Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 88586 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 443(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88586 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 443(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
Dec nodded. “Me too. Next question.”
I refocused on the magazine. “Um…what’s your dirtiest fantasy?”
“Easy. I want to get tied up, blindfolded, and fucked till I can’t remember my name. You?”
Gulp. “Uh…I’ll get back to you. Next question. Where’s the weirdest place you’ve ever had sex?”
“It’s a tie between the hallway in the office and the floor in your apartment.”
I barked a quick laugh. “Yeah, that was…No more. I’m getting hard.”
Dec tossed the magazine on his duffel. “Ask your own questions, then. First thing that comes to mind…go!”
“What’s your favorite color?”
He chuckled. “That’s not very original.”
“I don’t know what it is anymore, though. It used to be blue. Maybe it’s changed. And what’s your favorite movie? Seems like basic knowledge you should have about the guy you’re seeing on the sly.”
“Oh. I guess that’s true. I—”
“Do you still like ice cream on a cone instead of a cup? Do you still cut the tags off your collar ’cause they itch? Do you still keep a top-five list of everything so you don’t have to commit to one favorite?”
Declan opened his mouth and closed it. Twice. “Yeah…I still do those things. Although, I’m not as picky about how I eat ice cream anymore. Straight from the carton works.”
“Same. Just to mix it up, let’s go with the number three instead of five. What are your top three cities in the world? Top three cocktails. And I’m still waiting on the color, movie, and day of the week.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Really?”
I ran my thumb over his bottom lip before pulling my arms behind my head. “Yes. Tell me everything.”
He smiled. “Okay. Top three colors…blue, red, and black. Top three ice creams…chocolate chip, mint chip, and salted caramel. Top three cities…New York, San Fran, and LA. Top three cocktails…margaritas, Bloody Marys, and mojitos. Your turn.”
“What’s your favorite day of the week?”
“That was a real question?”
“Yep. One day only…not three.”
“That’s tough,” he said in an uber-serious tone. “Wednesday.”
I waggled my brows. “Hump day. Nice choice.”
“No, but I wish I’d thought of that.”
“Saturday is better for obvious reasons. Why Wednesday, weirdo?”
“Today’s Wednesday. It’s a good day.”
I regarded him thoughtfully for a moment. The simple sentiment moved me.
Today was good. Now was good. Here was good. I didn’t want to be anywhere else or with anyone else.
I sat up and leaned across his guitar to trace his jawline. I set my thumb over his bottom lip, then cupped his neck and pulled him close, pressing my lips to his.
Something shifted in my chest, cracking open a piece of heart and soul and mind that had been locked away for a very long time. I didn’t let the dam burst free. I kept the flood of emotion intact. But I couldn’t do it for long. I wanted him too fucking much.
I wanted his sunshine, his cool energy, his bright smile, his clever brain, and incredible body. Everything in me urged me to stake a claim. Mine, mine, mine.
I just didn’t see how that was possible.
12
Declan
Stories of life on the road usually featured mishaps with sound equipment, bad venues, inner-band fighting exasperated by copious sex, drugs, and alcohol. Unless the show was being run by Charlie Rourke. He ran a tight ship. He left the music to us, but the business portion, which included our social media presence, belonged to him. He made it clear that excess partying was a no-no and that if we couldn’t keep booty calls on the DL, there’d be consequences.
Not a problem. I was the king of discretion.
Tegan and I had to get crafty to spend time together alone. We never sat near each other when both groups gathered for drinks, meals, or jam sessions. And during rehearsals, we didn’t speak unless we were drawn into the same conversation.
But thanks to modern technology, I spoke to Tegan more than anyone in my own band. We texted all day, every day. T suggested changing our names on our cells to just the last initial of our last name…yeah, M and M…in case anyone noticed our ridiculous text threads.
So far, the tour was going well…thank you very much.
I genuinely enjoyed hanging out with my bandmates and the crew, but we were careful to give each other space. Gill and Frank kept in touch with their significant others, Bobby J groused about not having one, then hung out with Johnny, playing guitar or video games in his spare time.
And me? I wrote songs and texted my fuck-buddy, who was beginning to feel more like my secret boyfriend.
Don’t tell T.
He wouldn’t like the label. Hell, I wasn’t sure what I thought about it. I’d never had a real boyfriend. I just knew he was the guy I wanted to gripe with when the stage manager set the mic too low or when the AC on the bus got cranked to arctic temps and I had to sleep with my coat on top of my blankets to keep warm. He was the same guy who sat at the opposite end of the table at breakfast with his inked arms draped over the back of the booth, chuckling at something one of our band members or the crew said.