Chapter Twenty-Five

Though no one has ever told me, and I have absolutely no experience, I still know how things work. I’ve read books. I know how a guy’s body works. A girl’s. The mechanics of sex. Up to this point that’s how I’ve always thought of it: mechanics.

Something’s definitely different now. A longing I never had before. It’s almost like my body isn’t really my body. It’s like some big toggle has been moved from OFF to ON. Big time ON, as evidence by what I’m doing right now, standing beside Ford at the soundboard, staring up at West on stage. I can’t seem to take my eyes off of him.

His voice washes over me, and it’s like he’s physically touching me.

I shift a little and glance around the packed venue, taking in the girls who are singing right along with him. Do they feel the same way I do? This odd sensitivity that almost makes me edgy?

West closes his eyes and hums one part of the song, and it vibrates down my spine.

I grab my water bottle and take a swig, trying to alleviate a thirst that doesn’t seem to want to be quenched.

He opens his eyes then and looks right at me, or at least I think he’s looking right at me.

I take another swig and try to look away, but I can’t. His gaze. It’s like he’s silently reminding me of the kisses we shared just hours ago here at the soundboard.

The cinnamon—oh, God, I wanted to suck it right out of his mouth.

His lips crook up then, and something hums through me. Can he really see me standing here beside Ford, surrounded by all these thousands of singing fans? I think he can. He has to. There’s no other way he can be affecting me like this.

Is there?

Ford leans over, and I jump.

He laughs. “You okay?”

“Yeah, sorry. Need something?”

He nods toward stage. “Just need my silver hard case. It should be near the monitor mixer.”

And that’s how the rest of the night goes. Me running errands for Ford, the concert continuing, equipment breakdown, Anne heading off to party, West getting ushered to a VIP thing, and me going back to the hotel alone.

It’s one in the morning by the time I let myself into our room. I head straight into the bathroom, and as I strip for my shower, I find the remaining stickers in my back pocket. We didn’t put any of them on. We got a little sidetracked.

West gave me stickers. Stickers. Sure I’ve been given presents over the years—a monogrammed necklace, a flowery dress, a silver hairbrush…but they were things a “perfect” girl should have. I was never given something like stickers, something I really would’ve liked and wanted.

After I finish undressing, I glance up to my naked reflection and stand for a second just staring. Normally, I don’t look at myself, but something has me pausing to take my reflection in. I look at the fake blue hair, my green eyes, and the few freckles that scatter my nose. I go lower to my B-size breasts and the mole on my lower left hip. I look at my slightly muscled legs with a tan line where my running shorts hit.

I turn left, then right, and peek over my shoulder for a rear view. I study the scars on my back, some flat and white, others darker, and a few raised. I brush my fingers over them and wonder what West will think of them if he ever sees them. He’s obviously seen other girls naked, and I try to visualize myself through his eyes. I wonder how I will compare to them.

I turn front again and put my hands on my small breasts. I squeeze them lightly, imagining West doing it instead. Closing my eyes, I trail my fingers down further over my flat stomach and into an area I only touch if I’m washing.

A shaky breath leaves my lips as I start to explore. I don’t really know what to do, all I know is that it feels good, and I don’t want to stop. My hips start to slowly circle with a rhythm they’re creating on their own.

Way down deep tension builds, and I reach out with my left hand and grip the side of the sink. I squeeze my thighs together, and suddenly it’s not my hand, it’s West’s. A moan escapes me, and I squeeze my eyes tight as I find more of a rhythm and pressure continues to climb until it peaks, and my muscles pulse in cadence with my quick breaths.

I have no clue how much time passes, but finally the tremors pass, and I stumble over to sit down on the edge of the tub. I take in a couple of deep exhausted breaths and lick my dry lips. What will that feel like with West, I wonder. The same? Different? More intense I’m sure.

You’ll go straight to Hell if you touch your body.

I shake my head. No, I won’t.

There’s nothing special about you.

“Yes, there is,” I whisper and imagine taking those thoughts, crumbling them like pieces of paper, and stuffing them in the garbage. “Stay. Out. Of. My. Head.”