Spider

“He’s my stepbrother,” she murmurs.

Trenton waves her off with a grin. “You know what I mean, sweetie.” He palms her lower back, just skirting her ass, and kisses her again, this time on the lips. Shit, am I supposed to leave? Walk away?

I can’t.

It’s like a train wreck you can’t help but watch even though you’re standing right there on the fucking tracks, knowing it’s going to kill you.

“Someone’s been drinking tequila,” he murmurs, laughing under his breath as he curls an arm around her waist. “I know what that means. You feel like getting out of here and going back to your place sooner rather than later?”

A ghost of a smile appears on her lips. “We have clubbing plans.”

He leans in to smell her neck. “You smell so fucking good.”

I recall her smell, honey and vanilla. I feel my teeth grinding, but still I can’t do the gentlemanly thing and leave. Instead, I clench my fists, a muscle popping in my jaw.

Trenton eases back and sends me a sly look. “Sorry for the PDA. I haven’t seen her much this week . . .” he rambles, something about an important job and how he hated to miss her birthday celebration so he tore himself away to see her . . . blah, blah, blah.

I’m not listening. I’m watching her.

She stands in the circle of his arms, and we stare at each other.

It’s as if Trenton doesn’t exist and we’re silently having our own conversation.

She appears cool, like a fucking mannequin in a department store, but I know it’s a lie when I see the telltale pulse in her neck, the way it throbs furiously against her creamy skin.

She breaks eye contact with me to smile up at Trenton and I exhale, feeling angry. Look at me! I want to say.

Fuck.

Four years is a long time. A lot of things can happen—the Olympics, the World Cup, an entire presidential term.

Hell, anything can happen.

Maybe she’s completely over me.

I’m not over her.

“Hey, Oscar and some friends are upstairs,” Trenton says, his words penetrating my brain and bringing me out of my fog. “You wanna join us?” He’s looking at me.

“I can’t, gotta rest up.” I palm my spider tattoo, a sure sign I’m in a tailspin, and Rose watches me, her analytical brain not missing it. A frown appears on her face as she intently stares, her eyes focused on my hand on my neck.

Shit.

I quickly remove my hand and stick it in my pocket.

Her eyes snap back up to mine as she sucks in a sharp breath, her top teeth digging into her bottom lip. She isn’t fooled. She sees the rose tattoo on the top of my hand.

“Oh,” Trenton says, frowning. “But you guys haven’t seen each other in a while, and it’s her birthday . . .”

“I’m sure he’s here with other people,” Rose says quietly.

I nod, grabbing on to that. “Yeah, the whole band is here—roadies too. We’re in town for one more concert and then I’m off to London.” I clear my throat, my eyes eating her up one last time. “Look, it’s been great to see you . . . both of you.”

I don’t even give them time to murmur their goodbyes before I’m bolting away and back into the bar area. I find Sebastian, send him a final salute, and head out into the night.

I wake up cold and lonely in a king-sized bed and glare at the sliver of sunlight that glints in from the glass door that leads to the balcony outside. Scratching at the scruff on my jawline, I stretch out, loosening muscles that are tight from being on tour for the past four months. Besides the concert, the one thing I’m looking forward to the most before I leave New York is my art show. It’s been part of my recovery therapy and seeing it come to life means a lot to me.

The sound of music comes from the neighboring flat, and I turn my face toward the wall, listening. It’s one of ours, a remake of Pat Benatar’s “Love is a Battlefield”. I’m on backup, and the guitar is spot on.

A small smile plays around my mouth.

It’s surreal to think about how much success we’ve had, a lot of it owing to my father’s money and influence.

Thinking of him brings back everything from last night, and suddenly, I’m wide awake and standing.

Only one thought is running through my head right now.

I place my palm on the wall where the music came from.

Is that her?

Father said she was on the same floor as me and there’s only four apartments per level. I inhale a deep breath, as if I can smell her scent.

She is here . . . right here.

I fucking know it.

For the first time in a long time, unadulterated and unfettered joy that has nothing to do with drugs takes me over.

I sink down on the bed, feeling lightheaded.

She’s so close.

The question is . . . what am I going to do about it?

Rose

MY MUSIC BLARES FROM MY alarm at eight in the morning, my cue to get my butt out of bed. It’s Sunday and I have the eleven o’clock brunch shift at Bono’s.

My head pounds and my stomach rolls as I sit up. I definitely shouldn’t have had that last shot. Ugh. I scratch at the rat’s nest that is my hair and let out a deep exhale.

I hear Oscar banging pots and pans around as he makes his usual Sunday breakfast for us. From the bathroom, the sound of water comes on, and I figure it’s Trenton already up. He lives a few blocks from here, but stays over sometimes, or I stay at his place. He’s been asking me to move in with him permanently since graduation, but something holds me back. Besides, Robert lets Oscar and I live here rent-free. It’s not over-the-top fancy, but it’s nice and in a great part of Greenwich Village.

Oscar breezes in carrying a large ceramic unicorn mug with I’m Magical written on it. “Morning, sunshine. Thought you might need one of these after seeing a certain someone last night.” He sits next to me on the bed, sipping from his own matching mug.

I try to grin, as much as I can with a hangover. “Remind me to never drink again.”

He arches a brow. “You know what Frank Sinatra says about people who don’t drink . . . that when they wake up in the morning, it’s sad, because that’s as good as they’re going to feel all day.” He chuckles as he sips on his coffee.

I smirk. “Your hero is wise, and you’re an old soul with the heart of a hipster.”

“You know it.” He eyes me carefully. “Seriously though, do you recall everything that happened last night?”

I squint, my brain attempting to retrace my night after seeing Spider, but it’s blurry. I scrunch my nose up. “Did I order something called a Cherry Blow Pop?”

“Three of them.”

I almost gag. “That’s why I’m so queasy.”

He crosses his legs. “Not surprising with peach and amaretto liqueur, and some kind of green liquid that I have no idea what it was.”

“That’s not even cherry!”

“I distinctly recall you not caring as long as it did the job.” He cocks his head. “But . . . a word of advice: the things you say when you’re drunk are usually what you really think when you’re sober.”

My head throbs even harder, if possible. “Crap. What did I say?”

Oscar grimaces. “You went on a tiny rant about sexy rock stars and how they’re all assholes who screw anything with a pulse.”

I bite my lip. “Crap. Did I mention you-know-who?”