CHAPTER 4

Chris starts the game, and I force my attention to him.

"I've never been fucked up the ass."

Carla shoves Chris but drinks.

"Only me? Fine. I've never had a thousand people screaming my name." She steps close enough to brush her boobs against Timothy's arm as if she has fleas and he's a scratching post. "That's you, baby. That show you did in Miami last month."

He cocks his head. When he speaks, his voice is amused, with an edge of something I can't make out above the music. "I filled in as a favor to Eddie when their guitarist had a car accident. The crowd didn't know my name."

"They were undressing you with their eyes. Same damn thing."

Timothy looks as if he's about to argue but takes a drink. "I'd rather be good than famous." he says after, staring into his cup. "The best guitarists aren't guys like Eddie. They're session musicians. They've played on every radio edit you've ever heard for the last seventy years, and you couldn't name one of them. Not everyone needs thousands of screaming fans to be worthwhile."

"Spoken like someone who's afraid." I'm supposed to be making friends, but I can't resist stating the obvious. Timothy looks up. "Fame is only as dangerous as the person who commands it. If you're talented enough to get the world's attention for more than a few minutes, you have a responsibility to use it. It's not something you can toss aside."

Timothy's nostrils flare, a muscle in his jaw working.

I've hit a sore spot in this boy they love to worship.

"It's your turn." Carla reminds Timothy.

Chris drapes an arm around my neck, and I'm surprised because I almost forgot he was here, but Timothy's attention locks on the arm around my neck as if he wants to melt it away with sheer disdain.

"I've never worn a garbage bag as a fashion statement."

The comment works under my skin like a dull blade even before Carla screeches with laughter. "Drink, Emily. A lot. Jessy? You too."

"But damn, girl, you make it look good." Chris murmurs, running a finger absently along my collarbone. It tickles like an insect, and I want to brush it away, but my attention's on Timothy.

He looks pissed, or his self-contained version of it. I've never seen him lose his temper. He's easygoing except when he broods, when whatever's below the surface is carefully leashed and dealt with deep down, where he'd never let me. Where he'd never let anyone at this party, I'm willing to guess.

I'm genuinely at a loss for why he's still standing here when he looks as though the last place he wants to be is poolside.

My throat is already burning, but I tip the cup back, swallowing gulp after gulp, and by the time I straighten, it's empty and all I can taste is cherries and vodka.

"Your turn, Emily." Chris nudges.

I square my shoulders and deliver my challenge at the boy in front of me. "I've never lived in a pool house."

I regret the words before I finish them.

They're mean because they're insensitive but also because they're true.

Timothy reaches for his cup and lifts it in a silent, mocking toast.

"You win."

He turns and starts back across the patio.

You win.

It sure doesn't feel like it.

I don't know why I said that except I felt cornered and attacked, but my chest tightens unbearably.

"What's his deal?" Chris complains.

"What that boy has money can't buy." Carla purrs. "For every girl who'd give her allowance to lick your abs, there's another who'd blow her trust fund to suck his dick."

My entire body stiffens as she takes off across the patio toward the pool house. I can't hear what she says when she catches up to him because Chris says. "Fuck him. You look like a real mermaid."

"Thanks." I say, but my gaze lingers on Carla and Timothy talking at the door.

He's going to reject her. Any minute.

I chew on my cheek.

Come on, Timothy. Shut the door.

Instead, he meets my gaze as if he can hear my words, holds it for a beat.

Then he lets her inside.

It shouldn't hurt.

Still, after our talk the other day, I'd thought that maybe he was over being this peoples' prince, that he saw through her bullshit.

I was wrong.

"Your house is amazing." Chris says when Jessy and the minions go to get more drinks. "I bet it's even better inside."

I flash him a biggest smile. "It is. You want to see?"

I pull Chris through the side door of the house to avoid Uncle Rudy and Miss Norma.

"This is the backstage tour." I say under my breath.

We sneak past the living room, bending over at the waist to avoid being seen. My heart's hammering in my ears by the time we get to the garage and I hit the lights.

"Whoa," Chris says.

My Dad's car are here. There are also shelves of awards. "Take your pick. The Grammys live inside because my stepmom made him bring them in, but everything else is here."

"Why does he keep them in the garage?"

"I don't think he has a lot of respect for rewards and formality. Your parents have this shit, too?"

"Not like this."

My head's buzzing from the cup I drained outside, but it's Chris who looks drunk on the surroundings. I know what that's like. People get a hit of my Dad, and they're hooked. It's why I don't bring many friends here.

"So, we didn't have a chance to rehearse." Chris shoots me a loaded smile. "You could show me your room."

I'm not interested for taking Chris there, even if he's the only person in the musical who doesn't have a raging hate-on for me. I'm not holding my breath for poetry and professed love, but I'm also not looking to punch my V-card with some Lacrosse player who doesn't even know my best friend's name.

"I have a better idea." I take his hand, and we trip toward the other side of the house and out into the gardens.

Torchlight bathes everything in a warm glow, but its blurring together. Its a grid of flowers, waist-high but almost like a maze.

"That's a shit-ton of roses."

I can't help smiling. "They came with the house, but my Dad planted more. He likes building stuff, working with his hands."

"I get that rich. I'm not touching anything." he brushes a hand over a rose bush and snaps off one of the blooms. My heart kicks as he tosses it into the shrubs. "You into pain? Because if we fall into these, its gonna hurt."

He snickers as he pulls me against him. I inhale, startled, and catch a hit of booze on his breath, his expensive cologne.

I push against his chest to get a few inches between us. "Whoa! Slow down, Chris."

"Come on. You've been flirting with me for weeks, Emily."

"Dream on, Chris. I'm not flirting with you. You're the one who flirting with me." Desperation edges into my tone, the need to explain and be understood.

"What I mean Emily is, you're attractive. Obviously. But you're the only person who doesn't think Carla should've gotten my part."

"Good deeds should be rewarded Emily, and I can think of a few ways for you to use that pretty mouth." Chris' gaze flicks deliberately down to his pants, then his hand slides down to grab my ass.

Alarm has my throat tightening, my body stiffening. "Stop touching me, Chris!"

He doesn't. I duck under his arm but catch my toe on the rock edging the garden and trip.

I stick my hands out to brace my fall, wincing as I land in the rose bushes, their thorns scratching at my skin, but I push myself up and trip through the garden toward the patio.

"Emily, what the fuck?!"

I glance back, but Chris' lurching toward me. A muttered curse says one of the rose bushes bit him, too.

I round the back of the house, the pool coming into view. Laughter floods in my ears. Cans litter the patio. I watch in horror as someone empties a bottle of liquor into the pool.

These people aren't my friends, and there's nothing I can do to change that. My stomach plummets, the ground tilting at a reckless angle beneath my feet.

I shove past bodies to the pool house and hit the code for the keypad. After two tries, the door open and I fall in.

The door closes behind me and a low, rough voice splits the darkness. "Party's by the pool. Get out."

I don't move. The next second, I'm shoved up against the wall by something hard and warm.

Not something. Someone.

A hard chest crushes my breasts, and male hips dig into my stomach. I'm so thrown it takes me a moment to catch up.

But its his scent, cedar and sunshine, that keeps me from freaking out that way I did with Chris.

"Emily?" Disbelief cracks the anger in his voice, his lips inches from mine in the dark.

"I know." I whisper. "You didn't recognize me without the garbage bag."

Timothy steps back, and I sway.

He lunges for me, wrapping an arm around my waist. Even though I want to shove him, I'd fall in a heap without his support. So, my fingers close over his hand, and as he helps me across the floor, I imagine away the heat of his body.

Six uncertain steps later, I'm deposited on something soft.

His bed.

The glow of light, the night, stand lamp, switched on has me wincing until my eyes adjust.

Timothy's staring down at me, a shirtless, scowling god. His toned chest floods my field of vision.

I swallow. The buzz from the alcohol has my gaze sliding down the muscles of his stomach, lingering on the indentations left by the shadows, the faint trail of hair that disappears into the top of his unbuttoned jeans.

"What did you take, Emily?" His voice is commanding, forcing my eyes up to his.

"Nothing. Maybe? I had one? two drink only. I think?" Timothy lifts a dark brow under the thick fall of hair. "Two and three quarters drink. That's it, Mr. Adams." I decide.

He doesn't smell like a cologne and liquor. Timothy smells clean and warm like a forest.

"And...you're here because of what, Emily?"

I think I prefer my trees quiet...

I slide onto my side, closing my eyes and sinking into relief the new position brings. "Chris wanted to wrestle in the roses. I didn't."

A string of impressive curses drifts through my head, almost as if I'd uttered them, but the voice isn't mine.

Then he's gone. I feel him vanish from the side of the bed only to reappear a moment later.

"Did Chris hurt you, Emily?" Timothy's voice is so low, its barely audible.

I shake my head, and the room spins. I force my eyes open to see him braced over me, close enough his knees brush the bed, holding a glass.

"Its water." he says flatly. "You're dehydrated."

"You don't have to sound like you care."