the sitting area, this time taking the spot directly across from me in the plush, white armchair. Half the drink went down in one long gulp, then he exhaled as though the alcohol would take the keyed-up energy from his body.

“My mom got cancer.”

He paused, mid-drink, slowing moving the glass away from his mouth to watch me. “What?”

I nodded, resting back against the couch, giving Dash my full attention. “They caught it early. Breast cancer. She opted for a mastectomy but still had to do chemo.” I shrugged, trying to deflect the seriousness of what the situation had been. “You sit around a bunch of people being pumped with poison in their veins, and I promise you, a cigarette is the last damn thing on your mind.

“I had no idea...” he started, leaning his forearms again on his legs.

“I didn’t think you made a habit of keeping up with anyone from Willow Heights.” I returned my hands to the keyboard, trying to ignore the look Dash gave me. It made my face flush. “Least of all me,” I muttered, knowing he heard me.

“Hey,” he said, moving the chair close enough to set his glass on the table. “If I’d known...”

“You wouldn’t have done anything.” He didn’t like my laugh or the way I waved off his frown. “Please. You hated me, remember? Unless something’s happened that I don’t know about, I was under the assumption that you still hated me or was that insulting song just a joke?”

“Kind of.”

Now it was my turn to frown. “Ha. Fucking. Ha.”

Dash grunted, scrubbing his hand across his face before he rested his chin on his balled fist and watched me again. “How is she?” When I moved my eyebrows together, confused, Dash grinned. “Your mom.”

“Oh.” My laugh was quick, a little low, but Dash seemed to like it. That grin got wider. “She’s better. In remission. She finally finished her degree at Purdue and is working on her doctorate and...well, she wants to cut your balls off, sauté them in garlic and a dash of rosemary and stuff them down your throat, I’d imagine.”

He winced, but still laughed at the description. “So she feels the same about me. Noted.”

“No, I don’t think so,” I said, gaze following him as he got down on the floor, leaning on an elbow to sit next to me. “I think her fiery hate for you now is a bright, brilliant thing that would scorch the world.”

“Because of the song?” He held the glass in his relaxed hand, twirling the ice around its surface.

I nodded, bringing my knees to my chest. “Because of the song.” I shrugged again, internally debating how badly I wanted to make him feel. “I usually send her money, a few hundred every other week to help her make the rent. But, lately...well...”

Dash sat up, mimicking my posture by locking his fingers together as he moved his arms around his knees. His expression was grim, and a deep line appeared between his eyebrows as he watched me. Guilt was a funny thing, I’d lived with it for so long, I’d almost forgotten what it looked like on other people. I was reminded just then, watching him.

“But we’ll make it. She will,” I corrected, setting up a new line on the document. I slipped my glance to his face, frowning when I noticed it went unchanged. “Really, you shouldn’t worry...”

“I fucked everything up for you with that damn song, didn’t I?” I didn’t answer. There wasn’t any need. If he hadn’t picked up on that by my anger and attitude, then he never would despite my small little tale of woe.

My fingers flew across the screen as I typed out another question, this one with a little bite. I was counting on his guilt to open him up, get him to finally lower that wall that kept his truth locked tight from the world.

But Dash did something then that had me questioning the wisdom of this entire project. My plan had always been twofold: get the interview to take back some of the respect I’d lost being called Dash’s whore; and do Wills Lager the massive favor he’d drunkenly asked of me. Thinking of him and that conversation in Paris, I glanced down at the email icon, seeing the flashing notification of a new message. Lager was checking up on my progress. Of course, he was. There wasn’t much time, but I hadn’t responded. It wasn’t time. Not yet. Things with Dash were tenuous, and I knew if I mentioned Lager’s favor, Dash would see any kindness I showed him as a scheme—just the sort of thing he’d expect from the woman who ripped his heart to shreds.

I continued to type, backspacing to reword my question, but stopped typing altogether when Dash leaned forward, laying his palm over my hand. I shot a look at him, not sure what to make of the move; unconvinced that this wasn’t more of the same behavior the whiskey he drank had him doing on the bus with me against the wall.

But Dash didn’t seem drunk. There wasn’t even a faint hint of liquor on his breath. Still, he held my hand and watched me, gearing up for something that softened his features and kept the gruff rudeness from his face.

“Chica, I’m sorry. About...ay Dios mío, about your mom, the song...I’m just...I’m sorry.”  Of all the things I’d expected Dash to say, “I’m sorry” wasn’t one of them. It took me several long seconds for the words to register. I’d know him a long, long time. Despite the years, the distance and who he was now, Dash wasn’t all that different when he was being real. There was still the same relaxed set to his eyes, still that soft, supple mouth unflinching, unmoving. It was the same now and despite my reservations, deep down, I understood that apology was well meant.

“Um...thanks,” I said, sounding stupid.

Dash nodded, shifting closer, his thick hair slapping against his face as he came to my side. He reached in his pocket, I guessed for a plastic tie, but came up empty-handed, then nodded, offering a quick “gracias,” when I handed him the one around my wrist.

“I should also apologize for...the other night.” He rubbed the back of his neck, resting an elbow on his knee while he did so. “I’m not usually that drunk and, well, I gotta be honest. You fucking got under my skin.”

Feeling stupid and a little exposed, I waved a hand, like it was nothing; what I said, how we’d both acted, none of it matter really. But Dash didn’t buy it, that slow grin told me as much. Then he looked over me, and in my peripheral I saw his sharp appraisal, working over my bare shoulders, down to my black jeans. I felt undressed, bare, and I wasn’t sure why neither sensation seemed bad.

“Did you...did you like it?” he asked, a low, sweet laugh laced between those words.

“What?” I said, remembering a time a hundred years ago when he’d asked me the exact same question. That time there had been a kiss, the first, and my answer had been immediate and sure.

Dash lifted his fingers, small waves that made me guess he wasn’t sorry for asking before he moved his chin toward me, a silent push to answer him.

“I’m not going to dignify—” I cleared my throat, feeling heated, my cheeks warming, and Dash spotted it. That much I knew just be glancing his way.

“There it is,” he whispered, his voice a little awed.

What he was attempting, I had no idea. He’d told me Jamie was gone. That expression sure, confident when he left me alone in the hallway just after our rough kisses. But sitting a few feet away from me, I swore I could see a glimpse of Jamie around the cool Dash Justice edges. It would be so easy for me to believe him. I’d gone a long time reliving the life I’d had with Jamie, wishing things had been different, that we had been. Wishing I could go back and change who I was then and who I’d allow us to become. Everything led me to the decision that rocked our world. It led me to the heartbreak I’d delivered.

But I also remembered the bitterness in Dash’s eyes the night I discovered him leaving Kylie’s hotel room. I remembered the callous indifference in his expression any time the crowd begged him for more—when they wanted the performer. He gave them what he had, did it with a smile, with laugh and a groan and didn’t care that he hurt me in the process. He didn’t seem to care that every line of his song was another stab at what we’d once meant to each other.

I didn’t comment on the blush or his reaction. I still wouldn’t answer his question and decided instead to return to the task laid before me.

“So,” I said, turning the small recorder on and pointing it toward Dash before I sat up straight and placed my hands back on the keyboard. “How did your childhood inform your music?”

It was a big question, one I didn’t really expect him to answer, but Dash didn’t laugh or roll his eyes, like he had so many times before. Instead, he rubbed the stubble around his chin, along the delicious jaw that I’d always found so tempting and now itched to kiss again.

Shit. Where did that come from?

“My childhood,” he started, sighing as though the question was impossible but he’d tackle it anyway. “My mother was in love with pain. It’s the only explanation for why she did the loca things she did.”

“You want to go into details?” I asked, typing a few lines before I looked at him.

“Chica, you know the details.”

I nodded, frowning at the flash of memories that came to me then. “The guy in the MC. The one who made her take the wrap when they got busted for meth.”

Dash nodded, eyes narrowed and tight. “The one who hit on you,” he reminded, nose flaring when I laughed. “It wasn’t funny.”

“Him begging you not to kill him was.”

“Si,” he said, through a laugh. “He was a pussy.” He sat back, furrowing his eyebrows. “Can I say pussy? Can you use that?”

“You can say whatever the hell you want. This isn’t CNN.” He smiled, and the sight had me catching my breath. When he was amused, when something struck him as funny, when it wasn’t something that was mean or cruel, Dash’s entire face lit up when he laughed. He did that just then, eyes shining as he watched me. “Pain? You said she loved pain.”

Dash nodded moving his tongue to the inside of his bottom lip, as though his answer required some thought. He still moved slow, I thought. He still thought of what he’d say before he opened his mouth. I didn’t know anyone who did that anymore.

“All these pendejos, all the sex and heartache and what she called passion, it wasn’t real. None of it. She loved the pain. She loved the heavy weight of it.” He paused, looking down into his glass before he continued. “It was the only thing she truly loved because I think it was the only thing that made her feel alive.”

“Some people love the drama.”

“Si, chica. That’s true, but most people, most sane people, don’t love the drama more than their flesh and blood.” He waved a hand, a quick dismissal of his sad tale before he polished off his drink. “Anyway, that pain. It leaves a mark. It comes out in every lyric, every chord. It’s impossible for it not to be there. It’s inside me, deep. Like mi corazón. Like mi alma. Pain is in my DNA.”

The room went quiet, and I wondered if Dash was thinking of his mother or any of the idiots she tried to build a life with. None of them lasted. None of them were more than a small hit she took until the next one came along.

“And now? Does she still crave that pain?” I asked, simply because I had no idea where Ms. Vega had ended up.

“Who knows,” Dash said, swirling that drink to mix the last drop before he downed it. “I haven’t spoken to her in eight years.”

“Eight...” I sat forward, eyes wide and fought back the urge to touch him, as though that simple gesture would take the frustration, the hurt he tried to hide behind. Maybe that’s why he wore make-up. Maybe that’s where all the ego and bravado came from. He wanted to hide. He wanted to avoid the people who knew him best.

“The last guy I heard she was with put her in the hospital. Broke her collarbone in two places.” He leaned back, head against the love seat and watched me, resting his hands on his stomach. “I offered to set her up, away from Willow Heights, away from all the shit that still surrounded her. I told her not to go back to him. She did, and it took three more hospital stays before I actually stopped speaking to her.” He pressed his mouth together, head in a slow shake. “I have no idea if she’s alive or dead.” Dash shifted his gaze to my face, expression hard. “Don’t really care if she is.”

This time I did touch him, unable to stop myself. It was barely a graze at all and I withdrew my hand before he could react. But something shifted in his gaze, something sharp, something sweet that only lingered for a moment. It reminded me of memories I tried hard to repress.

“I’m sorry you don’t have a relationship with her,” I said, hoping I sounded sincere. It wasn’t a line. “I’m sorry you and Isaiah are alone now.”

“He’s not. His papa got out about three years ago.” He moved his head, the left side of his mouth arching up. “You know Jose? The big bastard who follows me like a shadow?” I nodded recalling an older man with dark skin, arms and neck covered in tattoos. “Guilty party. He’s a good acho. We haven’t had any problems from him and the pair of them have dinner every night, like a dulce familia.”

“Are you...jealous?”

Dash lifted his eyebrows, coming back quicker than I expected. “Are you?”

“Me?”

“I wasn’t the only one raised by a single mother. You didn’t have a papa either, chica. Did you ever find out why?”

“I did,” I said, not elaborating. “Did you?”

Dash shook his head, expression bored, as though he had no idea who the guy was and didn’t care to know either. “I figured he’d been one of the masses. One of those pendejos who gave her the drama she craved. Now I don’t care about knowing. What the hell would some old man who never gave two shits about me have to offer?” He lifted his glass, motioning around the opulent room, smile tight. “I have money. I have success. I have women. I have homes.” He leaned forward, jaw clenching. “And I get to do what I love every day of my life.” 

“Sounds like you’ve got it all,” I said, not smiling. Dash moved his head, the smallest nod that I thought was forced, but he didn’t agree. There was a question floating on my tongue. It was something I’d wondered about long before the song or the agreement we’d made for this interview. It came from guilt and a desire to know if Dash had taken over Jamie completely. I’d likely never get another chance to ask it again. “What about love?”

Outside, Atlanta buzzed with activity; the streets, the crowds, the people bustling around living their lives. People like me who only wanted to make a living. People like Dash who hadn’t quite managed to figure out how that living should be done. But Dash and I made no sound at all. There were stares and the quiet thoughts we kept to ourselves. Curiosities about the past got buried behind the sharp look he gave me and the twitch of his mouth before he spoke.

“Love?” he asked, speaking the word through a ragged breath.

“Yeah. Love. Do you still believe in it?” I moved the recorder closer to him, only just remembering it was there, but it was done as a distraction, to keep my attention off Dash’s face and the severe set of his eyes.

“No,” he finally said, not blinking. “You killed that fantasy for me.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Willow Heights, Indiana

August, 2008 

The heat was overwhelming. August in Indiana wasn’t normally this warm, but my skin was sticky with sweat, which had started to form underneath my naked breasts.

“How long?” I asked Isaiah, for what must have been the fifth time.

He didn’t seem annoyed, and leaned over, picking up his cell from the bedside table.

“I was supposed to be there an hour ago.” He put it down, curling his arms over his chest. “He’ll come looking for me in a little bit and...”

“And find us.”

For the fourth time since I’d been in Isaiah’s room, tears started to burn my eyes. I couldn’t blame him for the worry on his face or how sick he looked just sitting there, leaning against his headboard with only a thin sheet separating us.

We were partially naked. In his bed. Waiting to be discovered.

“This is an intensely bad idea,” I said, still unable to keep from shivering, despite the heat. “He’s going to—”

“I know what he’ll do, chica.” His body shook then, as though the thought of his cousin’s reaction made him sick. “But don’t worry. I stole a Vicodin from my tia’s stash. Took it while you were in the bathroom. Shouldn’t feel anything, si?”

Another shudder worked over my arms, and Isaiah touched me, fingers light, barely a graze of his hand at all, but it did nothing to keep me from shaking. “It’ll be quick,” he tried, his voice worried, soft.

“He has such a temper when he’s mad. You saw how he was when his mother pawned his Gibson.” I shook my head against the flash of memory. Jamie had never screamed so loudly or punched the wall before. He had that day. There was still a fist-size hole in the wall next to Ms. Vega’s bedroom door.

“I can handle him.” When I frowned, shaking my head, Isaiah smiled, hands resting on my bare arms. “I promise. You just make sure you get out as fast as you can. I don’t know what he’ll do...”

“He would never hurt me.” The thought was impossible, stupid. Jamie had been angry before, of course. The night I tried to break up with him, he’d gone a little crazy. I’d worried then, might have even been a scared of him, but even that night, when his emotions were raw, I’d never felt unsafe around him. 

“This is different, caramelo. This is you...and you, well. El esta loco when it comes to you.”

The curtains from the open window moved against the pane, fluttering like the room, the night, wasn’t soon to unleash holy hell. Jamie hadn’t questioned me when I begged off watching his band play at Hector’s. The entire town would be there, ringing in the end of summer with a Street fair, the center of which was that small record shop and the stage that had been erected just outside of it. He’d believed me when I said a migraine was brewing. I’d had them before and each time the only cure had been a dark room and two of my mother’s Lortabs.

Tonight, though, I didn’t need any drugs. There was no migraine. There was nothing at all but the disgusting depths I’d sink to in order to get Jamie away from me. He needed to be free. He needed to be consumed by the thing he loved long before I came along. But, God how it would hurt making that happen. 

After this night, I was likely never to see him again. The thought rose up inside me along with the tears and something sharp and searing caught in my chest. I held a palm flat against it and let my tears come. Isaiah was drowsy already, likely tuning out, possibly thinking of missing the gig, missing the crowd and the chance to make a little cash before they left. He hadn’t told Jamie that Ronnie still wanted them to tour. He would. When this was over, and Jamie was actually speaking to him again.

Isaiah didn’t try to console me this time. Jamie was my heart, my life, my best friend and I was about to destroy everything he thought he knew was true. I’d wreck him and never get the chance to fix it.

“Isaiah,” I said, suddenly panicked. He shook his head, rubbing his lids before he watched my face. “Listen to me, okay?” He gave me a nod, but it was wobbly and unfocused. I sat up, moving closer, climbing onto his lap to pat his face. “Hey, wake a little...Isaiah?”

“I’m up,” he said, slapping his own face, gaze veering to the door. “Is he here?”

“No, not yet, but listen. I need you to do something for me...”

He nodded again, this time focusing on my face.

“He’s going to want to quit again. He’ll say nothing matters, not music, not...not anything, but you can’t let him think that way.” The tears were thick now and breathing became difficult. “He’s...he’s going to be lost and defeated.” A month ago, when I made my halfhearted attempt to push him away, the look Jamie had given me had been devastating. It broke my heart. This would be worse. This would be life altering. “Don’t let him stay lost. You hear me...?” The tears covered my face now and my voice shook, clogged by emotion, but the weight of fear and worry that felt like it might strangle me. “Please make sure he...make sure you...” I could keep my head upright and leaned forward, sobbing onto Isaiah’s shoulder. 

“Está bien, cariño,” he said, running his fingers across my back, keeping the sheet between us and his lips against my forehead as he whispered phrases of comfort, endearments I didn’t fully understand. “I’ll take care of him,” he promised.

Then, the sound of squeaking brakes made us freeze, and my heart thundered and sped as though I’d run a mile in two seconds flat. 

“It’ll be over soon,” he promised, moving me, turning my face up. “Here, climb on top of me. It’ll be...he’ll believe it...”

I felt awkward, disgusting, but still I listened to Isaiah, moving over him to straddle his hips. He swallowed, hands shaking a little as he touched my face, using his finger under my chin to move my mouth close.

“For Jamie,” he whispered as the sound of the front door opening echoed up to the second story landing.

“Primo!” Jamie called, and I felt sick, holding my breath as Isaiah pulled my face toward his. “Isaiah, where are you, acho? Let’s go.”

He ran up the stairs, whistling, singing, his voice deep, practiced, so much stronger than it had been four years ago. My sweet love. So talented. So blessed.

“For Jamie,” I said, repeating Isaiah and let my mouth move over his. I squeezed my eyes shut, imagining Jamie’s face, the smell of his skin, his fingers digging into my hips. If Isaiah was a good kisser, I couldn’t tell. The only notice I took was of the sweat falling down my spine and the sound of the door slamming against the wall.

Then, Jamie’s loud, screeching curse.

“Ay Dios mio! No...what...No!” he sounded panicked, on the verge of being sick. I’d held Jamie one night, two years back when we’d smoked too much weed and drank too much tequila. His tolerance was low, and he made the most awful sound when he retched. The noises coming from him now were worse, far worse. He stood there for several seconds that seemed to last eons, watching us—me seemingly naked on top of his cousin, Isaiah’s hands on my face, him pulling me to his chest, holding me, me not fighting, me seeming as though I wanted him too. There was confusion and silence along with that first howling curse and then, the bottom ripped out of the world and everything became a violent, bloody blur.

Isaiah jumped, pushing me off him as Jamie lunged across the bed, screaming, raging, fists flying at his cousin. I could only move out of their way, hand held up in case Jamie lost all sense and came at me.

“Maldita sea la madre que te parió!” he cried, picking Isaiah up by the neck when he slipped and fell to the floor. Jamie didn’t give him a second to correct himself before he started punching his cousin, fist slamming over and over again and again. “Hijo de puta! My own blood!”

I couldn’t move, and my chest was on fire, as though someone had shot me, my heart pounding wild, making breathing impossible. “Jamie...” I tried, scared for him, for Isaiah when the cousins tumbled on the floor, beating on each other with such venom, such hatred. “Please, stop!” I cried, holding the sheet over my chest, vision blurred by how swollen my eyelids were and the damn that had been released the second Jamie came into the room.

Isaiah got in one sharp blow, straight across Jamie’s nose and the sound of breaking bones shot across the room. Blood poured down his face, coated his mouth, his lips, falling onto his chin and still Jamie fought, screaming, cursing, but pummeling his cousin.

When he pushed Isaiah off him and against the wall, Jamie pounced, holding him off the floor, two inches, with his arm across his cousin’s neck. “Voy a matarte!” he howled, voice deadly deep. He sounded nothing like the boy who’d whistled and sang as he came up the stairs. “I swear to Christ, I will!”

Isaiah’s face turned blue, and he made weak attempts to grab Jamie’s arm from his neck, He scratched his forearm, leaving deep marks along his skin, but the effort seemed to exhaust him and as Jamie shook, growled and screamed, Isaiah began to lose consciousness.

“Jamie, please!” I yelled, pulling against his arm, fingers squeezing even as he tried to jerk me away. “Stop it! Now!”

My voice penetrated his focus and he moved back, dropping his cousin to the floor and turned to glare at me. Again, my hands shot up and I moved backward, awkwardly trying to keep the sheet over my breast and one hand extended, a stupid, weak attempt to keep him at a distance.

“You...ugh!” That scream ripped something inside me, my stomach, my heart, I didn’t know which, and the rage I saw contorting his features made me scared. For the first time since I knew him, Jamie Vega came at me like a predator, an enraged monster set on destroying.

My back hit the wall and I shook, my feet slipping, tears and snot covering my face, dripping down my cheeks as Jamie descended. His face was covered in blood, it poured like a faucet and smeared over my shoulder, to my neck as Jamie grabbed me.

“Tu puta! Me das asco!”

“Jamie,” I cried, breath catching in my throat as he squeezed his fingers around my neck. If I died right then, the punishment wouldn’t absolve me from my sins. It wouldn’t take the betrayal from his eyes.

I did this for you, I thought, hating the words the second they entered my mind. I did this for you.

The hold on my neck loosened, but his rage was still evident. Jamie sucked in a breath, gaze moving over my face, lower, to my naked chest and that crumpled sheet, then he crashed his mouth against mine, one hand on my neck, fingers curling against my skin, the other in my hair, pulling, tugging to keep me still. It was brutal, angry, a hateful brush of tongue and teeth, scary and intensely erotic. I wanted to live in that moment forever because I knew it would not last. Still, I committed Jamie’s taste and the texture of his tongue to memory. That’s where it would live. That’s where I’d keep him. When he pulled away, he looked down, refusing to meet my eyes.

“You taste like ash now,” he said, voice a rugged, raw growl.

I wanted to touch him. I wanted so badly to take this pain and twist it, bury it until the sting went out of his words and the wounded ache disappeared from his face. But I couldn’t do that and still make him go. I couldn’t keep him and still make him understand why he needed more than just me and this town and the unremarkable life both promised.

Eyes squeezed tight I inhaled, holding his hand against my neck when he tried to jerk his touch away from me. “I’m...I’m so sorry...” I told him. The words got muddied around my tears and the raw ache in my throat.

I opened my eyes, chin shaking against another wave of tears when he looked away. “I’m sorry too. I’m sorry I ever met you,” he said before stepping back, looking sick, looking lost and Jamie disappeared from the room, slamming the door behind him as he left.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Atlanta to South Carolina, then on to Virginia. Two weeks became a month, and we finally returned to Indiana. Home. My mother still lived in Willow Heights, though she’d graduated to a larger place with a yard big enough to accommodate her improving green thumb.

The roads around us got dense, cars moving up and around, trying to catch up, trying, I supposed to catch a glimpse of Dash Justice or maybe one of the young guys in The Rising, Dash’s opening act or this leg of the tour. The closer we got to home, the rowdier the crowds became. And, of course, the more attention we garnered.

Everyone wanted to see Iris Daine with Dash Justice. They wanted to know, it seemed, if I was as weak as the media portrayed me. They wanted to know my story, see what it was that still compelled me to stay with him. There had been four interview requests with major networks and a long phone conversation with Joan Wein, the editor of Stage Dive about my process.

“Word is,” Joan had started one late night as we left South Carolina, “that you spent an entire night at a pub with Will Lager. You know something, don’t you? Everyone wants details on why he’s leaving Hawthorne. You get me that info, Iris, and coupled with this mythical Dash Justice interview you keep promising and you can write your own ticket. What do you say?”

“No” had been brimming on my lips, but I refrained. She’d find out about Lager and why that conversation had taken the entire night—mostly because that was how long it took for him to convince me to seek Dash out. When the song hit, the very next day, Lager had phoned, asking me to put aside my anger and use the insult as a means to meet with Dash.

Joan and Lager had their own agendas. I had mine, all of which were being clouded by the friendly, easy-going vibe moving between me and Dash.

It unsettled me.

“We have a few days before the Indy show,” Dash said, coming out of the shower, running a towel through his wet hair. He wore nothing but a larger towel around his hips and a smile he didn’t bother trying to hide. “What’s the matter, chica?” he asked, coming to the table where I sat, my laptop open as I wrote my interview.

“Nothing,” I lied, pretending to focus the paragraph Dash had related about finding the Gibson his mother had pawned for booze money. Dash had spent most of that following fall tracking it down, finding it in the arms of a kid who’d just started a part time job at the pawn shop in Madison. Three hundred bucks, far more than the guitar was worth, had bought back Jamie’s baby. 

“Why don’t I believe you?”

He knew what he was doing, leaning so close to me, skin smelling clean and sweet. The last few weeks we’d worked on the interview; him filling in the blanks left by our distance and me trying my hardest to be unbiased. Our past colored the narrative, but it was still good, very telling for Dash’s first interview. Between all those discussions, which tended to linger into the very late hours every night, there was the heat that we could not totally repress.

He had not attempted to kiss me again, something that left me equal parts calm and mildly frustrated, despite my usual internal reminder that I hated him. Which I absolutely did. Still.

But even I couldn’t deny how beautiful he was. Especially when he made a point of moving around the bus looking either freshly fucked or freshly showered. There was no in between, though I did wonder about any “entertaining” he did during those two-night stays in whatever city we were staying. I hadn’t seen him with anyone but Isaiah or Jose, sometimes Clay before the marine left the tour.

“Do you have a point?” I asked, furiously typing, though I was pretty sure I’d just written the same line twice.

He held up a finger, walking toward the hall and I snuck a glimpse at his naked back, the wide stretch of his shoulders and the tapered dip of his waist. My God, he was beautiful.

And you hate him.

Right.

“When was the last time you went home?” he called, returning into the living room, buttoning his shirt, blocking my sweet view of all that beautiful brown skin.

“Um, I was home when we left for the tour,” I said, sitting back in my chair to watch Dash as he tossed ice into a glass, then added the water. He offered to me, but I waved him off.

“No, not New York.” He slumped in the chair across from me, shifting his fingers through his damp hair. “I mean Willow Heights.” At my high, quick laugh, Dash frowned at me. “What?”

“Oh, you got it all wrong, mister.” I closed my laptop, folding my fingers over the top. “New York is home. Indiana is...well, where Midwestern hordes go to die. Why would I go back?”

“Didn’t you say your mom lives there?”

I narrowed my eyes, unsure where this conversation was headed. “Yes. And?”

“Don’t you want to see her?”

“She’s not home.”

Dash leaned back, folding his arms as he watched me and I thought he looked so young then, that mouth relaxed, threatening a smile. He spent a good deal of his time meeting fans and industry types, on the stage or around it before shows. Other than drive time and the occasional down time in his hotel suites, he typically wasn’t without either all that dark make-up smeared over his face or wide, face-concealing shades. It was nice to see him like this; so like the kid I’d fallen for so long ago.

“You wouldn’t be saying that because you don’t want to deal with the hassle of me being around when you visit?”

“Visit?”

Dash nodded, leaning forward to grin. “Jose got me a bike. It’s just a rental, but I can take it to Willow Heights, to see the sights. Thought maybe you’d like to come with me.”

This astounded me. I’d heard rumors, mainly from shoddily researched articles I’d read about the beginning of Dash’s career. One mentioned the post-high school gloom that had descended on him and seemed to linger for at least a year following his graduation. I’d known better where that forced-existence had come from, but I never believed that Dash had turned his back on music completely.

“So, let me get this straight,” I started, pushing the laptop farther away from me. “You want me to agree to not only go back to Willow Frights, but you want me to have enough faith in you that I’ll risk riding some biker’s old crap?

“Ay, chica, bite your tongue!”  He rubbed his face, holding back a smile. “Typical...it’s a fifty-thousand-dollar bike. Pretty little Softail Deluxe Cruiser.” He leaned forward, licking his bottom lip. “And she purrs like a cat in heat.”

I rolled my eyes, laughing at his expression—teasing seduction. Something Dash was good at. “Remind me never to get a cat. And if I do, I’ll stay away from you with the thing.”

“Oh, chica, are you scared to let your pussy around me?”

I snorted, packing away my laptop. “My theoretical pussy.”

“Either way, I’d treat it so sweet.” He leaned closer, moving his hand right next to mine. “I’d pet it and kiss it, because you know so well, I do love kissing pussy.” He lowered his voice and I had to grab his half-empty glass of water to keep from laughing. Dash knew it too, kept the teasing and that filthy tone up just to see me flustered.

“Pussies. Plural, right?”

“Si, and the pussies love me. They run their backs and asses against me, purring when I scratch them.” I couldn’t take my eyes off his mouth or the slow, slippery slide of his tongue moving along his bottom lip. “Your pussy need scratching, chica?”

“I don’t have a...” I shook my head, jerking my gaze away from his smirk as I packed away my laptop. “Anyway, I have no desire to go back to Willow Heights or get on a motorcycle with you.”

“That’s a shame,” he started, leaning back to move a hand over his stomach. “I was going to tell you what I’m planning for the next album.”

“What album?” I stopped moving, lowering the laptop into my bag before I faced him. “You haven’t mentioned anything to me.”

“Think I tell you everything?” Dash laughed, a gesture that was more movement than sound. “This just came to me, and it’s going to be asombroso.”

“And?” I stared at him, waiting for him to continue, but Dash just shrugged, leaving his chair to grab a jacket form the hook next to the door and pulled his shades from the pocket. “Well?” I said, following him to the door.

He slipped on the jacket, checking the lenses of his shades for smudges before he slipped them over his nose. “It’s a two-hour ride. We could even stay the night some place. Maybe Hector’s old house.” I frowned, and he moved his head, nodding. “I own it and the shop.”  He opened the door, gesturing for me to walk in front of him. “You could find out everything you want. Maybe add it to the interview. Might even let you hear a few things I’m working on.” When I only stared at him, Dash stepped in front of me and again that tongue peeked out to tease his bottom lip. “You scared?”

“Not of you,” I said with more bravado than I had. “I...I’m not packed.”

“There are stores there. We can buy shit if we need it.” He looked over to the table. “Grab your laptop and let’s go.”

“I...” This was bad, and I knew it. Something was brewing, something that told me to stay on the bus and work. Being alone with him, in our home town no less, was an exceedingly bad idea. But Jamie had always been good at getting me to do things I knew I shouldn’t. Skipping school, smoking weed under Crooked Creek Bridge, trusting him when he said ridiculous positions wouldn’t hurt—every time I threw caution to the wind and joined him. But I was not that stupid kid, willing to be careless when challenged. I was an adult. Mature. Seasoned. I possessed hindsight and logic.

Then Jamie took off his shades and winked at me, moving his head back as if to say, “come on, coward, let’s go,” and my reason got foggy. “Exclusive interview and you and me back home. What’s wrong with that?”

“It’s a risk...”

“Chica,” he said, grin sexy, tempting. “Life isn’t worth the ride if there aren’t risks.” Dash opened the door wide, waiting for me at the bottom of the steps. It took exactly four seconds for me to make up my mind before I grabbed my bag and followed him out for a long ride. 

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

We only stopped once after leaving the hotel since time wasn’t on our side. It took nearly forty-five minutes to convince Landon a road trip would be okay and that we could handle ourselves back in our home town.

“Acho, calm yourself. I know how to fix an engine or repair a tire if it goes flat,” Jamie had told his assistant, who kept insisting that the guards follow behind us in one of the SUVs. “Not gonna happen,” Dash told him. Then, his voice sharper, he reminded Landon who he was. “This,” he’d said, waving a finger around the buses and the large crew working to organize the equipment. “All this is my gig. It can go away in a second if I want it to. I don’t need you treating me like I’m a pendejo who doesn’t have a clue how to handle myself.”

Landon had glanced at me, then back to Dash. The rocker’s lips stretched, but he didn’t smile. “Si, and her too.” He watched me, one side of his mouth curling before he looked back at his assistant. “I can handle her. I have before.”

“Please,” I said, through a laugh, walking away from them to get a better look at the bike while Dash made arrangements for Landon to have a cleaning crew go in and tidy Hector’s house.

It was a beautiful machine, though I knew virtually nothing about motorcycles or which were good, and which were junk. But this bike, with the Harley Davidson emblem on the tank and the matte silver color, looked like something spectacular. It had a vintage vibe to it, something that reminded me of Marlon Brando tearing down the highway in “The Wild Ones,” but it was clearly brand new. A glance at the dash told me there was only a hundred miles on it. It was squat, low to the ground, but the seats were plush, looked comfortable.

“Hola, chica,” I heard behind me, and I greeted Isaiah with a smile when he stood across the bike from me. Hands in his pockets, he looked the motorcycle over, his expression open, smile telling me that he agreed with my internal musings over how beautiful it was. “So, you’re really down for this?” Isaiah nodded to the bike, then over to where Dash stood talking to Landon and Jose.

“I suppose I am.”

He seemed nervous, stepping from foot to foot, keeping his distance. I understood. Dash had made sure that his cousin and I were never in the same area at the same time. Even after shows, during the parties and meet and greets, Dash made sure I got introduced to industry people and a few journalists while he and the band met with fans. When they were done, and the party truly began, some beautiful girl, or several of them, would be shepherded over to Isaiah and Dash would suggest we hang in another part of the room. I wasn’t simple or stupid, and the awkward way both men acted when I was around didn’t go unnoticed.

“You sure that’s a good idea?” When I jerked my attention to him, Isaiah leaned forward, lowering his voice. “It’s been a long time and Dash.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose as though he needed to pinch away the tension there. “Dios, chica, you left a mess behind and you didn’t know it. After...everything, my primo spent years asking me every fucking detail about that night. I’ve given him the same story: we didn’t mean for it to happen. It wasn’t planned, and it only happened once.” He looked back at his cousin, taking a step closer to me when he spotted Dash walking toward the other end of the buses. “If he knew it was all mierda, coño, I don’t know what he’d do.”

“It wouldn’t help? Him knowing the truth?”

Isaiah moved his eyebrows up, blinking twice before he spoke. “Him knowing that I’ve lied to him for ten damn years about fucking the woman he loved more than breath?” I blushed, feeling equal parts guilt and hope. Stop it, I told myself. Don’t be stupid. Isaiah laughed, but the sound was empty. “No, chica, I don’t think that would help at all.”

“I...won’t say anything,” I told him, moving my messenger bag farther up my shoulder. “It doesn’t matter anymore anyway.”

This time when Isaiah laughed, the sound was sharp and echoed against the overhanging awning behind us and the massive buses that served like a cover to keep us from view of the parking lot. “Oh, it matters, cariño. It matters a lot.”

I tried not to think about what Isaiah meant. There was no point in wondering what might have been or what Dash thought of me now. He’d flirted, was possibly looking to “scratch and kiss my pussy,” but that didn’t mean we’d ever get back to where we’d been once. Like he said, I’d destroyed any illusions he had about love. I’d keep our secret and more, and just ride on the back of Dash’s bike to get to the truth of what he planned. Before anyone else.

“It’s...fine,” I told Isaiah, waving off his worry.

“Are you ready?” Dash asked, stepping up to the bike. He nodded to his cousin as Isaiah walked away and tried to play off the movement of his gaze, shifting between me and his cousin’s retreating back, but I’d caught it, barely able to a laugh under my breath as he fought to keep his expressions neutral.

“As I’ll ever be.”

Dash dug in his pocket, fishing for something he didn’t find, and I opened my bag, moving around my compact camera and laptop. “I think I have a lighter in here if you need a smoke before we go.” He moved his head, shaking. “What?”

“You said you stopped.”

“I did.”

“Then why do you have a lighter?” If I wasn’t mistaken I thought I caught a glimmer of disappointment on his face. He stepped to the bike, slipping a leg over to straddle it before he sat on the seat.

“I also have a pocket knife and mace. There might be a small sewing kit and some matches too in here. Doesn’t mean I’m planning to stab you, mace you, burn you or patch you up.” I shrugged when he kept staring. “I come prepared.”

“Coño that’s right,” he said, head back as he laughed. “You were a Girl Scout.”

“Oh, shut up. Do you want the lighter?”

“Nope,” he said, finally pulling what he looked for from his pocket. He opened the wrapper and extended it to me. “Mint?”

“Dash Justice, God of Rock likes minty fresh breath?” I asked, taking one from the top.

“I give exactly zero fucks about my breath, but since you don’t want me to smoke, I need something to do with my mouth.” He moved down his shades with one finger, to look at me with those black eyes. “Unless there’s something else you can put in my—”

“Can I get on now?” I asked, slapping his hand away when he offered it to me. “I can manage.”

“Ay bendito, you are stubborn.” He started the engine, pulling my hand around his waist. When my hold went loose and awkward, Dash grabbed both of my hands, pulling them in front of him, my pinky close to his dick. He moved his face toward me slow and I just made out the hint of a grin at the corner of his mouth. “This is gonna be fun,” he said, squeezing my fingers to rub against his flat stomach, then lower, grazing his cock before I jerked them away. His laughter then was loud, sharp, only muffled when Jose came over and handed Dash his helmet. The bodyguard fixed mine, adjusted the strap, and then Dash brought my hands back around his waist. “Okay,” he shouted to be heard over the engine. “All joking aside. Hang on. I don’t want you to fall off.”

“That can happen?” I shouted, scooting closer to him. “Wait! Can that actually happen?” He didn’t answer, and I squeezed my eyes shut when we shot off, trying not to curse Dash as his laughter roared louder than the engine.

WILLOW HEIGHTS CAME into view about fifteen minutes before we reached the town limits. I recognized it from the change in the roads. One minute, Dash drove us on pavement and highways, the next he exited and we passed through Madison, skirting the main road to get to the connection of gravel and dirt that led into our hometown.

The land around Route 1 was flat, like everything in this part of the state, but wheat fields stretched out for miles and right then, just after two in the afternoon, the sky took on a glossy haze, the clouds and play of colors twisting from golds and browns to pinks and oranges. We took the stretch of road that curved and twisted toward main street and Dash slowed, head shaking as he pointed to a green and white marker near the “Welcome to Willow Heights” sign. It read “Hometown of Dash Justice.” He turned the bike toward it, the engine idling.

“Let me grab a picture,” I told him unfastening my helmet and handing it to him to hold. Five minutes later, I stood on the exhaust and angled my small camera over Dash’s head to get a few shots of the sign. “This good?” I asked him, leaning around his shoulder to show him the image. “We can use it for the article, maybe as a secondary image or something.”

He held the camera still, looking down at the picture then back up at the sign itself. “Funny,” he said, handing me back my helmet. “They call me a spic and think I’m trash for most of my time in high school and then I go off and do something with myself and now I’m something to be proud of.”

“It wasn’t all bad in high school,” I reminded him, thinking of the support he and Isaiah got at those small shows Hector let him put on at his shop. “You had people who believed in you. A few at least.”

Dash turned his head, and I could just make out his profile and the twitch moving along his jaw. “A few,” he said, closing his eyes when I adjusted in my seat and my hair brushed against his face. Nostrils flaring, he exhaled, turning the handlebars. “Let’s go see what’s changed.”

Two hours later, we discovered that not much, in fact, had changed at all. We drove through the high school parking lot and along the football field, Dash pointing out the new logo on the scoreboard and an additional building at the back of the campus. But otherwise Willow Heights High had remained unchanged. The same could be said of the town square and Main Street, as well as Crooked Creek. We sat there for nearly a half an hour, watching the trickle of water underneath us as we leaned against the stone wall and rested our feet above the water.

“It seems so much smaller now,” I confessed, wondering why we spent so much time here, skipping classes and smoking weed.

“It’s not. You’re just bigger.” Dash looked around, squinting at the scratches and carved initials on the edge of stone. “And we have no weed here to help us pass the time.”

We left when a truck pulled up next to Dash’s bike and a group of teenagers jumped from the bed, slowing in their rush to get underneath the bridge when they spotted us, a few staring closely, walking backward and gawking to get a better look at Dash as he lifted his collar and adjusted his shades.

He was quiet as we circled back down Main Street, coming close to the trail that led to Brighten Park. He caught the red light and, subconsciously, I guessed, we both turned toward that trail, watching, likely thinking of spring and all those afternoons on the small hill sharing earbuds. The last time, Jamie had called me family. He’d meant it, I was sure, and I closed my eyes, remembering the way he’d looked at me, the sweet tone in his voice when he called me florecita. This whole time, I’d been “chica.” Nothing more, nothing less; a name, probably a woman as replaceable as any to Dash. For a second, I let go of everything that kept him at a distance. I wanted a second, half of that, to touch my Jamie, to remember that day and our palms touching so I leaned forward, my cheek against his back and inhaled deep.

“You saved us,” I’d told Wills Lager that night in Paris. “Me and Jamie, everything is tied up in you and the music you made. You were our home.”

He’d probably been too drunk to understand the impact of what he’d given us, but I told that legend all the same. Me and Jamie, our lives here, all that time together, wasted now by the sacrifices I’d made.  

I didn’t betray Jamie because I was cruel. I didn’t do it because I fancied myself a martyr. I did it to free us both. I did it so we wouldn’t drown each other. We were sinking, getting lost in a tide that kept us soaked and unconscious. I was the only one willing to break the surface, but to do that, it meant I lost a limb. It meant I had to be willing to swim away from him and know that the damage would wound him forever. I could still feel the burn in my sinuses from the water. Sometimes, I thought I would never be dry.

The light changed, and Dash sped forward. The park shifted behind us and that’s where I left the memory. He shifted, shoulders stiffening when I sat up, when my fingers rested on his hip and not around his waist, but then the road forked, and we slowed along Riverdale where my mother’s old Queen Anne still stood and the tension left us. There were three young kids playing in the front yard, scattering when the old woman from the neighboring house opened her door to yell at me.

“Holy, shit, look.” I pointed at her as we passed and we both watched her.

“Evil doesn’t die,” he said, laughing, his fingers keeping my palm against his chest when we both chuckled. It stayed there until we moved back up Main Street and came to a row of empty, worn buildings. The stores had been closed years before, and the city had boarded the windows with thick squares of plywood.

“Oh, that sucks,” I remarked when Dash pointed to the front of Hector’s shop. The wood obscured most of the front window, but I could still make out the bright red painted “H” at the corner of the door.

Next to the record shop, had been Fillie’s Fabrics, but Fillie Winston had died five years ago, according to my mother, just years after Mr. Wilson retired and closed up his Wilson’s Mercantile shop right next door. All three businesses sat empty now, and I frowned, closing my eyes to bring to the front of my mind how they’d once been—sidewalk full of patrons, people milling around the storefront to get inside; especially at Hector’s. Once Omen started playing and became popular, Hector’s shop was always full to capacity.

“The house should be open,” Dash said, circling to the back of the building down the alley, stopping right under the narrow stairway that led to the apartment above the shop. “Landon was supposed to take care of it.” He cut the engine and pushed down the kickstand, offering me his hand to get off the bike. This time I took it, my legs wobbling, tingling from the vibration of the engine in the two-hour ride. Dash nodded toward the stairs, and I followed him, eager to get inside and settle down.

It had been at least ten years since I’d been at the place, and my expectations were low. Hector had been nice, a little rough around the edges and generous to his nephew and his friends. He cooked tamales for us on rainy days and let us sneak shots of tequila when he had a good sale day in the shop. But he’d sucked at housekeeping, which was why, when Dash opened the door, and I spotted the pristinely decorated studio apartment, I was a little surprised.

“Wow,” I said, pulling off my messenger bag as I walked through the small entryway. Dash nodded, seeming to understand my surprise.

“Right?” He sat at the long island that separated the kitchen and living space, immediately bending down to pull off his boots. “Hector owned the building. Left it to me when he died.” Dash stood, stripped off his thin leather shirt and threw it across the island. “I lived here after...” He frowned, glancing at me, and I understood immediately what he meant.

“You moved out of your mom’s place after...graduation?”

He nodded, shooting me a grateful grin and walked to the fridge. “Hector put me up and made me fix every busted socket and fixture.” He pulled out a half gallon of milk and drank from it, leaning against the counter. “I had a lot of shit to work out and Isaiah and I weren’t exactly on speaking terms.” He looked down at the floor, eyes going glassy as though he didn’t see a thing. Then he nodded, apparently thinking of something he didn’t share. “Didn’t want to be around him or my mom so I came here, and Hector kept me busy.” He nodded at the exposed beams that ran the length of the ceiling. “Knocked down the entire ceiling on my own, then got busy with the rest of the place.” He returned the milk to the fridge and grabbed a dishrag from a drawer behind me to wipe his mouth. “A year later, Hector was about ten grand short in his checking account, and I’d exorcised my demons.” He looked up again, smiling. “And the dry rot.”

I walked past him, our arms touching, and I stood by the island, gaze moving over what looked like hand-scraped beams and black metal brackets that edged them. The walls were made of exposed brick, no sheetrock or paneling, and the floors were eight-inch walnut planks, original to the early 20^th century age of the building.

The place was sparsely decorated—no artwork on the wall or pictures, except for a few frame photos of Jamie and Hector, some of Isaiah and Jose neatly bookending the mantel above what once had been a fireplace. A wood burning stove replaced the chimney and the same red brick of the walls covered a three-foot space under the stove.

“So,” I said, turning to pull off my own thin jacket and placed it on the brown leather section set around the stove. “Are there bedrooms or did you get rid of them too?”

“Just one,” he said, coming closer. “I went a little sledgehammer happy when Hector died. Then Maria...”

“I heard.” I stood in front of him, touching his forearm. The muscles underneath my fingers twisted when he took my hand. I wasn’t sure what to make of the look he gave me then, but knew he appreciated my small gesture. “I’m sorry about Hector. He was a good man.” Dash nodded, and I watched a small vein throb in his neck. He’d taken off that shirt which left him in only a gray T-shirt that fit snug against his wide chest. “Well,” I said after looking too long. I stepped back, taking the plastic tie from my hair to work out the knots from the long drive in the wind. “Did Landon get groceries? I can make something.” I walked to the kitchen, opening the fridge. “Ah ha.” There were frozen pizzas and ice cream and two large New York strips. I grabbed them and walked to the island. “Hungry?”

An hour later, Dash sat across from me, his hair down, face clean and an empty plate and two empty bottles of Guinness in front of him.

“When did you learn to cook?” he asked, running a finger over what remained of the steak sauce on his plate.

I paused, watching how his finger disappeared between his lips, but was able to refocus, answering him before I made an idiot of myself. “College.” I grabbed my glass, downing what was left of the first bottle of red Landon had stocked. “I had four roommates in a nine hundred square feet apartment above a deli. One bathroom. We almost killed each other every week and our clothes sometimes smelled like salami, but I loved it. We were always eating because the Jewish woman who owned the deli told us all the time, ‘feh! you poor goys, you’ll die old maids if you don’t fatten up!’ So, she fed us and then forced us into her kitchen.”

“So why not make a brisket tonight?”

“Ha! No time. Besides, that would take too long.” I learned forward, winking at him. “But my matzoh ball soup is proper and delicious.”

“Maybe one day you can prove that.”

I nodded, not sure Dash wanted a commitment, not sure I could ever give him one, even for dinner, and then sat back, smiling a thanks when he left the table and grabbed a second bottle and opened it.

“Tomorrow, I’ll show you the shop,” he said, pouring himself a glass before he sat next to me. “I’ve been tinkering with the idea of hiring a crew to go through all the vinyl in there, but there’s never time.”

“Life gets in the way,” I said, moving the glass against my bottom lip. “Always does.”

Dash offered a grunt of agreement and sipped his wine.

To our left, a large window took up nearly the entire wall. In the distance, I could make out the small hills and smaller lake that surrounded Brighten Park. Somewhere in the center of that place, I’d found my home. Four blocks over, in Isaiah’s bedroom, I’d lost it.

Coming back had stirred up emotions I’d fought hard to bury. Jamie and the guilt just the memory of him conjured inside me rose like a wave, steaming, brimming until the ache of it, of all I’d lost in this town threatened to consume me. But I breathed deep, guzzled my red and tried to bury it again.

“The album,” I said, desperate for a topic that wouldn’t bring up the past. Dash nodded against his glass, running his fingertips over the grain of the wood table.

“The album,” he echoed, leaning forward to set down his glass and look at me. “This town.”

“What do you mean?” There was literally nothing here. Memories, sure, bad and good—mostly bad—but nothing that might anchor Jamie. Nothing worthy of remembering. “You can’t mean an entire album about this hole-in-the-wall place.”

“No, not the town itself,” he said, his head moving in a barely noticeable nod. He glanced out the window, vision unfocused, unblinking. “I was a different person here. A different musician.”

“You were younger.”

“Better,” he said, jerking his gaze to me. “According to you and apparently Lager.” He stood, walked to that large window, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “I met him, did I tell you that? Just once.”

“No,” I said, biting my lip. Dash hadn’t mentioned meeting Wills Lager, but the man himself had. Dash had left an impression.

He looked back onto the town, face relaxed, more relaxed than I’d seen in months. “He’d heard of this place, asked me how it was, and I was so star struck I didn’t answer. All those years listening, learning from him, all the imagined conversations I’d fantasized having with him and he asks about this place.” He laughed, scrubbing his fingers through his hair. “I was so flustered by the whole experience that I just shut my mouth and watched him. Spent the entire night hanging onto everything he said, then the next month kicking my own ass because I’d been too chicken shit to say anything important to him.”

“He’s intimidating,” I offered, remembering that Paris pub and the overwhelming feeling of awe just sitting across the table from him worked up in me. “But brilliant.”

“Six hours,” Dash said, still looking out of that window. “You spent six hours with the man we worshipped as kids.”

“I did.”

“Did it change you?” he asked, leaning against the glass. “What am I saying? Of course, it did.”

I nodded, slipping back against the chair as the wine moved through my veins. “It was like being in Brighten Park with you, laying on that grass, our heads together. Words spoken, words sung from that man, Jamie, God...it was like a life lecture from some wise musical sage. He was drunk, and a lot torn up over Rita, but still brilliant. Still so...amazing.” I tilted my head, smiling when he knelt in front of me. “A master class in life, in music. In memory.”

He nodded, resting his arm on my chair. “That’s what I want to do here. Remember. Crooked Creek, the park, my mom’s old home, this place,” he waved around the room, then looked at me again. “It’s my history. The DNA pain goes deep, and it started here, the worst of it. There’s a lot of me in this place and I want to get it down.”

“I wish I could understand that.” Head shaking, I moved my hand to the arm rest, not touching him, but close to it. “Being here is...painful. I’m not in the habit of embracing the pain.”

“I am,” he said, moving closer. Dash rested his fingers on my wrist, but kept still, watching. “Maybe that’s why I kissed you in Memphis. Because I knew you wouldn’t want me and I relish the pain. That rejection hurt, but, mierda, chica, I liked how it stung me.”

I exhaled, a little buzzed from the wine and the smell of Dash’s skin. It reminded me of a dream I had once, something I did but refused to recall. I twisted my hand, locking fingers with him, and Dash looked down, shifting so that our palms touched. I didn’t know what he wanted or why. I only knew that I’d returned to wanting moments for myself. Wanting him and me and nothing else. I could forgive him, forget that we’d damaged each other, that we were likely to do it again and again, if only for moments. Maybe, if enough of them came, they’d connect, move together until there were no pauses, no breaks. Until the pain didn’t exist at all.

I closed my eyes against the feel of our skin touching. “I’m tired of being the cause of your pain.” He nodded but didn’t speak and I saw something shift behind his eyes, something I hoped would stay. “Don’t you get tired of hurting? Always hurting?”

“Sometimes, but there isn’t much I can do about it.”

“You can regret. Maybe that’s a start. Learning to regret will help you to stop embracing the pain. Don’t you regret anything?”

Dash nodded once, licking his lips, moving still closer until he could reach across me, left thumb running along my mouth. “I regret you.”

That was a shot of pain I should have anticipated, but I was a little lost in how close he was to me, in the warmth from his body and the smell of his hair. Flashes of memory came to me, but I wouldn’t hold them for long. Not the bad ones. Not the hurt and guilt.

“You regret me because I killed us.”

Dash shook his head, expression somber. When he spoke, his voice was soft, sorry. “Because I let you.”

I touched his face, my fingers shaking. “I’m sorry.” There were tears brimming to the surface of my eyes, but I didn’t try to hide them from him. “I never wanted you to hate me.”

“Florecita,” he said, smiling when my face heated. “I never did. Not really.”

I didn’t believe him. How could I? He’d wanted to end me, erase me from his mind that night in Isaiah’s room, and I had never blamed him. But I wouldn’t think about his unbelievable confession. Not when he moved closer, not when Dash rubbed his nose against mine, looking a little desperate, a little hungry for my mouth.

“Te quiero besar,” he said, inching closer.

My breath got trapped somewhere in my lungs the closer he came.   “Why do you want to kiss me, Jamie?”

“Because I’ve missed the way you taste.” He laid his palm on my hip, curling his fingers in the hem of my shirt. “Because I want to never stop tasting you again.”

“Jamie...” I couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe when he came that close. He rested his forehead against mine, and the mix of hot breath and red wine fanned over my face. It was intoxicating, made me a little high, and I weighed the logic of letting go of all my anger, every ounce of my rage just to feel those supple lips on my mouth again.

“Mami, bésame and stay with me. One night, for old times. One night because we loved each other so much. One night to remember.”

One night with him was a dream. I had every intention of making it a reality.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Candlelight flickered around us. It tossed shadows and movement into every corner of the small bedroom. In the center of all that sweet silhouette stood Dash. But this would not be like our first time or our twentieth. I’d loved him as a girl. I wanted him as a woman.

He was barefoot and breathing heavy though I had not touched him. “Before,” I told him, moving to meet him in front of the bed. “Before when we were together it was sweet and sacred.”

“Sometimes,” he said, reaching to move our fingers together; small but consequential. 

“Right now, I don’t want sweet.” His smile was dark, edged toward that manufactured look that made girls the world over forget their names. I touched his face, fingertips on the sharp bones of his cheek, thumb silencing anything that might pass from his lips. Dash Justice was not a man to be commanded. I’d seen that myself. His crew did whatever he asked. His family hesitated, but still worked his bidding. His fans would have opened their veins and let him feast on their blood.

I was none of those things to him and I had no desire to fuck Dash Justice.

I wanted Jamie Vega.

Before he could speak, before that smolder appeared and I lost my nerve or good sense, I stepped closer, gaze searching, examining because I had not been able to before and then I rested my hands on his shoulders. “Get on your knees.”

The hesitancy lasted only a second, but it was there, told me he was wary, unsure, yet he went down, dragging his fingers over my hips, to the curve of my ass.

“I remember this girl,” he said, chest moving faster now, fingers digging into the soft flesh of my ass as he rubbed his nose, his mouth against my stomach, kissing me over the fabric of my jeans, right against my pussy. “Coño, así, I remember her.”

“And she remembers you.” Jamie looked up, eyebrows lifted, mouth stretched into a line as I took his hand from my waist, sliding it up to my torso. “Do you remember what I like best?” He nodded, inhaling sharply when I tipped my chin down, a silent command. “Do it. Do it now.”

He didn’t wait, didn’t run through this in a hurry, or bark out a complaint. Jamie knew, at least I believed he remembered, what this would do, how it would turn me on; these commands and that big, beautiful man in front of me doing as he was told.

I closed my eyes against the wet, hot feel of his wide tongue on my stomach, of his large hands shifting up my shirt, tugging it over my head. Those long fingers went to my back, pulling me closer, harder against his opened mouth and I cradled his head, loving the silky texture of his thick hair.

“Your skin is sweet. Like honey...” Jamie slipped his fingers to the back of my bra, unfastening the hooks, coming up higher on his knees to kiss my shoulders and the top curve of my breast as he moved the fabric down my torso. “How could I forget this? How could...ay mami...” He cupped my breast, covering each nipple with hand or mouth, tongue or teeth, pebbling the skin, pinching until I cried, the sensation so sharp, that long missing throb of pleasurable pain shooting right to my clit.

“Harder, Jamie,” I breathed, pushing his head closer, wanting more teeth, so much more teasing. “Suck them until I ache, until I cry.”

He did, hands trembling as he held me, taking the tip of my nipple into his mouth, pinching the other between his thick fingertips. Jamie went on touching me, gripping now, and I shook, my legs giving out on me, and I leaned against him, nails down his back.

“Let me take you to the bed.” He licked my ribs, teeth dragging, and he growled, like he couldn’t get enough of the taste against his tongue. “Let me eat you until we’re both aching.” He looked up, hand back on my breast, teasing, pinching. “Can I do that, mami?”

“Yes,” I breathed, exhaling hard when he picked me up, hands on my ass, hot breath like fire on my skin. When my back connected with the mattress and Jamie hovered over me, I smiled, touching his chest, wanting to see all of him. “Take off your shirt,” I said, pressing my nails against his stomach.

“Si, ay...Dio,” he said, as I kissed the ridges and dips of his abdomen, my tongue working a wet line from his side to his navel. He cried out, a low, deep grunt of need when I took the skin above his hip between my teeth. “Please,” he said, fingers holding my shoulders, squeezing like he need something to keep him from falling. “Please let me taste you.”

I couldn’t deny him, smiled when he followed my gaze as I jerked my focus to floor. Jamie worked quick to rid me of my shoes and jeans, throwing them into the dark corner of the room and when he turned back around, my body laid out in front of him like a meal, I swear I spotted a shudder moving over his shoulders. It was gone before I could comment, and Jamie pulled me to the edge of the bed, hands cupping my ass as he moved down to kiss my pussy.

“Will she purr?” he asked, smiling against my skin.

“If you pet her right.”

He did, lowering over me, thumbs spreading apart my lips, mouth humming against my pussy, and Jamie dove in, tongue pressing inside, licking, kissing, teeth pulling on my clit as he pushed two fingers inside me.

I arched back, spreading my legs wider, tugging the comforter away from the pillows as he ate me and licked and generally drove me insane.

“Suck it harder,” I told him, voice a panting groan. “Deeper, Jamie, deeper inside me.”

“I’ll go deeper, mami. Deep enough to make you scream.”

He pushed in another finger, joining the two already inside me then moved his hand to stretch his thumb into my ass. Jamie worked my clit and G-spot and ass so expertly, so sweetly that I pushed closer, digging my heels into his back, crying, gasping until I came so hard, so completely that I screamed, my voice breaking, echoing throughout the apartment.

He took everything I had, continuing to lick, to suck even as the aftershocks made my sensitive. “Yes,” I sighed, loving how he hadn’t finish, how he hadn’t gotten enough of me. “Jamie.” He looked up, black eyes unblinking, mouth still connected to my pussy, drinking me up and I sucked in my bottom lip eager for more of him. He paused, head moving to the side when I reached for him, taking a kiss, stealing part of myself back.

“Mami...” he whispered, and I heard the need in his voice.

I held his face, kissing him slower, sweeter and ran my fingers over his chest, around his waist, up his back to lick his neck and whisper against his ear, “Get behind me.”

“Ay Dio mios,” he whined, peeling his clothes from his body quickly, gaze trained on my face as I got on all fours, pushing my long hair over my shoulder. I crawled in front of him, bending down, giving Jamie a perfect view of my ass. He pulled a condom from his wallet, hurrying to place it over his hard cock, gaze sharp, watching me and Jamie slipped behind me, kissing my lower back, hands rubbing over my ass. “Tu me vuelves loco,” he said, positioning himself behind me. He waited, like he was supposed to, and my body tingled and pulsed at the image of this powerful man, so virile, so strong, waiting on me, watching my face and the shake of my hips until he knew I was ready.

“You want this?” I asked him, rubbing my ass against his pulsing dick.

“Si,” he grunted, lowering over my back to touch my wet pussy. “Te necesito.”

“You need me, Jamie?” I asked, loving how his voice cracked, how he trembled and moaned when I reached down to touch myself.

“Mami...ay...please.”

I couldn’t take the way he begged, how he seemed on the verge of something that would consume him, hurt him. I didn’t want to be the cause of anymore of Jamie’s pain. I sat up, leaning back against him, arm reaching back to rest on his neck. “Take what you need, baby. Take it all.”

That was all the permission Jamie needed, and he moved in a whirlwind of sound and action. His hand on my back, pushing me down, long enough for him to slip inside, for him to stretch me wide and remember what this had been. God, how he filled me, how tight, how full I felt. Then Jamie thrust hard, hands on my shoulders, pounding inside, his palm against my waist, up to my breast to pull me next to his chest, still pumping, still pounding inside me.

When I thought I’d die from sensation, Jamie continued, working hard to take me, seemingly to make me realize no one else could do this to my body, and at that thought, I cried out, screaming, coming around him, my pussy squeezing him until he followed and we both crashed onto the mattress.

“Coño, que rico,” he said, pulling out of me just to turn my around and lean me back. “Mi florecita...” he trailed off, cupping my face, holding my head still while I caught my breath and tried to breathe and take the brutal kiss Jamie gave me.

“Damn,” I said, through exhausted pants. “That was unreal.”

He laughed, resting his forehead on my chest, mouth kissing, licking over my breast. “It always was unreal for me.” Jamie looked up, scooting closer, one hand in my hair, the other cupping my nipple.  I didn’t know what the look on his face meant or what he wanted me to say, so I let him watch me, let him kiss and hold me, until he’d had his fill.

That didn’t happen for a long time.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

That place seemed real. Logically I knew I slept. I knew there was a large, exhausted body around me, those wide hands holding my breast, Jamie’s thick lips against the back of my neck, but somehow, I wasn’t really there.

I floated in that place we all go to. Asleep. Awake where thought is real, but no experience existed beyond sensation and memory. I drifted deeper, and Jamie’s face came to me; the sharp edges of his chin, the teasing heart-shaped mouth. He was younger in this vision? Memory? I couldn’t tell which it was. I only knew that I was so thin, my shape not quite established, but still an adult. And Jamie, no longer allowed himself to be the boy I loved. He was Dash. He was vulgar and cruel sometimes and utterly irresistible to women who met him.

Women like Kylie. My boss.

Kylie who forced me to that concert, a large showcase with different bands, but she was mainly interested in watching Dash Justice parade around the stage, vocals sloppy, energy high. If the concert wasn’t bad enough, Kylie made me follow her backstage.

“Come on, stay for ten minutes. It’s a nice hotel. I’m going to drink and go back to my room. Maybe alone, maybe not. We’ll see who or what happens.”

Kylie was turning out to be a disappointment. I’d followed her career since high school; read her articles in SPIN and Rolling Stone. I’d even sent out query emails about internships. Those led to discussions about music and the future of the industry.

“Stick with me, kiddo,” she’d promised and after only a month under her tutelage, I was making progress, discovering things about myself, about my talent and music that I’d never thought I’d find.

“Let’s go,” Kylie said, tugging me beyond the barricade that separate fan and fandom. The girls behind us called out names, things that came from jealousy, envy, but Kylie lifted her chin and walked right by them.

Dash was not the headliner, but he was still important, demanding a crew of his own and perks for his band—booze, blunts and boobs. By the looks of the party we’d walked into, every one of his requests had been satisfied.

“Kylie!” I heard, watching as my mentor kissed the cheek of Rita Davis, Hawthorne’s manager. Stupidly, I glanced around her looking for Lager, thinking he had to be here if Rita was, but in the middle of their conversation, I picked up Rita’s tone, frustrated, tired and sounding a little pissed at her clients.

“I needed a break, love. Too much testosterone in that studio.” Kylie didn’t introduce me to everyone, but I did meet journalists, some there to cover the concert, others to try and wrangle an interview from Dash.

“Fat chance,” Kylie whispered when one of her college classmates from Yale mentioned sliding a recorder in her pocket and subtly ask Dash about the new album. “His people check every journalist. No way is she getting even a quote.” I’d nodded, a passive agreement with the woman I was sure could open a few doors for me, but really I didn’t care about anything but avoiding Dash. Kylie, on the other hand, had big ideas. “There he is. I’m going in and I promise I won’t need to sneak a recorder in.”

I watched her move her pin up figure, like a dancer around the crowd, nodding to people as she moved, turning to grab a flute of champagne before she came to Dash’s side. A soft tap on the shoulder and he turned to greet her, smile half held, gaze soaking up every inch of her.

I wanted to be sick.

Kylie was beautiful. It shouldn’t have surprised me that she grabbed Dash’s attention, but she was blond and went every two weeks for a spray tan. She had acrylic nails and false eyelashes. None of those things appealed to Dash. He wanted natural. He wanted real and Kylie, as beautiful as she was, was a Barbie. The kind of girl Jamie used to laugh at or outright ignore when I knew him.

The crowd thickened, and I used them as an excuse to mill away, stepping back, ignoring Kylie’s voice as she called to me. “Iris?” over and over and by the fourth time she called to me, I knew he’d know. I knew he’d remember my dream to write for Reverb and attach that to the name leaving Kylie’s mouth.

There was no hiding, so I didn’t, moving my chin up, tugging my skirt down and marching through the crowd to come face to face with Dash Justice. I hadn’t seen him since that night he tried to kill his cousin. Because of me.

His reaction was surprising. And, not at all. I seemed worthy of a once over, a slow appraisal that he tried to play off, but not more than that.

“Dash, this is my intern, Iris...”

“Why don’t you leave your pequeña intern down here and bring me upstairs. The crowd is irritating, and I could use some quiet. You have a room, right?”

Kylie seemed momentarily stunned, possibly insulted, but then Dash bent close, whispering something in her ear while his hand slipped down to her ass and whatever argument might keep her from the room, died a quick death.

“Iris,” she said, not bothering to look at me. “Hang around, I might have something for you to type up tonight.”

“No,” Dash said, laughing as he drank from an emptying bottle of Jack, “you won’t.”

She ignored him, offering me a quick glance. “Stick around.”

By three in the morning, I was tired and a little sick of being ignored. Fifty bucks from Kylie’s drink fund slipped to the front desk clerk told me which room was hers, and I hopped the elevator, heading to the tenth floor. I intended to slip a note under her door. I intended to blend back into the background and avoid seeing Dash Justice at all costs. But then I came to the end of the hall, scanning the numbers above the doors for 1024 and then stopped where I stood, watching as Jamie closed Kylie’s door, slipping his shirt back over his naked chest.

He looked pale, and his eyes were sunken in. For a minute, I forgot about the pain and betrayal and the guilt that consumed every available space in my heart. Jamie looked sick, then sickened when he spotted me.

He didn’t move from her door or do anything other than watch me curl the note I’d written my boss between my fingers.

“She’s sleeping,” he said, satisfied smirk making him look stupid.

“I was just going to...” I waved the note, not sure why I thought he needed an explanation. Jamie went on watching me, eyes sharp, focus penetrating until sweat began to surface and collect on my lower back. I didn’t know what he wanted form me or if he expected an apology, an excuse.

“How...how have you been?” I asked, regretting the question the second it left my mouth.

He didn’t answer, just shook his head and gave me a look that made me feel small and insignificant. “Fucking bueno, chica. And you?”

He didn’t wait for an answer, brushing past me, pulling a fifth of vodka from his back pocket. He took a long swig, coughing before he stopped in the middle of the hall, turning to glare at me. “I just fucked your boss.”

I flinched, my nose curling. “That’s not...” I wanted to say “none of my business” because I knew it wasn’t, but that was not what I felt deep inside. It was my business because he was mine. I’d loved him first. I’d wanted him, waited for him for so long and then, I just...right. I’d pretended to betray him.

Jamie stepped closer, that bottle hanging from his fingers. “Did you hear me?” He stunk of liquor and sex. I covered my nose, not wanting to smell him, walking away from him as he followed.

“She rode me, Iris. She rode and rode me until I thought my dick would explode, si?”

“I...I don’t care.” The tears burned in the corners of my eyes, but I managed to keep them from falling. “You...do what you...”

“You care,” he snarled, grabbing my arm. “You care so much it’s eating you up from the inside, isn’t it?”

That’s what he wanted, I thought. To see me hurt. To know that he’d broken my heart just as I’d broken his. This whole thing hadn’t gone as Isaiah and I planned. We stupidly thought Jamie would leave, would hide away in his music then, when he was better, when he was focused, we’d come to him tell him we were never together. We’d make him understand that it had all been for him. But Jamie had nearly killed Isaiah and retreated into himself, into bottles, not his music. I’d tried once to call him, to gently explain myself, hoping he’d listened, but the second he heard my voice, he hung up.

Now he wanted me to hurt. I knew that, but God help me, I already was. And he needed to understand that no matter what I’d done, he was still damn well mine. He just didn’t see it.

So, I removed the veil.

“They’re all the same,” I said, stepping away from the wall. When I looked at him, my eyes were clear. The anger I felt warmed me. It fueled me.

“What...”

“Kylie, or any other woman...every blonde. Every redhead, every face and body that isn’t me.”

“They are not... coño, you’re full of yourself.”

“And you’re full of me too, Jamie.” He stared, eyes brimming with something; I couldn’t decide if it was hate or passion. Rage or fear. “The woman who comes after me, all the women who come after me, are discount value. They are replicates that can’t touch you like I did. They can’t have you like I did. You will taste them and be haunted by the memory of my skin, how it felt to have me around you, touching, sucking, loving you like no one ever will again.” Jamie’s arms shook, and he lost his grip on the bottle. Liquor soaked into the carpet at our feet as he went on watching me.

“Every woman that isn’t me will leave you wanting. They’ll leave you with the memory of me and each of them will recognize that they’re trying to love a man who loved a woman so much his hate for her has become a virus. It’s infected you, Jamie, every pore. Every cell of your used-up body.”

His laugh was low, bitter and the frown on his face told me he hadn’t appreciated my brand of truth. Jamie shook his head, mouth curling. “You started this...all of this...you and Isaiah. You betrayed everything I believed so yeah, Iris, I do hate you, but I will forget you. I don’t live in the past.” He tried to move forward, likely thinking his size and stature would make me retreat, but I stood my ground, not moving at all. Still Jamie frowned, expression disgusted. “I’ve already forgotten you. You don’t even register.”

Somewhere, deep down, he probably meant that. He’d likely convinced himself that I was bottom shelf, not worthy of thought or consideration, but I knew better. I’d seen where he lived. I’d been inside his head and lived in his heart. He was the one taunting. He was the one with something to prove.

“Tell yourself that. Convince yourself that you hate me, that I’m the enemy. Maybe one day, you’ll believe the lie.”

The sharp ring of my cell stirred me, and I sat up quickly, pulling my phone off the bedside table, extracting myself from that dreamy memory and the warm cage of Jamie’s tempting body. I hurried in a scramble to answer, spotting the name on the screen and left the room.

There was a rock legend calling.

CHAPTER NINETEEN 

“I know this is a cluster fuck,” Lager said. His voice was frail, and he sounded exhausted.

“It’s just gotten...complicated. A lot more than I expected.”

I moved around the kitchen, trying to work the stupid Keurig, which I’d never touched in my life, then gave up, unable to figure out which way the damn tiny cups went into the machine. On the other side of the line, Wills Lager coughed, his breathing ragged, and I gave up any attempts except for those that concerned the legend on the phone.

“What are your doctors saying?” When he didn’t speak, I cleared my throat. “Come on, Wills, tell me the truth.”

He inhaled, taking a moment before he released a sigh that reminded me just how old and fragile he’d grown. I’d spotted it in Paris, but couldn’t quite pin down what was off about him. I remained clueless until he told me about the kidney transplant.

“They bloody well won’t let me drink a drop.”

“Naturally.”

“Bugger that. If I’m to die, then I want my drink.”

“You’re not going to die.”

“Is that so?” in the background I heard the opening and closing of a door, then the sound of children laughing before a chair squeaked and Lager continued. “Been having long chats with Dash Justice, have you? Nice bits about family and health and medical history?”

“That’s a low blow.”

He exhaled again, muttering something I couldn’t make out. “Ah, love, I know it’s a great thing I’m asking, but I’ve had no luck with any of my kin here in Ireland and I’ve had no other children. I would not ask if I weren’t utterly desperate.”

Below on the street, an older couple powerwalked behind two large Great Danes, their arms swinging in time with the trot their animals made. It was a distraction, as was the activity happening near the high school in the distance and the slow run of cars leaving town. This was our home, Jamie and me. This was the place that made us.

But who would Jamie be once he learned the truth. Would he revert? Change back to being angry and demoralized by betrayal? I’d hurt him once already. I wasn’t sure he wouldn’t see me knowing what I did about Lager as anything other than the pain I seemed to like to deliver.

“I know you’re desperate.” I looked over my shoulder, thinking I heard a noise, waiting as the air clicked back on before I finished speaking. “But I can’t just blurt that shit out. Like I said it’s all complicated now.”

“Why?”

“I...don’t want to go into details. Suffice to say that Jamie is coming back to himself. He’s being more open and I’m not going to risk that by dropping the drop the bomb that Wills Lager is his father and that he needs a kidney. That would ruin everything. You’ve got to give me time to do this my way.” I exhaled, needing a second to let reality sink in. It was still difficult to rationalize Wills as Jamie’s father, something I’d told him that night in Paris. Lager had always been our idol, our musical Yoda. That Jamie had somehow come from him, was impossible. But Wills related the story of meeting Jamie’s mother at after party. She’d been just another girl like all the others. Ten years later, she’d worked up the nerve to tell him the truth. It had taken nearly another ten for him to believe it.

“You knew about him for so long. You have no idea what he went through growing up with her and all the different men...” I sighed, lowering my voice when emotion had me angry. “Telling him now, just because you need a kidney would be bad. He’d never do it unless you try to meet him halfway.” It was stupid for me to play like this, to stand in the middle of the man I’d always loved and the man who’d wrote the soundtrack to our childhood. At more core, I was a peacemaker, or at least, I tried to be. And Lager was dying. In a lot of ways, Jamie was too.

“I’m also close to getting this interview wrapped up. If I go about this the right way, I can write my ticket back into the industry. I can forget the shit Jamie has done to me with that stupid song and just start doing the work I’ve dreamed of again. Please, Wills, give me time.”

He waited, another loud sigh blowing into the receiver. “Very well, then, love. And good luck to you. I just pray you aren’t too late telling him the truth.”

Wills disconnected the call and I dropped my head in my hands feeling helpless and stupid. “Man...” I started, turning when I heard Jamie coming out of the bedroom. “Morning,” I said to him, smiling against his mouth when he kissed me. He was already dressed, jeans and a wrinkled gray tee, but looked beautifully disheveled. My closed my eyes, humming when our lips met, but it ended before I could really enjoy it.

“No coffee?” he asked, sliding his cell into his back pocket.

“I tried. I can’t work that space thing.” I pointed to the Keurig, head shaking when Jamie took the small pods and dropped it into the machine. It immediately started to brew coffee.

“Damn,” I said, taking the mug Jamie offered. “This is good,” I said, sipping, then laughing at Jamie’s expression.

His cell chimed again, and I slipped behind him, wondering why he tensed before slipping his arm around me, kiss slight but sure on my forehead. Jamie looked at the screen, frowning. “That’s Landon. We’ve got to get back. We’re out a drummer because Lou slipped last night and broke his leg.”

“He okay?” I asked, rubbing my hands over his arms.

“Yeah, fine.” He dropped his phone on the island then returned his attention back to me. “We just need to get out of here and back to Indy.” He downed the hot coffee and held my face, kissing me quickly. “We’ll leave in a half hour. That cool?”

“Yeah,” I said, frowning. Jamie disappeared into the back of the apartment and a sudden, cold sensation rushed over me. I wasn’t sure where it had come from, but I had a sinking feeling it would be with me for a while.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Jelly legs. That’s what I’d felt, stretching my arms and humming at the satisfying tingle that moved over my skin. I’d seriously have to make a habit of getting massages. Or get a job at a hotel just to use their spa. This hotel was one of the nicest we’d stayed in with marble covering the floors and walls, and massive wooden columns that separated the front desk and luxury lobby. There was a five-star bar at the front of the entrance, a gym in the back, three restaurants and a spa. Even the hallways were opulent; plush rugs running from the elevators to the rooms and thicker versions of them inside each room, set around the walkway and living areas. Dash was in the deluxe luxury suite on the top floor and I smiled as I walked closer to his room.

Unlike the other places we’d stayed in, Jose stood guard, watching the hallways, hands folded together looking dangerous in his black suit and all those visible tattoos painted over his skin like graffiti. But he had a nice smile, pretty, straight, white teeth that he rarely flashed unless he was around Isaiah or there was a thick steak in front of him.

“Hola, cariño,” he greeted, waiting for me to stop at the door. “Nice time at the spa?”

“Spectacular,” I told Jamie’s uncle, unable to keep the wide smile off my lips.

“Bueno,” Jose said, opening the door for me.

The room was quiet when I entered, which generally not the case. During the entire tour, any time I met Jamie in his room, there seemed to be some sort of activity. We did have a quiet area to ourselves, but in the background, there was always Landon or one of his staff on the phone, communicating with whoever handled the crew needs or some of band, going over the set lists or additions to the show. Occasionally, Blake, Jamie’s tour manager would show up, when his own busy schedule didn’t require him to stay behind the curtains. Now though, there was no noise at all; no people except for that beautiful shirtless man who stood in front of the wall of windows overlooking Indianapolis.

I stopped in the entrance to the living room, just watching him, marveling at his wide shoulders and the perfect skin. Jamie had no tattoos, a rarity for most musicians, hell, most people our age and it made him seem unique. His skin was dark and smooth, like warm apple cider and my fingers itched to touch him again, to feel him against me, that beautiful skin hot, sweaty as he loomed over me.

“Hey,” I called, my stomach tightening as he smiled, glancing over his shoulder at me.

“Florecita.” He spoke that pet name like a statement, not something he questioned; it sounded like a song those three syllables. “Good massage?” he asked, nodding me over.

“The best,” I said, coming to lean against his chest when he opened his arms, hanging onto his waist. I wanted to stay there, smelling the sweetness of his skin, placing open-mouth kisses against that hard muscle, but knew it was impossible. There was a show to prepare for and Jamie likely didn’t have time for any lazy touches.

He’d been quite on the ride back to Indy and I’d given fleeting thought about him making excuses, maybe thinking that one night with me had been one too many. But he stood there now holding me, arms wrapped around my back and a deep inhale moving his chest.

“Thank you for suggesting it,” I told him, lifting my head to look at him.

“I had ulterior motives,” he said, kissing my forehead. “I wanted you relaxed.”

“Oh?”

He stepped back, a relaxed, sexy smile on his face. Jamie nodded toward the bedroom and my stomach twisted with excitement. That smile grin when I purred, and he led me away from that wall of glass.

The bed was massive with nearly an entire wall of leather panels for a headboard and rich wood cabinets at the sides. Jamie had pulled down the duvet and a bottle of champagne chilled on the bedside table. I turned, eyebrows lifted, impressed.

“Nice,” I told him, returning the please smile he gave me.

He poured two glasses and handed me one, eyes dark, attentive on my face as he drank. The bubbles tickled against my tongue, and I set the glass down, wanting something else there. When I waggled my finger, silently telling Jamie to come to me, his cocky grin returned, and he stood in front of me, nipping the tip of my finger.

“My turn,” he said, moving his chin to look down at me. “That okay?” I nodded, humming when he grabbed my waist. “I wanna play,” he said, and my pussy pulsed.

“Which one?” My words were a little breathless.

Jamie gripped my arms, licking his lips as he moved his gaze over my body. “You don’t like me but still want to fuck.” 

We’d played games before, and they’d always been fun. As kids, we’d imagine scenarios that made our lovemaking exciting—the innocent honor student studying hard when the bad boy musician interrupts her reading; the strangers in an elevator totally addicted to each other after only one look; and my personal favorite, hard to get. I’d pretend I wasn’t interested until he’d somehow convinced me then proceeded to go utterly alpha male on me, directing, bossing, telling me what he wanted all while I pretended to hate him.

I didn’t hesitate. “You need to get out of my room. You had your chance and fucked up. I don’t do musicians anymore.”

He managed a smile, slow, teasing and completely pleased. “Let me remind you why you wanted me in the first place. You’ll like what I can do to you now." He took my face, licking across my lips. "Promise.” He grabbed the back of my neck to pull my mouth against his. I couldn’t help the response—a little groan that was more pleasure than mock irritation and then a gasp when Jamie lowered us to the bed, hand on my ass.

“You want this dirty pendejo to fuck you, don’t you?” When I pretended to yawn, Jamie grabbed my wrists, holding them together above my head. “You bored, chica?” He licked down my neck, pulling the skin at the side against his teeth. “I can give you a little spice.” Jamie lifted above me, still holding my hands as he popped open my shirt to get at my breast. He yanked down my bra, sucking a nipple into his mouth and I cried out, arching to bring my tit closer to his teeth.

“Ah...I...yes...”

“Oh, so now she likes me.” Jamie moved his hand, still sucking my nipple between his lips. “Does this bore you?” He slipped his fingers down my torso, to my hip, slowing down the zipper before he cupped me. He didn’t wait, didn’t take his time to get me ready. Jamie just slid two fingers inside my pussy, going straight to my G-spot, using the friction from his movement and the suction on my tit to send me into a frenzy.

“Oh God...God!” I cried, and he went on laughing against my skin as I came, flooding my jeans and the bed.

Jamie stripped me naked, tugging me around so that I was spread out in front of him, our bodies a horizontal tangle on the bed. He went at my breast again, rubbing a line from my wet pussy up my stomach, to the curve of my breast. “Still hate me, chica? Still hate the dirty musician who’s making your sheets filthy?”

“Yes,” I panted, groaning as his nipped the inside of my thigh. The game continued, and my body responded, wanting more, wanting Jamie to want that too.

Jamie growled, a pleased, sexy sound, when I turned my head as he bent to take my lips, jerking me closer with a grip to my hips.

“Tell yourself you hate me. Tell yourself that there is nothing I say or do that will ever make you love me again.  But I’ll never believe you don’t want me. I’ll never believe all this heat isn’t for me.”

“It’s not.”

He laughed, drawing a line down my naked body with his tongue, smiling when I moaned. “Liar.”

Then Jamie pushed my face to the side, holding me still as he withdrew his dick, rubbing the head over my pussy, teasing the entire length between my lips over and over until he was wet, until I panted and clawed at the sheets above my head. “You feel that? Feel how hard you make me?”

I held his arm, pulling his hand closer, likely the pressure of his palm on my face. “Don’t you fuck me, you filthy asshole. You’ll make me dirty.”

“Ah, you’re dirty, chica and you like it, don’t you? You like this...” He pulled back, releasing my face to spread my legs wide and slid his hard, pulsing cock deep inside me. “Tell me you don’t like this.” He held up my leg, flinging it over his shoulder to drive in harder, fill me completely. “Tell me you don’t want to come all over my cock.”

“I...I don’t...” I lied, breathless, close already to the edge, fingernails down his chest, wanting him closer, wanting his mouth on mine. “Jamie...”

He growled again, twisting us around so that I was on top and he held my hips, rocking above him, feeling tight and tender and so fucking wet. “Faster, chica,” he demanded, fingers curling into my ass. “Si...just like that. Bueno, asi mismo. Fuck. Ah...yes,” he cried as I tightened around him. His voice lowered to a whisper, sounding gruff and so damn hot.

“Tu eres muy sexy.”

Then Jamie put his feet flat on the bed and moved his hips, a thundering movement to meet me as I continued to ride him. Hand around my breast once more, Jamie shouted, head roaring back as the same time I climaxed, body overwhelmed by sensation and I crashed, lowering over him, his loud cries echoing in the room as I curled against his chest, eyes closed. “I love you,” I whispered not caring that he probably had heard me. Not caring about anything but the spin of my orbit and how Jamie Vega was once again the center of it.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Dash Justice had returned. Never mind the day we spent back home. Never mind the night and morning we’d just had. Jamie had gone away, shuffled into some place Dash would only let me in as soon as his boots hit the stage. The crowd soaked it up, loving his high energy, the heavy, detailed make-up, and the attitude of tonight’s show. He should have been relaxed, or at least marginally calmer, but Dash circled the stage like a maniac, jumping in time with the beat the replacement drummer shot off and howling into the mic, profane words, dirty suggestions like a spell he weaved over the crowd.

“I’m home, Indy,” he shouted, and a tidal wave of sound followed. They loved him, they wanted him, and he knew it.

“Is he drunk?” I asked Landon when he paused in the rush of activity that seemed to consume him.

The kid hazarded one glance at me, then at Dash but kept his expression neutral. “Probably.” He listened to the two-way, muttering a response I didn’t hear. “You were late, weren’t you?” I nodded, and he shrugged. “The band polished off two bottles of Jack while you were doing whatever it was that kept you at the hotel.” He dismissed my frown, then took off.

The “whatever it was” had been Jamie’s suggestion after we relaxed in bed together. I got a half an hour of his time before the pounding on the door started and Landon called for Jamie from the other side.

“Duty calls,” he’d said, rubbing his face.

“You want me to meet you downstairs?” I’d asked, already leaving the bed. He watched me, grinning when I picked up my jeans and frowned as I noticed the mess I’d made of them. “Shit.”

“Take a robe from the bathroom and go have a long soak in your suite. I’ll make sure someone picks you up for the show.” He sat up, pulling on his jeans before he stood in front of me. “Trust me, you don’t wanna miss tonight’s show.” I tilted my head, curious, and Jamie kissed my forehead. “Homecoming shows are always the best, the most exciting.”

There would be media, I knew that from the calls I’d heard Landon make earlier in the day. There would also likely be questions about us, about things that we hadn’t discussed, but we weren’t in synch about any of those things. And, there was a gigantic piece of information I’d yet to give him.

“Hey, Jamie,” I started, taking the robe he offered when he came out of the bathroom. “There’s something I need to tell you. Can I have a minute?”

I hadn’t known what to make of the look he gave me. Maybe he was suspicious. Maybe he was worried I’d say something he wasn’t ready to hear. Whatever he thought, Jamie kept to himself as Landon knocked again, shooting a quick, “Mr. Justice, we have a problem,” against the door.

“Be right there,” he answered, tugging a shirt he took from the dresser over his head. “Later, chica, okay? I gotta go handle some mierda.” He grabbed my face, holding it between his hands to look at me. “Go get your soak, and we’ll talk later.”

But that talk never came. The soak had gone on longer than I’d meant, and the ride Dash promised to the arena was a half hour late. By the time I made it to the arena, the set was nearly complete and, apparently, Dash was a little trashed.   By the loud, obnoxious way Jamie behaved on stage, he was more than a little trashed. 

He turned, back to the crowd, gaze up at the large screen behind the drum kit. The arena was dark, and the only light came from that screen, shooting red and blue sparks of light across the stage like it normally did, but the girls were missing. Normally, the silhouettes danced and gyrated, teasing the crowd with their curves, but tonight they were missing. In their place was a snow grain, something that reminded me of my cousin’s non-cable massive TV he watched on the reservation in New Mexico. I thought maybe that there had been some sort of technical glitz that had caught Dash’s attention, but then he smiled, eyes closing as he stood there and then shot a look to the side, seeking me out backstage.

He didn’t smile when he caught my gaze. He didn’t do anything but curl his mouth, disgusted, and then he faced the crowd again.

“You know, Indy, I wanna talk about bitches...” That wasn’t a shock, not in to this crowd. Dash had done the same little speech at the beginning of the tour. It was a made-up diatribe of misogyny and disrespect that he’d pulled from the show after my second week on the tour. 

“You think it’s insulting?” he’d asked when I complained about it. “Why are you so fucking sensitive, chica?” That had led to a screaming match, one that lingered on for a half an hour, one that I suspected Dash had enjoyed—he did love it when we fought. Always had. “You look fucking sexy when you’re mad,” he’d told me years ago. But the complaining had worked. He’d pulled the monologue. I had no idea why he was doing it now.

“Bitches are typical,” he continued, laughing when the first row of half-dressed when waved and screamed at him. “They’re fucking easy, aren’t they?” Behind him, I caught Isaiah’s gaze, his frown deep as he shared a glance with his band mates, then looked at me, head shaking. There was a low strum of music gearing up, the intro low, but familiar, though I couldn’t quite place it.

That dreadful feeling came back to me. It had dimmed as we left Willow Heights, then disappeared while I was with Jamie in his room. Now, though, it had returned, throbbing in my chest to beat in time with the melody from the band. I glanced back at Isaiah and frowned when he looked away, eyes on his strings, avoiding me.

After the day we’d had together, after the night and this morning, Dash was going to sing that fucking song.

“Bitches,” he continued, “like the ones who spread their legs and tell you they love you. What a fucking joke!” He strummed a chord, played the first chords, but paused, glancing back at the screen before he continued. “Bitches who promise forever and then stab you in the back.” He strummed hard, the sound vibrating. “Over.” Another hard strum, this one louder. “Over.” And a third, a whine of echoing noise that drove the crowd wild. “And over again.”

The white snow from the screen went dark and a flicker of light shone from the bottom of the screen, the scene familiar.

“You know what I say to those bitches?” The crowd’s screams were deafening now. Dash laughed hard, head back before he growled into the mic. “I say fuck ’em, and when I don’t say that, then I do it.”

I stepped closer to the stage, ready to scream, howl at Dash when the intro began, and he started singing the first line.

Every curve of her figure like sweet retribution

I would have raged and attacked. I would have pounced on top of him and announced to the crowd how I’d had their precious God of Rock on his knees last night, panting, whining to touch me, to serve me. But the scene on the screen shifted and the video changes, flashing images that made bile coil in my stomach and crawl up my throat.

Oh, God. Oh my God, I thought, as a screen flashed a recap of me and Dash together on his hotel room bed.

Came like a bomb, left in confusion

It had been edited in parts, some of the action sped up, making us look ridiculous, manic. My legs were spread, face turn toward the camera as Dash fucked me, shooting smirks and grins right at the lens.

Stepping back, I covered my mouth, shooting a glance into the crowd, seeing how they ate it up, how they howled and laughed and cheered on their god as he fucked me, controlled me. My stomach ached, heart on the verge of thundering from my chest as I spotted Joan in the crowd, a pinched, disgusted expression on her face and then Isaiah’s scream pulled my attention back to the stage. He’d torn off his guitar, stopping the song in the middle of the chorus and pushed Dash away from the mic, screaming in his face.

Dash pushed back, nose nearly on top of his cousin’s as he pointed at the screen, then backstage where he knew I stood. Isaiah wouldn’t back down, pushed Dash again and then both men stopped, when the crowd began to chant “1221” over and over. They didn’t care about my humiliation. They ate it up and wanted more.

My world fractured once again. Everything tumbled and became disarrayed for the second time in three months. Dash had used me up and left me humiliated. Again. I could only stand there, back straight as he returned to the mic. He shot a glare my way, adjusting his guitar. “Tell Lager to go fuck himself,” he told me, eyes shifting to examine my face. “You can too.”

The tears flooding my face made me feel weak, disgusted. I should have lashed out and attacked. I should have responded to him, to that song as he tried playing it one guitarist short, as Isaiah left the stage and grabbed Landon by the collar.

“I don’t give a fuck what that pendejo told you. Turn the fucking screen off now or I will end you.”

The kid scrambled, and I supposed by the collective boo of disappointment that rang out in the arena, that he managed to kill the feed. I didn’t wait around to find out. Isaiah ran after me, pulling on my arm. “Iris, wait, please cariño. Wait, I’ll get you back to the hotel.”

I jerked away from him, speeding to a jog as I left the stage and moved out to the back of the venue, desperate to be away from this place, from Dash and this tour, and from the notion that I’d ever felt anything for him at all. As I hurried through the hallway, I made a promise to myself. One I’d hold with more passion, more fierceness that I’d ever stupidly had for him. I would never let someone break me again. Growling, I slammed through the back door, wiping my face dry, disgusted at myself at the way I’d just stood there and taken his humiliation.

I’d just stood there stupidly, watching him as he fractured my heart. I’d stood there as something inside me slammed shut. Something I was sure I’d need. Something I didn’t think I’d ever loose: mercy.

EPILOGUE

Dash

Familia is supposed to be eternal. At least brothers should be. This, I told myself was mierda as I watched the screen go blank and that pendejo primo of mine ran after Iris. But then, of course he would, wouldn’t he? He’d had her once. He’d tasted what was mine. She was impossible to resist. 

I didn’t bother addressing the crowd. They’d had enough of me if the disappointed boos I heard meant anything. Fuck ’em. I didn’t care. At this point, I didn’t care about a damn thing.

“Dash!”

“Mr. Justice!”

“What was that shit?”

“You gave it to her so good, you slick bastard!”

My crew descended, coming around me like a wave, some laughing, impressed at the insult I delivered to that lying bitch. I curled my head down, rubbing my eyes, trying to get rid of the image of her face, so fucking beautiful. So full of mierda. How could something so perfect, something that tasted that sweet, but so fucking evil?

“Acho...”

“Give me a smoke,” I told Jose, reaching into his jacket pocket when he didn’t move fast enough. Landon stood behind the tech table, his face pale, surprised when he spotted me. Jose handed me a lighter and I lit the cigarette, pointing the smoke at my assistant. “Who the fuck told you to cut the feed? Did I?”

“No,” he said, voice cracking. “But Isaiah...”

I waved him off, glaring at Jose. “I’m going to kick tu hijo’s ass.”

He let me get two long drags in before my uncle rounded on me, stepping close, so close in fact that Landon backed up, pushing the chair behind his desk as he moved.

Jose was a badass muchacho. He’d done time, but I’d moved past allowing anything resembling fear to get to me.

“Cuida tu lenguagje, sobrino,” Jose said, knocking the cigarette out of my hand. “That chica is sweet and mi hijo is a good man. You, I’m not so sure about.”

A crowd had started to form, and the tension leveled quick, so thick and heavy that my chest felt tight. That had to where this sensation came from—Jose was my uncle. I didn’t know him well, but he reminded me so much of Hector. They’d been brothers. They’d shared the same mannerisms, the same disappointed look in their eyes. Seeing that expression after so many years, made the heaviness on my chest seem more than I could stand.

“Where is he?” I asked Jose, trying to beat back the guilt that had started to crowd my head.  He didn’t answer right away and instead nodded toward the back entrance.

I moved around my uncle ready to find my stupid cousin and ask him why he’d ruined the show, when he thundered through the back door, hurrying toward me like a pendejo, eyes all wide and angry.

“What the fuck is—”

Fists clenched, he was on top of me, landing one hard punch across my face.

“Hijos de puta!” he screamed, earning a glare from Jose, who recovered quickly enough to push his son away just as someone else I couldn’t see yanked me back.

“No tienes lealtad.” I grabbed for Isaiah as Jose pulled him back. “I am your blood! Tu familia! And you go after her? Her?” My cousin calmed, head shaking as I shouted. I wanted to punch him, get my fingers around his neck, but something changed on his face and his expression eased, the tension ebbing. “Say something, fucker!” 

“You want me to say something? Bien,” he started, lifting his hands in surrender so his father would release him. Jose still stood close, gaze hard as he watched us. Isaiah swallowed, his throat working slowly before he scrubbed his face, shoulders falling. “It never happened.” He must have seen something in my face, an expression maybe that told him I didn’t understand. Isaiah shot a wave around the crowd, nodding to Landon. “Get everyone out of here.”

My assistant looked at me, not moving until I nodded, silently telling him to do what my cousin asked. Rick, a young bouncer Jose had only hired two weeks ago turned out to be the one who’d pulled me off my cousin. I jerked my chin to him once, making him retreat, and he and Jose waved the others back, ignoring the questions that came as I faced Isaiah.

Behind us Landon’s computer monitor played the feed of me fucking Iris. I’d only watched the video long enough to see if my cell had recorded us and then gave it to Landon to take care of. He’d started an edit on the video, but didn’t finish the full forty-five-minute length I’d wanted. Mid-way through, the images changed and ended with Iris on top of me and me coming hard. But I ignored the end as my cousin stood in front of the table, hands hanging loose on his hips.

“That night in my room?” I didn’t bother nodding. No sense in acknowledging the worst night of my life. “We set it up. I never touched her.”

My stomach twisted, then dropped, and I almost believed him. “Estás mintiendo.”

“No, I’m not lying, estúpido. You scared her. You scared us all. Coño, you were running after her like a pendejo telling everyone the only thing you planned for the future was being with her. You stopped doing gigs, stopped writing and wanted to cancel Ronnie’s tour. There was no telling you to stop. No one could reach you, not even her.

“I wasn’t...”

“Ay Dios mio, si!” He stepped closer, hands on my shoulder. “Try remembering shit as it happened. Try forgetting how much you hated us because of what you thought you saw. The month before she tried to end it. For you. Because she knew that you wouldn’t change. You were obsessed with her. Ah, acho, it was hard to watch.”

“No,” I said, brushing off his hand. “We had a fight. We...she changed her mind.”

Isaiah sighed, his shoulders lowering, like he couldn’t understand me. “No, pai. She postponed the inevitable because you pounded her door for an hour.” He moved his head when I looked away, trying to catch my eye. “That night, you were in a rage. We knew you would be, so maybe you didn’t see everything. She had on shorts under that sheet. So did I, and her face was wet from crying long before you found us.”

“I...no...” Eyes shut tight I tried to remember them, as much as it made me sick, but it was impossible. There was only the same image of them together on his bed. Isaiah holding her, my florecita. His mouth on hers, her shaking? I jerked my eyes up and glared at my cousin, shock working through me like poison. “De verdad?”

“Si, pendejo.” Isaiah touched my face, patting my cheek once. “It’s true. We wanted you to refocus. We wanted you to listen, to see how easy you were making it for your goals to slip between your fingers. It just...worked too well.”

“You never told me.” I closed my eyes as dread and shame washed over me. There was a list of stupid things I’d done, choices I’d made because of that night. Because I lost Iris. They weren’t her fault. No one made me sleep with faceless, nameless women. No one made me slather on thick make-up to look like something out of a nightmare. No one made me down liquor like it was water. No one made me shoot poison in my veins or insult every woman I met. No one forced me to act like a bastard, insulting and cruel. I’d done all those things to protect myself from ever having to feel a thing. I did that because I was selfish and stupid, and it had all been for nothing.

“You never said anything...”

Isaiah shook his head, stopping me. “Why would I? You hated me for a long time. You hated her even longer. How long did it take you, pai? You remember? Did you forget how you went on without me? Did you forget how you left me with Tia alone in that fucking house because you couldn’t stand to be around me? Three years. You walked away from me for three years. There was no way I was going to bring up the past after you finally let me back in your life. I didn’t want to end up back in the hospital or abandoned because you got mad at me. And Iris...” He shook his head, walking in front of me as he paced. “Coño, you couldn’t talk about her for years. You changed, and she was always too good. Too sweet. I couldn’t ask her to relive the past after all the things you said about her. All the women you fucked trying to get her face out of your head.”

“Mierda...” I sighed, scrubbing my hands over my face. It was hard to hear, after all this time, but Isaiah was right. She couldn’t have saved me.

“What is this?” my cousin asked, pointing to the video. When I raised an eyebrow at him, he waved me off. “No, why would you record it? What did she do?”

I exhaled, pushing down the shame I felt, reminding myself that she wasn’t the sweet, innocent that everyone that. “She knew that Wills Lager was my father.” Isaiah’s mouth fell open and I shrugged, already over the reveal after hearing Iris on the phone this morning. “Mama was a puta, we know this, but Iris found out a few months back. The only reason she joined the tour was because that cabrón needs a kidney. It’s the only reason he wants to meet me now. She knew that mierda and said nothing. She’s been plotting this whole time.” My lips felt tight against my teeth when I frowned, and I rubbed my hand over my mouth to rub out the tension. “This was payback for using me. She didn’t mean a single word she said to me.”

Isaiah looked past my shoulder, expression shifting as he squinted. “What is she saying?” he asked, walking to the monitor to grab the head phones. He moved back the film reversing it until he came to the point where Iris collapsed against my chest. He held the headphones to his ear as the video played, jerking his eyes at me. “Coño.”

The headphones fit snuggly over my ears when my cousin shoved them on, then reversed the feed, pushing a button to rerun the same two seconds over and over, the one where Iris said, “I love you” and I called out, groaning as an orgasm hit me.

“That doesn’t mean...”

“She didn’t know you were recording her. She probably didn’t even think you could hear her, screaming the way you were.” Isaiah pointed back at the screen, to the sweet smile on Iris’s face.

She never could keep what she felt from showing on her face. I saw every irritated emotion, all the happiness that moved her features when she laughed, all the hurt and anger when she was disappointed. And right there, on that screen, Iris was in love. With me.

And I’d destroyed her again.

“Coño,” I said, stepping away from the monitor. I jerked my attention to the stage, now empty, then to the crowd that congregated around us. They were staring, wondering why I looked as though I was going to be sick. I thought I might, even had to lean down, hands on my knees, catching my breath.

“Jamie...”

“What the fuck did I do?” I asked my cousin, turning my head to look up at him. “Oh, I’m fucking estupido!” I screamed, not caring that the group of people watching us went still and quiet. “Ay...primo, I have to find her.” I turned, looking for Landon, waving him over. “Find out where she went. Go, now!”

Isaiah squeezed my shoulder and I leaned back, hand on the wall to stable me. My cousin’s frown was gone, replaced by something that looked like fear. “Acho, this,” he said, nodding to the monitor, “is bigger than some song. Iris is sweet, but she’s not débil. She’s not going to forgive you.”

“I don’t care,” I told him, breathing hard when Landon approached. “I have to try.”

“What? What in hell are you going to do?”

I pushed off the wall, clapping Landon’s shoulder when he joined us. “Beg, primo. If I have to, I’m going to spend the rest of my life begging her to forgive me.”

THE END