I kind of enjoyed irritating him by acting out and not being his perfect band singer.
But then he called in backup.
Six-foot three. Stacked as hell. A fucking monster with a badge. Ronan only made me loathe him more, because calling in backup for my “little boy tantrums” only confused me.
Confused.
I hate that fucking word.
They use it for people trying to understand their sexuality. I don’t need to figure mine out. I was just fine fucking anything with a pair of tits until Lex overdosed and stole my goddamn soul. I was eighteen when I lost him—barely got to spend any time with him in this life. Now, when I see someone who reminds me of my best friend, I have the urge to yank them to me so I can press a thousand damn kisses to their mouth.
That’s confusing, yes.
But what really burns me up is it’s not just the rare, lanky guy with a lazy smile. It’s guys like Ronan and Asshole Cop. That part’s not confusing, it’s infuriating.
I’m not attracted to men.
I just miss my best friend.
And because of his death, I’m drawn to guys like him. My heart begs to get a glimpse of Lex within each one. It’s cruel and unusual torture. If I didn’t think Dr. Maggs would shove more unnecessary drugs down my throat, I’d ask him to help me get these maddening thoughts out of my head.
But what if he tells someone?
My entire career is based on the fact that I’m a sex god who sings like a fucking dark angel. Girls—by the hundreds of thousands—cry and collapse when they see us. It’s fucking strange and oddly empowering. What happens when they find out I’m ungrateful? That I wish they were a hundred thousand Lex lookalikes instead? That sometimes I get hot thinking about Ronan yelling at me and throwing shit in his rage. Or that I’ve jacked off more times than I can count to the memory of Asshole Cop manhandling me into submission any time I lose it at Ronan’s office.
I’m fucked.
I’m not gay or confused.
Just fucked in the head.
I storm out of the bathroom and dig around in my nightstand until I find some mollies. In the past, two or three would get me nice and loose, but now, I require more. I choke down four and chase them with an open bottle of Jack. As soon as my skin starts to tingle, I abandon Jack and exit the safe confines of my room to find pussy—my other drug of choice.
“Oh, God,” a girl yells out as soon as I leave the wing of my house that’s off limits and join the party. “Look at him! Look at him!”
I glance toward the sound of her voice and size her up. Short. Big tits. Nice wide hips to hold onto. The pink fabric of her leggings stretches over her thick thighs, and I want to tear them off with my teeth.
Fuck yes.
This is me.
Finding a nice piece of ass who worships the ground I walk on to drive my dick into. Not whatever the fuck I was twenty minutes ago.
Pink Leggings Girl beams at me, jiggling her fat tits as she bounces in place. She pulls out her phone and starts recording as she chants, “Omigodomigodomigod.”
Flashing her a lazy grin, I saunter over to her and pose. Tomorrow, this video will be all over social media—one more thing for my parents to lecture me about whenever they call.
“I like your tits,” I say with a wicked grin. “Songs are written about tits like yours.” I reach between us and rub my fingers over the front of her leggings between the juncture of her thighs. “Your thighs, though, are what wars are fought over.”
The girl fucking swoons on her feet, nearly dropping her phone.
“Turn off the phone and play with me,” I taunt as I grip her wrist and drag her behind me through the crowd.
Pink Leggings Girl loses the phone in her cleavage to latch herself to me. I pass Owen on a sofa. Some brunette bitch is riding him buck-ass naked in front of everyone. Riley is passed out, already in a recliner like an old man, his drumsticks hugged to his chest like they might run away in his sleep. Seth will be ready to party, though. I can always count on our bassist to get fucked up with me.
I find him outside by my pool, emphatically telling a story, his massive tattooed arms waving wildly around him. Coke dusts his nose. He’s flying as high as a fucking kite. I give Pink Leggings Girl a little tweak to her nipple through her shirt before meeting with my boy.
“Zaveeeeeeee,” he calls out, launching himself at me for a bear hug. When we first met as teens, he kept fucking up the pronunciation of my name. Xavi. Easy as fuck. But this motherfucker kept saying it like “Exavee.” I got pissed and barked out “za” and then “vee.” Even fucking wrote it down so he’d get it. Now, he calls me Zavee. Which is exactly how you say it, but I know this motherfucker sees it spelled the wrong way in his head.