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Damon brings his lips to my ear and stage whispers, "I daydream about rolling them to your knees and flipping you over on the couch."
"Are you going to say that in front of people?"
"Yeah," he says. "Just like this. So it's for us…" But other people can hear too.
Why is that so fucking hot? My blush deepens. My veins surge. I need to mount him. Now.
"Let's give everyone a show they'll enjoy, huh?" Damon runs his thumb over my temple. "Unless you aren't game."
"I'm game." I'm way too game. I'm a puddle of pure, raw need. This is way too fucking sexy.
"Do you have a limit?" He drags his hand up my thigh a few inches.
I shake my head. "Use your best judgment."
He nods and pulls my body into his. His lips brush mine. A soft kiss to start. The taste of mint ChapStick. And something under that, something I recognize as Damon.
His lips part.
Mine follow.
His tongue slips into my mouth and swirls around mine.
Damon groans against my lips as he slips his hand up my thigh. The gesture is firm and confident and sexy as hell.
But there's something else too.
It's fake.
Of course, it's fake. This is all fake. But it's fake in a deeper way. He's giving his best seduction and it's all pretense.
Even so, when he pulls back, I need a moment to catch my breath. My head swims. My heart bounds. My body throbs. It doesn't feel any falseness. Only a desire to throw him on the bed and ride him like a pony.
So when he says, "Should we do that for the camera," I know I should say no.
But I don't.
I get my phone out; I angle the picture so the camera only sees the back of his head—more classy and subtle that way—and I kiss him again.
This time, he moves slower, softer. Like he loves me as much as he wants me. Like he needs to inhale every moment of my kiss.
His lips wrap around mine. Then, the gentle scrape of his teeth. A good move. But it doesn't feel like a move this time.
It feels honest. Real. Like he's really here with me.
This time, when he pulls back, I hide my blush behind my phone. I edit the clip so it's just right. Five seconds of our kiss, from my eyes on his to his lips around mine.
A tiny sliver of his face. Enough to catch his skin tone and hair, and even the tattoo on his bicep, but not enough for anyone to recognize him.
I add a caption.
What's better than mixing love and work and love?
"Are you sure?" I ask.
"Are you?" he asks.
I'm not, but I hit publish anyway.
And then it's officially unofficial.
Cassie and Damon, songwriting duo and power couple. A fake relationship with my worst enemy.
My entire career riding on a fake relationship with my worst enemy.
No problem.
Chapter Seven
Damon
For a few minutes, Cassie stares at her Instagram, waiting for someone to interact with her story.
A few friends like the post. Industry people.
And then, it happens.
WrongSaidFred likes your story.
Her ex is paying attention.
She smiles with triumph. Then she notices me watching, and she shrugs with feigned indifference. It isn't necessary. I judge her for plenty of things. Wanting to hurt her ex isn't one of them.
I did a little snooping last night. The details on her socials, and his, and rumors from a few friends. The guy was sleeping with someone else behind her back. And he's now working with the other woman.
What an asshole.
Don't get me wrong. I'm sure if he was still willing to work together, Cassie would suck it up and play ball. She'd break her own heart into a million pieces for a gig like this.
A month ago, I would have judged her for it. Now, I admire the determination. The strength.
Fuck knows, I can't face that kind of hurt.
If she wants to enjoy the fringe benefits of her ex-boyfriend's pain, who am I to deny her? There's something about the victory on her face.
She's not the perfect friend slash mentee slash songwriter slash good influence. She's as flawed as anyone. She struggles too.
I know she's human. I know she deals with shit too. I know everyone deals with their own shit. But I rarely feel it.
Mom is always on task. When he's not using, Dad channels his hurt into his music (and pretends like it's the only way he ever deals with his pain).
Daphne buries her frustration in her med school coursework.
And Cassie—
Cassie is always there, as my sister's best friend and a music lover. No matter what happens, she finds comfort between her headphones or with her pen in her hand.
She has that.
But she has this too; a petty desire to hurt someone who hurt her. A drive to win at all costs.
I don't relate, exactly. I used to love music the way she did. I used to believe it could save me.
