Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
GIA
Am I losing my edge? Getting soft and pampered, every whim catered to. A masseuse threw her entire body weight into unknotting my shoulders, and a crisply dressed blond served me peppermint tea in a dainty cup as if I were royalty.
But behind small, polite smiles, I wait for the question—how did a tattooed rock and roller stumble into their palace spa? It doesn’t come, and the lack of judgment is a small relief on a day when nothing feels insignificant.
I sink deeper into the eucalyptus steam, hugging my knees to my chest, still in the depths of all this newness. I’ve never felt so intensely aware of my body in my entire life.
JC leaves me feeling feminine and wanting to be spoiled.
When he slid his finger up the center of me this morning, I was barely in control of the sounds leaking out of me. Then his tongue took over, and the world tilted into something startling and new.
“My queen,” he’d said, his voice low and reverent between his fearless devouring. “Come for me.”
Little old me did obey, for once. Twice, actually.
Now I’m thinking the most ridiculous thing.
That the man who peppered kisses down my torso and let his erection die a slow death in the name of my recovery, could maybe, possibly be falling for me. Gia from yesterday, uptight and riddled with doubt, feels like a lifetime ago.
Did I really spend six months flailing around like a headless chicken, pretending to be cool about JC? Too guarded to risk my own heart?
Yes, that was me. God, that’s embarrassing.
I curl tighter in the steam, smiling to myself.
It’s wild, tracing how we even got here.
Audrie, gutting the band. JC, all sexy sin, sitting across from me in the boardroom, my promised cargo delivered by Sawyer.
Then our first gig in the tumbleweed town of Osoyoos, BC.
Stars blanketing the sky, music rolling over my skin like thunder, our so-called stunt becoming crazy lore.
JC sprinting across the stage, sliding between my legs mid-solo.
The water I’d just chugged sprayed in a perfect arc from my mouth into his, defying every law of physics, but caught in hundreds of videos to prove otherwise.
My brain is nothing but fantasies of hot summer nights and the crowd going bananas when steam suddenly blasts from the faucets. I watch it rise, water transformed, suspended in the air. Feel the magic of that night dance on my skin like the mist surrounding me.
Then it hits me like a physical thing.
My breath catches, knocked clean from my chest.
Water falling, no one but me to catch it. Drowning alone in the magic.
The lyrics hit me all at once, and I feel dizzy.
Wait. Wait one hot minute.
That’s not a metaphor. That’s Osoyoos. That’s JC catching what spilled from me.
That’s us.
My heartbeat starts jackrabbiting all over the place. I press my face into both palms, not wanting to hide, but protecting myself from the possibility that I’ve got it all wrong again.
But my mind races, rewinding and recontextualizing everything through this new lens.
I travel back to that afternoon in his studio, seeing his expression, so genuine, staring right at me when he sang those lines.
And the sexual tension thrumming between us after he stripped his shirt off in the studio was so molten, it almost melted my brain.
Suddenly, all the other lyrics pile up in my brain like snowflakes in a storm.
We’re strangers, every breath pulling us near. Then I’m alone in the shadows, wondering what’s unclear.
I start pacing, doing laps on the tiles. My body doesn’t know what to do with this energy. It all fits.
Slow down, Gia. Slow it down.
I stand still in the dense steam, taking the temperature of what I’m dealing with here.
It’s not a crime to write a song about someone; we’d have no music if that were the case.
But it feels vaguely criminal for JC to be so stealthy.
To harbor secret feelings and write a song about me?
There’s a nakedness to that. To unknowingly be someone’s private muse.
Is that why he’s holding on tight to the song?
I need answers. Not right now. Not with the sting of Brady’s accusation still hovering on my skin like a stain. I’m not a scheming, cold-hearted bitch. Liking JC and his song are two separate things, living in different chambers of my heart.
Or are they?
I scan my soul for the truth and find it laughing in my face.
It’s so obvious now, my ridiculous simpleton hack. The metaphor of JC giving me his song as a warped way for me to believe he was giving himself to me. And he’s played along, humoring me, like the beautiful soul he is.
The truth is, a song never senses if I’m feeling frustrated and knows the right things to say to make me feel better. It doesn’t push me to sing deeper, rawer, while I push everyone else around. It most certainly does not leave me breathless and high on orgasms.
And as Audrie said, a song has not once made me forget about my phone.
I breathe deep, smiling like a fool. A small part of me knows the real world waits for no one, and I need to step back inside of it. But this is not something to think my way out of.
And JC? He had better prepare for an interrogation, because I have finally figured it out. But first, the physical reality of him waits for me on the fifth floor.
Fuck, he is making me so hot.
Who knew losing my virginity would be this amazing?
I hate leaving the hotel. When the taxi pulls away, I refuse to glance over my shoulder.
Neither of us utters a word during the descent into the city, the patient, relentless raindrops pattering on the window.
I lean onto JC’s warmth, his arm snug around my shoulders, carrying the scent of us with it.
I feel like a butterfly emerging from her cocoon, cautious about how far I can fly on my untested wings of womanhood.
But I’m one hundred percent certain something inside me has changed.
Thanks to him.
Sex with JC was even better the second time.
I learned things. That he likes deep, punishing kisses and me on all fours, taking me from behind.
His fullness slid into my body in long, smooth strokes that pulled moans and curses from him.
He took his time, careful while going deep, every inch of him teasing that delicious spot inside me until the pinprick of light buried within me shattered into a blaze of white-hot heat.
He held me tight after, singing in a rich, low voice and stroking my hair.
Like he is now.
I sneak a glance at the classic lines of his profile silhouetted against the window. I want to challenge him on the song, the urge so thick, I can practically feel it pressing against my ribs. But I settle my mind, letting the memory of our lace-curtained kingdom sear itself into my heart.
Because there’s more to come. More to look forward to.
Top of the list: a performance tonight guaranteed to scorch the crowd. Emotion pouring out of me, so sticky-sweet, bonding with every soul for two electric hours. Burn like wildfire so they’ll leave wrecked and breathless, wondering what the fuck hit them.
And I’ll give JC a grin with a touch of warning thrown in.
He is mine, whether he knows it or not.
Because he played his hand with that song.
And when it comes to Gia, give me an inch, and I’ll take a mile.
Every time.
Backstage before the show, JC and I have this brief moment of eye contact where it feels like he’s thinking something he doesn’t want to say out loud.
During sound check, I sensed a transition in him.
He texted furiously, his back turned. Claimed he needed a walk to help him “clear his head.” Meanwhile, my brain was scrubbed clean of any thought other than his naked body.
He returned, shaking rain off his hair and kissing me, hot and open-mouthed. Thanked me again for the best twenty-four hours of his life.
None of that helps.
He’s napping on a threadbare loveseat, and my mind drifts to how soundly he slept beside me on the flight to London.
Curled up under his blanket, eye mask on.
The soft sounds he made when I stroked his hair every time Queen Bitch Flight Attendant strolled past. How he kept a straight face when my hot mess of a suitcase tumbled into Heathrow baggage claim like a drunk late for the party, his sleek black TUMI luggage practically groaning in disgust beside him.
How his hands steadied me this afternoon as my body started to come undone.
Fuck!
The anxiety kicks in, a big knot in my stomach, like I’m waiting for something bad to happen all over again.
JC acted a little strange last night, like he was spooked about something other than us.
Why can’t it be as simple as I like you; you like me, and clear the decks?
Why can’t he be humming to himself and throwing me winks?
“Yo. Can we talk?”
Brady sidles up to me at the craft table, eyelids smeared with the same rose-gold glitter highlighting his cheeks. For once, I feel prettier than him. Shagged into a perfect, beautiful woman, now stress-eating Lindt chocolate balls by the handful.
I shoot him a look of reproach. “Talk or talk shit about me?”
“C’mon, Gia,” he says, shoulders slumping with his voice. “Cut me some slack. You don’t think I deserve a second chance?”
He pokes my shoe with his moccasin. Does he expect a kind of delicacy after crossing a boundary?
I know all his secrets and I’ve never thrown them in his face when we fight.
There’s the wrong side of the tracks, then there’s Brady Bowen, the homecoming king of dirt poor.
Stealing socks just to have a pair and surviving on food bank donations.
His single mom slung burgers for chump change when she wasn’t struggling with her mental health.
The band saved him. Some respect is in order.
“Gia!’ Brady presses again, patience of a gnat, persistence of a mosquito.
I feel the weight of observation, and sure enough, Tai scopes us out surreptitiously from the corner while pretending to read his novel. He tips his head in a gesture of you know what to do.
Tai and I had our own furious text storm after the Brady blowout. He always does his best to wrangle my hotheadedness, to varying degrees of success.
“The hall,” I say in a tight voice, pointlessly indicating the door.
Brady follows me out. I spend five seconds trying to find the low-drama way to handle this. Band politics and unrequited love are a toxic mix, and this version of Brady—looking wretched and lost—is seven shades of shittiness.
I can’t like him the way he likes me.
“How was the hotel?” he starts, awkward as hell.
“Next question.”
He sighs dramatically. “I’m trying to make things better.”
“How about not calling me a gold digger?”
He blinks, a red flush creeping up his neck. “I’m sorry. That was uncool. Never thought I’d be the jealous guy. Surprise.”
I blink, caught off guard by his apology and the sincerity in his voice. He meets my eyes like he’s ready to own the damage. We can either be crushed by the weight of this or adult our way through.
“Yeah, well…” I clear my throat. “Maybe I can relate.”
He tips his head, giving me a funny look that takes me right back to our high school cafeteria on that rainy Monday when we first met.
Brady was drumming on everything back then—tables, trays, the arms of irritated jocks.
Any freak naturally caught my attention, so I wandered over to introduce myself.
He thought I was hitting on him and perked right up when I shared my intentions to form a band.
Tai, Audrie, and I were already jamming together and needed a drummer.
Wouldn’t you know it? Brady, the missing link.
I can’t lose him now.
Brady waits a tactful amount of time before he replies, “Speaking of jealousy, you planning on diving off more bars in the future?”
He asks this very seriously, until his poker face dissolves with a smile. It’s the best thing I’ve seen since JC was buried inside of me.
“You stupid ass.” I grip him in a fierce hug, my throat tight, face smooshed against his pecs. He smells like a vanilla milkshake. “You know I can’t do any of this without you.”
For a long minute, we just hold each other, silently acknowledging our parts in the hurt. One day, Brady and Tai will introduce girlfriends and boyfriends, and things will change as we all adjust. The band soldiers on.
Brady pulls back first to gaze down at me. “Are we cool? Do you forgive me?”
“Yes,” I say, meaning it with all my heart. “Unless you blow the intro to ‘Blackest Nights.’ Then I’ll kick your ass.”
With the hugest relieved smile, he leans in to kiss my cheek. “That’s my girl.”