Page 90 of Seven Lost Summers
But my body didn’t give a fuck about professionalism or boundaries or any of the responsible shit I tried throwing at it. I wanted. I ached. No amount of tossing, turning, or screaming into my pillow could quiet the pulse between my thighs or ease the way my skin seemed too tight for my body.
All I could see when I closed my eyes were their faces lit by the patio lights—Nate with that stupid crooked grin, and Theo leaning back with his beer, eyes glinting with mischief. Both of them laughing, teasing me, pulling me in without even trying.
It became too much.
So I did what I had to do.
I shoved my hand between my legs, pressed down hard, and chased the edge like my sanity depended on it. Rubbed myself raw, biting back their names as wave after wave crashed through me. I came fast.
Pathetically fast.
And then again, slower, grinding my hips against my fingers, picturing Theo’s voice in my ear and Nate’s hands holding me open, telling me not to stop.
When it was over, I lay still. Panting. A fucking mess of sweat, shame, and satisfaction.
And the worst part… it didn’t help.
I tell myself I have to get it together.
Meeting the rest of the band is a big deal. This isn’t some open mic night at the back of a bar or a favor from a friend. This is Broken Oasis. Headliners. Rock legends. Guys who are so far out of my league it’s laughable.
I’ve seen the headlines. Their faces are plastered over magazine covers. Jawlines sharp enough to cut glass. Tattoos peeking out from behind unbuttoned shirts. Eyes that smolder straight through camera lenses. They look like sin and sound even better. Together, they’re sex on stage, swagger in interviews, trouble behind the scenes. And the world cannot get enough.
Broken Oasis isn’t a band. They’re a goddamn phenomenon.
Fans sob at their shows. Paparazzi stalk them across continents. There are viral compilations of Ace losing his temper, hundreds of thirst traps of Theo, entire subreddits dedicated to Nate’s arms. And then there’s Xander, the one they write fantasies about. The brooding frontman with a voice full of gravel and heartbreak, and a mouth every girl wants between her thighs.
They don’t enter a room. They claim it.
And now I’m supposed to be around them every day, camera in hand, documenting the madness.
But I’m not stupid. I’ve seen the clips. I understand what they’re capable of.
I watched Xander tell a reporter to go fuck himself on live TV for spreading shit about Poppy—and that clip practically broke the internet. That glare alone could curdle milk.
And Ace. Jesus Christ.
That camera incident last year. The one where he got out of the car, ripped the camera straight out of a paparazzi’s hand, and simply stared at the guy with murderous intent. I watched that on repeat. Not because I enjoyed the violence, but because he didn’t even flinch. He stood there, daring the world to try him.
It was brutal. And kind of hot.
Not the point.
The point is, I can’t tell who I should be more nervous about meeting, Xander or Ace. Both of them carry that edge.
Still, Nate and Theo swear by them, call them family, insist they’d bleed for each other. So perhaps they aren’t what the media portrays.
I check my watch for what seems like the hundredth time, as if the damn numbers might rearrange themselves if I glare hard enough.
5:57 AM.
Too early to be this amped up. Too late to back out. No point worrying about chasing sleep when I’ve barely closed my eyes.
I exhale, running my hands down my face, trying to get my body to finally relax for a few hours, but my brain is still too wired.
A noise from the other room catches my attention. It’s soft, but enough to make my ears perk up. Light spills under my closed door from the hallway.
I wonder which one of them is awake.
