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“They’re kind of, like, easy listening, aren’t they?”
Shaking my head, I extract their self-titled album from its sleeve. “Their music is just . . . beautiful. That’s the best word for it. Heartbreaking, too. Incredible lyrics.”
I watch him, waiting for his reaction to “Rainy Days and Mondays.”
“It’s good,” he says, and I let out a sigh of relief.
I wrap my arms around him, liking him in my room while the Carpenters are playing way too much. My room isn’t the prison I thought it was after all.
This time when we kiss, it feels more like a prelude to something else. It starts slowly, sweetly, but quickly grows more desperate as I guide him over to my bed. I need more of him to get my hands on. I start unbuttoning his shirt, his chest warm beneath my hands.
“Your room is so organized,” he says. He gestures to his shirt. “Do you want me to hang this up?”
Laughing, I help him take it off and toss it to the floor. I throw mine off too, and we sit there for a few moments, taking each other in.
“I love your cheekbones,” he says, skating his thumb up and down the planes of them. “Is that weird? I don’t know. I just find them really sexy.”
All this time, I’ve been living with clandestinely sexy cheekbones. “No. I’m glad you like them. I—I find all of you really sexy.” I tap his glasses. “Including these.”
He smiles, removing them and setting them on my nightstand. When he comes back to me, his eyes go to the scar on my abdomen. I’ve been so wrapped up in him that I’ve forgotten to feel self-conscious about my body. He touches the scar gently, gently, first with his fingertips, and then with a brush of his lips.
“Is this okay?” he asks. “It doesn’t hurt or anything?”
“All of it is okay. More than okay.”
We make a fantastic mess: belts, jeans, socks flung onto the floor. His fingers travel south from my hips, and I think I might pass out. Time becomes meaningless. I blink, and my boxers are off. Blink again and his are too. Blink, blink, blink because how—is—this—happening? How can it all feel so good?
I’ve never been fully naked in front of anyone like this before, my desire for him so obvious. Without moving his eyes from mine, he curls his hand around me and starts tugging up, down, yes. I reach for him too. Everything is too vivid: the way he feels in my hand, his moan into my ear, another new favorite sound.
“Every time I hear this song,” he says between heavy breaths, “and I’m going to add it to all my playlists, so it’s gonna be a lot—I’m going to think about this.”
It’s that that undoes me, and he isn’t far behind.
Eventually the record stops, and I turn it over for “Superstar” before returning to him.
Chase sighs, content. “The band thought that was pretty great,” he says.
We hold each other in my bed for a while, because there’s no rush to leave this room. He drums a melody on my back while I play an accompaniment on his rib cage.
CHAPTER 27
SOPHIE
IN THE MIDDLE OF JANUARY, I go with Liz to a Queens of Night signing at a big independent bookstore north of Seattle.
“I can’t believe we’re about to meet Emi Miyoshi,” Liz says as we push open the doors, her cape swishing behind her. She went all out as Nadiya, the Queens of Night protagonist who may or may not die in book four: lavender wig, false lashes, cape, and a double-bladed knife, Nadiya’s trademark weapon.
The YA section of the store has been decorated like the Queens court, with black and purple columns and a replica of the gazebo where Nadiya was forced to betray her beloved to save her people.
“I’m more nervous than I thought I’d be,” I admit.
Liz hefts her tote bag, filled with the original hardcovers, to her other shoulder. She explained something to me about a midseries cover redesign that I didn’t quite follow but apparently upset a lot of fans.
“Me too. How can I possibly explain to her that her books changed my life?” She gives me a black-lipsticked smile, which looks only slightly menacing. “I’m so glad you came. These kinds of things aren’t nearly as fun alone, and Montana’s not really into Queens. Which is fine,” she adds quickly.
Most of the chairs are already filled, but Liz and I managed to snag two in the third-to-last row, next to a trio of girls dressed as Deathhawks, the evil creatures the villain Svetna tamed to do her bidding.
“You want to work in publishing?” I ask, remembering Montana having mentioned it earlier this year.
