hands pulling at her hair. She returned it with her own fire, her teeth and lips ravaging me. We tore into each other, anger and lust and jealousy and pent-up animal need driving us.
I panted. Out of control. “Spread your legs, V.”
She did, and I propped one of her legs up on a box of beer as I slipped a finger in her underwear and skimmed across her pussy. All the blood in my body went straight to my cock. “You’re so wet for me. I need you—right now. This is all I can think about. You. Me. Fucking.”
She stopped unbuttoning my shirt and shoved at me.
I stumbled back. What?
“That’s what this is to you, isn’t it? I’m just another girl. In fact, this probably isn’t the first time you’ve had sex in a refrigerator,” she yelled at me as she yanked down her skirt. “You saw me with Mark, and you just had to come over and put your mark on me—no pun intended.” She pointed at the wet spot on her shirt.
“No, it wasn’t like that.” It was. “Shit, V, it feels like we aren’t even friends anymore.” I tugged at my hair. “I’m sorry, it was my fault at the canyon. I couldn’t say no to you, and now I want you again. You looked so good and—”
“Just stop. I told you I wouldn’t regret it, and I don’t. It was the best sex I’ve ever had, okay. Is that what you want to hear?”
Hell yeah.
She continued. “But—but I need to protect myself. You have the power to hurt me, Sebastian. We’re friends and nothing else from now on.”
Fuck. I scrubbed my face. What was I doing? If I couldn’t love her, then at least I could leave her alone.
With my heart hurting, I nodded. “Fine. Are you free tomorrow to go to the studio and work on the set list for the gala? You are still playing with us, right?” I just needed her near me.
She straightened her hair and clothes. “But first, we’re going to walk out of here like we didn’t just nearly have sex on a box of Bud Light.”
“In the end I’m here to tell you that I love comets and fairy dust too much to let life pass me by.”
—from the journal of Violet St. Lyons
THE NEXT WEEK, I spent time in the studio with Sebastian and Spider working on the song I was going to play with them at the gala. He’d chosen his breakout hit “Superman”, only he’d slowed it down so I could open the number before Spider’s guitar riff kicked in. It made me jittery and queasy to sit there and work with two seasoned musicians critiquing me, but it wasn’t enough to send me into a blind panic.
The air was charged between us, though, with stolen glances and brushes of our skin. I did my best to give him plenty of leeway and not be alone with him. Like a rubberband that’s about to snap, the tension threatened to drive me insane.
Just yesterday in the studio, I’d been leaning over the music stand to find my notes and when I raised back up, he’d been hovering over me, the strangest expression on his face.
I’d tugged down my short skirt—thanks to Mila. “Are you trying to look up my skirt?”
“No,” he’d said and straightened back up, hands raised. “I swear there was something in your hair and—”
“Sniffing my hair?”
“Fuck no.”
“Then back up, please.” And I’d shooed him back a few inches.
He’d smirked and grumbled something about picky artists needing their space for their big heads. I’d laughed.
Even though the tension between us was electric, our playing was incredible. His husky singing voice held secrets, and I got lost in the sound we made, my soul clicking with something in his.
Hadn’t it always been that way with us?
My head kept going back to the stolen moment in the walk-in cooler at Rio.
He’d been erratic and crazy and slightly deranged. The truth was I had gotten under his skin and my gut knew it terrified him.
Now here it was Friday already, and I sat next to the pool, working on the guest list for the gala. Mrs. Smythe and I had met or spoken on the phone frequently, nailing down the details. Counting the kids and attendees, over three hundred people would be in attendance at the black tie affair at the Beverly Wilshire Hotel. A formal event, each attendee would pay two thousand dollars a plate. Thank goodness,