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By the time I hit the parking lot, I was envious of the way I left her, craving a sliver of her peace, desperate to steal it away as my own. Or maybe I'd steal her away. But I never went back for round two, not even for a pretty goth girl in ripped stockings who tasted like licorice and raspberries.
Ever.
CHAPTER TWO
Indi
Ijust got fucked bya rock star.
A local one from my own college, but Xoan Kennedy was easily the hottest thing in music worldwide.
And he fucked me.
Me.
What the hell just happened? I slumped against the wall, still trying to catch my breath as Xoan disappeared. My legs trembled, coated with a ludicrous amount of my own juices, and my heart pounded as hard now as it had against his chest as we came down from the sensational high he lifted us to in the space of a few frenzied minutes.
The subsequent crash that followed floored me.
Which was exactly where Lance McCready found me when he pushed the door open and peered around the small room, finding me behind it, exactly where Xoan left me.
“Indi? Are you okay?” Concern etched his classically handsome face in the deep sort of lines one might associate with a care factor, but on Lance, it was bullshit.
Any emotion that had nothing to do with his narcissistic ego was.
I learned that long ago.
“Isn’t this what you intended?” The words of betrayal slipped from my mouth in my slightly dozy state, my mind reacting to Lance the way it was accustomed to; treating him as someone who couldn’t be trusted on any grounds.
“You paranoid little freak. Be glad I married you.” He tweaked my nose in a gesture that could be considered affectionate, except for the sting his brand oflove tapleft on my skin, as though I rolled in nettles.
“I’ll be glad when the papers freaking well go through,” I gritted out. “What happened to,‘come with me, Indira. I’ll get you onto Xoan Kennedy’s graphic design team,’huh? He waswaitingfor a groupie at his door. He expected you to deliver that.”
“It’s not my fault if you can’t enunciate yourself, Indira,” Lance gloated, looming over me patronisingly. “Did you at least use a condom?” His pale blue gaze, the colourless sort of an overcast sky too glary to go outside in for fear of being burned raked over me, seared my skin.
It didn’t matter. We hadn’t had sex in over a year. At least, that was the line I fed myself as I wrapped my arms around ribs, my postcoital bliss dissipating in a wave of disgust that split in my mind’s eye, washing over both of us in a deluge of residual filth and guilt.
