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Instantly, flashes of those bikini pictures flood my mind. My jaw clenches and my pulse throbs heavily. And yes, my dick thickens eagerly against my sweats I reach for the phone.
I stop and roll my eyes.
You thirsty motherfucker.
What am I, twelve? I glare at the phone. The fucking thing is locked anyway, and it’s not like I have any idea with the passcode is.
I sigh and drop it back on the counter. Problem solved in any case. If shedidspy, and prowl through my house sneaking pictures and information while I slept? It’s all still here.
Mission failed, you little spy.
But, while the phone may be locked, I can still see her music app open on the lock screen. I smile curiously.
She was listening to Warren Zevon. Just like she wasplayinghim when I surprised her in the recording studio.
I frown. But, again, who the fuck listens to Warren Zevon aside from guys my age, or guys way older than me, for that matter?
Pixie-pink, sassy little New York City hipsters donotlisten to Warren fucking Zevon. Except for Melody, apparently.
My thoughts simmer, until one from yesterday bubbles back to the surface. Why the fuck is it about her that seems…familiar.
It’s nother, per se. But that name, maybe?
I roll my eyes as I slump onto the couch and slug back some coffee.
It’s Melody. Not something insanely exotic. And if it sounds familiar? Well, like I thought to myself before:everywoman’s name rings a little familiar when you’ve lived my life.
My brow furrows as I glare into the coffee. I’m not proud of my past, and I’ve never been the sort of deranged drunk frat boy type who brags about his “conquests”.
But just the same, my past exists. And I can’t change that.
When you’re a god amongst mortals—when you walk out on stage and truly feel like a deity come down from the heavens to be worshiped by the masses—you leave your humanity behind. You leave it back there with humility and humbleness.
Because when you’re that high, and when you’re that much of a god, there’s no place for things like humbleness, humility, or humanity.
People think rock stars dive headfirst into excess and hedonism because it’s there for the taking. They don’t realize that thereasonthat happens is because there’s no other place to go after you’ve breathed air that high up.
You think Mick or Keith, or Lennon or McCartney, at their height, were going to, orable tospend their time fucking grocery shopping? Do you think they could go on strolls through the park, or grab a pint at a local pub?
Fuck no.
No, because the life of excess becomes a drug you need to survive. Because the next drug, or the next fuck, or the next illicit thrill becomes everything you think about. It becomes a driving force that compels you and bends you to its will.
I spent more than a decade of my life chasing that high and falling deeper and deeper into that pit before I got out. I didn’tevenget out. I just found a quiet, dark corner of that pit and fucking stayed there so I wouldn’t sink any lower.
And I was fine in that hole…up until roughlyyesterday.
Up until pink temptation crashed into me. And slid under my skin. And destroyed my defenses and my resolve. Until for the first time in ten years, all I wanted to do was bury myself in her in every fucking way possible.
And the longer I sit here growling into my coffee, the more that desire continues to flicker hotly to the surface.
Even if she is a little fucking reporter spy.
My shoulders roll, my fingers gripping the coffee mug tighter.
In any case, judging by the way she lit up out of here without her phone, it would seem this matter is done. What’s she going to do, go write a story about me without pictures, notes, proof, or for that matter, my fucking permission? No publication in the world would print that.
She’s got nothing except, what, herclaimthat I live here? I’ve got a town full of people across the bay who’ve known me forten fucking yearsas a nonverbal, friendly enough drunk hermit named Robbie.
