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Really, really bad guitar playing.
To be completely honest, I’m not sure which is worse—her singing or her strumming.
My hand falls away from the elevator button and I stare at her in shock.
I love the way his hair smells
I love its gorgeous length
Stone, you give me strength…
It’s my song. It’s the song I sang to her that night in the bar, but she’s changed the words, just like I’d changed them for her.
I want to tell her to fuck off, to go destroy someone else’s life … but I can’t.
A crowd is growing in the lobby, watching and singing along as Gisele sings her little heart out. When she hits a particularly awful note, I cringe and everyone laughs. But she keeps going. Despite her flushed red face, she doesn’t stop.
When she hits the final notes, blessedly dying away, the crowd whoops and whistles, and then men in suits begin “encouraging” people to move along.
Gisele walks up to me, setting the guitar up against the elevator doors. “Ashlo helped me,” she says out of nowhere.
“Rewrite my song?” I ask.
“Oh no, I butchered that all on my own,” she admits unrepentantly. “I’d hate to blame that on someone else. No, Ashlo contacted the management for the W and convinced them to block off the elevators for me. And to hire men to get people moving after I sang to you.”
“And who is this Ashlo person?” I ask, jealousy flaring up inside of me. Which is stupid, because I shouldn’t care. Gisele tried to destroy my life, and very nearly did. I shouldn’t care who Ashlo is.
But I do.
“Ashley and Apollo,” she says cheerfully. “I need to introduce you to them sometime. They’re sickeningly in love with each other. It’ll make you puke a little in your mouth every time you see them."
“But Stone,” and she’s growing more serious now, “I need to tell you…” She drags me over behind some potted trees to give us a little more privacy from the passersby. “I thought I was helping you when I wrote that article. I know that sounds stupid, and in retrospect, it really is. I was really naive when I wrote that article. I thought the world would be impressed by the lengths you go to, to control your addiction. You have been willing to give up so much—chunks of your life—in order to beat this addiction. I’ve never met anyone willing to do that before. I thought if the world knew that, they’d applaud you for it.
“Like I did.” She looks up into my eyes, serious. Tense. Willing me to believe her. I can feel the tension vibrating through her. “I was stupid and I was wrong, but I wasn’t malicious. Please, Stone, forgive me. I should’ve asked you. I should’ve run it past you. I thought it was going to be this wonderful surprise and instead, it was the worst mistake of my life. It should’ve occurred to me that you didn’t tell anyone because it wasn’t a good idea to. I’m sorry I didn’t think before I submitted it. It wasn’t my secret to reveal.”
I close my eyes against the pleading, the begging, and realize that I finally have my answer of why. For the last ten days, that’s all I’ve wanted to know was why she would betray me. I’ve woken up from dreams where I’d screamed that at her, shaking with anger.
She was right, it wasn’t her secret to share. She should’ve asked me. But at least I get it now.
“I made a fool out of myself today because I figured it was the least I could do, after I’d made a fool out of you. If you want me to go onto national television and sing that song again, I will. I’ll—”
“Please don’t,” I say before I can stop myself. “Really, you don’t have to sing that song again. Ever
again.”
She grins crookedly at me. “Say you forgive me and I’ll show you how much I appreciate it by never singing to you again. Not even Happy Birthday.”
I can’t help it. I pull her into my arms, feeling her amazing curves against my body, and whisper, “Deal. Not even Happy Birthday.” I stroke my arms over her body, hungry to feel her against me. My body drinks in the feel of her, like a cool drink under the burning noon sun, and I’m not sure if I’ll ever be able to pull away from her again. Not touching her seems … impossible.
“I haven’t taken the pill since I read that article,” I say, my arms stroking down her body, trying to memorize the feel of her against me. My cock is so hard, I’m surprised I haven’t busted through my zipper.
“Not one?” she asks, muffled against my chest, but I don’t care. I don’t let her pull away.
“Nope, not one,” I say. “And I haven’t had a drink since. And if I was going to have a reason to drink, these last ten days have given them to me in spades. I just don’t want it anymore.”
“Does this mean that if I fuck you right now, you’ll remember it?”
My cock gets harder and I swear to God, I think my zipper is creaking under the strain.
