Page 12 of Such A Good Guy

I know from experience that if I let it go any longer my whole hand will start shaking.

Then my arms, all the long lines of muscle will twitch and shake uncontrollably.

And I’ve only let it get this bad one time, but if I was stupid enough not to get my fix, my whole body would shudder, full-scale tremors, nausea, and chest pain so intense I’ll think I’m having a heart attack.

And then she really would notice, start asking questions that I don’t want to tell her the answers to yet.

Everyone thinks I’m such a good guy.

“One of the good ones!” the articles say.

“One of the few guys we’ll let live when the women take over,” people write on my TikToks where I water my garden of tiny succulent plants or take a cup of tea at a cat café.

But they don’t know the truth.

Shit, maybe I am addict. In fact, IknowI am.

But Luna can’t know. Not yet anyway.

“Why is your leg shaking?” Luna asks me. “Are you nervous about the show? I didn’t realize you were this famous, Luke, god! This is crazy!”

Am I nervous about the show? No.

I don’t give a shit about my stratospheric climb to international pop star.

People always marvel at how down-to-earth I am despite my sudden fame.

But the truth is that I don’t give a shit about the fame. Only what the money can do for Luna.

Before I met her, as a former group home kid, music was the only thing that calmed me. A keyboard, piano, guitar, even two fucking spoons.

Now there’s something else. And something that alternately calms and inflames me with a wild, raging heat.

What I want is Luna.

Not just her body, but her love.

I crave it, I need it, I am going to get it.

I can almost taste the relief on my tongue as my vision blurs.

I can’t go another fucking second without my fix

“Look!” I call, pointing out the window. “If you look outside now you can see the CN Tower.”

She immediately cranes her head around to look out the limo window.

“Where?”

And a few seconds is all I need to satisfy my fix.

I pull on the cord around my neck and bring my necklace out, running it under my nose.

And then I inhale deeply, feeling that instant hit of relaxation, the subtle but distinct scents of apricot, Russian sage,and a tiny hint of incense, my fingers running over the silk of the braid.

When you’ve been secretly cutting off locks of your best friend’s little sister’s hair ever since the first night you met her, it’s a thick braid, and a talisman so strong it’s practically magic, a relic I can use to calm myself down when the urge to touch her is almost uncontrollable.

CHAPTER 4

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