Skylar
Goose bumps graze my flesh as he tugs my sleep shorts off and wrenches my legs open.
I want to stop him, because we can’t. We shouldn’t. But I’m too weak for his touch.
The closer his mouth gets, the more I shiver with anticipation because I know every stroke of his tongue will be equal parts torture and pleasure.
“Please.”
I’m not above begging. It’s been so long since I’ve had an orgasm that wasn’t self-induced. I need it more than I need my next breath.
And I know he’ll deliver in spades, because he’s every bit as talented at playing my body as he is that damn guitar.
“Me—”
I cry out when his tongue sweeps over my clit. Sweet baby Jesus. Yes.
God, it feels so…
Frustrating.
Even though he’s lapping away, he’s missing the bull’s eye entirely.
This isn’t right.
My eyes open against the crevice of daylight peeking through the curtain, and I look down.
Blonde hair. Not dark.
Not Memphis.
Unaware of my dirty dream starring his brother, Josh continues attacking some part of my vagina that I’m sure is labeled on a health diagram somewhere. “Fuck. You’re so close.”
Not even a little.
“That’s it. Come for daddy.”
Ugh.
I let out an exasperated moan that he misconstrues as my climax.
I don’t bother telling him the truth anymore, because it will only lead to an argument.
“Awesome way to wake up, huh?” A self-satisfied grin lights up his face as he crawls up my body. “It’s gonna feel even better when all this is inside you.”
My expression must give away my less-than-enthusiastic feelings about that because he sighs in defeat.
“Come on, babe. It’s been weeks.”
He’s not wrong. We haven’t had sex since the interview last month, and it’s not for his lack of trying.
It’s because I have no desire to, and right now is no exception. I’m twenty-one and my sex drive rivals that of a ninety-year-old nun.
Josh keeps telling me I’m not normal and I need to get checked out by a doctor, but I already have.
My hormones are fine.
I’m just craving something I can’t have.
Guilt flitters through me. We’ve gone weeks—sometimes even months—without having sex before, but ever since he gave me E three days ago, he’s been remorseful, doting, and here with me every night.
For the first time in a long time, he’s making a genuine effort to fix things between us.
“Okay.”
Besides, the sooner it’s over, the sooner I can hop in the shower and get ready for the day.
Lining himself up with my entrance, he kisses me. “I’m gonna fuck you so good.”
Oh, how I wish that were true. I’d give just about anything to be able to enjoy sex.
I close my eyes. Breathe, Skylar. It will be over soon.
Or not.
“Everything okay?”
“Everything’s fine,” he bites out, clearly on edge. It’s a stark contrast to the good mood he was just in. “Turn around. I want to fuck you from behind.”
Complying, I roll over…and wait.
And wait some more.
“Josh—”
“Jesus Christ. Give me a minute.”
I’ve already given him five. Worried, I flip back over. “What’s wrong?”
“Would you quit asking me that?” Irritable, he positions himself between my thighs. “I already told you. Nothing.”
I’ll say. Because when he thrusts, nothing is what I feel.
I glance down. He isn’t hard.
Yet, it doesn’t stop him from humping me like a dog humps a stuffed animal.
“Whoa. Stop.”
Visibly irate, he bolts up. “Goddammit.”
Wrapping the sheet around me, I touch his shoulder. He’s never had this issue before, but I don’t want him to feel ashamed or embarrassed. Touring is stressful.
“It’s not your fault. Sometimes these things—”
“I know it’s not my fault,” he snaps, his tone accusatory.
Taken aback, I clutch the sheet tighter to my chest. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’d be more turned on if you didn’t lie there like a dead fish all the time.” His upper lip curls in disgust as he looks me up and down. “And if you hit the gym.”
The compassion I felt evaporates. “Excuse me?”
I expect him to apologize for being a grade-A jerk, but he doubles down.
“You see all the groupies and girls who come backstage, Skylar. If you worked out more and nagged less, we’d both be a lot happier.”
“Are you freaking serious right now?”
He merely shrugs. “I’m just being honest.”
I scurry off the bed because I don’t want to be anywhere near him. “An honest scumbag.”
“I’d rather be a scumbag than a frigid bitch,” he booms so loud the windows rattle.
Talk about glass houses. “That’s a bit ironic, don’t you think?”
Upper lip curling in disgust, he sweeps a hand up and down. “How the hell am I supposed to get it up when I’m staring at that crater on your ass and those cottage cheese thighs.”
It would hurt less if he took a steel bat to my face.
I knew I had problem areas, but I didn’t think my body was so disgusting that it actually turned him off.
Tears sting my eyes and I run into the bathroom.
Josh is hot on my heels. I try to shove him away, but he grabs my arm. “Don’t be so sensitive.”
Don’t be so sensitive after hearing that the man who loves me can’t bear the sight of my ass and thighs?
That my naked body is so gross he can’t even get an erection?
That he constantly compares me to the groupies he fucks behind my back?
That I’m trying my hardest to save him…even though he’s destroying me.
Maybe Memphis was right. Maybe I shouldn’t be here anymore.
I break free from his hold. “Leave me alone.” Pushing past him, I retrieve my suitcase from the closet. “I need space.”
But he doesn’t give me any. Ripping my luggage out of my hands, he pulls me into his arms. “I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t mean it.”
His words should make me feel better, but it only makes me cry harder. I try so hard to be perfect—to be everything he needs—but it’s never enough.
“If you didn’t mean it, then why did you say it?”
Penitent, he hangs his head. “Because I’m a fucking idiot.” He frames my face with his hands. “I’m so sorry, baby. I never meant to hurt you.”
He did more than hurt me.
Because he didn’t just plant seeds this time…he gave them water and sunlight.
Now they’re blossoming inside me, growing like weeds.
Wiping my damp cheeks, he kisses my forehead. “I’m a shithead who doesn’t deserve you. But I need you.” Desperation fills his voice, and he drops to his knees, burying his head against my stomach. “Don’t give up on me. Please.”
There are times I want to.
But you don’t abandon someone you care about.
Especially after they saved you.
“You have to lock in with me, motherfucker,” Storm snarls.
Less than a second later, a set of drumsticks go flying.
Fortunately, I’m sitting in the front row during today’s sound check and therefore, not in the direct line of fire.
Phoenix isn’t so lucky, though because one hits the back of his head.
“Son of a bitch. Would you two idiots grow the fuck up?”
I doubt that’s possible, but I hope they put their issues aside for now so I can go back to enjoying the show.
Memphis usually sings backup for certain songs, but Phoenix’s voice is so extra it’s rare that I get to solely listen to him. However, one of the techs must have screwed up because his mic was louder than Phoenix’s during the last run-through.
And while the lead singer of Sharp Objects has an incredible voice worthy of all the accolades—and panties—they throw at him, I love hearing Memphis.
His voice isn’t conventionally perfect like Phoenix’s, but his husky baritone never fails to light my insides up.
It affects me almost as much as his guitar playing does.
Too bad he’s such a monumental asshole.
We haven’t spoken since he tried to make me leave the other night. And honestly? His brooding and standoffish attitude suits me just fine for once.
I thought we turned over a new leaf after he consoled me in the bathroom, but then he looked me in the eyes and told me I was a mistake.
And even though he spewed lies to save face…those words were uttered with pristine conviction.
There aren’t enough words in the English language to convey the pain I felt.
The pain I still feel.
“It’s not my fault,” Josh yells, looking like he’s about to have a full-on meltdown any minute.
I hold my breath. Don’t argue with him, guys.
Because then I’ll have to calm him down, build him back up…then beg and plead for him not to drink and do drugs.
Typically, I’m up for the task, but after this morning’s argument, my tank is almost on empty. I’m mentally and emotionally exhausted and in desperate need of a breather.
“Yes, it is,” Memphis growls. “You have to follow Storm’s leads. He shouldn’t be playing catch-up the entire song.”
Ugh. So much for that.
Storm thrusts a hand in the air. “Thank you.”
Clutching the armrest, I brace myself because something tells me it’s going to be one of those days.
“But the beat is my job,” Josh whines.
Memphis looks like it’s taking every ounce of his willpower not to throttle him. “How many times do I have to tell you? Storm sets the beat!”
He roars the last part so loud, me and several others wince.
Josh looks around the venue like a lost child looks for his mother before his gaze settles on me.
“Babe, shouldn’t it be Storm who follows me?”
How the heck should I know? I can only distinguish when music is good…and when it’s bad.
And right now? It’s bad. Very bad.
However, I’m the only shot at salvaging the rest of this godawful sound check. I scan my brain for the best way to tackle this, but I’m not quick enough, because the asshole speaks.
“You can’t change the rules, dickhead.” A muscle in Memphis’s jaw works as he gestures to me. “And why the fuck are you asking her? She doesn’t know shit about music. It’s something you two have in common.”
Ouch.
Also, fuck him and the sanctimonious horse he rode in on because that’s not entirely true.
Blood pressure mounting, I spring out of my chair.
“I know that Nirvana was thrown out of their record release party for Nevermind because the guys had a food fight. I know that the original title for Heart-Shaped Box was actually Heart-Shaped Coffin. I know that Cobain worked as a janitor—”
“Nirvana sucks,” Josh interjects.
That does it. I’m no longer at my wit’s end with these people, I’m so far yonder going back to that would be a vacation. “You suck.”
In my peripheral, I see Memphis’s lips twitch.
Shit. I didn’t mean that.
Not exactly.
I rub my temples. “I didn’t…I’m sorry.”
But it’s too late. Josh is already stomping off stage like a toddler in the throes of a tantrum.
“Awesome sound check,” Phoenix says into the mic before turning to face Storm. “Would it kill you to get along with him?”
“Yes,” Storm deadpans. “Yes, it would.”
I’m starting to believe it just might.
Exasperated, Phoenix plops down on the stage, throwing his own temper tantrum. “Well, we’re a family. So, until you two asswipes learn to tolerate each other, I ain’t singing.”
And men say women are the dramatic ones.
He looks at Memphis. “A little backup here.”
Sighing, Memphis sits beside him. “Are we on strike?”
“Ye—” Phoenix starts to say but the sound of Memphis’s phone ringing cuts him off.
He digs it out of his pocket. “In that case, I’m gonna take this.”
Phoenix and Storm start having words again, but I’m too focused on Memphis who’s cupping one of his ears so he can listen to whoever’s on the other line.
Without warning, he jumps up. “What?” My heart plummets when his face falls. “I…okay. I’ll be on the next flight.”
“What happened?” Storm questions after he hangs up.
Memphis sways a little, as though the rug was just pulled out from underneath his feet. “I…uh.”
Instinctively, I move closer. “What’s wrong?”
I’ve never seen Memphis so out of sorts before.
His eyes lock with mine. It’s as if his entire world is spinning out and I’m his anchor. “Archie…he’s…” Pain contorts his features and he visibly swallows like a dull knife is slicing his throat. “He’s…dead.”
Archie was making himself a green smoothie and preparing to go for a walk when he had a heart attack.
I’ve known him nearly my whole life and I’ve never seen the man drink green smoothies or exercise. Yet the moment he decided to adopt a healthier lifestyle…he dies.
How in the world is that fair?
“I’m going to his funeral,” Memphis grinds out.
The fact they’re even holding a meeting regarding whether or not Memphis can attend is absurd.
I glance around Chandler’s suite. From the looks of things Phoenix and Storm share my sentiments.
“You can’t,” Vic—who sounds all kinds of scary—rumbles from the speaker on Chandler’s phone. “You have shows scheduled this week and the rest of tour is already packed so they can’t be rescheduled.”
I nearly jump out of my skin when Memphis pounds a fist into the coffee table. “That’s not my fucking problem.”
Chandler pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry, Memphis, but we can’t make this work on such short notice. You need to stay.”
“No.”
Chandler sighs. “Why does it have to be tomorrow? Can’t they hold the funeral after tour?”
That’s when Memphis stands up. The lethal look in his eye sends a shiver down my spine.
“You want me to tell the woman who just lost the love of her life to postpone her grieving because of a bullshit tour?”
“A bullshit tour that’s making you and the rest of us millions,” Vic spits out.
“I don’t give a fuck!” Memphis screams, the last of his restraint unraveling.
Rising from his chair, Phoenix places a hand on Memphis’s shoulder. “Let’s put it to a vote. Majority rules.”
“I own the record label,” Vic sneers.
“But it’s us going out there every night busting our asses while you sit in your fancy office,” Storm retorts. “We’re voting. All in favor of Memphis going to Archie’s funeral, show of hands.”
Phoenix, Storm, and Memphis’s hands shoot up.
So does mine, even though I don’t count.
I glare at Josh who isn’t raising his hand.
What. The. Hell.
If anyone should have Memphis’s back right now, it’s him.
“And all in favor of not canceling the shows?” Chandler questions, thrusting his hand into the air.
Along with Josh.
Chandler speaks into his phone. “I assume your hand is up, Vic.”
“You assume correctly.”
“That did fuck all,” Josh says. “It’s a tie.”
It wouldn’t be if you had your brother’s back.
Vic clears his throat. “It’s not. Given I sign the paychecks, my vote counts twice. Sorry about your loss, Memphis, but your ass better be out on that stage this weekend…or else. Chandler, take me off speakerphone. We have another business matter to discuss.”
Memphis looks like he wants to rip someone’s head off as he storms toward the door. “This is fucking bullshit.”
“Stop acting like a little bitch,” Josh snaps. “He wasn’t even our dad.”
Memphis freezes, the muscles in his back tensing and coiling under his t-shirt.
And then…he slams the door so hard it cracks and comes off the hinges.
My chest contracts so hard it physically hurts.
Yes, he was.