It’s past midnight, and I can’t fucking sleep. I get up, grab a bottle of whisky from the liquor cabinet, and walk out onto my pool deck with my phone. I flop down on one of the stiff lounge chairs and exhale. My gaze drifts over the illuminated water, over to the waterfall pouring down into the pool before I pull the top off the bottle and turn it up. From here I can hear the distant lull of the waves crashing on the shore, and that settles me a little. There’s a few laughs from some kids down on the beach, but other than that, it’s completely quiet.

I stare through the massive window at the back of my house. The winding stairwell that leads up to eight bedrooms is in plain view from here, and I can’t help but laugh. A 7,500-square foot house all to myself.

All by myself.

Leaning back on the cushion, I stare up at the sky. I used to think fame was the answer to everything– I think most people think that, at least until they have it. And then, at first, god, it’s amazing. You’re on a constant high, everything’s new and exciting and then… then it all slowly wears and tears on you, and you’ll start to sink. Slow and steady. Just like a rock.

The thing about fame, it puts you in this bracket of people who are all just as miserable as you are, but have to pretend everything’s amazing: Here, let me post pictures of myself on this yacht with my wife that’s fucking the guitarist in my band. Let me post a picture of my new Maserati. Let me get high as fuck so I can actually force a smile at this awards ceremony.

I always like to compare fame to Penny Howard, the pretty blonde in high school that was too good to give me the time of day. It was the idea of her that got me. The idea of what it would be like to kiss her that drove me fucking wild. God, I spent a year chasing her, writing songs for her, and when I finally won her over, when it was finally just me and her, well, I realized she was shallow as shit and had a soul as black as Satan’s. Sometimes it’s the idea of something that makes it seem worthwhile. The idea is fun, the actual possession of it–not so much.

The idea of fame makes you believe your life will be filled with all these things and people– I glance around. Things, sure. I’ve got tons of things, but people… when you’ve been tainted be fame the majority of people you run into only want to use you, so you find yourself on your multi-million-dollar home’s pool deck, alone with a bottle of liquor.

I have to laugh to myself, because this sucks. They should hand you a disclaimer along with your record contract: Fame giveth and fame taketh away.

I take another swig of whisky before I push up from the chair and make my way across the deck to the iron gate that separates my house from the sandy dunes of the beach. The hinges creak when I push it open, and the warm sand forms under my bare feet. I inhale a deep breath, throwing my head back to glance up at the stars for a second.

I take it all in: the dark sky. The crashing waves. This is why I bought that empty fucking house, because I knew I’d need some form of peace on all these restless nights. I’d need something to help me feel grounded when it all started to wear on me. I’d need somewhere when I came back from being on tour still riding the ridiculous high only to plummet into some sick depression… I need this right here, because when I get to the point that I just want it all to stop, the ocean reminds me I’m really nothing in the grand scheme of things, that I’m only on borrowed time, and that everything ends at some point.

This shitshow will end at some point.

I drop my chin back to my chest before I take another drink and start off through the sand.

I hear laughter, squeals, then I see a flashlight bouncing over the gritty sand. A group of teenagers go sprinting past, two guys chasing two girls. They don’t even pay attention to me. Out here, in this veil of darkness, I am just another lonely wanderer on the beach. I can be everything I once was that I never appreciated, never wanted: normal.

I probably walk half a mile, turning the bottle up every few steps. Finally, I come to several wooden loungers left on someone’s private beach, and I flop down on one. I lie here and I just breathe. The whisky is really setting in and that numb bliss is tingling down to my fingertips. The sound of the ocean threatens to swallow me whole. I close my eyes, and just when I feel the tension let up, I hear an aggravated groan. There’s the creak of a gate. The hallow thud of angry footsteps over the sand.

“Great.”

I freeze when I hear her voice. You have to be fucking kidding me.

I hold my breath, and then I feel a kick to the back of the chair, and I panic for a second. “Who are you?” Phoenix says. Another thud on the back of the chair, this time so hard I drop my bottle of whisky in the sand. “This is a private beach…”

“I uh…” Shit, I just want to get up and drunkenly stagger-run sideways away from here. “I just–”

“Stone…Steele?”

Like there’s another fucker named Stone out on this beach. “Yeah,” I grumble.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“Well, I was resting until you kicked the back of the chair. Fucking rude by the way.”

She steps beside the chair, my line of vision immediately landing on the worn Sons of Rage shirt she’s wearing. The wind catches the shirt, pulling it snug across her chest, and I can definitely see hard nipples. Shit.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

She glances down at the sand and rubs a hand over her arm. “I was just...” she sighs. “Honestly, I don’t know.”

There’s just enough light from the moon that I can see the tears in her eyes, the streaks of mascara down her cheeks. So, I lean over, grab the bottle of whisky, and hand it to her. “Here.”

“I’m already shit-faced,” she says, but takes the bottle anyway. She pulls the top off and turns it up before plopping down on the chair next to me. That’s when I see the handprint on her arm. My eyes lock in on it like a honing beacon and she quickly covers it with the bottle. “It’s…” she trails off on a sigh, “a complicated story.”

I’m not exactly sure what to do here. She’s been nothing but a raging bitch so far, but everyone has their vulnerabilities, don’t they? “You okay?” I ask.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” She huffs. The liquid sloshes around in the bottle when she lifts it to her lips again and chugs.

“Sorry…” I rub my hand over the back of my head, my eyes drifting back to the handprint. There’s an awkward silence swirling between us like a damn riptide. She knows I saw. I know I saw. “Look,” I sigh, “want me to go beat his ass?”

“No.”

I shrug. “I don’t mind. ‘Cause that shit’s not okay.” My heart pounds in my chest as I cut my gaze back toward the house she came from. All I can think about is being a little kid and listening to my dad beat my mom. It’s a weak piece of shit that will hit a woman, and I swear to god… “Really, let me take a swing at him.” I push up and she grabs my hand, yanking me back down.

“No. Thank you, but I promise, it’s not what it looks like. At all. I’m not some little princess that needs saving.”

I glare at the house before glancing back at her. Without thinking about it, I reach up and wipe some of the mascara from her cheek.

Her eyes cut down to the bottle in her lap and she picks at the label. “Didn’t expect anyone to be out here.” She laughs. “Especially not you.”

“Yeah, shit happens, huh?” I grab the bottle from her, take a swig, then pass it back.

We sit in the silence for a moment, the crashing waves the only sound. After a few minutes, I lightly touch her shoulder. “Hey, you sure you’re okay?

“Yes, stop asking.” She rolls her eyes. “Act like a rock star or some shit, why don’t you? Grab your nuts and shake them around. I don’t know, just … stop being nice.”

“I don’t jiggle my goods.”

“Uh-huh.” She takes a breath. “So, is this actually you?”

“I mean, I’m me,” I say. I can’t stop glancing at that handprint. “Whose house is that?” I ask, thumbing back to the house behind us.

“Harvey’s.”

“Jimmy’s son?”

“Yeah.”

Of course it is. That guy’s a punk. A cocky little shit–

“Don’t do that,” she says.

“Do what?”

“That!” She points at my face.

“What did I do?”

“I saw what you were thinking.”

“You saw what I was thinking. Wow,” I snort. “You’re fucking magic.”

“I know that look,” she says.

“Well, I wasn’t thinking any-fucking-thing.”

“Yeah you were.”

“I mean, I was thinking Harvey Rage is a pretty big fucking dick, but…”

She laughs. “No more of a dick than your brother. And I’m sure no more of an ass than you can be…”

There’s a pause. The wind catches her dark hair, blowing it across her face, and damn, she really is pretty when she’s sad. Fucked up, I know. “You don’t even fucking know me,” I say.

“I know enough.” She smiles and falls against the back of the chair before passing the bottle to me.

“Really?”

“You go through women like you have the shits and they’re a roll of toilet paper.”

“Wow, you’re so eloquent…”

“And let’s not even get into the lists of fuck buddies, one night stands, groupies,” she ticks each group off on her fingers.

“Okay, and what about the fact that you’re hunching up on fucking Harvey Rage–”

“Uh, I am not hunching–Jesus, you are immature, you realize that– Harvey.”

I laugh as I tug at the hem of the shirt, my knuckles barely grazing her warm, smooth thigh exposed by her short shorts. “So just getting to know him, huh?”

“Look, I’ve known Harvey since I was a kid.”

I throw my hands up in surrender. “Sorry.” I hand the bottle back to her.

She takes a drink, laughing around the rim. I can’t help but notice her lips. Full and pink and I bet soft as shit… She glances at me, a sexy smirk working over her lips. “You’re alright you know it?”

“Thanks, I guess.”

She tosses her head back on the chair. “So, Stone Steele, since you say I don’t know you, tell me, who are you?”

“Oh god, are we getting all philosophical?”

“I mean, do you even know?”

“I’m just a guy.”

She snorts.

“What?” I glance at her and she has her eyes glued to the dark sky. “What do you want me to say?”

“I don’t know. Prove me wrong or something.”

“About…”

“Life. Fame. Humanity… that not everyone is out to use and abuse you.” She drags a hand through her hair. “I’m sorry, I’m just…I don’t know. I guess I’m just angry. And drunk.” She huffs. “I’m not really a bitch. I just– it’s easiest that way, you know? Be completely abrasive and no one will fuck with you. No one will use you.”

“That’s a shitty outlook on life.”

“Yeah, well, trust me, it took me a while to figure out most people are only out for themselves. Surely you understand that?” she says. “I’m sure you guys get used left and right.”

“I just ignore it.”

“Ignore it?” she asks, sitting up in the chair. “You just,” she tosses her hands up, “ignore it?”

“What else am I gonna do? It is what it is, you know? You become famous, you have something other people want—you get used.”

She stares at me for a minute. “Sucks.”

“Yep, and you know this, so why are you pursuing a career in it?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’ll get tired of it.” I laugh. “I feel like an unappreciative piece of shit for saying I get tired of it, but fuck, I do. You’re told you’re supposed to be one way then another until you don’t even know who the hell you’re supposed to be.”

“Yep…” she drops the now empty whisky bottle to the sand and groans.

I glance back at the house she came from before I grab her hand and pull her to her feet. “Come on,” I say.

“I’m sorry?” She narrows her eyes at me.

“Come on. You don’t wanna go back there. You’re shitfaced… So, come on.”

“See, you are the rocker in shining armor?”

I laugh. “Nah, I just like the idea of saying I got to take a girl away from Harvey Rage’s house.”

She swats at me, and I shove her. “You’re an ass,” she says.

“Yeah, I know. You’ve told me.”

We walk down the beach, her arm looped through mine and when we come to the gate of my house, she stops. I push the gate open, letting her walk in front of me. My eyes fall to her ass that’s peeking out from her shorts. “Don’t get any ideas,” she says.

“You sure think pretty highly of yourself.” Walking around the edge of the pool, I move in front of her.

“Who said it’s thinking highly of myself? Maybe I just think very little of you.” She snickers, and I turn around. She stops dead in her tracks, a smirk working over her lips.

“You do realize I’m being nice to you…” I grab the handle to the sliding glass door and push it open.

“You are. I’m sorry.”

I walk to the sofa and flop down. “Want some water?”

She doesn’t respond, so I turn and glance over my shoulder. Phoenix is standing in front of my fireplace staring at a picture. “Is that your mom?”

“Yep.”

“She’s pretty.”

“Thanks, she’s an awesome lady.”

She stumbles toward the couch and falls onto it. She huffs, swatting hair away from her face. “Why are you nice and your brother’s such a dick?”

“I don’t know. He’s just… Jag. My mom said he’s been an asshole since the day he was born.”

“So, you talk to your mom and shit?”

“Yeah, I talk to my mom…” I laugh.

“Look, I’m drunk and I get nosey when I’m drunk. You invited me here, so this is really your fault.”

“I see.” I’m buzzed, she’s shitfaced. And I’m not going to lie, it’s highly entertaining. She has this confused, drunk stare thing going on.

“My mom’s a bitch,” she blurts.

“Sure she’d love to hear you say that.”

She shrugs. “I’ve told her. She knows. I don’t know why Henry’s still married to her.”

“Maybe he loves her?”

“You’re the least rock star-ish rock star I’ve ever met.” She places her hand on my chest and leans in close to my face. “Almost makes me want to like you,” she whispers, her warm breath blowing across my neck.

“Well, where would the fun in that be?” I slowly place my hand on the dip of her waist. She closes her eyes and my gaze falls to her plump bottom lip, watching as she rakes her teeth over it.

“It would be bad,” she says.

My hand slowly wanders along her back to her neck. I fist her hair and tug her down to me, cupping the back of her head in my palm. “Bad’s good.” The tensions crackling thick between us. I shouldn’t be touching her because I know better. This is volatile on numerous levels and she’s vulnerable, but goddamn it she’s right here, and I just want to know how soft her lips are. I want to remember what something innocent feels like, so I inch my mouth toward hers and gently kiss her. Two seconds after my lips touch hers, she backing away, her chest heaving.

“Bedroom?” she gasps.

I stare at her, and she shakes her head. “No…like a guest room, not to…”

“I’ve got six spare bedrooms,” I point toward the stairwell, “take your pick.”

“Thanks,” she says, backing across the room toward the stairs, “and, uh, sorry about that. I just, uh…. Yeah, but you have nice lips.” Nodding, she turns around and heads up the steps.

I toss my head back against the cushions and drag my hand down my face.

I fucking want her… not to fuck, just to kiss.

And that’s dangerous.