Page 30 of The Bloodfeather Promise
I think I took that mysterious girl again in those hazy pre-dawn hours. Maybe it was a slow, languorous session; maybe it was quick and hard. I just don’t remember. If I’d been completely sober, I might’ve asked for her number. Probably invited her to continue on tour with us because I must have liked being buried deep inside her. I wish I could remember every detail. I wish I could remember when she left and why I let her go.
That was a first for me. I would not have wanted her to leave, and had I kept her, I would have fucked her again and again. I suspect I would have laid her out and plowed that sweet body right in front of Dylan, just to prove my ownership. Rubbed it in his face. Used her to hurt him. Just as I remember threatening in that bar.
I wish I could remember her name, or if I even asked her name. Not knowing is almost as awful as the half-memory of how she tasted. I don’t know why, but it lurks in the subconscious portion of my brain. Such a strange, random thing, but that’s how it is with addicts. Certain smells, flavors, and especially songs shine during those moments of such exquisite delirium.
The partial reminiscence of that girl’s mouth strikes me at the most unexpected times. I canalmosttaste the salty-sweet flavor of the triangle between her thighs, and it fucking drives me mad that I lost her. In many ways, I’ve been searching for a pornographic version of Cinderella since that night. If I ever find her, no doubt we’ll fuck each other into happily ever after.
That night started a new period in my life, a time of such wanton self-destruction it’s a wonder I survived. Unofficially, it became the Year of the Brunette because, even as the drug and alcohol abuse escalated, in my messed-up way of rationalizing things, I was breaking my old patterns. I stopped screwing blonde replicas of the girl responsible for my brother’s death. I wasn’t twisting the knife into Dylan’s guilty conscience over and over, although I told myself I didn’t care about his guilty conscience.
Why does Emerson remind me of that girl I can’t remember? The one I unconsciously searched for during that crazy year? I don’t know. Everything inside me reaches for her. Like she’s the resolution to a game I don’t know the rules for. It’s crazy, this almost magnetic pull I feel for her, but I can’t fight it. The more she pulls away, the closer I want to get. The farther she withdraws, the harder I will pursue. If she is afraid or disgusted by my reputation, I can overcome that with a little time.
Emerson sighs, untucking her long, beautiful legs, then scoots over, leaving one side of the swing vacant. “Sit down if you like. I won’t call the cops just yet.”
I let out a breath I don’t realize I’m holding and take a seat beside her. For a few moments, we simply push the swing. Back and forth. Slow. Rhythmic. Using the tips of our toes and the heels of our feet to keep the motion going.
“What are you reading?” I ask, more to fill the silence than anything else. I enjoy reading. I just rarely find time for it.
She cuts her eyes at me, those full lips of hers tilting up in the corners. “I’m sure you’ve never read it.”
“Are you certain?” I crane my neck trying to catch a glimpse of the title, but her hand covers it. “Maybe I’d like to borrow it.” My idea is sudden inspiration. If she lends it, I’ll have a reason to seek her out when I return it. Or, hell, I might even read the damn thing, just so I can prove I’m capable of showing interest in her hobbies.
Her head tilts and a little huff of a laugh escapes her. “Would you promise to read it?”
“Of course.”
“Even if you find out one of the main subjects may be disturbingly… similar to yourself?”
Now, I am intrigued. And determined to read whatever has her thinking of me while thumbing those pages. Probably a novel about some legendary rocker, or maybe a band. “If you are going to make me beg you for it, I won’t hesitate, you know. Besides, it will be a nice break when I’m not working on songs. Hell, maybe I’ll find some inspiration.”
Emerson giggles at that, and I can’t help but smile in return. Her amusement is contagious and adorable. Oh shit, what the hell am I getting myself in to? How deep am I getting here? She is supposed to be a quick, easy fuck, and here I am, joining her goddamn book club.
When she holds the book up, the cover’s elaborate etching catches the light of the lamp.Mansfield Park.
“Jane Austen?” Disappointment shows both in my expression and my tone. I was hoping for the latest tell-all on any one of my musical idols. “A Borin’ Fuckin’ Victorian.”
Yeah, that’s really a term the guys and I came up after suffering throughGreat Expectationsin Mrs. Melton’s twelfth-grade AP English class.
“Technically, it’s a Regency,” Emerson chides, removing a gold filigree bookmark from the center of the book. She sets that aside on the small table then offers the novel to me with a saucy grin. “You’ll want to pay particular attention to the character, Henry Crawford. He’s quite awful. A cad by 1800’s standards, a self-indulgent asshole by today's. You promised, remember. To read it.”
I wonder if my jaw has dropped. Did she just call me an asshole and disguise it by using a fictional character for comparison? Yes… yes, I think she did.
“That was before I knew what it was,” I grumble, taking the pretty book from her. It’s warm from her hands holding it. Or maybe from resting in her lap.
Mostly likely, it’s retaining the heat of the evening and has nothing to do with her softness.
“Still a promise.”
The way she says it, I know she expects me to back out of the deal. But Emerson doesn’t know how stubborn I can be when I’m obsessed with something. And, lucky her, she’s that something. I’ll read this damn book even if it kills me, and fuckin’ submit a five-page report on it if I must.
“I suppose you’ve read it before?” It’s good strategy to confirm her knowledge of the subject. So, when we discuss the book’s details, I’ll blow her away with my incredible insight of Regency, or Victorian era,whatever, morals and societal restrictions.
“Probably about ten times. I regard it as a cautionary tale.”
What the hell does that mean? Doesn’t matter.I’ll do whatever is necessary to get close to her.
I purposefully make my voice husky. “I’m sure I’ll love it.”
“And I’m sure you won’t, but maybe you will find something useful in the story. Maybe an idea for a song or something. Inspiration comes from the unexpected, doesn’t it?”
