Skylar
Music booms over the stadium. The rhythm and roar of the crowd pulsates through my ears as I move my body to the tempo.
I usually sit in the greenroom during shows, but boredom got the best of me, and I decided to come out and watch from the sidelines.
Big mistake.
The organ in my chest beats faster as I focus on those strong, skillful fingers gliding along strings.
My cheeks heat as I think back to what they felt like sliding over my slick flesh…pumping inside me.
Making me come harder than I ever have.
As if feeling my stare, he turns his head.
Dark magnetic eyes pierce me like an arrow, holding me hostage.
A sensual smirk curves his mouth and my thighs clench, remembering all the things that talented mouth is capable of.
His heated gaze sweeps over my body—slow and deliberate—as he places the guitar pick between his lips and bites down.
And then he’s gone.
Unable to keep my fangirl in check, I watch in awe as he strides over to the drum riser and jumps up.
Storm bobs his head to the beat as Memphis kills his solo, making everyone lose their freaking minds.
Some women beg to marry him. Others request to have his babies. A select few even promise to perform sexual acts that would make a porn star blush.
I scan the mob of people chanting his name.
There are easily over ten thousand girls in the crowd…all vying for his attention.
Yet, when he looked at me…I felt like I was the only one who mattered.
“Your thing is being used.”
His cruel words reverberate through my head, the impact akin to a knockout punch.
Because that’s exactly what he did.
Beads of sweat soak my skin and my heart pounds painfully against my sternum.
I try to block it out, but can’t.
I hear his voice.
I smell his scent.
Feel him closing in on me.
“Josh,” I whisper. “I need you.”
He doesn’t even stir.
No. No. No.
Clutching my chest, I bolt up.
Go away.
But he doesn’t.
He never will.
Gulping air into my lungs, I climb out of the bunk and sprint into the kitchen.
Get a grip, Sky.
I’m twenty-one and still having panic attacks about a man who’s no longer alive.
Shame spreads throughout me as I turn on the faucet. How fucking pathetic.
I’m splashing some cold water on my face when I hear the sliding door open, followed by footsteps.
Took him long enough.
“I tried to wake you.”
“You did.”
His raspy voice winds around my insides, pulling tight.
Memphis.
Reaching for a paper towel, I blot my damp face. “Sorry.”
I walk past him, intending to go back to the bunks, but he seizes my elbow. The contact is equivalent to getting struck by lightning. “Stay.”
I’m about to ask why, but he treks over to the kitchen table and sits.
Confused, I watch him take out his phone and tap the screen a few times.
A smile pulls at my lips when “Heart-Shaped Box” by Nirvana comes through the speaker.
Padding over, I make myself comfortable in the chair across from him.
“Thank you.”
I fight back a shiver when he levels me with a glare so cold it could give a glacier frostbite.
However, my blood heats back up when I look down, taking in the gorgeous canvas of sun-kissed skin, sculpted muscles, and tattoos.
My stare snags on one in particular. I tell my heart to stop doing that fluttering thing, but it overrules me and kicks up several notches.
Memphis Payne is such a paradox.
He told me I meant nothing, but my name is inked on his skin.
He acted like sex was no big deal and was something he did with tons of girls, yet I’ve never seen him so much as flirt with a groupie.
He gives me the silent treatment for years—again—but now he’s here…playing songs by my favorite band to help calm me.
I don’t know how to reconcile all these conflicting things.
My brain—and logic—tells me he hates me.
But then there are times he looks at me…and my heart tells me he feels something. Something real.
“Memph—”
“No.”
That’s it. That’s all I get. No.
Well, tough noogies for him, because I no longer accept his ostracism.
Our past is complicated, but we’re going to be stuck in close quarters nearly every day for the foreseeable future. We have to find some common ground, or we’ll end up murdering each other before the first leg of tour is over.
“You can’t keep pretending that I don’t exist.”
Because I do. Whether he likes it or not.
A sharp and familiar ache invades my chest.
We used to be friends. Well, more than friends, but we had a connection.
I miss him.
The ache expands, becoming so painful it hurts to breathe.
I miss his brooding attitude and sarcastic sense of humor. His smile. The way he relentlessly teased me and made me laugh.
How he always made me feel safe.
Jaw clenched, he taps the screen on his phone and stands. “We’re not doing this.”
Dropping his cell on the table, he storms back to the bunks.
The deadbolt I put on my feelings all those years ago cracks as “Purple Haze” by Jimi Hendrix fills my eardrums.
Stop it, heart.
Once again, it doesn’t listen.
Because even though it lost a vital piece and has been beating off rhythm ever since…whenever he’s near muscle memory takes over, playing the melody it craves.
But the one it shouldn’t.