Page 1 of Love Defies Us

Sadie

Thump, thump, thump, thump.

My heart goes haywires in my chest and is ready to splatter against my ribcage.

Where is it?

Where is it?

Where is my fucking diary?

I yank the oak desk drawer open, pulling out paperwork. My skin burns. Burns to the point I want to rip off my sea-green romper and lacy bra and panties. Burns to the point that I want to rip my flesh off my bones. Anxiety chews on the inside of my gut. I’ve hated small, crowded rooms ever since I was a little girl, and this tiny room feels like I’m in a cramped closet. The pale white walls make my flesh crawl. I need to get the hell out of here, but I need to find my diary. It has everything in it. A list of sex poems I wrote.

My bucket lists.

Events that are supposed to happen in the next month or so.

My diary is one of the most important things in my life. People rely on their phones and tablets for everything, but I’m old-fashioned and rely on pen and paper. My life is crammed in that little dairy. It went missing in action right after my meeting with The Wakening of Gods, a band I’m currently managing.

We’re at the State Farm Stadium in Atlanta, Georgia for their last performance. I’ve been on tour with The Wakening of Gods for three months. Three months of babysitting a bunch of grown men who act like children that can drive you to pop a Xanax. After I finish managing them, hopefully, my dad will see all the hard work that I’ve been putting into this company and make me CEO of Sacrifice Records. I’ve been gunning for it since I graduated with my business degree from Harvard last year. Sacrifice Records is one of the top labels in the United States. My great grandfather started this business, so it’s been passed down from generation to generation. My dad is ruthless and cutthroat as the CEO, just like the music industry. He’ll be stepping down in the next couple of months for retirement, and hopefully, he won’t give the position to my brother.

I move to the next empty drawer, then I bend down on all fours. My romper rides up my ass cheeks as my curly jet-black hair falls over my shoulders.

“No, no, no, no. It has to be here. It’s the only place I had it.” My words bounce off the wall. I crawl on the gray tiles, to the indigo couch tucked away in the far corner, getting my hands and knees dirty. I’m greeted with dust mites, a few used condoms, chewed bubble gum that stuck to the floor.

Gross. I’ll just have to buy another diary. I hope no one has read it because I wrote some filthy things in there.

“You keep bending over like that in front of me, you’ll find yourself fucked against the floor, Thumbelina.” A deep smoky tone threatens the air and his words are little ants marching up my spine.

My heart skips a beat like a rock skipping over a pond, and my nipples harden against my bra. I hurry up and get off the grainy floor and stand face to face with the man of my wet dreams.

Felix Sawyer is the drummer and he’s known for his awesome solo performances. He’s known as the broken god, and he’s broken as a shattered glass. That fire-breathing ex of his did a number on his heart by sleeping with his ex-manager. I don’t know the full story, but the tabloids and gossip blogs made a mockery of the incident, and I never asked him about it. Because I don’t ask people about their business if I don’t know them personally.

Once the world sees a flaw in celebrities, they treat them the way Cinderella was treated by her evil step-sisters—with cruelty and abuse. People can’t handle their gods having human traits.

I love, love, love their music. Angry and sad. Dark and cold.

This guy is walking lubricant. His eyes are the color of mud and deep, deep, deep, as a bottomless pit, but they’re hard, lethal, dangerous. And his cheekbones are sharp. So sharp that you can hone a blade on it. His skin is smooth as stone and the color of golden sand. A few strands of his copper hair float in front of his forehead, and two nose rings glint in his nostrils. Tattoos written in Hebrew snake up to his right chest. He’s built like a Viking, thick muscles and tall as a skyscraper. Six foot five or six. Who knows? Either way, my five-foot-four frame wants to climb him like a tree. Every time I’m around him my stomach turns into goo. Felix is gorgeous as a thunderstorm. Beautiful from far away, but up close, he’s deadly, dangerous, and chaotic, sweeping women off their feet with his charm.

He yanks his stained white shirt over his head, and my gaze zeroes in on his chiseled abs. A delicious a line of hair rails down to his jeans that hang so low on his narrow hips, that fine strands of pubic hair peek above his jeans.

My breath is unsteady as ocean waves and my throat is drier than a desert.

Damn. You think I would have gotten used to seeing his body while I was on tour with him, but every time I lay my hungry eyes on him, his body looks more delicious.

“Have you seen my diary?” My words come out shakier than an earthquake, and I cross my right Greek sandal across my other.

He swaggers to his black backpack that’s next to the dresser, swaps his stained shirt for a clean white t-shirt, and pulls it over his head. “It has Ariel, The Little Mermaid on it.”

If he read it then my life is over with.

I’ve written sex poems about him.

I’ve written sex fantasies of him taking my virginity.

We aren’t friends and we aren’t enemies. He’s spoken to me to tell me how beautiful I am and how good I would look riding his dick. And I bet my life savings—thirty million dollars, to be exact—that he tells every groupie he comes across that. That’s how our relationship rolls. Felix is the biggest flirt. He’d flirt a nun out of her clothes before she realized it, and she’d be standing there asking what happened. And for that reason alone, I don’t take what he says serious. He’s the most dangerous man to the women’s population because he knows how sexy he is. And he uses it to his advantage. When we were on tour, he brought a few groupies to his hotel room. And my dumb heart raged with jealousy. But I have no right to be jealous, because his bed is always warm for me. Every week, he asks me to spend the night in his hotel room and every time, I use my pride as a shield to turn him down.

His facial expression is calm as an autumn night, and I want to bathe in his calmness, so I can get rid of my anxiety. He steps closer as he stares into my eyes like he knows my heart and soul.

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