Page 8 of Craving Oblivion

I wanted to go home, take off my makeup, remove the pins from my hair, and throw this gown on the floor. I wanted to flop on my bed in a pair of sweats. I was so over the constant soirees and parties. “Necessary evils, my dear,” my father told me if I complained. “How else do we gain access to the peerage?”

He believed that. But lately, I’d also noticed that my trust fund balance dipped thanks mostly to his expenditures—more than the gowns or even the school fees for my sisters or my tuition. I wondered if my father kept me around to marry me off or to use me as his personal savings account.

After my breakdown, which had corresponded to a photo of Nash with a pretty blond model soon after I’d come to England, I hadn’t cared a fig about my inheritance. I’d focused solely on gaining access to the engineering program at Imperial College, refusing to take a gap year or attend a less well-regarded university. I was going to be an engineer. And a damn fine one. No matter what else happened, I would have my work. I could create a life for myself entirely within that world, if needed.

Consequently, I hadn’t bothered to look at my bank statements until this past month when I’d managed to snag the mail off the bureau in the main hall of the country estate…and realized my father was spending fifteen thousand pounds or more each month.

That had sped up my decision to get my own flat, and since then, I’d removed Father from my bank accounts. He had railed against both those decisions before turning darkly silent.

“How about we head back inside, and I can catch you up on my most recent communique with your father?” Alistair asked.

I pressed my fingertips to my forehead. “I’ve a bit of a headache. Another time, perhaps?” I smiled to ease the rejection. I really did have a headache, no doubt caused by the stress of my interactions with Benton and the cursed hairpins.

“Then I shall take you home.” Alistair smiled down at me, eyes twinkling. “I only came tonight as a favor to a friend.”

I suppressed the urge to snort, knowing it wasn’t done in high society. “Look, Lord…?” I raised my eyebrows.

“Alistair is fine.”

I swallowed, taken aback by his warmth and lack of typical decorum.

“Well, Alistair. As you noted, I’ve recently removed myself from a rather horrid relationship and have no interest in starting another.”

“Who said anything about a relationship?” Alistair took my hand and hooked it around his arm, patting my fingers to keep them on the crease of his elbow.

We entered through the terrace doors, and I felt Benton’s hot gaze burning into mine. My headache pounded against my skull as I tried to figure out Alistair’s angle.

“Lord Seymour.”

I froze as Alistair turned me toward the voice I’d never forget, and yet I still ended up staring into the wide, hurt eyes of Lindsay Herrington-Smythe, the girl Nash had been with the night my future ended.

5

Nash

The pounding beat rushed through me. Living the music provided a high that hearing it in my head never had. I let it take me, the hum of the chords and the scream of the fans filling me up. I glanced over at Bridger, who pounded on the drums, his muscles corded, sweat dripping down his long nose as we built to a frantic crescendo. I pulled my guitar up and brought it down as Bridger slammed his drumsticks into the snare at his knees.

For a moment, all I heard was my own breathing. Bridger’s grin widened, his eyes glazed with the same adrenaline that pumped through me. Then, all the sound rushed back in—screams and air horns, Jax whooping next to me. I turned enough to see him bouncing up and down, his arms over his head like he’d won an Olympic gold medal.

The rush built, carrying me higher. I loved this feeling, wanted to stay here, floating in it forever. This was what performing was about.

A woman leaped onto the stage, screaming my name. Her hair was dark, an inky black against the lights. Her body small and curvy. For a moment, everything in me froze. Aya.

Security moved to intercept the woman, but not before I caught a glimpse of her face. Her eyes were brown, her nose too big. Her lips too thin.

Definitely not Aya.

I hadn’t seen her since my mother’s funeral six weeks ago. I’d tried to find her afterward, but she’d checked out of her hotel in Paris by the time I got there. Pop Syad had raked me hard for my treatment of her, but I’d ignored him and left early the next morning.

Now I wished I hadn’t. Most of my family was gone.

I’d been back in Paris for Pop’s funeral last week. I’d hoped Aya might attend. She hadn’t.

Don’t think about that. Get through this song. Get through the next. You’ll be off stage soon. Just hold it together.

“I love you,” the woman screamed.

I smirked as I leaned into the microphone, giving it a soft caress, much like I had Aya’s soft belly.

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