Page 12 of Wild Obsession

“What?” he says between clenched teeth.

I could laugh. He’s every bit that nervous straight-A nerd who found me under the bleachers. Time and stardom haven’t changed that about him whatsoever. He blanches as I grin at him, his trademark freckles standing out more boldly on his cheeks.

Twenty-seven. There are twenty-seven of them. I shouldn’t remember that, but I do, and I also know without counting that they’re all exactly where I left them.

“How’d the show go?” I say.

“You know how it went,” Tim grits.

“Sure, but I want to hear you say it.”

“Why? So you can rub it in even more?”

I shrug. “Yeah, kind of.”

“Ass,” he mutters, but when I narrow my eyes at him, fear replaces his annoyance.

“That’s not very nice,” I say. “You’re supposed to be my mentor on this tour, aren’t you? You’re the big superstar. I’m some loser playing local dive bars. Have some compassion for the little guy.”

“You don’t need my compassion, Keannen.”

I pretend to think about that, making a show of leaning back and rubbing my thumb along my lips. “Hm, I guess I don’t, but that’s not what everyone else thinks, is it? Theydon’t know. You haven’t told them anything, have you? Not that you know me. Not that you left. Not that you’ve known this whole time that I’m the better drummer and you’re a pretender.”

I wait, staring into his eyes to make it clear this question isn’t hypothetical. When Tim replies, his voice can barely squeeze between his teeth.

“No,” he says. “I haven’t told them.”

“Weird, I thought you were close with your band.”

“I am.”

“Not close enough to tell them about your ex-boyfriend, though?”

“Keannen…”

He might be preparing to point out that we were kids or that eight whole years have passed, but I don’t let him. I slam my hand on the door beside his head. Tim flinches from the thud, cowering in on himself, but the soft brown eyes that meet mine aren’t so soft the next time I look. There’s something harder there now, something angry. Maybe time has changed him a little after all.

“Keannen,” he says, “the rest of the tour doesn’t have to be this way. We’re going to be together for the next six weeks, but we don’t have to make ourselves miserable over it. I get that I fucked up, but it was a long time ago. Can’t we attempt to get through this?”

I scoff, and any hope remaining in his face fades. “That’d be nice for you, wouldn’t it? Just move on andpretend nothing happened.”

“It was eight years ago, almost nine. Are you really still angry?”

Yes, incredibly so, but I slap on a curling grin when I respond. “Angry? No, I’m not angry. Not at all. I moved on a long time ago. I moved on many, many, many times over, Tim. If you think a chaste kiss under high school bleachers is all I’ve done in the past eight years, you’re very wrong.”

This time, the heat flushes through his face in a rush he can’t quell. His freckles swim atop reddened skin, the heat dancing in his eyes.

I’ve always loved this look. Red-faced, floundering, burning up for me. It’s different now that Tim’s grown into his boyish features and has stubble shadowing his jaw, but the effect on me is the same.

I lick my lips. Tim’s eyes follow my darting tongue. I lean even closer, but don’t let our bodies touch, merely allow my presence to loom over him, to drape him like a shadow.

“Don’t tell me you’ve spent all this time pining after me,” I say.

“I-I haven’t,” he says, not quite convincing.

“No? Then why are you blushing like a scared virgin?”

Tim’s jaw goes even tighter. He grinds his secret between his teeth, but it’s so pathetically obvious that I bark a laugh right into hisface.

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