I check to make sure the door is locked.

Can I really do this? Can I really masturbate for Tom's listening pleasure?

Self-consciousness threatens to overwhelm me.

"You there, kid?" His voice is heavy, breathy.

It encourages me. I need his groans and sighs in my ears. I need him as desperate and wanting as I am. "Yeah."

"Don't tell me you lost your nerve."

"No. I want to. Are you alone?"

"I can be. Hold on a minute." His side of the call goes mute. A few moments later, he's back. "Done."

"I've never used a vibrator before."

"You want me to walk you through it?"

"Okay. Let me get it out."

The vibrator is about six inches long and a little less wide than a... uh... Can I really do this?

"You okay, kid?"

I nod. But he can't see that. "A little intimidated."

"It's hot as hell that you're willing to admit it. Put the phone next to your mouth so I can hear you groaning."

Oh, God, the way he says that, like my groans are his favorite song. I'm already flushed and wanting. I set the phone on the bed, near my ear.

"Take off your t-shirt," he commands.

I pull my top over my head. There's something intimate about doing what he asks.

"You wearing a bra?"

"Yeah. You want a picture?" I offer.

Tom groans. "God yes, but we don't have time." His breath gets heavy. "Tease yourself. Run your fingers over the edge of your bra. Do it lightly, slowly, like I did with your tank top yesterday."

My eyelids flutter closed as I run my fingertips over the edge of my demi-cup. It's a little awkward at first, but Tom's heavy exhales spur me on. I move slowly.

Yes. Pleasure spreads out from my fingertips, over my chest. It's a start. A tease. I need more. "Tom," I groan.

"Take off the bra."

I fling it to the other side of the room. "Done."

He lets out a soft groan. "Rub your thumbs over your nipples."

I'm not nearly as exact as Tom was. It takes a few tries to find a speed and pressure that makes my sex clench.

I groan.

"Whatever that was, do it again."

The pleasure in his voice does something to me. I play with my nipples until I'm moaning loudly enough to wake up one of the guys.

"Take off your jeans," he says.

I unzip my pants, pull them off my legs, and toss them to the floor. "Done."

"Are you wearing panties?"

"Yeah. Normal cotton ones. They're not very sexy."

"My hard-on disagrees."

"Don't you have another two weeks until you can masturbate?"

"Yeah." His groan is half agony, half ecstasy. "This is more than worth the blue balls." He takes a deep breath. "Grab the vibrator. The settings are on the white handle, in the shape of a heart. Press and hold the one on the bottom to turn it on."

The settings are in the shape of a heart. There's something sweet about that. I remind myself that it doesn't necessarily mean anything, that Tom explicitly backed away from making this relationship anything, even friends with benefits.

Tom takes me through the controls until I'm at the lowest setting of constant vibration.

"Try it over your panties," he says. "It'll be intense."

I test the toy against my inner thigh. It's similar to my phone's vibrate setting only a hell of a lot stronger. Slowly, I spread my legs, working the toy to my sex.

That is intense. I gasp.

Tom continues. "Play with it until you find the spot that feels best. That makes your whole body seize up with pleasure."

I shift my wrist, my hips, my pelvis. There. That's it. Wave after wave of pleasure spreads through me. It's intense, fast. My sex clenches, already close to an orgasm.

God, how I want Tom here with me, coming with me. God, how I want Tom. This isn't enough. Nothing is going to be enough until he's mine.

I let myself imagine him here, his hands around the toy, his body next to mine, his lips on my neck. A groan escapes my lips. Yes. There. Almost.

His breath is heavy, desperate. He needs this as badly as I do. It pushes me to the edge.

Pleasure wells up inside me. This thing is damn strong.

Then he groans, and I can't take it anymore. I hold nothing back, moaning and panting as an orgasm overtakes me. Pleasure spills out from my core. I come in spasms.

When I can't take it anymore, I turn off the toy and collapse into the bed. Tom's breath flows through the receiver. It's steady and needy at once.

"That was amazing."

"Thanks."

"You okay?"

"Better than okay."

His line is silent for a moment. "Shit. We're about to board."

"Will you text me when you get in?"

He hesitates. "Sure."

"Tom, I..."

"I gotta go, kid. Sweet dreams."

"You too."

* * *

For the next few days, Tom and I text about nothing and everything. Those little details that make up the day. Running out of eggs in the middle of making breakfast. My attempts at trimming my bangs. A picture of a particularly decadent iced coffee/chocolate cupcake combination. He sends pictures from his morning runs. Play by plays of his mom and Pete's commentary as they watch trashy reality TV. Requests for movie picks that will please his mom.

Then it's the concert, and Tom is barely here.

The next few days, our texts about nothing spread thinner. Thinner.

The next concert, I don't even get a chance to say hello.

I try to give Tom space to deal with whatever it is that's keeping him away. It's good for me to focus on my work. When I'm not assisting Hazel on one of her passion projects, I'm researching opening a boudoir studio. I'm still too shy to ask a model to pose for me but I'm not willing to wait any longer to practice.

So I take self-portraits.

Completely mortifying self-portraits I'm never going to show anyone.

Except that I want to show Tom. I resist for days. I throw myself into work. Until I'm alone in my hotel room, well past midnight, unable to sleep because my thoughts are stuck on him.

I have to call.

"Hey, kid," he answers. "You ring me up this time of night, I'm going to think it's a booty call."

I laugh. Everything feels easier with his voice in my ears. I've missed him. "How have you been?"

"Two flights every four days. Living the dream." His voice drops. "You haven't asked why I've been away."

"Last time I asked, you said you'd tell me later."

"You trust me?"

"Yeah." I really do. "Whenever you decide you want to talk about it, I'm here to listen."

"Do I get to listen?" he asks.

Oh. Yes please. "You don't have to bribe me with emotional confessions. I... I liked doing that with you." My cheeks flush. "We're in a hotel today. I'm alone."

"Fuck yes." He lets out a sigh of pleasure. "We should talk first. I'll be incoherent after."

"How are you so comfortable with yourself?" I ask. "I don't think I could ever say anything like that."

"Practice. Try it."

"What specifically?"

"Tell me how you'll feel after you come."

God, I'm burning up. "Um..."

"Anything. Even a single word."

"Good."

His laugh is sweet. "Anything else?"

"Like I wish you were here."

The sound that comes out of the speakers is a lot less sweet. It's a heavy, needy sigh.

I like that. A lot. It's enough to convince me to try this potentially embarrassing honesty thing again. "Like I can't wait until I can hear you come."

"And?"

"Like I want you inside of me."

Tom let's out an anguished groan. "You're a fast learner."

According to the mirror, I'm as red as a tomato. But he doesn't have to know that. I keep my voice confident. "Thanks."

"Better get on task, or I'll be incoherent a lot faster."

"I did another boudoir set."

"Without me?" He teases.

"They're self-portraits."

"Fuck. Show me when I'm back. Not sure I trust myself if I have them on my phone. Still have two days until I'm cleared for action."

He can't trust himself not to masturbate if he has sexy photos of me? God damn, I'm on fire. I better change the subject or I'll be the incoherent one.

"Where are you?" I ask.

"Home. My mom lives in the same house she did when she first fostered me. I have the same Nirvana and Blink 182 posters on my walls."

"Tell me about your room," I say. "I want to imagine you there."

His voice is light. "House is a three bedrooms. Nice, comfortable suburban place. My room is upstairs. It's small. Twin bed, plain black sheets and black comforter. Sad little desk I never used 'cause I barely did my homework. Walls are nothing but posters. A few other bands, then all the great George A. Romero flicks."

"Who?"

"Dawn of the Dead! The original. It's a commentary on commercial culture. The zombies flock to the mall because they're drawn to it."

"Zombies? It's a horror movie?"

"Technically. But you'd like it. A lot less scary than Let The Right One In."

"Maybe. I get freaked out pretty easily. I mostly watch more upbeat classics. Roman Holiday is my favorite." I lie back on my bed. "When will you be back for good?"

"After Kara and Meg's graduation. Tried to rearrange our tour dates so we wouldn't be flying nonstop, but Mom threatened to change the locks if we canceled a show to see her."

"Your mom sounds badass."

"She is."

"It must be scary... whatever it is she's going through."

"Yeah."

He wants to tell me. I can hear it in his voice. He just needs a push.

I take a deep breath. "What is she going through?"

His voice softens. "She had cancer when I was in high school. Breast cancer. It might be back. She found a lump last month."

I don't breathe.

"I didn't handle it well then. I want to be better this time. Be strong for her."

"Are you scared?"

"Yeah. Trying not to get ahead of myself. It might be nothing. So far, test results are inconclusive."

"I'm sorry." I don't know what else to say. God, I wish he was here so I could wrap my arms around him, do something to comfort him properly. "Is there anything I can do?"

"No. I'm about to drop. How about a rain check on the phone sex?"

"Yeah. Sure. I miss you." I bite my lip. I hope that doesn't scare him off.

"I miss you too, kid. Whatever happens..." His voice trails off.

"What could happen?"

"Never mind. I'll see you soon."

* * *

The tone of Tom's voice haunts me all day.

I get to the concert venue an hour before he's due on the off chance he'll be early enough that we can talk. Or at least that I can comfort him the way he comforted me.

Sitting does nothing to help with the nerves in my stomach. I pace instead. The security guard invites me backstage twenty times. Eventually, I see the light in being inside, and I accept his offer.

There are a few roadies setting up. I wander the tiny backstage area in hopes of finding a proper distraction.

My phone buzzes. I almost jump. It's from Tom. He's on his way.

The airport is only fifteen minutes from the venue.

I spend all fifteen of those minutes pacing. Then another ten.

Finally, the back door pushes open. There are voices. Pete. And Tom. They're laughing about something. God, it's nice to hear his laugh.

But when Tom looks at me, his expression darkens.

Pete clears his throat. "I have to make a call."

Tom looks at his brother. "You don't have to—"

"Yes, I do. Drew and Miles will be here in twenty." Pete nods goodbye and makes his way outside.

We're behind the stage, behind the curtain. Everything around us is black. The walls, the ceiling, the tile floors, the mood.

"Willow, I..." Tom runs his hand through his hair. "I've been thinking a lot. Like we said."

My stomach clenches. There's no way this ends with and I realized I'm in love with you. Let's make this official.

"I care about you. A lot. Too much to keep doing this." He holds my gaze, even as his eyes cloud with regret. "I'm sorry if I was leading you on. Wasn't my intention."

"But I..."

He looks away. "It's better if we stick with being friends."

God, did he have to do this before a show? I have to spend the next few hours watching him drip with sex appeal.

At least I haven't eaten since lunch. Nothing to throw up.

He stares at the floor. "Tomorrow is the end of my six weeks, and Miles is making a big deal about taking me out, making sure I break my celibacy."

No. He's not saying these words. No. I take a step backwards. Another.

I hit the wall. "You're calling this off to fuck a stranger?"

"No, kid. That's not—"

"Don't call me that."

"This is going to hurt more if we have sex," he says. "This is what's best for you. For both of us."

"Fuck you. If this is what you want, fine, but I decide what's best for me."

"Willow."

"Why are you running away from this?" I ask. "Tell me. Please. If it's me, if you don't want someone like me, I understand."

"It's not you."

"Then what is it?"

He says nothing.

"Okay. Fine. I understand." I swallow hard. Anything to keep from crying. "Good luck at the show. Hope you enjoy fucking some random woman tomorrow. Hope it's really special."

"I'm not going to—"

"No. Do. I want you to enjoy your fucking piercing. We're nothing. You're a free agent. Free to fuck anybody you want."

I turn and rush to the women's bathroom. He says something, but it's not You're right. I'm an idiot for running away from this. Let me press you against the wall and make it up to you. In fact, I'm going to skip the show. What does a rock song need drums for, anyway? I'd much rather bang you.