Page 46 of First Verse

The sky was on fire

But you were mine

Sitting against Evangeline’s front door, I wage a mental war on the doubts and fears assailing me. Do I regret what I said to her? Not even a little bit. I want her—wantus—more than anything. More than the drugs my body and brain still crave. More than success or recognition or acclaim. I’d burn everything down for her. Give up everything I think I want and need.

And therein lies my greatest fear: the complete lack of control I have over my feelings for her. I don’t know how to stop needing her. Craving her. Suffering when we’re apart.

At eleven years old, she stole pieces of my soul. The best pieces. I’m not whole without them, without her, and I never will be.

Three years ago, I thought I could learn to live and thrive and make music without her. And I tried. God, I fucking tried. But it wasn’t until I gave up and started writing down all my memories of her that my music came back.

Every damn song on the new album is about her in one way or another. Even with a chasm between us, she shaped every note and word.

Now, sitting here in the shadows on her small porch, my skin twitchy from nerves and the aftershocks of withdrawals, I finally admit to myself a truth I’ve known all along.

I love her.

I’ve loved her all my life and have been in love with her since I was seventeen.

The epiphany ricochets, punching me with the same truth upside down. There’s something wrong with my love. Wrong with me.

My love has hurt her.

Will it be different this time? Or will I hurt her again?

My phone lights up with a text, pulling me from my bleak thoughts. It’s Kendra again. I don’t read it. I’m sure it’s more of the same—anger, denial, threats. She’s called me eight times and sent a dozen messages in response to the text I sent her on the way to the show.

I’ll have to deal with her at some point. Do the right thing and have a face-to-face conversation. I owe her that much. I should probably be worried about her threats, too, but the freedom I feel right now drowns out potential consequences. If anything comes of it… that’s what lawyers and PR teams are for.

Headlights momentarily blind me as a car pulls into the narrow, weed-choked driveway beside her bungalow. My pulse jumps. I stand fast, gritting my teeth at a punishing wave of dizziness, then quickly turn off my phone and tuck it in my back pocket.

As Evangeline exits the car and walks toward me, my various physical discomforts fade.Background noise.My eyes suck in her angles and curves, her colors and textures. Neon pink fishnet tights and calf-high boots. An electric blue halter dress that would be sleazy on anyone else but on her looks edgy and cute. The crown of braids on her head a wispy mess after the high-energy show.

She steps up to me, chin lifted and lips lightly pursed. I can’t read the look in her mismatched eyes.

My heartbeats are bruising.

I clear my throat, bracing myself. “Regrets already?”

She hesitates. “No. I just didn’t expect you so soon.” She glances down at herself. “I was hoping to shower before you got here.”

Tension drains from me so swiftly I almost sag against the front door. “I could use a shower, too.”

“Is that so?” She fights a smile, her gaze flitting down my body. My cock jerks in my pants, and I have to bite my tongue to keep from groaning.

She adds, “I need to eat, too.”

I nod quickly. “Shower, food. What else? How do you wind down after a show these days?”

She shrugs. “A book. Tea. Sometimes a movie or a soak in the hot tub. I usually eat and pass out, though.”

I grin. “Same as always, then.”

Her soft laugh is silk on my raw skin. “Pretty much. Right this second, though, all I want is for you to move so I can open my front door.”

I smirk and make space for her, stooping to grab my backpack.

“Think you’re spending the night, huh?” she asks cheekily.

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