Page 15 of The Bloodfeather Promise
Were they really screwing each other? Behind Dylan’s back? Behind my back? Would Alex do that to my best friend?Knowing it would hurt me, too?Memories, flashes of clarity, Alex and Jessica together backstage, at afterparties, at rehearsals, tease me. Sometimes the sharpness is nearly more than I can bear.
Holly leans through the open doors, a hand on the frame. There’s not a stitch of clothing on her long, lithe body.
“You know I can’t do that stuff,” I tell her.
“You might change your mind one day. I want to be here when you do.”
“I won’t.”
Giving me an odd look, she pushes shoulder length hair off her face with one hand. “Why are you being a dick?”
“I’m always a dick.”
She huffs and turns away, calling out over a tanned shoulder, “Well, come put it to good use...”
With one last glance toward the beach, I amble into the living room and fall back into the middle of a huge white leather sectional sofa. The youngest designer at Atlanta’s most exclusive agency presses a glass of whiskey neat into my hand, then leans her head down so she can snort a line of coke off the hard planes of my abdomen. Tracing the tattoo on my chest with her tongue, she licks her way back down to the closure of my swim trunks. A few tugs, and I’m as naked as she is. She straddles my lap and slides me inside her.
I smoke a blunt, sip my whiskey. Holly wears herself out riding my cock. It’s a while before I finish, and it isn’t because I’m concerned about her pleasure.
Fifteen minutes after she climbs on top, while I’m thinking how the leather sticks to our damp asses, while I’m bored out of my mind, wondering how brutal I’m gonna be when I end things with this chick, I envision Emerson Banner in Holly’s place, bouncing and moaning my name as she comes, all that dark, silky hair streaming over her and me, tangling us in a web of lust. Suddenly, I don’t want my conjured fantasy to be over too quickly.
Hell. It’s all I’ve got to look forward to in this ass-backward town where I’m hiding in plain sight. I don’t think about Alex. Don’t think about the band. Or Dylan. Or Jessica. I can’t think about why I’m here or how badly I want a bump of coke. All I think about isher. Emerson. Imagining how beautiful she would look spread out on this couch, that golden skin and dark hair juxtaposed against the white leather.
My body tightens with the image, the explosion building as the girl I don’t want, grinding herself raw on me, is substituted for the girl I do want. Holly screams out her approval, writhing and shaking so hard she’d give a seasoned porn star a run for her money. In spite of my disinterest, I’m vaguely impressed by the performance.
Maybe I should keep her coming around until Emerson Banner is a sure thing in my bed. Might be better, better than my palm and my own spit anyway.
