Page 16 of Her Filthy Mistake

“How do you know?”

“I know. I know you. That stuff was never anything you wanted. It was part of the package you thought you needed. Or the package Jack said you needed to make it big. And that was a lie. Get your head on straight. Deal with your issues. And get back into the recording studio. You’ve felt sorry for yourself long enough. You’re not pathetic.”

“Fuck you.” I snap the phone off and hurl it onto the bed. It slides off the mattress and thumps onto the floor. “Fucking asshole.” I march to the window, spin around, and eat up the distance to the door, only to hurl myself around again and repeat the same steps.

What if I can’t write? What if the words don’t come? I haven’t written sober since I was in high school. And the further we went, the deeper I got. I’d take pills to get up in the morning. Snort coke to stay awake. And drink and take downers to go to bed. It was all an endless game. A pathetic, endless game. I stop and straighten my shoulders.

I’m not that man anymore, and I never will be again. I don’t need music in my life. The ups and downs. When were there any ups?

I’m not going back there. I snatch the door open, and my heart lurches into my throat. Miles of legs and a tight ass covered in a barely-there black bikini that matches her long raven-black hair greets me. The cover-up she’s paired her swimsuit with is see-through and leaves nothing to the imagination.

Her hair sways, brushing her lower back as she hums and dances around the kitchenette. Fuck me. I’m going to die.

As she grabs something out of the cabinet, her ass wiggles, and the snippets of words and sounds that I heard in my sleep float through my head. And just as quickly, they’re gone.

Chapter Eight

Zoe

When I hear a sound behind me, I spin around to face my roommate for the next week, and my heart drops to my feet. Like yesterday, he’s wearing swim trunks and a T-shirt, but we’re alone instead of having a buffer of people between us. Completely alone.

I clutch my cover-up tighter. “Hey.” Think of something to say besides, ‘Hey.’ Anything is better than, ‘Hey.’ “Um, hi.” Shit, my face heats until it feels like I’ve swallowed a habanero pepper.

“Hey.” He lifts an arm, gives me a half-hearted wave, and glances around the room. “Where’s Zayden? Did he already go down to meet everyone else?”

“Um….” I lick my lips as dread settles in my gut. “No.” It’s not your fault. You didn’t ask to share a bungalow with him. Nor did you demand that your brother fly back home. Stop acting like this is all your fault. If you don’t, he’s going to think you cooked this up to spend time with him alone. “No, he had to fly out this morning.” I march to the refrigerator, grab a jug of orange juice, sit it on the counter, and then retrieve a glass.

“Fly back?” His voice sounds like someone is strangling him as he speaks, but I don’t turn around to witness his horror. There’s only so much humiliation a girl can stand. And after my embarrassing display last night of getting drunk and falling on top of him in front of everyone, I’ve reached my limit.

When I woke up this morning, I promised myself that there would be no more exhibitions of my ridiculous obsession with him. I’ll behave like the adult I am. Mature and in control of my emotions.

“Yes.” I shrug like it’s no big deal. “The call he received at dinner last night was from his partner. A case they’ve been working on for months has taken a turn, and they needed him back to go undercover.”

“Shit.” I sense his movement as he closes the gap between us. “Is it dangerous?”

“Yes, I’m sure it is.” I pour the drink and wish there was some vodka to add to it. Thinking about my brother’s choice of profession makes me anxious. “But it’s what he does.”

“That doesn’t mean either of us has to like it.” And then, he’s next to me, only a few feet away, with his hip against the counter.

He smells like musky aftershave and sin. Something woodsy with a hint of vanilla. Those scents mixed with the orange juice and the aroma of brewing coffee has my senses on overload.

“It’s hard to imagine him wearing a badge and taking down the bad guys. He was a loose cannon when I met him.”

“He was an adrenaline junkie.” I wrap my hands around the glass and face him. Lord, he has beautiful eyes. It’s like staring into the ocean or staring at the sky on a bright day. The butterflies in my belly flutter with excitement to find him near enough to touch.

“How’re you handling it?”

“Handling what?”

“Your brother risking his life to take down the bad guys.”

“I’m proud of him.” I lick my lips and bite down on the bottom one for a second. “It scares me every day, and when the phone rings or I see something on the news about a police officer being shot or injured, I freak out, but I’m happy he’s doing something that he loves. He enjoys the challenge and the comradery with his fellow officers.”

“The last time we talked, I couldn’t get him to shut up about it. Not about the case he was working but about the things they look for when investigating, and the different types of crimes he’s assigned to cover. It was fascinating to hear about profiling and how accurate those patterns are.”

“It is.” My shoulders relax as we find something to discuss that doesn’t leave me feeling awkward, ridiculed, or cause an argument. “When he started, I hoped he’d stick with being a traffic cop, but that was stupid on my part.” The corners of my lips rise upward. “His profile tells a different story, doesn’t it?”

“Yes.” He chuckles. “Zayden will be on the front line, one-upping the criminals for as long as he’s able.”

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