His other hand wraps around my nape, dragging me into him as his tongue flattens, lapping up the cum on my chin. He groans like I’m the best damn thing he’s ever tasted before crashing his mouth into mine. Inhaling me, he kisses me like he never wants to let go, and when he moans into my mouth, I know he’s coming.
I’ve noticed he really loves to kiss me when he comes. I kind of love that.
By the time we pull apart, we’re both slick with sweat, cheeks flushed, and his hair is matted to his forehead and flying in every which direction. Neither one of us can seem to catch our breath, and suddenly, the idea of having to head back to rehab sounds like the last fucking thing I want to do.
Out here, where no one can see us, where he doesn’t have to hide, Caspian is a different person. He’shim, not Caspian Gray, drummer for Wicked Hearts, playboy and reckless celebrity. I want to keep him this way.
If only I could…
CHAPTERNINETEEN
Caspian
When I woke up this morning, I could feel it, the darkness. It’s making its way back into my mind. Not quite fully present yet, but it’s coming. It’s like I’m given this twisted sixth sense when I’m about to be hit with the pit of it. My mind feels… off. Something is wrong, but it isn’t. Everything starts to feel a little more gray, dampened by a little less color. A weight sits on my chest, getting heavier and heavier by the day, and no matter what I do, I’m unable to stop it.
Mental illness is a fucking bitch. I watched it destroy my mother. Watched it rip her apart at the seams, piece by piece, until she was unrecognizable. There would be days on end, sometimes weeks, when she wouldn’t even get out of bed. Dad would bring her food, try to force feed her. He’d give her sponge baths, brush her hair, sing her songs. My entire life, I never saw my dad give a single shit about anything the way he did with my mom.
Except maybe music.
No one’s ever been there for me, at bedside, when the days turned into weeks, and the darkness became never-ending and crippling. Granted, I’ve never let anyone get close enough to notice what was happening.
Unhinged. That’s what everyone assumes I am when the darkness comes. Not mentally ill. An unhinged rock star who doesn’t listen to a fucking thing anyone tells him. A nightmare prima donna with an affliction for drugs and alcohol and sex.
I wonder what they would say if they knew the truth. The band, my stupid fucking manager, the fans, the paparazzi. That, yeah, I like to get high or drunk or bury myself inside some no-name, no-face nobody, because it helps numb the loudness in my mind. It helps numb the darkness, the memories, the loneliness.
It’s all only temporary, though, when this shit invades my mind.
Once I come down from the high, or the buzz wears off, or I find my release, it all comes rushing back.
It’s not always like this. Sometimes I even can find joy in things. Little things. Sometimes I feel on top of the world, like if I jumped, maybe I could fly. That fades faster than the darkness, though. It’s fleeting. But honestly, it’s probably better that way. With the joy always comes the trouble. The bad decisions. The recklessness. The danger.
With the joy comes my face plastered in the tabloids, a video leaked on Twitter of a night that never should’ve happened. I’m not surprised Rowan’s seen that video. Who hasn’t?
There used to be periods of time when I felt more normal. But more and more, it’s becoming one extreme or the other. The dark and gloom, or the chaos and the trouble. There is no more normal. The highs are always way too high, and the lows are scary.
It’s been a couple of days since we returned from the dumb-ass wilderness event. As I sit naked and awake in my bed before the sun even has a chance to rise, with a sheet covering my waist, my gaze finds the warm body in my bed. The one that’s also naked. Except he’s asleep. Peacefully, by the looks of it, sprawled out on his stomach, lips parted, facial features slack. The cowlick on the back of his head makes the hair stand funny.
I find myself doing ridiculous things more often lately. Like right now, watching Rowan as he sleeps. Counting the pale brown freckles on his face and his arms and his back. Tracing the lines of his jaw and cheeks and nose with my eyes—memorizing them. Dancing my fingers along the nape of his neck, down his back, up his arms, just to hear the contented sighs fall from his sleepy lips.
What is he doing to me?
Dread sits bitterly on the back of my tongue, trudging all the way down my throat and into my gut, where it simmers, gnarly and loud.
This is a bad idea, me and him. I’ve run through every scenario I could possibly think of, any possible outcome for us, and it’s all shit. Every last one. As good as he feels, as much as he makes me want to break down the walls, I can’t.
People who get close to me always get hurt. It never fails. Even if I don’t mean to, it’s inevitable. I get mad, or upset, or stressed out, and say things I don’t mean—or shit Idomean, but really shouldn’t say out loud—or act like a fucking lunatic, or just… leave. Leaving has always felt like a viable option to me when shit gets difficult. It’s better to leave than to be left.
The very few intimate relationships I’ve been in, I’ve always been the one to walk away. Calls it quits. The thought of being left rocks me to my core. I can’t fathom letting myself be vulnerable enough for that. It’s like if I can control the situation enough, then maybe I can avoid getting hurt.
Dr. Weaver seems to think it stems from my abandonment issues. My mom left, then my dad. The two people in my life who should’ve been my constant, who should’ve always been there. They left, and I had zero control over it. Then, I went to live with my aunt, who is as unstable as they come, with the drugs, the poverty, the endless slew of men with issues and even bigger tempers. Not letting myself get too attached is a defense mechanism. My need for control stems from never feeling safe or wanted.
Or so she says.
Either way, I can’t do that to Rowan. He has his own trauma. He hasn’t come right out and told me that, but it’s clear in the way he’s latched onto me. He hasn’t gone back to his own room once since we got back from camping. He’ll even occasionally talk about subtle plans for once we get out of here.
Who the fuck thinks that far in advance?
I want to believe him. I want to wear the rose-colored glasses, be ignorant and fucking happy. Trust me, I do. But I don’t know how. And frankly, it’s just not how the world works. We come from two very different backgrounds, live two very different lifestyles. Why would our… whatever the fuck this is between us… work once we were back in L.A.? I tour, make music, perform. He lives off mommy and daddy’s money.
