Chapter Twenty-One
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
BONNIE
IOU.
Shit .
I blow out a breath as I enter the elevator of my building, cursing myself for trying to be a better person. Years ago, I would have led Gemma on, not worried about any pain I might bring myself or her. Not now. Now, I actually think about those things because something this meaningful… it might be enough to threaten everything I’ve worked for.
Or it might make me feel a little more complete.
One of the main reasons I want to see Darcy today is to get my head on straight and hope to hell they assure me that if I fuck up something with Gemma that I’ll be okay, that I won’t fall apart if things go wrong, if we break up, or I start feeling like the ease of a drink is the only thing that will heal me.
The elevator stops three times to let off other tenants before I finally reach my floor. The sight of the solid black door catches me off guard until I remember Gemma saying they were having to replace it.
Still, I didn’t expect a black door. Maybe that’s the color they’re going with during the remodel. I know they’re trying to make it as nice as the Building B side, which is only a couple of years old. The lobby has already been repainted, and some of the halls re-carpeted. And now that I’m thinking about it, I do remember some doors being black.
I kind of like it.
However, as soon as I go inside, I cringe.
Shit. I hope the maintenance people aren’t snitches. My place is a fucking mess.
I should have cleaned it before leaving for the studio, I know that. At least there isn’t food everywhere. Sure, there’s some trash, but it’s mostly clothes from where I was going through my entire closet to find very specific outfits that I wanted to wear.
I toss my keys into the bowl by the door, drop the produce on the kitchen counter, and head into the bedroom to throw my duffle bag on the bed.
Except one look at the bed makes me pause.
I had almost forgotten about my stalker’s last text.
Written in rose petals is the word she drew on my stomach the night she came to the studio.
Mine .
A trembling breath leaves me at the memory. God, what is wrong with me? First, I willingly let my stalker fuck me in the middle of the night, then the next day I had my hand between Gemma’s thighs?
I am my own wrecking ball.
One more reason to add to the list of why I don’t deserve Gemma.
My head feels like it’s about to spin off. I’m thinking about both Gemma and my stalker nonstop. My only reprieve is when I’m making music.
The fact that my stalker has only texted me once since that night has me a little on edge. It’s been nagging the back of my mind, on my thoughts when I’ve laid down at night. I keep wondering if I did something wrong or if she saw me flirting with Gemma—even to the point that I wonder if she has access to the cameras in the studio.
God fucking help me if she does.
I’ll be expecting Gemma’s nails in a box any day now.
I shouldn’t give the musings about my stalker any attention. I should only be thinking about Gemma and that noise she made when she came. I froze at the fire behind my eyes when she asked me out earlier. I want her. I really do.
But she really does scare the hell out of me.
Until I’m ready, I’ll hang onto the images of her face as she tried to deny her orgasm, how wet her pussy was for me, all the looks she watches me with that make me want to pull her into a corner and kiss her until neither of us can breathe.
I take those thoughts with me as I grab a peach out of one of the paper bags, then head into the bathroom to turn on the shower. I need this room fucking scorching before I even think about stepping beneath the shower head.
Leaving the water running, I sink my teeth into the peach and make my way back into the bedroom to pull out some underwear and tights to wear after.
Pink thong…
Pink thong…
Where the hell is my pink thong?
My gaze lifts to the mirror as a thought hits me.
Shit.
Is my fucking underwear missing?
One glance at the rose petals on the bed tells me they probably are, and it’s fucked up that the thought of her carrying my underwear around makes my thighs squeeze.
Think about Gemma, not your stalker.
Think about how much you wanted to get on your knees the other day. Think about how you’re going to take your time with her once you finally give in. Dream of the day she pulls you onto her waist and walks you into the shower, onto the bed… just to finally have a taste.
If I’d just lied earlier, it might be her pussy in my mouth instead of this stupidly delicious fruit.
I close my eyes and savor the taste, imagining that it’s her I’m devouring. That it’s her wetness on my mouth, her squirting cum trickling from the corners of my lips and down my throat. The thought makes me whimper and savor and suck the fruit a little slower, and it’s barely a minute before I’m so taken by the fantasy that I have to take care of my throbbing cunt.
I grab one of my vibes from the bedside dresser, having to move my handgun out of the way to get to it, and then take the lipstick wand into the shower with me.
The steam swarms me as I step out of my clothes. Visions and fantasies swirl through my mind, so consuming that I’m on autopilot as I enter the shower and the hot water hits my skin.
I want it to be her hands on my shoulders, her fingers running down my sides. I’m starved for it—so much that a whimper leaves me even before I’ve touched myself. My eyes close as I press the button on the wand, let my head drop back and allow those visions to completely fill me.
It’s her tongue I’m envisioning dragging down my throat, her body’s pressure on my back, her hand on my waist. It’s her lips kissing my chest, between my breasts, and eventually pinching my nipples. Fuck, I could think about her tongue swirling my hardened peaks all day. I squeeze one tit and pulse the wand against the other. Water drips into my mouth, my jaw sagging with every second that I’m under this spell.
Yet, as I arch into the fantasy, it’s no longer Gemma’s hands that I see touching me. It’s black-gloved hands—the same that my stalker left behind at the studio the other night. I grunt and curse myself for letting her invade this perfectly good daydream.
Still, for whatever fucked up reason, I can’t push her out.
Suddenly, it’s my stalker’s mouth kissing down my stomach, her mask scratching my skin. It’s her ribbed glove stroking my clit—the vibration from the wand already weakening my knees. It’s her on her knees in front of me, her hiking one of my legs over her shoulder, and telling me to close my eyes so I can’t see her when she lifts the bottom of her mask up and drags her tongue against my clit.
I swallow a desperate cry and rock against the wand just as I would her mouth, my fingers gripping the roots of my hair. My first orgasm rises as I move my hand to brace against the glass. I come, breath caught as I try to keep myself from trembling, yet all I can hear is the sound of her voice changer in my head.
“That’s my good little rockstar. Come for me again,” while moving her fingers inside me.
Get out of my head.
Think of Gemma.
I sit on the shower bench, lay the vibrator on my clit, and slide my fingers between my thighs. I’m drenched, slick with the hot water and my release. I slip two fingers inside myself and slowly work my body through the wave of my first orgasm and into a second.
“Do you hear that? Your pussy makes such sweet music for me.”
I can’t get rid of her.
Fuck it.
I change the settings on my vibrator to a pulse and curl my fingers inside my pussy, allowing my stalker’s masked image to enrapture my mind as it wants to. I’m liquid on this seat, muscles somehow tense and loose all at once. This orgasm scratches the pathetic little itch in the back of my mind that can’t stop thinking about getting absolutely railed. I’m holding on, riding out the perfect dose of dopamine that doesn’t want this to stop. Shit, right there. Right there . Right—
I come hard enough that white lights dance behind my closed eyes. Warm liquid coats my fingers and thighs. I can’t stop it, and my body jerks and trembles as I envision my stalker slowing her motions, savoring this release, and licking my cunt, my thighs, and my abdomen. Her tongue swipes over her lips when she eventually lifts her head, and I’m so dazed that when she lifts her mask off, I hardly comprehend Gemma’s face appearing from beneath it.
“I love the way you taste, rockstar,” she whispers before pressing her lips to mine—
Wait .
I jerk off the bench and trip. The vibrator hits the glass. My knees hit the floor, and I finally find my bearings when I double over on my palms. My heartbeat pounds my eardrums.
Gemma.
Gemma as…
God, what is wrong with me?
We’ve already had this conversation.
Fantasizing that Gemma is my stalker? Again? Shit. Get a fucking grip, Bonnie. I already know it isn’t her from the text messages the other day.
I can’t tell if that reality is the reason disappointment lingers in the back of my mind as I wash my hair.
All that work for an orgasm—for two orgasms—just for reality to bring that high down to a disparaging low.
Fuck my life.
And fuck my stalker for getting in my head like this.
The vision is still haunting me when I get out of the shower and wander over to my dresser again. My phone lights up, and the possibility that it’s Gemma makes me quickly grab it.
Please be Gemma.
Get me out of my fucking head—
Wish not granted.
UNKNOWN
Welcome home, rockstar.
You looked really cute in those shorts earlier.
My senses perk at the realization that she’s already seen me since coming home. Shit . Did she see me in the car with Gemma?
I stare at the messages, debating whether to text her back.
I shouldn’t.
I should just let it be, let our relationship return to being one-sided. She shouldn’t get my attention.
However, right now, I’m kind of pissed at her. I’m pissed that she’s invading what could be good for me. I’m pissed that she has a chokehold on me after all these years. I’m pissed that she came back.
Most of all, I’m pissed that I still don’t know who she is.
And right now, I’m entirely too eager to pick a fight.
Oh, hi.
I thought you’d forgotten about me.
Busy days.
Did you miss me?
I don’t know what to reply with.
A snappy comment might land me territory I’m not prepared for.
Eh. Fuck it.
What’s there to miss? You’re practically invisible to me.
Really? Were my fingers invisible to you the other night?
I was asleep.
I think that wet pussy of yours knew exactly who was touching it.
I grind my teeth, hating how much she’s right.
Of course I knew who was fucking touching me in those pathetic glimpses.
I’ll make up for my absence soon.
My gaze drags around the room, staggering on any dark corners or shadows. She could come by at any moment, even be in the room already. I don’t know what’s gotten into me that I’m in a challenging mood, why I want to tempt her right now.
I’m biting my tongue when I reply again.
Don’t bother.
I’ve met someone.
The reply is immediate.
You mean your very pretty new bodyguard?
That’s really cute, Bonnie.
Are you angry with me about something?
No.
Oh, you are mad, aren’t you?
Did you know someone messed with my lock while I was gone?
Was it you?
Where exactly do you think I’ve been?
I’ll always take care of you. You know that.
I don’t need you to take care of me anymore.
I have Gemma.
Gemma?
Don’t make me laugh.
I’m serious.
Tell me something, rockstar. Does she know about us?
Does she know you’re thinking about me when you kiss her?
Oh wait.
You haven’t kissed her yet, have you?
How the hell do you know that?
Because I told you.
You’re already mine.
I’m not.
Of course, I’m not.
Am I?
An overflowing trash can in the corner of my kitchen distracts me from answering her text. Shit. Darcy will be here any moment.
I slam my phone down on the counter and grab a trash bag.
As I pick up the wrappers and leftover takeout cups around the place, I try to force myself to think about the song I was working on in the SUV on the way over here. There’s a steady beat at the core of it that reminds me of a dark place, one I don’t visit often enough, an event that pushed me over the final edge and into an oblivion that forced my fingers and knees and toes to bleed when I tried crawling out.
“—yell at her like that, Bonnie—”
“Why not? What does it matter? She’ll be dead soon, right?”
Beep.
Beep.
“She is your mother—”
Beep.
Beep.
I pause and press my hands into the counter, the song I’m fixated on circling around that irregular beat. Up. Down. A green line scrolls across a screen.
Beep.
Beep.
I need to call Mads.
He’s the mastermind.
I tap over to his contact info, hit the call button, then put him on speaker as I continue tidying.
“Hey, Bon,” Mads answers on the fourth ring. “What’s up? Everything good?”
“Hey. I was thinking on the way home, what if we did something just like gnarly?” I say.
Mads’ deep chuckle radiates on the speaker. “Alright. I’m listening.”
“Just like… you listen to it, and the only words you can use to describe it is sick, twisted, even nasty —”
“Fucking gruesome?” he says.
“Yes. Hell yes ,” I exclaim. “Just like a breakdown that’s disgusting and profound. Blow your fucking eardrums. It could be the part in the movie when the serial killer’s victim decides to fight back. Like they just mean fucking business.”
“I like it. What were you thinking with like thematics, vocals…”
“I think we should challenge Reed. Maybe throw a few rap lines in there. Extended screams and shit. And then some really throbbing, scary bass lines—Oh, what if we had the violins on there, too?”
“Sound like a fucking dream,” he says.
“It could be a big fuck you to people who doubted us,” I finish. “What do you think?”
“A big fuck you, huh?” Mads laughs. “I fucking love it, Bon. Hell yes. Okay. I’ll get to work on some things. Hey, play with it a little while you’re home. Send me a video or some lines later. We’ll make it happen.”
“Yeah?” I ask excitedly.
“Hell yeah. We’ll call it fucking Bedlam.”
“Fuck yes.” I slam the table in a rhythmic motion, muscles edged at the thought of this song coming to life. “Okay, I’ll hit you up later.”
“Yeah. Andi says to text her before you go to sleep,” he adds.
“Oh yeah, does she miss me already?” I ask.
He chuckles. “Just wishing you were in this building already. See, if you were here, you could come over and workshop this shit. We could lay it down and give Reed something to keep him busy while Wren is gone.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter. “I’m thinking about it. Really.”
“That’s all we ask.”
“Ha. Yeah, right. You’ll likely be sending me photos of the empty space later,” I say.
“Andi does have a free afternoon,” he replies.
“Right. I’ll see you guys in a couple of days,” I say, gathering my trash bags.
“See ya, Bon.”
“Oh, wait, Mads, I had one more thought about the song,” I say as the thought pops into my head.
“What’s up?”
“I want it to have a heart monitor in the back, and I want it to flatline,” I say.
There’s a pause on the other end, and eventually, Mads says, “You fucking got it, Bon.”
I tap the counter in a celebratory way. “Fuck yes,” I exclaim. “Okay, that was it. See you.”
“We love you, Bon,” I hear Andi say.
I chuckle. “I love you fuckers, too. See you.”
I’m tapping the red button on my phone when a text message drags down the top of my screen.
DARCY
Be there in thirty.
Just enough time to get rid of the trash and take a few minutes on the floor with my drum pad.
I tuck my phone into my pocket as I lock my door behind me, trash bag in hand, and head down the hall to the shoot. Thankfully, it isn’t far. The next apartment was vacant for long enough that I got comfortable walking down the hall in my underwear to it. Still, with the new neighbors, it’s probably a good idea to clothe myself until I figure out if they’re creeps or not.
I throw the garbage down the shoot and try to make it back to my space before someone comes out of that door and tries to talk to me.
A door clicks to my left, and I curse under my breath.
Dammit, I am not prepped for new neighbors right now.
“Holy shit,” I hear them say. “Bonnie Miller.”
I turn my head, unsure of what or who to expect. A dark-haired man grins broadly at me from a few yards away, gait slowing as he approaches.
“It’s you, right? Bonnie Miller, the drummer from Young Decay?” he goes on.
Something about him is vaguely familiar, yet I can’t put my finger on where I know him from.
I peer at my clothes. “That is the flesh suit I put on today,” I say, smiling politely. “You the new tenant?” I ask, nodding to the apartment behind him.
“Trevor,” he introduces himself. “I didn’t realize we had moved in beside a celebrity.”
I scoff. “Just another person, dude,” I say, twisting the knob to get inside as quickly as possible. “It was good to meet you. Maybe we’ll pass by one another again. See you around.”
I slide in the door, thinking I’ve succeeded in getting away, but he presses his hand to it before I can click it shut. The motion makes me jump, and I curl my key between my fingers out of instinct, pepper spray at the ready in my pocket.
“Hey, I was thinking of having people over later for a little party,” he says. “My roommate and I are big poker players. You gamble?”
“Eh, it’s not really for me,” I answer. “Thanks for the invite, though. See you around.”
“Be sure to let us know if you change your mind,” he goes on as I continue closing the door. “Or if we’re too loud, just bang on the door.”
“Will do,” I say.
His fingers are still on my door. I glance at his hand and then at him. “You mind? Kind of on a time crunch here,” I add.
“Oh yeah? Have your own party to go to?” he asks.
“Yeah, my roommate should be here any minute,” I lie.
“Seems like you’re trying to get rid of me,” he goes on.
“And it seems like you either aren’t good at recognizing social cues, or you don’t like to be told ‘no,’” I snap. “One of those is excusable and the other will get you a swift spray of pepper to the face. Want to take a guess which is which?”
He scoffs and finally takes his hand from the door. “Okay, drummer girl.” He holds his hands up. “It’s just a friendly conversation.”
“Dude, you put your hand in my door,” I say. “The line of ‘friendly conversation’ flew out the door the second you ignored my first ‘ see you around .’ Try that shit again, and I won’t hesitate to break your fingers.”
His grin widens, and he begins backing away. “I’m glad we met. See you around .”
I shut the door before he gets the bright fucking idea to come at me again. The top lock clicks, yet still I don’t move from the door, listening for his footsteps in case he decides the encounter wasn’t enough.
You’re being fucking paranoid.
Except my bad vibes radar usually isn’t wrong.