Lucas is chuckling between my legs as he eats me out. It’s actually quite strange, to be honest. What’s so damned funny? A bit more laughter and my brain suddenly clicks into consciousness. Oh, I’m dreaming. I open my eyes to find Lucas sitting next to me in the fluffy bed, laughing his gorgeous ass off while staring at his laptop.

I look at the clock. 6:34 a.m. “What are you laughing at?” I ask.

“Sorry to wake you. I’ve been reading all your blog posts, starting from the very beginning, and they’re hilarious.”

I snuggle up to him, lay my cheek on his broad chest, and peek at the screen as he continues to read, my heart soaring.

“I feel like I know you inside and out now,” he says. “You really let it all hang out here, don’t you? You’re fearless.”

“Penelope’s fearless. Abby’s a coward.”

“Then be Penelope. She’s a rock star.”

I look up at him, smiling at his word choice, and he kisses my forehead like it’s the most natural thing in the world to do.

“Speaking of fearless rock stars,” I say. “I downloaded your third album the other day. Talk about fearless. Wow. I’m sorry I didn’t buy it when it came out. I feel like an idiot.”

“You weren’t the only idiot who stayed away from that one, believe me. So did you like it?”

“I loved it. It’s a masterpiece. I loved the simplicity of it. No bells and whistles, just honest songwriting. Just your glorious voice.”

“Yeah, that’s what made it so painful when it bombed,” he says. “I put my naked self out there and nobody gave a fuck. All they want is ‘Shattered Hearts.’ That third album flopping is what made the cocksuckers rein me in and demand I start writing the kinds of songs ‘that got me here in the first place’ for my fourth and final album.”

“I watched the infamous clip from your concert here in Denver,” I say. “You wanted to play another song off your third album when your fans started revolting, didn’t you?”

“Yeah. I had a little tantrum that night.”

“Which song?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me.”

He shrugs. “‘Piece of Me.’”

“I really love that one.”

“Thanks.”

“Are you really never going to sing ‘Shattered Hearts’ again, like you said that night?”

“I don’t know. That’s how I feel right now, but I guess I’ll see how I feel with a little more time.”

I bite my tongue.

“What?” he asks after a long silence.

“Nothing.”

“Oh, for the love of fuck. I just read every blog post you’ve ever written, Penelope, which means I’m now well aware you’ve got strident opinions on everything from lady bugs to butt plugs.”

I laugh. “Yeah, but I have no right to have an opinion about this. It’s your art.”

“Give me your opinion. It doesn’t mean I’ll be persuaded to change a damn thing I’m doing. I just want to know what you honestly think.”

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

I take a deep breath. “I think you’re seeing this wrong. Yes, ‘Shattered Hearts’ started out as your song, but it belongs to the world now. Sure, you’ve played it a million times and have moved on from it, but someone going to one of your concerts is maybe getting to see you perform it for the first time. Maybe some guy in the audience bought tickets to your show for his girlfriend because you’re her all-time favorite. Maybe he works a job he hates, but he does it partly because it means he can afford doing fun things like taking his girl to a Lucas Ford concert.”

I pause, worried I’ve overstepped my bounds, but Lucas doesn’t seem at all pissed, so I continue. “That song is the soundtrack to your fans’ lives. They’ve lost their virginity to it. Cried to it. Grieved to it. You’ve eased their pain by sharing yours.” I shrug. “So I think you should decide to stop feeling like the song is trapping you and realize it’s a gift. Embrace it. If you feel like you’ve outgrown playing that song, as is, then, okay, you’re a musical genius—reinvent it when you play it live. But most of all, be grateful for the gift of so many people loving and feeling moved by your creation. The way I see it, it’s the least you can do for getting to do what you love for a living. So few people on this earth get to do that.”

There’s a moment of stillness between us, during which, I presume, Lucas is deciding whether to physically kick me out of the bed or simply tell me to fuck off.

Lucas abruptly closes his laptop and sets it aside and I hold my breath, waiting for his fury. But that’s not what I get. To the contrary, without a word, Lucas pulls me on top of him, slides himself inside me, pulls my face to his, and kisses the living hell out of me. “Ass-kicker,” he breathes. “Thank you.”