I don’t want to ruin my progress. I don’t want to work and start all over. I don’t want to be with anyone but Anna.
I dig my hands in harder.
Under Father’s eye, I know I will work, because I don’t want to die. Not on his terms. Not for this. Dying at Anna’s side is different.
A voice in my head whispers . . . Kope would refuse . . . and that thought infuriates me.
How the fuck is he so perfect? Why am I so weak? The absolute worst part of this—the bit I don’t care to admit—is that a small part of me is rejoicing at what awaits.
The scents. The softness. The sounds . . .
My heart races and the beast raises its lazy head after a long hibernation.
It’s not in my power to end this curse. I hate myself.
Michael, Bennett, and Raj are so loud on the jet, so hyper, the pilot has to ask them to keep it down. We’ve killed the chilled bottle of champagne and moved on to beer Father supplied us. I keep a steady buzz and laugh at their antics, but I don’t say much. I’m resigned to my fate. That momentary guilty excitement I felt after Father called has long since diminished, replaced by a sense of numbness. I know what awaits.
Once the party gets rolling, there will be no boundaries. No modesties. No privacy. No saying no. By tomorrow morning my bandmates will have seen things they can’t unsee. They’ll have done things they can’t undo. This will not be like the parties they are used to.
When we arrive in New York City, a limo is there to meet us. Full rock-star treatment.
Acid is churning through me by the time we arrive at the building of Pristine’s penthouse suite. The guys completely geek out the entire way up.
“Are the models going to be walking around naked and shit?” Raj asks.
“Possibly. Or nearly.”
He and Bennett high-five while Michael rubs his chin, grinning.
“Seriously, man,” Bennett says to me. “How easy will it be to score?”
I shrug. “Depends. Loads of rich men show at these things. It helps that you’re in the band, but you’ve got to calm the fuck down.”
All three of them stand taller, taking deep breaths, schooling their faces like cool cats. Better.
The lift opens and spills us into the sounds of laughter and tinkling glass. Women are walking about in those German Oktoberfest getups with tiny hats, loads of skin on show. The doorman looks us up and down and says, “Ah, the band. This way, please.” He leads us around a corner to the larger room with chandeliers sparkling above a raised platform. Our instruments are set up and ready. Through the crowd of suits steps Father in a navy designer suit, with four gorgeous females at his heels. They’re all wearing indulgent smiles and tiny black skirts with string bikini tops, covered in different-colored gems for the fall.
“Bad. Ass,” Raj whispers as they approach.
Father comes straight to me, an award-winning smile on his face, and takes me by the hand, pulling me in to clap a hand on my back. His affection is all for show, but it’s convincing. His hand grips my shoulder.
“I’ve been bragging on you to our Harvest Girls here,” he says, turning to wave a hand at the four models. “They didn’t believe I had such a handsome and talented son.”
I grin, but not too big—more like a smirk. The girls look me up and down, taking in my black jeans, boots, and gunmetal-gray fitted shirt.
“God, he’s practically your mini-me,” says the girl with dark red hair and brown-tinted jewels.
“A little Richie?” says the platinum blonde with burgundy gems. She steps closer to me. “I wonder how much of you is like your daddy?” Her pink tongue touches the corner of her shining red lips.
“You’ll just have to see for yourselves, luvs,” Father says. The girls laugh, gazing up in adoration and touching him with open intimacy—they’ve all clearly been with him. Now they’re looking to me. My soul sinks, but my body stands tall.
I catch the eyes of my mates, ogling for all they’re worth. I clear my throat.
“This is Raj, our bass; Michael, our lead singer; and Bennett, keyboardist.”
Father shakes their hands and introduces the girls.
“We’ve got one of every fall flavor,” he says. “Catherine was our September girl.” He points to the blonde in burgundy. “Emily did October.” The redhead in brown tones smiles. “For November we’ve got both Fátima .