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After an hour of living with her, I broke the first—tearing the grocery list off the fridge and wiping my nose with it. I then committed the cardinal sin of mixing up the spices in her kitchen cabinet. Halfway into her flustered fit of rage, she even admitted she never cooks.
“It doesn’t mean I don’t like to be prepared if I decide to have a date over and want to cook,” she snapped. “How will I if I have to spend precious time looking for the garlic because it’s not in its alphabetized place?”
I didn’t have an answer, mostly because the idea of her cooking for some asshole struck a nerve.
Which confused the fuck out of me.
I didn’t think staying here would be a bad idea, but after that first day, I’m regretting it. How could I be so naive? I can’t live with another woman without coming onto her, no matter how opposite she might be from me.
And Pumpkin Pia is as far opposite as a woman can get.
Flirting is in my nature, though, and it’s hard to fight the urge when it’s embedded so deeply into my DNA.
Tarrah’s the one who pushed me to stay here, to begin with, thinking it would be the best solution since she doesn’t have room at her own place. She already lives with two other roommates, so I can’t blame her for my current circumstances—only myself.
I wanted a bigger apartment, so I bought the place next to mine too. In a fit of drunken rage after I lost the headliner at a big show, I smashed the wall connecting the two apartments in an attempt to tear it down myself.
That night ended with an ER visit, five stitches on my forearm, and a few more on my shoulder.
Thankfully, it hasn’t hindered me from playing guitar, which is the only thing keeping me from taking a bat to a wall every night.
I never thought I’d put so much of my life—and faith—into music. It’s something that could easily be taken away from me with one stupid mistake.
One PR nightmare.
One bandmate who decided to give it all up for something as ridiculous as love. Who the fuck does that?
Trevor Quinn, that’s who.
But the son of a bitch didn’t just walk away. Instead, he took the rest of us down with him. The others took his lead and forged their own path, and within six months, we were nothing but a blip in music history.
Fusion Bounds had it all—the fame, fortune, and fucking future. But one decision out of my control sent it all to Hell.
I lazily strum a chord on my guitar, the sound carrying through the open window and into the late night. Humming along with it, I grab my cigarette out of the ceramic cereal bowl I found in Pumpkin’s cabinet. I should’ve known she wouldn’t have an actual ashtray. I’ve only met her one other time, but it was enough to know not to bring it up.
She probably would’ve said she was enabling my bad habit if she gave me any kind of bowl.
I let out a puff, and the smoke clouds around my face before floating away in the August evening breeze. The singing of the low chord is long gone, swallowed by the city noise below.
I shift on the ledge I’m perched on, one heel teetering outside on the fire escape. As I take another drag, I follow the puff, focusing only on it. Right before the feathery white cloud disappears again, I close my eyes and imagine it wrapping around my muse and clinging tight.
She used to sing me to sleep most nights, but she’s been quiet lately. Ever since I destroyed my apartment, it feels like she’s hiding from me.
As if she didn’t already know I’m not worthy of her.
I let my head fall back against the window frame, and I lazily drag my fingers through the strings on Becky, my guitar. She’s named after my first babysitter—the first woman I ever had dirty dreams about.
My eyelids crack open just in time to catch movement in my periphery.
Wearing sinfully skimpy pajamas, Pumpkin enters the kitchen with a laptop tucked under her arm, and she glances at the closed door to my room. As she chews on her bottom lip like one might a fingernail, her gaze lingers there for a beat before she lets out a breath and sits at the breakfast table.
The laptop and her notebook take up most of the surface of the distressed wooden piece of furniture, which has seen better days. How did she and a roommate eat there? The flimsy thing barely allows enough space for the small vase of a single flower, let alone two plates and drinks.
She sinks onto the chair, seemingly with relief as her shoulders fall slack against the arch of the seat. Fingering the headphones around her neck, she looks over her shoulder at my bedroom door again, then pulls the noise cancelers over her ears. Once she turns the computer on, the light screen illuminates the pinch between her brows.
Was she making sure the coast is clear?
What is she typing that’s such a big secret?
