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“You'll find the muse again,” Dad replied with a confident nod. “You always do.”
I answered with a bitter snort, and he offered an apologetic nod before smacking the doorframe and moving along. My parents knew better than to get under my skin while I was working, and I appreciated it. Hell, I appreciated everything about being under the same roof as them, and the more I kept that thought in mind, the more I wondered if maybe I should just quit and stay home forever.
Would it really be the end of the world to retire? Sure, I was still young, and, yeah, plenty of musicians went on to record and tour well into their sixties and seventies. But I had been dealt a shitload of trauma and not enough strength to combat it. The band’s lifeline had already begun to wither four years ago—the moment we canceled our tour and stopped making fresh music. It wouldn't be unreasonable to throw in the towel and focus on coping—or at least, I didn't think so.
“If someone else could write a goddamn song, that'd be nice,” I muttered, now directing my anger at the other guys.
But seriously, why was all the pressure on me, the guy trying to adjust to life without the lower half of his fucking leg? Couldn't one of them pick up a pen and try to write something, the way we used to back in the day?
“Fuckin' Lennon,” I grumbled, uttering her name for the first time in weeks and dropping the pad of paper down onto my lap.
If she hadn't ditched me, this wouldn't be an issue. I imagined finding a bottomless well of inspiration within her body and veil of black hair, and I hated her for denying me the privilege of knowing her.
“Who does that shit?” I asked the blank piece of paper.
You did, it answered.You did that shit all the time. You would fuck them and leave them, as if they meant nothing to you, and you know what? They didn't. They meant nothing to you but an easy fuck, and when the hell are you going to get it through your thick skull that this is your karma? She meant everything to you, and you were nothing to her. Nothing but an easy fuck.
I twisted my lips, staring at that blank college-ruled pad, and shook my head. “Yeah, but she also could've been my destiny,” I muttered quietly, then instantly hated my mouth for letting that word loose.
Destiny.
God, who the hell was I?
If only she knew what she had done to me, what she wasdoing…
And just like that, I knew what I had to do. If I ever wanted to write another word again, there was only one thing Icoulddo, only one possibility, and I grabbed my phone.
“Mitch,” I said, my voice heavily laced with urgency. “You have to get me Tarryn King's number.”
“Uh, you say that like it's going to be the easiest shit to do,” my manager muttered. I could practically hear his eyes rolling, but I didn't give a flying fuck.
“I don't care what you have to do or how much money I have to give you to do it,” I said, sounding like a goddamn diva. “If you expect me to write another song again, you're gonna get me Tarryn King's number, and you're gonna do it now.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Lennon
Somewhere out there, Dylan Pierce was probably living his life as if I’d never entered his hotel room. Meanwhile, I was over here, watching TV with my mom and wishing I could still feel the spot where his teeth had bitten my ass.
It had been about six weeks since I’d slept with the man of my dreams. The night was so far from my grasp now that it felt impossible that it had even happened at all. What saddened me most of all was, the memories now felt like dreams, and how was that any different than what I’d had before I knew what it was like to have him inside me?
My eyes shut at the thought as a trickle of electricity zapped my nerves. I shuddered, forcing my mind to replay the sound of his primal groans and the sensation of his body penetrating mine.
“You okay, Lenny?” Mom asked, and I quickly snapped my eyes open to look across the couch to see her concerned expression.
“Yeah, I'm fine,” I replied, forcing a smile.
“Okay,” she said, completely unconvinced but I knew she wouldn’t press me for details.
It had been over a month since I’d slept with the man of my dreams, and nothing had been the same since.
I’d left that hotel room a different person, one who knew what it was like to slip out of someone’s arms and disappear. One who’d had a taste of excitement, something different, and was now exhausted from living such an otherwise pointless existence. I was almost thirty and without a job, a boyfriend, or any means of transportation—outside of my parents, my brother, and Tarryn, whenever they were able—and I was sick of it.
How would things have been different if I’d felt more worthy of a man like Dylan friggin’ Pierce?
It was all I could wonder ever since Tarryn had brought me home after James left our room along with the never-ending question of,What the hell can I even do about it?
There was nothing I wanted more than to live a life I was proud of. But the outside world had an annoying habit of getting in the way for people like me, and thinking the extent of my bragging rights was being able to say I’d slept with Dylan Pierce kinda sucked. Even if it had been amazing.
