He’s so serious and I know with all of my heart, he’d keep me safe. His lips are so close to mine that all I need to do is just sit taller and I could taste what I’ve been missing. And I do, when he moans, I take it to the next level by straddling his lap. Never breaking contact. Love the feel of his cock straining between my thighs. If I wasn’t devouring him, I’d make sure to tell him the only Rockstar I want is him.

“Quinn, fuck baby. I’m gonna come in my pants if you keep grinding on me like that.” Well, I guess I need to fix that real quick.

My lips never leave his but my hands do some roaming of their own. A snap, a zip and he seizes my wrists in his hands. Stopping me from going any further. He searches my face when we break apart, I’m sure I look like a woman possessed, but I don’t care. My feet are constantly telling me to run, but my heart is what’s keeping me here. I’ve never felt like this with anyone before. Not even Zander.

“You can continue pushing me away and I’ll just keep coming back. I’m like a boomerang, I’ll keep coming back. I want you, Jet.” I wait with bated breath and for the life of me I have no idea how this is going to play out. Until, he flips me over and pins me with his solid body.

With his hands cupping my face, he leans in and whispers, “I can’t promise you tomorrow, but I can promise you today.”

Copyright © 2021 Connie Lafortune

Walking into my apartment after several months on the Distraction tour feels irrelevant. Something that should be comforting feels strange. It’s as if my favorite pair of jeans are too tight and suffocating. I’m sure that might sound crazy to some, but it’s the only way I can describe it. Like I don’t belong here anymore.

After tossing my bags on the floor, I walk through every room and throw open the windows. The clean, crisp air assaults my senses, letting me breathe easier. Now it doesn’t feel as stifling as it did when I first arrived.

With my hands tucked inside my jeans pockets, I pace around the apartment and take it all in. The colorless walls probably look bare to most—sure, they’re drab and in desperate need of a pop of color. For me, they reflect the person I am deep down inside.

Detached, uncaring, and dead.

It’s pathetic that this is the only place in this vast universe that I get to be myself. Not the celebrated rockstar everyone thinks they know, or the bassist for The Sinful Seven, or Lucas’s best friend for that matter. Just Me, and it scares me shitless because I’m not sure about the man who lives inside of this head anymore.

Too many times to count, I get lost inside of myself and go to an evil place. It’s lonely and somewhere I only visit on occasion, but it burrows beneath my skin, festers there, no matter how many years go by. Doesn’t matter how long, this hell I make for myself is always waiting to tear me apart. Forcing me to question everything I am or ever thought I could be. . .

Copyright © 2021 Connie Lafortune