Page 8 of Forever and Ever

“Missed you too,” I tell her, as she pulls away and gives my arms a final squeeze. “Even those pieces of shit.”

I look over at where Rome has taken a seat by Sebastian again, and they both just flip me off.

Eloise shakes her head, and it swishes her sandy brown ponytail around. She’s unaffected by us at this point—basically a little sister to us all, even if she’s only blood related to Sebastian, her twin.

I drop into a seat across from Rome and Sebastian, while Eloise sits down beside me. The four of us back together. Part of me expects Hell to open its mouth in this moment and decide we’ve already done enough damage, and our time is up. But that’s wishful thinking.

“Hey, man,” Sebastian says, tipping his chin up at me. “You good?”

“You know it.”

He nods, but I’m not sure either of us believe it as he rests his head back in the oversized seat and closes his eyes.

On every tour the private planes and buses seem to get more extravagant. And this one is no different. As if we can’t find enough ways to blow the money we’re making, the label is intent on helping us spend it.

This plane is proof. We won’t even be using it much this tour since we’ll be mostly on buses. But it’s decked out like we might as well be moving in.

There’s a bedroom in the back and a full sitting area up front, with plenty of room for the band and our personal crew. There’s a full staff on hand already making drinks, which Rome seems well aware of as his gaze trails a busty beauty around the plane. It’s all a little ridiculous. Such is life when you get rich and famous enough.

I’ve been out of rehab for five seconds, and I already know this next tour is going to be a shit show. As if the alcohol and drugs aren’t enough to tempt a person, there’s sex everywhere.

Speaking of temptation—just when I think we’re ready to take off, a certain dark goddess trails Adrian onto the plane.

Mercedes Lopez, a woman I can’t seem to figure out yet.

She gives off a constantfuck-youvibe, especially to me. But there’s something about those narrowed dark brown eyes that might as well be a magnetic force pulling me in. Because the more she tries to push me away, the more I’m compelled to orbit around her.

And that’s after only meeting her twice. We’ve got an entire tour ahead of us.

Merry’s eyes meet mine as she walks onto the plane, and I wonder if she feels what I do—the universe playing some kind of sick joke placing her in front of me when it knows I’m just kicking one addiction and itching for another. But as quickly as she looks my way, she breaks gazes, and the hollow void in the pit of my stomach widens.

What is it about that woman?

It could be that I met her right before my entire life spiraled into a black hole. Or that for the first time in years I feel like someone is actually seeing through all the bullshit I put out there. But really it just feels like her.

I’m used to being surrounded by fake company. Plastic bodies and brainwashed minds. Besides the band, and a select few on the crew, everyone else is around simply to please us. A never-ending parade of bullshit, and it’s exhausting.

But Merry seems one hundred percent real, which is rare in this business. Like a black diamond in a sea of transparency.

Today is no different, as she’s wearing a skintight long sleeve black top that hides every inch of tattooed skin on her arms. The neckline meets her throat, and she’s paired it with dark gray leggings. I’m struck by the fact that every inch of her skin can be covered, and she’s still so damn tempting.

Her eyes drift my way once more as she tightens her dark wavy hair in her ponytail, and I’m tempted to walk over and say something. But before I can, she drops onto a seat as far away from me as possible and faces the opposite direction.

For someone who has the power to knock the air from my chest on sight, she doesn’t seem to share the feeling.

Smart fucking girl.

“Noah,” Adrian says, walking up to me and taking a seat with the band as the door to the plane closes.

I nod at Adrian, as he looks me over. He’s trying to figure out if I’m already fucked up again or if this rehab stay is going to stick. Not that I blame him.

“I’m clean,” I say, trying to get him to stop looking at me like that. I know I’m a piece of shit without everyone always seeking confirmation.

Adrian nods. “Good.”

A man of few words, which I appreciate in this moment. The last thing I need is for him to ask questions when I’m currently in a wrestling match with the demons in my head. There’s nothing to numb them or keep them at bay—their fingers are clawing.

I pop a stick of gum in my mouth and try to forget the fact that I’m crawling out of my skin as the plane starts to move. Rome’s eyes drift down to my hands, and he smirks. I’m tapping my fingers against the arms of my chair. Maybe it’s because I’m a drummer, or maybe it’s that I’m sober, but I can’t sit still.

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