Chapter 9
PIA
“You did good, English rose,” I tell her when the silence gets too much.
She blushes, and unlike previous occasions, she lets me have a front-row seat. “I enjoyed that. A lot.”
“I could tell.”
“Did … did you?”
“What do you think?” I scowl at her.
“I think you did?” she replies, but it sounds like a question.
I untangle our legs and climb on top of her, straddling her warm thighs. “Don’t do that.”
“What?”
“Don’t start doubting yourself now. Not when you’ve come so far tonight.”
I hope I don’t have to explain myself, explain what I mean by saying that, and it’s a relief when she doesn’t say anything and only smiles up at me. I tuck her hair behind her ears so I can have a better view of that little English rose grin.
“What did you say?” she eventually asks me.
“What? When?”
“In Swedish, when you … came.”
“Oh, that.” I climb off her because while I want all of her blushes, that doesn’t mean I want her to have mine. “Nothing much. Just … words.”
“Okay,” she says from behind me as I head to the bathroom.
I grab the two russet-coloured towelling robes off the back of the door.
Before I return to Cassie, I look at myself in the mirror.
It’s not an unfamiliar sight with my dishevelled hair, flushed cheeks and tight nipples.
But there’s something else there I haven’t seen before.
My eyes, they sparkle. My lips, they’re curved up, not down.
My shoulders are relaxed. In fact, my whole body feels looser in a way that is completely unfamiliar.
It feels like I’ve shed the body armour I’ve been wearing my whole life.
A good orgasm, I tell myself as I put on one of the robes. Two good orgasms. That’s all that it is.
And yet, when I turn and head back to Cassie, I know my smile is only widening.
“Here.” I hand her the other robe, and she puts it on without making eye contact.
“I’m going to order that room service now,” I tell her, reaching for the menu. “What do you want?”
“Me? Oh, nothing.”
I turn to her and stare. Hard. “What do you want, Cassie?”
She blinks and swallows. I will not have her retreating back into that shell of hers. “What are you getting?”
I glance back at the menu I have in my hands. “A cheeseburger, fries, and a strawberry milkshake. Oh, and the chocolate brownie for dessert.”
“Wow. That’s a lot of food.”
“I haven’t eaten since … yesterday lunchtime,” I calculate.
“How do you … How do you function?”
“Cigarettes and coffee,” I tell her as I come back to the bed and sit next to her. “Like the legend Otis Redding sang.”
“Coffee?” She arches an eyebrow questioningly.
“Fine, cigarettes and alcohol. Now leave me alone while I order our food. I’m getting you the same as me. Okay?”
“Okay.” She nods, and I can tell she’s trying to keep her smile contained.
“Good girl,” I say, and before I pick up the phone’s receiver, I see that little grin of hers expand beyond any of her best efforts.
Once I’ve ordered our food, I sit back on the bed and watch her as she shifts back to join me, leaning against the headboard.
I look at our naked feet – her toenails painted a perfect baby pink, and mine a blood red, with more chips than polish – and I am struck with the domesticity of this moment.
Or maybe it’s more a moment made out of something else. Companionship, perhaps?
There’s a reason I don’t have many female friends.
I’m too brash, too blunt, too bitchy. And I’ve never cared much.
I was happy with the boys. Making music.
Writing songs. Flirting and fucking and fighting, in no particular order.
I’ve never had a girlfriend, or a boyfriend, by any traditional definition.
The boys call me a lone wolf for a reason, and I’ve embraced it whole-heartedly.
But staring at our painted toenails, our legs emerging from our hotel robes, I start to wonder if maybe I’ve been missing out on something.
“How are you feeling?” I ask her to fill the silence. At least, that’s what I tell myself.
“Good, but actually”–she shifts so she’s turned towards me, fiddling with the robe’s tie–“since you mentioned all that food … I’m really hungry.”
“Good sex will do that to you,” I say, and I mirror her pose, moving onto my side.
Her hand lifts as if it’s about to reach for me, but it drops before she makes contact. When I look at her face, she’s biting her lip.
“What?” I ask. “What do you want to say?”
“It’s not what I want to say,” she replies. “It’s what I want to do.”
I hold my breath. “What do you want to do?”
“I want to touch you,” she says. “I feel like I have to. Need to. It feels wrong that we were just … so close, and now, you’re so far away.”
It’s still a struggle to breathe normally. “I’m right here, next to you.”
Her eyes seem to double in size as she looks at me while replying so quietly, I almost miss it. “And yet that is just too far away.”
It must be because I’ve shed my armour, or maybe it’s because her big blue eyes have true magic powers, but before I know what I’m doing, I’m shifting closer to her.
I tuck my legs between hers, trying to ignore how quickly, eagerly she tangles our limbs together.
I lift my arm, and before I even suggest it, she tucks her head under it, resting on my chest. She is so light, and yet I’m aware of all of her, every single part of her body that presses against mine.
“That better?” I ask, determined to make her think I’m doing this for her, not me.
“Yes,” she sighs and wraps an arm around my waist, burrowing in even closer. “Do you … Do you do this with all your…lovers?”
“What, cuddle?” I snort. Just the idea is preposterous.
“Yes, and order room service.”
“Well, yes, I do that quite a bit. But I don’t always order for two.”
Cassie is silent for a few seconds before she speaks again. “You kick them out? Your lovers?”
“Lovers.” I snort again. “I wouldn’t call any of my previous partners lovers. And I don’t kick them out. I politely ask them to leave.”
Cassie pulls back so she can look up at me. “Do you want to politely ask me to leave?”
“Fine, I lied about the politely bit. Normally I just say, ‘fuck off.’ So, you know, fuck off,” I say, and it gets me the exact reaction I expect, her face falling victim to the most crestfallen expression I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen more than my fair share in my lifetime. “Jesus, I’m kidding!”
She pouts at me as I giggle, but then she seems satisfied enough to fold back into my embrace.
“Even if you do want to get rid of me, I’m staying.
I want my cheeseburger. And for this day to never end.
” The last sentence is said so quietly I have to strain to hear her.
I may have even misheard her. Maybe I’m projecting what I want to hear.
“But tomorrow we get to record our song,” I remind her. “Our song. With our secret message.”
“Secret message,” Cassie repeats, and I wait for her to say more, but she doesn’t.
“What’s wrong?” I ask as I comb my fingers through her hair. I like how it has some knots now, like mine always does. I like that I’ve messed up her perfect appearance a little.
“That’s how it has to be, isn’t it?” she asks after nearly a minute of silence. “A secret. It always has to be a secret.”
Her words are vague, but I know exactly what she’s talking about.
“Are you bad at keeping secrets?” I tease, very much wanting to lighten the mood.
“I’m too good at it,” she says. “I kept this side of myself secret from everyone, even myself, my whole life.”
It’s my turn to move so I have her eye contact. “Cassie, it’s not your fault.”
“What?” She frowns.
“It’s not your fault you didn’t kiss a girl until tonight.
It’s not your fault that you felt it was your dirty little secret.
It’s not your fault that you will have to keep this side of you hidden from the world for the sake of your career.
It’s not your fault that that will sometimes make you feel ashamed and embarrassed and conflicted and angry and sad. ”
A half-smile joins her frown. “Are you talking to me or yourself right now?”
“I’m talking to both of us. It’s fucked up that who we fuck is other people’s business.”
“Why have you never talked about it publicly? Being gay or bisexual or whatever?”
I open my mouth to answer, but I find there are no words. Not a fully formed sentence, at least.
“I do, in my songs. It’s right there, if you listen closely enough.”
Cassie goes quiet for a while. I wonder if she’s singing some of my songs to herself, in that pretty little head of hers.
Like she did earlier. I wonder how many of my songs she knows.
The possibility that she knows any of my songs makes me feel more than I want to, so I fill the silence to distract myself.
“Like I said, why should we talk about it when it’s nobody’s damn business. And also, I don’t need the stress. I have a hard enough time as it is getting death threats from the religious nutters who think my music is going to corrupt the next generation.”
“You get death threats?” She sounds as horrified as she looks.
“Of course, you don’t,” I scoff. “I bet you don’t get any hate mail at all.”
“Oh, I get plenty. From the female fans who think they’re in love with Stephan. But Kevin manages all that for me now.”
“Same.” I sniff. “I now make sure Martin only gives me the mail from fans who send hundred-dollar bills or gold-plated jewellery to me.”
“Wow, I don’t get anything like that. You know, someone sent me rose hips the other day. From England. Told me to plant them in my garden here in LA, in case I was feeling homesick. I thought that was quite sweet.”
“Yeah, I don’t think we have many sweet fans,” I say with another snort.
“Yes, you do,” she says confidently.
My eyebrows pull together, waiting for her to elaborate.
“Me,” she says with the sweetest smile I’ve ever seen in my life.
So, of course, I have to kiss her.