I’m standing outside Lindsey’s door the night after I fucked with her ex at the grocery store. My hand is raised to knock on the door and I’m trying really hard to tell myself it’s just because I’m bored, that messing with her is one of the few things I’ve enjoyed since I came out here. Every time I try to pass that lie off on myself, my bastard brain throws the memory back at me of how tight her little ass felt and how small and fragile she felt with my arm around her. My cock—also a bastard—stirs at the memory.

I adjust my jeans in annoyance and knock on the door, wincing as I do. I meant what I said to her before I left. I ruin people. Not just the women I've fucked but the people who make the mistake of calling me a friend. Not to mention the people unlucky enough to call me family. I'm not proud of it. I don't set out to do it, either. All I know is when I look at my past, it's littered with people who probably regret knowing me.

I don’t leave anything good behind in my wake. Most people are superficial. They see my money, recognize my name and my face, and they’ll do anything for fifteen minutes of my attention. Even before I was rich and famous, women would let me get away with just about anything. I could treat them like absolute garbage and they’d still keep coming back. I enjoyed it at first, but all I can think of now is how empty it feels to know that it doesn’t matter to anyone if you’re a royal asshole or the coolest fucking guy on the planet.

Boo hoo, though, right? Poor me and my life that most people would kill for. It’s a one-man pity party that I know no one would come to, but not many people have lived it. I doubt anyone would pass up the life I’ve had, no matter how hard I’d try to convince them. Most people would love it for a few weeks, maybe even a few months. It doesn’t take long for sex to become meaningless. For the women to become just another face in the crowd. Even having money to buy anything you want becomes tedious. Then you ask yourself the real question: What now?

Because what else is there when you have it all? What is there when you lose the things you didn’t realize you wanted. When all you’re left with is a pile of glittering, golden shit that you would like nothing more than to burn down if it’d just give you the chance to go back and do it differently.

I've apparently been on my own too long and had way too fucking long to think about everything, which is another reason I'm distracting myself with my psycho fan neighbor.

I knock again when no one answers after a few minutes. The door swings open almost immediately.

Lindsey has her curly hair pulled up into a ponytail and she’s wearing a white t-shirt with no bra as far as I can tell and pajama bottoms.

My eyes wander down to her tits, which I had little-to-no interest in until touching her in the grocery store flipped a switch inside me. I don’t bother to hide my interest, and she responds by crossing her arms over her chest and glaring until I look back up into her eyes.

“What?” she asks. “Run out of flour or something? Or did you just forget something mean you were going to say to me?”

“Sugar,” I say, holding back a grin.

“What?” she asks, clearly at the edge of her patience but still curious enough not to slam the door in my face.

“I need a little sugar,” I say, grinning.

“Oh my God,” she says, slamming the door.

I catch it with my hand before it closes, leaning in. “Seriously,” I say. “I thought about it, and you did go to all the trouble of finding my address like a stalker. The least I can do is fuck you for your trouble.”

She screws up her face with the effort of pushing the door shut, but I don’t budge.

“Is that a no?” I ask.

She finally stops trying to slam the door and breathes out a long, shuddering breath that’s laced with anger. “I don’t know what this is to you,” she says, waving her finger between the two of us. “Some kind of sick game bored superstars play, or maybe it’s that you’re sad and lonely and it feels better to act like an asshole than it does to face your problems. Whatever it is, you can go back to your shithole cabin and deal with it yourself. Leave me out of it.”

I plug the door with my foot so I can lean in the doorway and take in the sight of her and her adorably perky nipples. She’d probably be mortified to realize she’s forgetting to cover herself. “Careful,” I say softly.

“Or what?” she snaps.

“Or you’re going to go from uninteresting to interesting, and I just might have to make sure I get a taste of what you’re hiding under those pajama bottoms.”

She looks down, notices her hard nipples and covers them again, which gives me the chance to push into her house and close the door behind me. I recognize the look on her face as she stands there wide-eyed and open-mouthed, utterly speechless.

“I’ve seen that look,” I say. “You’re scared, but not in the kind of way that makes you want to run. It’s the kind of scared you feel on a roller coaster when it’s climbing toward that first drop, click by agonizing click. You realize you’re already strapped in and there’s no turning back. Your fate is sealed, and you’re about to be in for the ride of your life. It terrifies you, but you couldn’t be more fucking excited.”

She shakes her head but loses room to back away from me when she bumps into the wall behind her. Her voice is quiet and breathless. "No. I'm just scared because a big ass guy is inside my house."

"You're feeling your body rebel against your mind," I explain, pressing two fingers to the tender skin of her neck just below her jaw where her pulse thumps against me like rabbit's feet. "Elevated pulse. Body temperature is increasing. I'll take credit for the hard nipples, too. Don't fight it, Lindsey." I let my fingers run down the length of her neck, and her eyes follow them, body still rigid and stiff but melting into something more warm and pliable with every passing second.

I’m falling into it too easily, the old habits, the old web I’ve weaved so many times. I’m almost disappointed to see Lindsey falling into it so easily. Even as my own body goes through the practiced motions of undoing her resistance and washing away all the logical reasons screaming at her to stay away. Part of what she said keeps echoing in my mind. It feels better to act like an asshole than it does to face your problems.

When I look back on my time since I came here and even before that, I can’t help seeing more truth than I’d like to admit in her words. She doesn’t know the half of it. Not even close.

I bring my thumb to her lip and rub it down, actually feeling my cock stir at the touch of her velvety skin.

“Stop,” she whispers.

I don’t realize what she said at first, and my hand slides behind the back of her neck, fingers threading through her hair.

"Stop!" she says more forcefully, taking my wrist and pushing me away. She holds her hands up to her ears, shoulders bunched in tight and eyes closed as she shakes her head. "Just stop."

I take a step back, slightly stung by her refusal. It’s sad to admit, maybe, but it’s not something I’ve had a lot of practice dealing with. Maybe it’s part of my facade—I make sure to do all I can to push people away so I won’t be surprised when they leave, so why does it sting that she’s doing exactly that? Because you thought you could turn on the charm for two minutes and make her forget.

“Your loss,” I say. It’s a sad attempt to cover how badly I really want to feel her under me. Fuck. It’s not like it was in the past. I don’t want to fuck her and walk away. I want the warmth of her skin against mine. I want to wrestle the fight out of her, bending that fiery personality into submission until she is mine and mine alone. Mine to keep.

I turn my back on her, walking away with a sour twisting in my stomach. I’m letting her get in too deep. I need to find a groupie to fuck these feelings out of my system or something, because there’s no other explanation for how deeply Lindsey is burrowing into my thoughts. She’s playing the game by different rules than I’m used to.

Normally I know how it ends. My cock gets wet, she gets an experience she’ll never forget, and then she gets a one-way ticket out of my life. This time, I don’t know how it ends. Hell, I don’t even know if it’s started yet. All I know is the rules are new, and for the first time in months, I feel alive, even if it’s just a little.

All my good cheer sinks away when I check the text on my phone from Alec.

Alec (8:33 p.m.): Publisher has a proposal. You’re not going to like it, but we need to talk about it. Call me.