Page 40 of Last Chorus

My cock, already stiff against my thigh, pulses in agonized want.

Out of desperation, I snap, “Fairy.”

Her eyes pop open. Glazed, they roam my face before stalling on my mouth. “I thought I dreamed you.”

Jesus fucking Christ, I’m not strong enough for this.

I’m still reeling from the longing in her voice when her eyes suddenly widen. She laughs, the sound soft, throaty, and designed to torture me.

“Remember asking me if I’d ever pierce my nipples?”

The water glass almost slips from my hand. Setting it down quickly on the end table, I look up at the ceiling and start counting down from a hundred. When I get to seventy-three, my balls stop throbbing. At sixty, I find the willpower to lower my gaze back to her.

“Evangeline, I?—”

“Do you remember?”

She’s not laughing anymore. Her eyes are more lucid, the look in them brave but resigned. Like she’s expecting disappointment. Like she’s used to it.

It fucking hurts. Even if I understand why. Even if it’s my own damn fault she’s ever doubted that our time together was as real for me as it was for her.

I’ve never had a chance to explain that by the end of my using—which she had a front-row seat to—I was lucky if I managed to stave off the full brunt of withdrawals every day. Actuallyfeelingloaded was rare. As weird as it sounds to most people, it hadn’t even been a priority. If it had been, I would have stuck to drinking.

I have no doubt alcohol would have taken me to rock bottom eventually, just like it did my dad. Opiates got me there first because they did what alcohol couldn’t. They turned down the volume on my anxiety and—most importantly—helped me function like a somewhat normal person. Initially, at least. Until my addictionprogressed. Until I was walking a fraying tightrope of lies, avoidance, and denial.

Until I lost her.

I was a junkie, no question. Enslaved to my physical craving and mental dependence. But the times I was impaired enough to forget a single moment from that month of my life?

Zero.

Maybe someday I’ll be able to tell Evangeline everything. Maybe it will matter to her, or maybe it won’t.

But at least I can fix one misconception right now.

“I remember asking more than once. You finally told me that if I shut up about it, you’d let me take you to get pierced on your twenty-fifth birthday.”

She looks away, flushing and blinking fast. Probably remembering the other part of the deal, just like I am—that if she went through with it, I’d owe her twenty-five orgasms. And ice cream.

My thoughts are sluggish, bloated with memory and desire and regret. When she grabs my hand, I don’t understand what’s happening at first. And when I finally do, I’m incapable of resisting as she guides my fingers to the peak of her breast.

Fuck me sideways.

Even with all the beads on her dress, I can feel the metal beneath.Adjusting her grip, she guides the tip ofmy index finger from one side of the petite barbell to the other.

I’m concentrating so hard on not nutting in my pants that when she speaks, I barely register her soft, forlorn voice.

“Everyone’s mad at me. You should be, too. I’m… I’m not a good person. I used to be one, I think. Was I, Wilder? A good person? I’ve been trying to remember, but all I can really remember is you. What we were. What we did to each other.”

There’s a delay while my bloodless brain processes the words. Then I’m suddenly, acutely clearheaded. Slipping my hand from beneath hers, I sit back on my heels and heave air into my lungs.

Evangeline turns her face toward the back of the couch. A thick section of her pale hair falls off the edge and lands on my thigh, light as a feather and heavier than lead. I clench my hands to keep from touching it.

“S’ okay,” she whispers. “I wouldn’t want me anymore, either.”

“You have no idea—” I clench my teeth to hold back the rest. Nothing I say is going to land right now. Chances are she won’t even remember this conversation tomorrow.

I reach for the water glass, determined to at least have her drink some before I decide what to do. I don’twant to send her home with Clay, especially without knowing whether or not it’s safe for her. But Lily and Rye are ignoring me, and I can’t exactly carry her out of here myself. Not without serious consequences.

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