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It’s sort of our one unwritten rule as a band. Well, aside from not screwing anyone else’s girl: no fucking heroin. We might drink, smoke, snort, and pill-pop ourselves fucking stupid on a near nightly basis. But intravenous shit is a hard no.
And Iggy knows that.
“Goddamnit, Iggy—”
“Jack, I know.” He sighs. “I know. But it’s honestly not what you think.”
I glare at him.
“It’snot, I promise. It’s literally just a pinch, every now and then. It’s just to take the edge off, mate. I’m in control, trust me.”
“Iggy—”
“Jackson.”
He smiles that lopsided, disarming smile of his I’ve known since we were ten. I sigh and smile warily back.
“I’m in control. I swear to you.”
I glare at him. “Better fuckin’ be.”
He grins again and puts a hand on my shoulder.
“More importantly,” he winks. “What was that riff you were playing back in there? Because that sounded fuckinggood.”
I eye my best friend one more time, and he chuckles.
“I’m on top of it, mate. Don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere.”
12
Jackson
Present, Falstaff Island, Maine:
I wake up hard.
By which, I don’t mean it’s difficult to wake up—though, it usually is. I mean I wake uphard. As in, my cock is thickly at attention and obscenely tenting the sheets on my bed.
But then again, I also went to sleep fucking hard, too. In fact, I’ve been hard since she was foolish enough to hand me her phone. Since I went through her photos.
But no. It actually started before that.
I’ve been twisted up and throbbing with a dark desire since she showed up dripping wet on my front porch. Or maybe since she crashed into me back in town. And it’s been an uphill battle ever since.
I don’t even know what the fuck it is about her, either. She’s stunning, of course. She’s gorgeous and cute and sexy. But it’s not ostentatious. It’s not like some photoshopped Victoria’s Secret model showed up on my front stoop on all fours with a plug in her ass and “daddy’s cum slut” written in lipstick on her tits.
I groan as my mind immediately putsMelodyinto that same visual. Which doesn’t do shit to help the massive tent in my sheets.
But the real-life Melody isn’t wearing a ton of make-up or dressed provocatively—unless you count parading around my house in a blanket and I’m guessing nothing else. And unlike most of the women I’ve known in my time on this planet, mostly in the limelight, there’s nothing shamelessly eager or wanton about her.
Whichalwaysbored me.
The models, the actresses, the groupies…any of those women who pleaded and debased themselves just to get a look at me backstage. The ones who wanted to get into my orbit byanymeans necessary.
Parasites, the lot of them.
Melody, however, seems to be immune to my usual magnetism.
