She continues to laugh, a few times trying to take over on her own. It sounds terrible, nail-scratching, ear-clawing terrible, but it’s making her happy and relaxed, completely out of her own head, and honestly I feel the same way.


Lila

Once I take a seat, I know I’m in trouble. His sturdy, tattooed chest is crushed against my back, radiating heat through my thin shirt and making it hard to breathe. Something about the feel of him melts the starvation inside me and suddenly my thoughts are sidetracked. I’ve seen him without his shirt on before, once when we were playing strip poker. But I was drunk and medicated, and truthfully I’m not sure I was seeing very clearly because he looks so much sexier now. All the guys who I can remember being with have been clean-cut, with perfectly tanned skin and chiseled abs. They looked like good guys who use manners in public, although behind closed doors it was usually a different story.

I’ve never been with anyone who played the drums, had scraggily, untrimmed hair, a five o’clock shadow, or lean, tattooed arms that rippled as they slammed drumsticks down on the drums. I mean, I knew Ethan had tattoos, but I’d never paid enough attention to how many. And God, they look good on him. There’s one in particular going across one of his pecs that’s always caught my attention. It looks like letters from maybe another language that go around in a circle, sketched in jet-black ink. The only other language I can speak is French, so I’m not sure what language it is. But by the unique shapes of each letter, I’m guessing it’s not a very common one. I wonder if I’m right. I wonder what it means. I wonder if he’d tell me if I asked him.

My palms are sweaty against the drumsticks and my heart thrashes up as he holds his fingers around each of my wrists. I know he can feel my pulse jolting against his fingertips, but he doesn’t say anything about it, either to be nice or because he’s getting too caught up in playing. I’ll admit it’s liberating, slamming the sticks to the rhythm of the music and I even manage to laugh.

As he continues to move my hands, I dare to steal a glance over my shoulders at him. He looks so peaceful and in harmony with the song, like he’s thinking about nothing but the beat and lyrics. His eyes are shut and he has this euphoric look on his face. It’s fascinating, watching him match the beat of the song, moving my hands right along with his. He’s really getting into it and it’s sexy and hot and, oh my God, I have to bite down on my lip to restrain unwelcomed noises escaping from my lips as I remember how it felt when his tongue and teeth were on my skin.

It’s the most amazing feeling I’ve ever experienced, like all of my negative emotions are channeled into slamming the sticks and I wish I could keep doing it forever. But then the song comes to an end and the moment of freedom disappears.

I quickly look away from him before he opens his eyes and catches me watching him. I’m panting and so is he, the movement of his chest and my back harmonized.

“That was fun,” I say, breathless, my skin damp with sweat. Everything inside me is so scorching, but in a mouthwateringly good way, and unlike usual, I can feel it, taste it, breathe it, want it. Want him. Good God, I want him. I’m sober, completely coherent, and I want him, like I had him that night we took shots at the club and then I just laid in my bed, feeling my usually self-induced numbness, only this time he wouldn’t stop and leave and I wouldn’t shut down, instead letting myself feel everything.

His chin is on my shoulder and when he tips his head to the side, his breath caresses my neck. “I think you’re a natural,” he says, amusement in his voice. “Maybe we should get you your own set.”

I chew on my lip, slanting my head to the side to look at him and almost end up kissing him. “A pink set, maybe?” I wet my lips with my tongue, noting the close proximity of his mouth, feeling this new, unfamiliar pull toward him as sensations of heat and tingles course through my body.

He laughs at me, his breath warm against my cheek as he shakes his head. “Pink? Why am I not surprised?” He leans in, pressing his chest harder against my back, but I’m unsure if he even realizes he’s doing it.

“What’s wrong with pink?” I ask, the feeling of desire and hunger leaving my body.

“Nothing’s wrong with pink.” Smiling, he climbs off the stool and holds out his hands, and the desire in my body fizzles. “I just think it’s funny that now you want a set when just a little while ago you came in here to complain about the whole house shaking.”

I swallow the lump in my throat as I place the drumsticks into this hands and climb off the stool. “Sorry,” I mutter, feeling bad, remembering how I was acting like a bitch. Usually I wouldn’t care, but right now I feel like I’m on the verge of tears, my emotions all over the place. I swing around him, banging my hip on one of the symbols. “I’m just going to go back to my room.”

“Lila, wait.” He snags my elbow as I reach the foot of the bed. “Look, I’m sorry. I was just teasing, but I really shouldn’t be. Right now is not the time or place.” He takes a deep breath and his chest sinks as he releases it. “I know how you’re feeling, and teasing is the last thing you need.”

I close my eyes, taking a cleansing breath and mentally clearing my head of any sexual feelings I have for Ethan, before I turn around and look at him. “Don’t be sorry. All of this is my fault. I should have never called you that night and brought you into my secret train-wreck life.”

His fingers leave my arm and he deliberates something, chewing on his lip while he does. I wonder if he knows he’s doing it, or if he knows how crazy it drives me when he does it. “What do you want to do today?” he asks, throwing me off guard.

I stare perplexedly at him. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, what do you want to do today?”

“What are my choices?”

“Anything.”

I hold on to the bedpost, feeling light-headed for no reason as I consider what I want to do. “I think maybe you better choose,” I say. “Because everything I’m thinking involves things you’re not going to let me have.” Pills. Alcohol. You.

He presses his lips together, looking strangely happy. I’m about to ask him why when he says, “Go take a shower and get dressed in something comfortable.”

I put my hand on my hip. “Why? Where are we going?”

“It’s a surprise.” He reaches for his shirt draped on the bedpost and I have to step back so his arm doesn’t brush my breast. “And no questioning. It’ll take all the fun out of it.”

I’m skeptical, but curious enough that I obey his instructions and start to head out of the room to take a shower. But I pause in the doorway, my mind going back to his tattoo as he goes to slip his shirt on.

“What does that mean?” I ask, pointing at his chest.

He glances down with his shirt half on around his neck. “This?” He touches the tattoo lightly with his finger, then glances up at me through hooded eyes. “It means solitude in Greek.”

“Solitude?”

He nods, slipping his arms through the sleeves. “It’s a dream of mine.”

“To be alone?” I question. “Like on your little road trip thing, because I thought you were going to take me with you.” I try to say it lightly, but I’m feeling too low and down.

He shrugs. “Dreams change, I guess.”

“Then maybe you shouldn’t tattoo them permanently on your skin,” I joke.

His lips tug upward. “Whenever I put a tattoo on my skin it always means something to me at the time, and I’ve never regretted getting one.”

I bite on my already chomped-off fingernails as he makes his way over to the dresser. “Maybe I should get one.”

He glances over his shoulder at me through hooded eyes and slowly scans my body, making me feel naked. “Maybe you should.”

It gets really quiet between us as we stand there staring at each other, my body heating with each second his eyes are locked on me. Finally he clears his throat and the tension crumbles.

“Now go take a shower so we can get going,” he says, picking up a bottle of cologne from off his dresser.

I nod and go take a shower, wishing the water would wash off the untamed emotions flustering inside me, along with cleaning me. But I pretty much feel the same way when I get out, all riled up inside. I try to shrug it off the best I can and put on my one and only pair of jeans and throw on a pink tank top. I braid my damp hair to the side since I’m not in the mood to curl it. Then I slip on my sandals and head out into the living room where he’s lying on the couch reading a book.

“You read more than any other guy I know,” I say, sitting down on the arm of the couch. “It’s weird.”

Without looking up at me, he turns the page. “Good. I like being originally weird.”

I cross my legs and fiddle with my braid. “Do you now?”

“Absolutely.” His eyes return to the book, like he can’t quite break himself away from the story. His hair is swept to the side and he’s wearing a gray T-shirt, accented with a black-and-white-pinstriped shirt and a pair of black cargo shorts. He has leather bands on his wrists and boots on his feet.

I sit there for a while, waiting for him to put the book down, but I’m starting to grow bored and restless. Finally he sets it down on the coffee table, marking the page by folding the corner over. “Sorry,” he apologizes, getting to his feet. “I had to get to the good part.”

I eye the worn, bent, torn cover as I rise to my feet. “It looks like you’ve read it, like, a hundred times.”

“I have.” He scoops up his keys and wallet and then opens the front door, holding it for me. “But that doesn’t mean that the good parts get any less good.”