“That’s your problem,” I whispered to her when she refused to break our stare and submit. “You’re always bringing a knife to a gunfight, Fawn. You should have gone for my balls.”

One day, I’d figure out how she managed to appear both innocent and insolent at the same time. This was the paradox of Braxton Fawn—to look like heaven on earth while wreaking havoc on my peace of mind.

Fear and acceptance of what was about to happen crashed together like a wave returning to the sea. It was the moment I crossed the line I’d drawn with no remorse.

There was only the undeniable truth that I was fucked.

He kissed me.

Houston Morrow was kissing me.

Moments are meant to be a seamless transition from one to the next. The cause and the effect. Designed to make sense.

So…how did we go from his arrogant reminder that I was beneath him to…kissing?

And why didn’t I pull away?

A good time would have been when I felt his hands slip around my hips until they reached my ass. The shorts I wore to bed didn’t leave much for his imagination. I’d put all my cards on the table, and he was calling my bluff.

Groaning his pleasure at the way I filled his hands, he lifted me. My legs ended up wrapped around his trim waist. His lips never left mine.

I was the air he needed to breathe, and he was mine.

Houston moved us to the small table where Rich and I had plotted adventures together just minutes ago. Still, I didn’t fight him when he set me down on top of it. I spread my legs to make room for him, and he rewarded me by pressing his cock against the thin layer keeping him from being inside of me.

All he’d done was kiss me.

His tongue slipped between my lips, and I moaned at the taste of him mixing with the cherries that signaled my arousal. It only intensified when his hand slowly wandered underneath my shirt. It was rough and warm against my soft skin.

I wanted him to ruin me.

No question I’d let him tear me apart and piece me back together however he wanted me. I wanted to be the precious thing he took for himself and never let go. I was willing to give him anything if he never stopped touching me in return.

He groaned right then as if he could read my thoughts and shoved his hand underneath my bra. The sensation of his warm palm engulfing my breast and his thumb teasing my nipple made an unintelligible sound slip from my lips. It didn’t matter how long it had been. I’d never been touched like this.

“You want to come for me?”

“Yes.”

I needed that so much. I’d known no greater thrill than coming apart in front of an avid audience—somehow to watch and appreciate my slow descent from sanity.

It wasn’t until Nate Farrow—not my first, second, or last, but the boy who let the guilt eat him alive—that I learned the wildness in my heart, this mania I was a slave to, was truly and irrevocably a sickness.

Dirty whore.

I still believed him as if it had been yesterday.

The pungent scent of olives was heavy in the air as shame gripped me by the throat. Even though I knew it wasn’t real, I scrambled away just as Houston was about to kiss me. I didn’t stop backing away until I was pressed against the black shade covering the window.

“What just happened?” The confused dip of his brows would have been adorable if I weren’t shaking like a leaf in a tornado. “Get your ass back over here, Fawn.”

I shook my head, feeling my throat clog when I tried to speak. “You shouldn’t have kissed me.”

“You shouldn’t have asked me to.”

I hadn’t, but we both know I wanted him to. Denying it when it had been obvious would only make me feel pathetic on top of everything else.

“You don’t understand, Houston. When Calvin died, you didn’t get your new start. You just traded one addict for another.”

The disgust on his face at my confession was ten times more mortifying than years-old shame.

“You’re on drugs?” he spat.

I vehemently shook my head. “Not that kind of addiction.”

In my opinion, I had it worse. At least with drugs, I could have been cured. Instead, all I had to cope was to bury a relentless demon.

“Goddamn it,” Houston swore through gritted teeth, “tell me and stop beating around the bush!”

“Sex,” I told him with a gasp. I couldn’t quite catch my breath after that. “I’m addicted to sex, Houston.”

I didn’t get a response because a noise had stolen Houston’s attention. I followed his glower to the door behind him, where Loren and Rich stood looking like a train was barreling toward them.

When I imagined all the ways they might discover my secret, this had been so far from it.

I never made it to the museum.

Houston had stormed from the bus, and the person I’d made plans with had trouble making eye contact with me ever since.

My only ally was Loren.

It was business as usual as far as he was concerned. I didn’t allow that small favor to give me hope. There was a chance that he was still drunk or too hungover to process how hard I’d fucked them.

The hours until the show seemed to tick by agonizingly slow. Houston never reappeared during that time, and I didn’t see him until the very last moment.

I could feel his gaze as I walked onto the stage, looking amazing but feeling like shit.

Tonight, I wore a black floor-length sheath with slits so high the stylist paired my dress with a bodysuit so that I didn’t accidentally flash my vagina. God, who I wasn’t sure I believed in, must have decided I’d had enough for today.

That was until the show started.

Yellow and red formed shapes around me as we played, but I didn’t listen to the notes through my eyes. Not this time. I was caught up in the words. I dissected each one, and not for the first time, I wondered about the girl in the song. Tonight, it felt like that girl was me even though I knew it was impossible.

She’s got claws that scratch me deep

She digs for feelings I never invited

Caught within her cold embrace

I’m falling, stalling, all over again

Just head over heels for her crocodile tears

Why don’t you just shut up

Why can’t you just get up

Why won’t you stop pulling me down (Die)

Bleeding myself dry to give you everything

Then you tell me it’s not enough, you want it all

How could I have loved such a heartless bitch

I’m not who I am anymore

Why don’t you just shut up

Why can’t you just get up

Why won’t you stop pulling me down (Die)

Hypnotized by your graceless lies

A fool for what’s in cold, dead eyes

You will never be more than a bad memory

So run, run, just keep running away from me

Of course, Houston sang as if it was his pain, but all that proved was how talented he was. It was hard enough to imagine that Houston had a heart. I couldn’t fathom him letting it be broken.

I looked to Bound’s bassist—the link between the rhythm and the melody, and the most vulnerable of the trio. I’m sure anyone would have assumed that role belonged to Rich, but no. Only someone having trouble burying their pain would feel the need to deceive. Loren’s behavior was as much for him as it was for everyone else. He was precisely the type to get his heart broken and then write a diss track.

I admired his perfect smile and the sweat dripping down his exposed abs and wondered who could willingly give him up or hurt him. Tonight, he hadn’t bothered with a shirt. All he’d worn were black jeans and matching suspenders hanging down by his hips, boots, and that medallion I hadn’t gotten around to asking him about.

His brows that had been dipped with concentration cleared as he turned his head the slightest bit and caught me drooling. I turned away before he could react. It was just in time to switch from rhythm to lead and deliver a solo that brought the house down.

Once the show ended, we were rushed from the stadium. The three of them piled into a separate Suburban, though, and I frowned at that before shrugging it off. It wasn’t exactly news that I was the odd man out, but they didn’t have to be so blatant about it.

I didn’t let it ruin the rush I felt from another successful show, and by the time the short drive was over, I’d successfully cast them from my mind. Texting back and forth with Griff and Maeko helped. They were sending me clips and shots of the show that had already surfaced online as if I hadn’t been there. Sweat beaded my brow, and my heart began pounding at the last photo they’d sent.

Someone, somehow, had captured a picture of Loren and me staring at one another.

I wasn’t aware before now how much could be said in one look. And it wasn’t one of those grainy, faraway shots either.

Nope.

It was a close-up with crystal fucking clarity.

You’d think I’d been caught with my hand down his pants with how quickly I clicked out of the photo. I shoved my phone in my bag just as I reached Bound’s tour bus, only to stop dead in my tracks.