Alcohol You Later (10)

“Are you okay, ma’am?”

Fuck my life very much.

“Yes,” I rasp, peeking up at the old man whose hand is gently resting on my back. My smile feels dirty. I feel dirty. “Just a mild panic attack,” I assure him. “I’ll be fine.”

“You will,” he agrees. “I fly on these things every couple weeks to go visit my grandbabies. Safer than a car.” He offers me the most genuine and concerned smile, reminding me so much of my own grandfather, who is no doubt turning in his grave over what I’ve just done. I don’t know if I want to laugh or cry. I could maybe do both right about now.

“Thank you.” I drop my feet to the ground, adjusting my clothes once he’s walked off.

Only me.

By the time business class is called, an hour later, I’ve gotten over my earlier humiliation and am practically floating down the jet bridge. That little airport orgasm was just an appetizer. While I hoped it would leave me feeling somewhat satisfied, all it’s managed to do—besides top the list of most embarrassing moments of my life—is leave me ravenous for the main course.

I’m moving on autopilot, consumed with thoughts of what my suddenly very bright future holds: Nights spent wrapped in Nick’s muscular arms, where the only sound machine I’ll need to fall asleep ever again is the steady drumming of his heart against my ear. His intoxicating scent rooted on my skin and in my hair. But best of all, the weight of constantly worrying over what he’s doing and who he’s doing it with will be lifted from my chest.

No. More. Groupies.

I plan to give that man everything he needs and more—to make damn sure he never regrets his choice…me.

When I get a load of my seat, I snap back to reality, unable to help the childish squeal that erupts from my chest.

In true over the top, rock star fashion, my man went all out on one of those new fancy flights with the cubicles. It’s almost as nice as when we take their label’s private jet. Okay, maybe I’m exaggerating a little, but it’s pretty freaking sweet. I could certainly get used to this lavish lifestyle.

Yeah, I was made for this, I think to myself as I sink down into my seat and crack open my latest dirty pleasure, Sweet Little Nothing by one of my favorite authors, LK Farlow.

My pulse increases with the speed of the plane when my head’s thrown back into the seat and the wheels come up.

Next stop…forever? Gah, but that has one hell of a ring to it…





Nick isn’t here. I scour the baggage area looking for his usual entourage to no avail. He’s never not been waiting for me to come off that escalator. The disappointment is a physical ache in my chest, a black hole of despair filling with doubt. What the hell is going on?

Surely if he or anyone else was hurt, he wouldn’t have been worried about my sexual satisfaction in an airport of all places.

Or would he? This is Nick we’re talking about here.

I’m beginning to wonder if he’s forgotten about me altogether when a member of security approaches, taking my bags and leading me out to a waiting car.

Okay… okay… it’s completely plausible that he didn’t have security to accompany him inside. I don’t know why I always insist on thinking the worst.

Everything is fi—

My heart plummets when I see who’s behind the wheel. Or, more specifically, who’s not.

“Thanks for picking me up, Anika.” I climb into the blacked-out Navi, strapping myself into the passenger seat with the world’s most plastic smile glued to my face, and a wave of melancholy annihilating my mood. I try like hell to sound grateful. But if I’m honest, I’m extremely let down that it isn’t Nick—or at the very least, Korie—picking me up.

Big fucking sigh.

My experience with dating a celebrity has been nothing like how it is in the novels I read—the fairy tale, the romance of it all. Of course, that likely has a lot to do with us rarely being in the same state and the enormously vexing fact that, officially, we are no more than friends. Friends with majorly explosive benefits, sure, but chemistry is not a commitment, and I’m constantly reminding myself that he doesn’t owe me a thing.

The truth of it is, more often than not, I’m questioning my own sanity and wondering where the hell I’ve managed to misplace my lady balls with regard to this man. Because I used to have them in spades—big, hairy, sweaty, gumption-filled cojones. My only saving grace—literally the singular thing stopping me from turning full damsel—is my unwavering pride. This ego of mine is far too stubborn to let on to anyone, least of all Nicholas, just how far gone I am for him. He has no clue I’m not seeing anyone else; and for as long as he is, I aim to keep it that way.

So, why the hell do I continue to put myself through this?

Because despite the pain and confusion that plagues me during the time we’re apart, Nicholas never fails to make up for it whenever we’re together. He showers me with love and affection and dotes on me like no other. The man has this effortless way of making me feel like the center of his incredibly vast universe. Once I step into his orbit, every moment feels like a dream: red carpet events and VIP parties. Quiet nights snuggling in lavish hotel beds. His eyes never stray. It’s like I’m the only woman who exists, and to feel that from a man of his caliber…well, it’s intoxicating.