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This is a bad idea.
The worst idea.
Beyond stupid.
And I don't give a fuck.
I offer her douchebag ex one more glance, then I surrender to the desire racing through my veins.
My hands find her hips. She shifts so she's flat against me, so my hands slide around her ass.
Cassie groans as I dig my fingers into her flesh. The silky fabric of her dress is in the way, but I can still feel her softness, her warmth. I need it. I need her.
She brings her mouth to mine. First, the light brush, the faint taste of lime and tonic water, and Cassie's mint lip gloss. The tiny hint of gin.
Even under all that, even with my fake girlfriend making out with me in front of everyone, I still look for a drink. I still go there.
Fuck.
Cassie pulls back with a sigh. She looks up at me, hazy with pleasure. Is she lost in this or pretending? I don't know anymore.
I have emotional vertigo. I don't know if we're soaring to the sky or crashing back to Earth. Both, maybe.
I need the fantasy, and I need reality.
We're not really together. No one wants me like this, like there's some part of my heart and soul they can absorb through osmosis.
No one wants my heart and soul. Because I pushed people away. Because I hurt the people I love. Because I fucked up a million things.
Of course, Cassie doesn't trust me as her real boyfriend. After the way I acted the last few years, I earned worse.
But I still want it.
I still want to linger in the pretend.
Cassie cuts me off. She shifts back to strategy mode, bringing her lips to my ear, whispering, "Is he watching?"
This isn't about me. This isn't about us. It's about him.
Someone like Cassie would never want someone like me. Not the way she's pretending to want me. Not with all this affection and trust and belief I can comfort her.
I want to comfort her.
But how the fuck do I do that?
Even after all this time, there's one tool in my box. Without it, I don't know what the hell I'm doing.
I can offer her another drink. That's it.
But I can make her ex jealous too. And that's something.
I release my hand. I let my eyes find him. "Yeah." The guy is watching us. He looks annoyed too. It shouldn't feel good, but it does. "What are we trying to do here?"
"It's a long story."
"I have time." I want to understand what this is. Why she's frantic and rushed. If any part of it is a desire for me.
But that's ridiculous. Worse, it's dangerous. She's off-limits. This is a bad idea.
None of that changed in the last week.
She doesn't expand.
I don't ask. "Let's text Bryce." So we can get the fuck out of here ASAP. "Find out if his friend is around."
"In a minute."
No. We need to do something now. I can't give Cassie music or sex or booze, but I can give her something calming. "He can meet us by the pool."
"There's a pool?" Her eyes go wide. Her shoulders soften. It's funny to see the sort of relaxation at the mention of a California hotel with a pool—they all have pools—but that's Cassie. She understands the water. She belongs there.
"This way." I motion for her to follow me along the stone path.
She looks around the tall stalks of bamboo. "Of course, this is the Chateau Marmont… he's not thinking about Paris because he's thinking about me. He's thinking about it because of the name." She shakes her head. "Why is this party here, anyway? Didn't this place peak with Lindsay Lohan in the mid aughts?"
With who? How would I possibly know that?
"You know, the TMZ era. With all those terrible upskirts." She turns her head sideways. "Don't tell me you didn't watch the Britney Spears documentary."
"Was she partying here too?" I ask.
"Everyone was partying here in two thousand and four."
My lips curl into a smile. "Why do you know so much about the aughts? You were barely born."
"You know why," she says.
Because that's her favorite era of pop music. The last era when there was meaningful rock influence in pop music. Now, the closest we come is Billie Eilish and Olivia Rodrigo.
Not that Cassie would pass up the chance to work with either. She'd murder someone just for the chance to pitch a song to Eilish or Rodrigo (or their team). But they don't have those heavy guitar riffs Cassie needs to feel settled in a song.
Does she follow current gossip too? Or is it all her love of old lyrics, sending her to old gossip? Memories, maybe. Articles.
It's weird to think celebrities didn't get to craft their own image twenty years ago. They didn't have Instagram and TikTok. They only had what news sources chose to print. "You read old celebrity gossip?" I ask.
