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  Sometimes, he wouldn’t come back for hours, other times, days. I didn’t learn until about a month ago where he was going when he left.

  For some reason, knowing where he went made me insanely jealous. A jealous I have never had the unfortunate opportunity to experience, until I discovered that whenever he was pissed off at me, he was going to Ryan and Natalie’s house and crashing there. This was often.

  I have no clue why it bugged me. But the thought of him running there because of an argument that we had, churns my gut. I hate runners. Yet, I am one.

  “In everyone's life, at some time, our inner fire goes out. It is then burst into flame by an encounter with another human being. We should all be thankful for those people who rekindle the inner spirit.”

  -Albert Schweitzer

  Chapter 7

  Liam

  When parking the car, I notice that the guys must have come back while I was out. A good thing, because then I will have a shield to take away an awkwardness about earlier and I won’t allow myself to be trapped with her alone, so she can confront me. Layla is the queen on confrontations. She never backs down from any disagreement.

  Which is why I always leave when she gets on her high horse of arguing. She’s never wrong and always assumes she knows how I am feeling, and Layla, ever the therapist, knows how to fix me.

  I am a long way off the course of going back to being fixed. There is no repairing the damage I’ve done to myself, let alone the damage I have done to others. Of the people that I have hurt in my short life, they don’t, nor will they ever deserve any retribution from me.

  The tracks of forgiveness have long since kicked my ass off and there is no going back.

  I enter the apartment and survey the scene before me. If I thought that retreating through the door and reentering would change what my eyes are seeing, I would do it one hundred times. But I have strong faith in my senses, one being my sight and what I am seeing is definitely happening. Good Lord.

  “What in the fuck are you guys doing?” I ask, barely holding my laughter in.

  Gage and Jason are sitting on the sofa and Zepp is sitting cross-legged on the floor below them. Gage has his hair tied back in a pink scrunchie, Zepp and Gage both have headbands on, keeping their hair out of their eyes, I suppose.

  Their faces are caked with a mud-like substance and all three of their pant legs are rolled up and their shoes are off.

  “Layla asked us if we wanted to do a spa day.” Jason answers me.

  “A girl spa day, by the looks of it. Why are you all barefoot?”

  “Oh, Layla gave us all pedicures. Liam, dude, you should try it. It’s very relaxing.” Gage adds in.

  “No thanks.” I say shortly.

  I couldn’t have been gone for more than a few hours. What has this woman done? I have been with these guys for years and not once have they applied mud masks or painted their nails. Not even when they’re offered the luxury from a high-end upscale spa.

  I turn around to head into the hallway to enter my room and I collide with Lals.

  “How did you make that happen?” I say, while nodding my head to the living room. Thinking a pleasant conversation will help keep this away from our earlier fiasco.

  She starts laughing. “It was actually really easy. They have no idea that I plan on taking pictures of them and posting it on every single social media website that I can think of. They ate all of our food, went shopping, and conned me into agreeing that I would make dinner for them.” She pauses to take a breath. “Little did I know that the recipe they wanted me to make was unreal. I mean, who adds fucking fish to lasagna?”

  I shake my head, I’ve heard of this one before. She continues. “They even bought the fish. Tilapia, actually. They really thought I would make it! It’s not like they would have eaten it anyway. I mean, who wastes money on food that they don’t even plan on eating?”

  “Lals, they’ve done this countless times to people. They really do eat it, and that’s after begging someone to make it. If I didn’t know them better and know of their habits, I would think that they had planned to eat all of our food just to have you make it for them.” I start laughing.

  It never fails. One of the reasons, if given a choice to change band members, or fuck to trade friends, I would say hell no. They keep shit fun. When life has your back against the wall and you don’t think you can go on any longer, they are there holding their hands out.

  I can’t count on all of my fingers and toes the times I have fallen into the deepest depth of despair, unwilling and unable to crawl out, and they’ve forced me to. I don’t think I can say it enough, these guys’ aren’t just friends or fucking bandmates, they are family.

  That being said, I am being one of the biggest dicks to Ryan and he has no idea. I have to suck my shitty ass emotions up and move the fuck on.

  Layla is still laughing about the scene that is still ongoing in the living room.

  “Lals, I was thinking of going out tonight with the guys, are ya down?” It wouldn’t be fair of me to exclude her, seeing as how she spends almost all of her free time with us anyway.

  “Sure, I think I’d like that. Also, there was something I wanted to mention. Nat called me earlier. She wants us to stop over for dinner within the next couple of days. I know the last few days haven’t been that great for you and I wanted to run it by you before I RSVP’d your invitation.” She states, with her eyebrows drawn in a concerned fashion.

  “Sure,” I say, brushing off her pity. “I’m going to ask the guys if they want to go. I’m positive they’ll say yes to anything.”

  “Alright, well I’ll make something that isn’t fish lasagna and then get ready. Make sure they’ll still want to stay for dinner.”

  “Alright.”

  I turn around and head back into the living room. The guys are seated right where I left them.

  “Hey, I was thinking we could all go out tonight. We’ll have Layla, so you all better behave, somewhat.”

  “Fuck Yeah!” Gage jumps on board.

  “Does this mean I can’t get laid tonight?” Jason asks.

  “I just said behave. You know, not getting raving drunk to the point of needing someone else to take care of you. What the hell kind of question is that?” I ask.

  “I just wanted to make sure I didn’t have to abstain just because a girl is going out with us. Might I add that it’s also a first.”

  “I’m in.” Zepp adds quietly.

  “Just so you know, though, you are all going back to your own beds. No one is crashing here.”

  “Don’t worry.” They say in unison.

  “Also, Lals is refusing to make that nasty ass food. So if you want to eat here before we head out, you have to deal.”

  They moan in sadness and disappointment.

  “Well, then it’s settled. Why don’t you all get your asses cleaned up and home. Get dressed, as men, not females and be back here around eight. We can do a late dinner, then head out. Sound good?”

  “Yeah, we’ll take a cab here, so my car isn’t parked here, then cab it out.”

  “Alright, now pull your fucking pant legs down like normal people.”

  They all stand up and make their way into the kitchen to the sink. To wash their mud mask away I presume.

  “Since I was awoken at the fucking crack of dawn, I’m going to lay down for a mid-day nap. You guys should catch some rest too, if you want to be out late.” They nod.

  Listen to me, I sound like an eighty year old, who cannot function on a few hours of sleep. Some days, I truly feel like one, though. This shit I have put my body through-things no one should do to themselves-has only made my aging process faster, or so I feel.

  “I have absolutely no pleasure in the stimulants in which I sometimes so madly indulge. It has not been in the pursuit of pleasure that I have periled life and reputation and reason. It has been the desperate attempt to escape from torturing memories, from a sense of insupportable loneliness and a dread of some
strange impending doom.”

  - Edgar Allan Poe

  Chapter 8

  Layla

  Sometimes, I deceive myself into believing that those men, adolescents really, could act like adults. That I could allow them to pass one over on me and not catch it. Fish.

  Fucking Fish.

  Fish Lasagna.

  I’ve never.

  Again, I laugh. Something that has been happening since they first gave me the recipe written down on an index card. The card was worn and wrinkled, like Gage had carried it in his wallet and rarely removed it. I’m still not sure if they really believed that I would make it¸ or maybe they ended up fooling themselves in the end.

  Liam decided to take a nap, like the old man he is before dinner and the night out we have planned. I decided to make something Italian. One of my favorites, Chicken Alfredo. And no, not that store bought Ragu fake Alfredo sauce, but my own. The real Alfredo, with a sour cream base, some mozzarella cheese added in, and flour to thicken. That’s the shit that hits the spot.

  I tend to like to make the sauce a few hours before, allowing it to occasionally simmer, until the chicken is boiled and baked. But because I wasn’t given much of a notice and I lucked out with the guys buying all of the makings of my favorite dish, I decided to start on it as soon as they left. They’ll have their salad and breadsticks still, so that should suffice some part of our deal.

  Around eight, the guys walk in as Liam’s walking out, having apparently woken up and showered. It’s hard to ignore his attractiveness in all of its glory. He is one fine male specimen, if I have ever seen one.

  Tall, taller than I, with a grown out fohawk. It’s still short, though. And his beautiful piercing green eyes. The man would scare the hair off of Big Foot- if he even existed- with his glare alone. He has a hard steel jaw that ticks whenever he’s thinking, or pissed off. Okay, maybe all the time. Whenever he’s not speaking, at least.

  And the tattoos that go on for days. Tattoos that he refuses to discuss. I’ve tried, countless times. He won’t budge. Ever. Which is pretty damn pointless.

  The way I see it, your skin is a canvas. The most important canvas in the world, and if you permanently etch a work of art into your skin, it better fucking mean something. Something deep into your core. Fuck, it damn well better mean something to you.

  It should sure as hell show you who you are. Why ruin that beautiful unmarked skin? Skin that is with you forever, if it doesn’t mean anything to you?

  I have a few tattoos, all hidden of course. Because I don’t want to show anyone who I am. I don’t want to discuss it. Maybe Liam should have thought about that before he covered his entire body in ink.

  He has this one tattoo that I can’t seem to get out of my thoughts. Every time I close my eyes and my mind starts drifting off to him, it comes to mind. Whenever I bring it up, he shuts down immediately.

  It’s a red dragon. A fierce looking creature, with flame coming out of its mouth, aiming to the dead center of his chest to his heart. It takes up half of his chest and the tail ends below his ribs. It’s the focal piece for all of his tattoos on his upper body. It’s the only ink that is colored on his body. The rest is black. Most are tribal, some are initials, dates and such.

  He won’t speak about one of them. Now, whenever I see him shirtless, I look away. That way it’s not a tease and doesn’t cause me to open my mouth.

  As I’m finishing up the sauce and about to boil the chicken before I pop it in the oven, Liam comes out, wearing nothing but a towel.

  I have been abstaining from sex for about two months, all because Nat nicely pointed out how it’s my coping mechanism. My mode of self-preservation.

  Here I was being a major fucking hypocrite, only seeing that Natalie was hurting herself and hiding behind the walls of our two bedroom apartment. Not getting close to anyone, other than me. I pushed her into going on tour with five men she had never met, nor ever had any interest in meeting.

  Once I met Liam, I wrote him off as a no-go. Even if I found him attractive, I saw how much he cared for my best friend. He didn’t deserve my weekly commitment to nothing and I didn’t deserve to be the second choice. It wouldn’t have been fair to either of us.

  But living with him, without him pining for Natalie daily, has been a struggle. A struggle that I have been barely fighting.

  I can’t defend myself. He’s fucking hot and any female, or male for that matter, can see it within viewing distance. He’s pure testosterone. His arms are safety rails and his body screams hard, rough, pick you up and throw you around sex.

  The kind of sex I want.

  The kind of sex I need.

  I close my mouth, when I realize that it’s still agape and drool is on the verge of running out. I snap it shut and check on the chicken that is now in a pot that has water boiling over onto the stove. I toss the now cooked chicken into a baking pan and throw it in the stove.

  I then continue to set the table. It’s then that I notice Liam is still standing in place, wearing nothing but the accessory of a towel. One that barely conceals his blessed package, much to my disappointment. He looks at me one last time and moves back on to his room. What was he doing out here naked anyway?

  Shortly thereafter, the guys join us for dinner. They’re all dressed to the nines in designer clothes, designers that I am all too familiar with. These lucky bastards get free clothes, just to wear them. Apparently it’s a bonus, for a company to see someone famous wearing their apparel out and about.

  They so need to hook a girl up. I would wear the shit out of their clothes for free, if they’ll supply my demand. We all toss the dirty dishes in the sink, as Liam announces he’s going to call a cab.

  Luckily, I have friends that realize safety is of the upmost importance when going out. A designated driver, or a cab number should always be on hand, when going out to reach an intoxication level.

  While everyone else spent time spiffing themselves up and or sleeping, I made dinner, so I excuse myself to get dressed. I had picked out my outfit earlier, but planned on changing after we ate. No way would I want to go out in a dress that has my sauce running down it. A likely event if I had worn it.

  I shut the door to my room and throw my clothes off in a rush to put on my strapless bra and black booty shorts from the one and only Fredericks of Hollywood, my favorite place to buy intimate attire. I chose a strapless navy blue dress that reached the top of my knees. It hugged all of my curves in the right places, but also left a bit to the imagination.

  I slip on my black flats, which are much easier to dance in than a pair of six inch heels. I look in the mirror and apply a light coat of mascara and eyeliner, with a touch of lip gloss and I’m good to go.

  The mistake many women make when they go out is that they doll their face up and by the end of the night, after hours of drinking and dancing it up with a bunch of sweaty guys, their face looks like its running. I opt to not look like that mess.

  My hair is pin straight tonight. Not so different from any other night, but it doesn’t hold a curl, nor will it do anything else other than flop. So I add in a bobby pin, snapping my bangs back to give my face a more open fuller effect.

  Right before I leave my bedroom, I grab my license and cash out of my wallet, then slide them into my bra. Everything else can stay here. I always leave my wallet home. With as many cards as I have in there, I would surely be cleaned out in at least one account, before I realized it was missing. My life is in that leopard print Betsey Johnson wallet that I normally have attached to my hip.

  Maybe twenty minutes after I left the guys, I rejoin them in the kitchen to find Gage slamming a shot of straight vodka. Can you say disgusting? Who drinks vodka straight? That’s a burn all the way to the gut.

  “Gage, you do realize that you bought juice earlier? Wouldn’t it taste better with something mixed in?”

  “Juice? Listen babe, men go straight out. We don’t water our liquor down with nonalcoholic additives.” He brushes me off. �
��Want a shot?”

  “No thanks, babe. I’ll wait until we get there.” I say smiling. I’ll start my drinking there, pre-gaming for me never ends well. It usually ends with me covered in puke and a raging migraine in the morning.

  Somehow, my denial wasn’t an actual denial, because to these men it had to have meant ‘maybe, but I need encouragement’. I presume this because it ended with a cheer of. “Shots, shots, shots.”

  It had a familiar feeling. You know, where you attend your first party and you’ve never tasted alcohol before. Where you’re not an adult yet, but you’re coming out of your teenage years. You haven’t attended a party yet that involves drinking and getting drunk, hooking up. Yup, this is what I am thinking tonight’s going to be. Yay me.

  “You build on failure. You use it as a stepping stone. Close the door on the past. You don't try to forget the mistakes, but you don't dwell on it. You don't let it have any of your energy, or any of your time, or any of your space.”

  -Johnny Cash

  Chapter 9

  Liam

  We decided to go to the bar that Layla works at a few nights a week. It was not my first choice, not even my third or second. She doesn’t think I am aware of her sleazy co-worker, who hits on her throughout their shifts. Through investigation, I’ve learned that the owner is this sleazes’ father and apparently he’s allowed to get away with acting as such.

  It’s not in a flattering respectful way either. It’s in a grotesque, I want to fuck you right here on the bar and I don’t care what anyone has to say kind of way. Knowing that, I am not a fan of his or this bar. But I was outvoted before we left the apartment. I tried to blame the alcohol on their rash decision making. An argument only ensued, so here we are in line to enter.

  I could easily walk up to the bouncer, flash my smiling face and some cash and we would be welcomed in, but that would most likely announce our presence. I could also have Layla sneak us in around back, since she works here, but I don’t want to announce our presence to all of her co-workers either. Many people, when handed cash would open their mouths and I put no one above another. Instead, we all play it cool with our eyes down and disguises in place.