Faking It (Losing It, #2)(23)

Her voice was low and warm when she said, “You wrote that song for a girl?”

“Is this you implying that I’m gay again?”

She laughed, and I wanted to sweep her into my arms, lay her down on this couch, and map out every bit of her skin with my mouth. I wanted to taste every tattoo, and know what they meant to her. I wanted to unlock the secrets that lay behind her guarded expression.

“No, I just mean . . . was she a girlfriend?”

I shook my head. “No, she wasn’t. By the time I decided to do something about it, she was already with someone else.”

“So you gave up?”

This was not what I wanted to talk about, but I guess if it kept my mind off of kissing her, it worked.

“There was no point,” I said. “I couldn’t compete.”

“Bullshit.” She pressed down a little harder, and jerked my face a little closer to her own. “You’re Golden Boy. You’re good at everything. You’re sweet, gorgeous, and probably stop to help little old ladies cross the street. If you can’t compete, the rest of us are completely f*cked.”

I smiled. Hearing her say I was gorgeous was a pretty good consolation prize.

“The other guy is British.”

She tossed her head back and laughed, and my eyes caught on the smooth line of her neck to be something I wasng.wa.

“Yeah, you’re shit out of luck, Golden Boy.”

It felt good to be able to laugh about this with someone. I hadn’t even been able to do that with Milo or any of my friends back home. This morning losing Bliss had seemed like a weight shackled to my feet, and now it felt like what it was—a memory.

She was still smiling when she lifted the cloth from my forehead.

She hummed and said, “Looks good.”

She sat back, and the hand on my face dropped to my thigh. She used it to brace herself as she reached for the gauze. Sweet Jesus.

I searched for something, anything to say. “It’s been an . . . interesting day.”

Considering I’d only met her this morning, and I was ten miles past fascinated into obsessed territory, yeah. I’d say the day had been pretty damn interesting.

“Tomorrow will make today look like a cakewalk,” she said.

She cut a piece of gauze, and raised back up on her knees to place it on my head.

“Why do you hate the holidays so much? Do your parents go way overboard?”

She pressed tape to the edges of the bandage and started smoothing it down, and her other hand rested on my shoulder for balance.

“It’s hard to explain.”

“I think I can keep up.”

She reached for the rag again and started cleaning more blood off my face. With her eyes focused on her work, she said, “The holidays bring up bad memories for us. My parents think if they pretend enough and have enough decorations and food that they won’t think so much about the things they don’t have.”

“And that doesn’t work for you?”

Her eyes met mine for a few seconds.

“Nothing works for me. But music.”

I brought my hand up and placed it over hers that rested on my shoulder “I’m sorry.”

She looked down at me, and her eyes searched mine. “Normally, I hate it when people say that, but . . .”

The damp rag skimmed across my cheek to the cut on my mouth. Her eyes were dark, and her lips parted. She dabbed at the cut carefully. I watched the movement of her throat as she swallowed.

Slowly, so slowly that it felt like a dream, her hand turned so that the backs of her knuckles trailed across my lips. Her eyes were open="x1SO aNG-FIRST" aid=





14

Max

This was a catastrof*ck of colossal proportions.

I hit accept and said, “Hi, babe.” The sound on his end was garbled and booming. He must have been in some kind of club because the music was blasting. “Mace?”

“Maxi Pad!”

And . . . he was drunk.

“We’ve talked about this, Mace. There are funny nicknames, and there are atrocious ones. That one is the latter.”

“Maxi . . . Come meet me at Pure.”

Shit, if he was there, he’d probably been popping pills rather than downing beer.

“I can’t, Mace.”

“Yes, you can. Christ, Max, this shit is awesome. You have to come try it.”

Just as I thought. I wasn’t judging him. I’d done too many screwed-up things over the years to do that, but I didn’t have room for that kind of stuff in my life. If I dealt with my pain that way, there would be no reason to put it into my music instead, and then I’d be left with nothing.

“Listen, Mace, I had a really rough day at work.”

“I’ll take your mind off of it.” His voice was gravelly and slurred. His voice normally made me weak in the knees. Not tonight. I wasn’t up for any kind of solution he had to offer.

“No, Mace. I’m just going to go to sleep.”

“Fuck, Max. First, you bail on me this morning.”

“My parents are in town, and you bailed on me.”

He didn’t even listen to me, just kept right on talking. “Now, you won’t even come out when I won’t see you at all tomorrow.”

I couldn’t deal with this right now. It took all of my control not to just hang up the phone.