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I lay back down and drop the pillow on my face.
“You asshole. She yanks the pillow off my head and throws it across the room before flipping the switch on the lamp on her side of the bed. "You got off, didn’t do shit for me and now you won't let me take a fucking nap?”
I grope on my bedside table for the sunglasses I’ve taken to keeping there and slip them on before I open my eyes again.
I sit up and prop myself against my headboard. I pick up the half smoked joint in my ashtray and light it while she runs around the room picking up the clothes she’d hastily discarded
“It’s not you.” That’s not exactly true, but experience has taught me that it's kinder than saying, “It’s not just you. This happens with everyone." She turns to look at me, the death glare she's giving me makes it clear this isn't going down any easier.
“I promise it’s not personal.
She scoffs and her lips compress in a bitter, humorless smile. “Oh, I know it’s not. You never even asked my name.”
Shit.
I look closely at her. She’s one of the sound techs from Jack's crew but last night was the first time we ever talked.
“My name is Chloe,” she snaps. She dumps the clothes she’s picked up from the floor on the bed. She fishes her bra from the pile and starts getting dressed.
I look away. I feel weird seeing her undressed, even though less than twenty minutes ago my dick was in her mouth.
“Oh. Yeah. Sorry, Chloe. I’m really sorry. I should have explain—”
“You’re not nice. Not even a little,” she mutters before she sits down on the bed, her slouched back to me, drops her face into her hands and starts to sob.
Confused and mildly alarmed, I sit up and put my joint down. I can understand her being annoyed by my unceremonious dismissal, but she came home with me after a fifteen-minute chat in the staff lounge. If I wasn’t famous, I wouldn’t expect her to remember my name, either. People who do things like that—people like me—don’t. And they don’t cry when it’s time to say goodbye. “Uhhh, Chloe. What’s going on?”
She looks at me over her shoulder. “You took me home, that means something.”
She dissolves into tears again, and I watch her, completely confused and a little scared.
How much did I have to drink? Do I have amnesia? She’s talking and crying like we exchanged vows, but I could have sworn I only met her last night.
I look around for my phone in case I need to call the police.
“Listen, Chloe, I understand you’re upset things went down this way. But I didn’t promise you anything. I didn’t force you to come back to my place—”
“But you’re Jackson’s brother. I was hoping, you know…that maybe you’d be like him. He said…” she says mournfully as she walks over to my dresser and starts to brush her hair.
And just like that, the nice little buzz I was enjoying disappears. The last shred of my patience is gone.
“He said what?”
She meets my eyes in the mirror. Hers are wide with horror and calculation.
“Uh, nothing. I don’t know him. I just—”
“I’m such a fucking idiot,” I mutter.
“No, please. I wasn’t supposed to say—”
“Did my brother pay you to come home with me?”
She shakes her head, her expression full of misery. “No. Well, yes. But I do like you. You’re hot, you play the drums like a dream. I’m a huge fan. I would have done it even if he hadn’t paid me.”
“Wow, thanks,” I say dryly.
She walks back over to the bed where I’m sitting and sits next to me. “Sure. Hey, I’m sorry. I thought maybe we’d hit it off. Honestly. I wouldn’t have done this for just anyone he asked me to. I asked around the studio. Everyone says you’re a n
