lips down hard against anyone else's lips as bad as I did right then.
I fucking wanted this girl so bad I could taste it. It was instant, some kind of primal thing, like I was a damn caveman.
I had to shake off the image that flashed in my head, the one of me throwing her over my shoulder and taking her to my room.
"Well?" she asked. Her hand was on her hip, the other hand holding the ice bucket. "Are you going to say anything, or are you just going to keep staring at me? Maybe you want a fucking picture? Or my autograph? What the hell is it?"
She seemed familiar, but I couldn’t place it. Her cheeks were flushed, though, and she was unsteady on her feet. She was just as drunk as I was, I realized.
I cleared my throat. "The ice," I said. "Where's the ice machine?"
Her mouth dropped open, like she wasn’t expecting me to ask a simple question like that. I wondered what the hell she thought I was yelling about. Then she laughed. "That's what you want?"
"Why the hell would I want your fucking autograph?" I asked. "I just wanted to know where you filled up the ice bucket."
She laughed, louder this time, the sound melodic. It felt warm, somehow, even though I couldn’t figure out if she was angry or full of herself or just a bitch. She shook her head, then ran her hand through her hair, strands sticking up messily every which way, and looked down at her hand, covered in little pieces of hair.
She caught the look I give her, and shrugged. "I just cut it," she said, wiping her hand on her pajama pants.
"Yourself?" I asked. I didn’t even care. I just want an excuse to keep talking to her, no matter what her hair looked like. Even if it looked a little bit like someone took hedge clippers to it.
She shrugged again. "I needed a change."
"It suits you," I said. How did I fucking know what suited her?
She grinned. Her smile was radiant. It was a complete cliché, but it could light up a room. She could light up a room. She had that kind of presence. Even in a hotel hallway, drunk and wearing pajama pants.
"It does," she said, her hand going up to her hair again, the movement self-conscious. "I think it does suit me." She sounded surprised. She held out the ice bucket. "For your drink?"
I took a few ice cubes and dropped them into my cup. "Appreciate it," I said. Then there were voices in the corridor, and a group of college students, drunk and obnoxious, came closer. A fleeting look of panic crossed the girl's face, and she grabbed my arm, pulled me toward her, her back against the wall, her face close to mine.
She was still holding the ice bucket in one hand. I had my drink in my hand, my other palm on the wall, inches away from her head. I heard the college students from somewhere behind us, hollering as they passed.
"Yeah," one whooped. "Get it, man!"
My lips were nearly touching hers, a millimeter away. I couldn’t think of anything except how she would taste. I wanted her. I had never been so immediately sure of anything. I pressed my lips against hers, lightly for a second, and she responded, her mouth opening, and I heard her moan, just barely. The sound was so soft I was not sure it was her, but she arched her body toward me, and I felt her tongue against mine. I moved my hand away from the wall, grasping the back of her head at the base of her neck, and pulling her into me as I kissed her.
Kiss was the fucking understatement of the year.
I didn’t just kiss her. I fucked her mouth with my tongue, my thrusts insistent. I wanted to rip her clothes off right here in the hallway and press her up against the wall.
She made this little moan again, this sound that I thought would drive me insane.
And then she pulled away, put one hand on my chest, and pushed me back. "I -" she started. "I need to go."
She put her hand to her mouth. Her lips were red, swollen where I'd kissed her. I wanted to kiss her again, leave bruising kisses on her lips, her neck. On her breasts.
Before I could even respond, she had stepped away and was starting to walk down the hall. "Hey," I called. "I don't even know your name."
She turned again, and flashed me a grin. "No," she said. "You don't."
Then she walked away.
***
CHAPTER FOUR
RIVER
Shit. I rolled over and ran my hand over my face, then through my hair. For a second when I pulled my hand back I wondered where the rest of my hair was. Then I recalled taking the scissors to it last night.
Last night.
I touched my fingers to my lips where he kissed me - the guy from the hallway, the one with the red plastic cup in his hand. The one who was so hot.
My heart raced just thinking about his lips pressed up against mine, his tongue on mine. I wanted to feel his hands on my body, touching me.
God, he was sexy. His hair was blonde, buzzed close to his scalp, giving him a military look, and his face was bronzed from the sun. He looked like this delicious combination of a Marine and a surfer. I closed my eyes, picturing him in my head- tall and lean, but his shoulders were broad, and when I pushed on his chest, I could feel his muscles, firm to the touch, under my fingers.
I wanted to slide my fingers up underneath his shirt, unbuckle his pants...
Heat flowed from my core and between my legs, just thinking about him. I had been with Viper for the past few years- had been faithful to him for the past few years, even when the sex dried up last year, even when it dwindled to absolutely nothing three months ago- but I had never had the kind of automatic physical response to anyone like I had to the guy in the hallway. Even with Viper, my fucking fiancé.
I thought it was me, that I was some kind of freak, that my past had made me forever shut off from that kind of thing, from the kind of passion you see in the movies, that you read about in romance novels.
I don't even know his name.
I slid my hand down my stomach and between my legs, all the while reflecting on that kiss, the one that made my legs weak. The throbbing between my legs, just thinking about him, threatened to eclipse everything else...especially the worries about what the hell was going to happen next with my life. I moved my finger over my clit slowly, reveling in the heat that rushed through my body. Sliding one hand up underneath my tank top, I ran my palm over my breast, my thumb lingering on my nipple, which hardened instantly to my touch.
My breath caught in my throat as I touched myself, my movements faster and faster until I was at the brink. In my mind's eye, I pictured him, kissing down the side of my neck, to my collarbone, then to my breasts. I imagined his mouth enveloping me, his tongue flicking over my nipple, sucking me until I was close to orgasm. I pictured him pushing me up against the wall, thrusting his cock inside me, his movements as insistent as his tongue was in my mouth.
I was on the edge, and when I crashed over, it was his face I saw.
Not Viper's.
***
I walked through the hotel foyer, my bag slung over my shoulder, the few things I had with me stuffed inside the makeshift suitcase. Between the new hair and the sunglasses, I was hoping to avoid being recognized. I hadn't watched television. For all I knew, my mother had called the cops, reported me kidnapped or something.
That would be something she'd do. That would be something my manager would be more than happy to do, cover up the real story, the fact that everything wasn't actually a fairy tale between the poor-little-girl-turned-movie-star and the rocker who had it all. That was the most important thing. Protecting my brand, my manager called it. You must protect your brand. Always.
Damage control, my manager would be advising right about now. I could hear her words, without even having to stretch my imagination. Are there any other girls? She'd ask. Of course there were other girls. There were always other girls.
Never my sister, though.
My manager would sigh. In that case, Viper will go to rehab for sex addiction. You'll stand by him, deliver a teary-eyed speech about how much you've been hurt by his misbehavior. You'll take a primo role - something class
y, not trashy, right now, given the circumstances- I'm thinking something about a strong woman persevering despite her no-good man. Too soon? It doesn't matter. You'll do something big, while he's away in rehab. Something meaningful. It's Oscar time for you.
The spin. It was always about the spin. Sometimes it was exhausting.
Poor little rich girl.
It’s how my mother referred to me now. I was privileged, I knew it. But inside, I was still River Gilstead, the girl from the trailer park. I couldn’t quite shake the feeling.
I always felt lost.
I checked out at the front desk, watching the clerk from behind my sunglasses, stealing glances at the other people in the lobby from my peripheral vision. My heart raced, even though there was nothing wrong. I just wanted to slip out of here unnoticed.
I had no actual plan, though.
Get in the car and drive. I could get away, someplace private. I could keep heading East... a small town or something, rent a condo, figure out what the hell I wanted to do now.
Maybe I'll go overseas. I could hang out in obscurity, sip a cocktail on the beach somewhere.
Poor little rich girl.
I'll figure it out tonight, I promised myself. Tonight, I'll get a plan together.
Outside the hotel, I handed the valet my tag.
And then I saw him, coming for me - a man with a camera. "River!" he yelled. "River Andrews!"
I held my bag up to cover the side of my face, but he was taking pictures. He was the only one, but I knew there would be more. I backed inside the hotel door. Didn’t this place have security?
People were staring, and I felt a flush of shame.
Everyone knows, I realized. They have to. It will be all over the TV. I swallowed the bile I felt in my throat.
The photographer followed me inside, persistent, and I shielded my face from him. Then I heard someone shriek, a female voice. "That's River Andrews!"
Shit.
I turned around. I'll go back the way I came, back toward the elevators, I told myself, get one of the front desk staff to do something.
But instead I ran into him.
My palms hit his chest, and I felt him grasp my elbows. I knew the photographer was taking pictures of us, something that would wind up plastered all over the papers, something that women could point to and say, See? She was whoring around on Viper after all. That stuck-up bitch deserved everything she got.
I knew all of this, in the back of my mind. But right there, in the moment, with his hands on me, everything stopped. All of the other things going on faded, instantaneously, into the background, this blur of white noise. He looked at me, this wrinkle between his eyebrows. I couldn't tell if it was a sign that he was worried or annoyed.
"Are you okay?" he asked.
I shook my head. "No," I mumbled. "I need to get out of here. The camera...I just...can't."
He didn’t say anything. He let go of me, stepped forward, and yanked the camera out of the photographer's hand.
"You're going to regret that!" the photographer yelled. "I'll fucking sue your ass for assaulting me! That's a thousand dollar camera!"
The photographer lunged toward us. Before I could blink, he- my savior- punched the photographer in the face. I just stood there staring, paralyzed. I had to force my mouth closed.
His friends moved between us and the photographer, and I felt his hand on my arm, and heard him speak. "My car should be out front," he said.
I didn’t know exactly why I did it, but I walked with him out the door of the hotel. I could feel eyes on us as we left, and I saw someone with a cell phone, recording, a pretty brazen move, considering this guy just punched someone in the face for taking photos of me. The valet wasn’t back with my car, and I felt my rescuer's hand on the middle of my back, guiding me forward. He pointed. "Right here," he said, opening the door and shielding me from the stares of onlookers as I slipped inside his car.
I shouldn't do this, I thought. It's stupid. I don't even know his name. It's amazingly, mind-numbingly idiotic. He could be anything, this man. A fucking stalker. A serial killer.
And yet, as I sat back against the passenger seat, a feeling of calmness washed over me.
***
CHAPTER FIVE
ELIAS
What the hell was I doing?
I was driving my 1969 Mustang GT convertible home to West Bend - that's what I was doing. It was my fucking baby, the thing in life that mattered more than anything in the world to me. And she was in it, this girl whose name I didn’t even fucking know.
I was driving out of Vegas, like this was a normal fucking road trip. Except I just had just stolen a photographer's camera, punched him in the fucking face, and had a girl in the passenger seat who was the most breathtaking thing I'd ever seen in my life.
So, all in all, it was a normal day in the life.
Hell.
Obviously, she was someone important, some kind of star or politician's daughter or someone in the limelight. I had no fucking clue who she was.
She had to think I was such a dumb shit.
I mentally began to index the movies I've seen, tried to remember the last thing I saw. Was she a movie star? Maybe she was on TV. I couldn’t remember the last time I actually watched a movie.
I'd been focused on other shit.
Like my leg. Running again, working out. Getting my shit together.
I stole a glance in her direction. Her face was forward, her hair messy, the strands blowing back in the wind, nearly vertical. I wondered why she cut it all off.
I couldn’t stop thinking about the kiss. I was hung over as hell, my mind sluggish, weighed down by the booze from last night. But I couldn’t think about anything except my skin against hers.
She turned, and I jerked my head away, my eyes on the road, casual like I did this every fucking day, whisked some chick away in my convertible when she was being assaulted by the paparazzi. Whoever she was, she was out of my league.
League, shit. We weren’t on the same fucking planet, me and her.
I would drop her off somewhere, probably wherever her limo was going to pick her up, and be done with her. Then I was going to go about my regular fucking business, go home to West Bend, and deal with all of my bullshit.
She didn’t belong in my car.
And she sure as hell didn't belong with me.
We were on a road, a smaller road on the way out of town where the wind wasn’t so bad, when she looked at me. "What?" she yelled, over the white noise of the air blowing past our faces.
"What?" I repeated her question back. The wind whipped by me, my words probably caught on it.
“You’re staring,” she said.
“Sorry.” But I looked at her again anyway, then just as quickly, back at the road. I didn’t say anything else until we were out of town. I had been glancing in my rearview mirror, checking to see if we’d been followed, but it looked like the photographer was the only one interested in her, and I was sure my friends took care of him.
Not in the sleeps with the fishes kind of way, just in the significantly detoured him kind of way.
I pulled over in the parking lot of a diner outside of town, and I finally turned toward her. “You want me to take you somewhere else? You have a car back at the hotel?”
She was silent, looking straight ahead. When she finally spoke, her voice was soft. “I don’t have anything to go back to,” she