her bed to the bathroom and clean up, but images of Willa are everywhere—visions of taking her in the shower, bending her over the table, hoisting her on the kitchen counter and rocking into her again and again.
I’ve got it bad.
The light in her apartment is so bright that I know it’s late morning even before I find my phone in my discarded jeans. I dress quickly, disbelieving that I slept so well. I’m normally restless in bed, unable to sleep long or deeply, but some combination of staying up almost until dawn and Willa’s scent and skin pulled me under into a dreamless darkness that left me fully rested.
And alive.
I pace through her apartment looking for a note, but there’s nothing on the pillow, the bedside table, or the kitchen counter. She must have gone to work—her messenger bag is gone, her scuffed Doc Martens too.
I feel a sting of conscience, knowing that rock stars have the luxury of sleeping late, while people like Willa are getting up and going to work no matter what.
Or else they don’t eat. Or else they can’t pay rent.
My father was up before dawn every morning, spring to fall, to work on road crews. My mother took swing and graveyard shifts at a 24/7 diner and caught catnaps instead of really sleeping.
Something as small as the privilege of sleeping in a warm, safe bed hits me, and as I piece together more about Willa’s life, I realize that she doesn’t take this for granted.
I power on my phone and it makes a bunch of demented beeps as a slew of texts roll in.
Gavin: We’re out at the White Rabbit. Want to join us?
Kristina: Where the hell are you?
Gavin: Kristina called. She. Is. Pissed.
Gavin: Better call her back before she blows up NY.
Kristina: The bars are closed and you’re not home. If you are shacking up with some skank, I’ll know. You can’t just disappear.
Tyler: What’s the deal with Kristina? She called me and Stella looking for you. Watch your back, man.
Kristina: None of your bandmates know where you are. Your phone’s in some Lower East Side slum. What the fuck?
Jayce: If Kristina ever calls me again, I’m going to kill that bitch. I thought you DTMFA?
Kristina: I’m outside the door.
Kristina: Open the fuck up!
Kristina: We have to talk. We’ve got history. I demand you talk to me.
Gavin: Haven’t heard from you. Text me to let me know you’re OK. We’ll talk at practice.
Kristina: I went home, and you better come home too. If you keep making me wait, you’ll be sorry.
I fire off notes to the guys, assuring them I’ll be at practice tonight. But the messages from Kristina spell trouble. I can hear her voice under the texts, angry, stubborn, confused, conciliatory, vengeful.
What’s worse, at some point last night she said she was outside the door. Willa’s door. Maybe she showed up when we were out last night.
But the more important question is how she found me. I realize with sinking dread that Kristina must have loaded some tracker on my phone. It doesn’t take long for me to find it and delete it, but the damage is done. Now I’ve brought the worst kind of trouble to Willa.
I know I’ll have to go back to face the music with Kristina at some point, but the tracker sends a bolt to my gut. If Kristina can figure out that I’m at Willa’s home, she can figure out the other places I’ve been—like Righteous Ink.
I have to get to Willa before Kristina does.
CHAPTER TWELVE
I ditch my keys on the counter, hit the light panel to illuminate the shop, and head to the back to start a fresh pot of coffee. The doorbell’s jingle as I’m fitting in the filter, but it’s ten minutes too early to be my first client of the day. I pop back out of the break room.
“Hey lady!” It’s Stella, and bless her, she’s got two cups of fancy expensive coffee in her hands and a magazine rolled up under her arm.
“If one of those is for me, I love you.”
She laughs and puts it on the counter for me. “You’re really going to
I’ve got it bad.
The light in her apartment is so bright that I know it’s late morning even before I find my phone in my discarded jeans. I dress quickly, disbelieving that I slept so well. I’m normally restless in bed, unable to sleep long or deeply, but some combination of staying up almost until dawn and Willa’s scent and skin pulled me under into a dreamless darkness that left me fully rested.
And alive.
I pace through her apartment looking for a note, but there’s nothing on the pillow, the bedside table, or the kitchen counter. She must have gone to work—her messenger bag is gone, her scuffed Doc Martens too.
I feel a sting of conscience, knowing that rock stars have the luxury of sleeping late, while people like Willa are getting up and going to work no matter what.
Or else they don’t eat. Or else they can’t pay rent.
My father was up before dawn every morning, spring to fall, to work on road crews. My mother took swing and graveyard shifts at a 24/7 diner and caught catnaps instead of really sleeping.
Something as small as the privilege of sleeping in a warm, safe bed hits me, and as I piece together more about Willa’s life, I realize that she doesn’t take this for granted.
I power on my phone and it makes a bunch of demented beeps as a slew of texts roll in.
Gavin: We’re out at the White Rabbit. Want to join us?
Kristina: Where the hell are you?
Gavin: Kristina called. She. Is. Pissed.
Gavin: Better call her back before she blows up NY.
Kristina: The bars are closed and you’re not home. If you are shacking up with some skank, I’ll know. You can’t just disappear.
Tyler: What’s the deal with Kristina? She called me and Stella looking for you. Watch your back, man.
Kristina: None of your bandmates know where you are. Your phone’s in some Lower East Side slum. What the fuck?
Jayce: If Kristina ever calls me again, I’m going to kill that bitch. I thought you DTMFA?
Kristina: I’m outside the door.
Kristina: Open the fuck up!
Kristina: We have to talk. We’ve got history. I demand you talk to me.
Gavin: Haven’t heard from you. Text me to let me know you’re OK. We’ll talk at practice.
Kristina: I went home, and you better come home too. If you keep making me wait, you’ll be sorry.
I fire off notes to the guys, assuring them I’ll be at practice tonight. But the messages from Kristina spell trouble. I can hear her voice under the texts, angry, stubborn, confused, conciliatory, vengeful.
What’s worse, at some point last night she said she was outside the door. Willa’s door. Maybe she showed up when we were out last night.
But the more important question is how she found me. I realize with sinking dread that Kristina must have loaded some tracker on my phone. It doesn’t take long for me to find it and delete it, but the damage is done. Now I’ve brought the worst kind of trouble to Willa.
I know I’ll have to go back to face the music with Kristina at some point, but the tracker sends a bolt to my gut. If Kristina can figure out that I’m at Willa’s home, she can figure out the other places I’ve been—like Righteous Ink.
I have to get to Willa before Kristina does.
CHAPTER TWELVE
I ditch my keys on the counter, hit the light panel to illuminate the shop, and head to the back to start a fresh pot of coffee. The doorbell’s jingle as I’m fitting in the filter, but it’s ten minutes too early to be my first client of the day. I pop back out of the break room.
“Hey lady!” It’s Stella, and bless her, she’s got two cups of fancy expensive coffee in her hands and a magazine rolled up under her arm.
“If one of those is for me, I love you.”
She laughs and puts it on the counter for me. “You’re really going to
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