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“Even the complicated parts?”
“Especially the complicated parts. Because we figure them out together. Like tonight, when the power went out and we could have panicked, but instead we created something magical.”
She tilts her head up to kiss my jaw, and the simple gesture sends warmth spreading through my chest. “I love that about us. How we make each other better.”
We talk for hours, our voices quiet in the darkness, sharing stories and dreams and fears. She tells me more about her childhood, about the loneliness that drove her to music. I tell her about feeling like an outsider sometimes, about the pressure of living up to expectations, about how lost I felt before I found her.
“I want to know everything about you,” I tell her as dawn starts to lighten the sky outside our windows. “Every story, every scar, every dream you’ve ever had.”
“That could take a while,” she warns, but she smiles.
“I’ve got time. All the time in the world.”
She shifts against me, and I can feel desire stirring again despite how thoroughly we’ve already explored each other. Apparently, she can feel it too, because her hand starts moving lower on my body.
“Again?” she asks, but there’s nothing uncertain about the way she touches me.
“Only if you want,” I say, though my voice already gets rough again.
“I want,” she confirms, and then she kisses me, and we lose ourselves in each other all over again.
This time is different. Slower, more exploratory. We take our time learning what makes each other gasp, what makes us arch and moan and beg for more. By the time the sun fully comes up, we’re both exhausted and sated and more connected than I ever thought possible.
TWENTY-NINE
Iwake up to my phone buzzing insistently on the nightstand. Justine stirs against my chest, her hair tickling my shoulder as she shifts in her sleep. The afternoon sun streams through the hotel windows, and I realize we’ve not only slept most of the day away but forgot to close the curtains.
A dozen missed calls, twenty-something text messages, and the usual social media notifications. Nothing unusual for life on tour, but the volume suggests last night’s acoustic performance hit differently than our regular shows.
The first text is from Elle:Acoustic show footage going viral. SNL wants to talk.
Another from my dad:Saw the videos online. That’s how music should be played, son.
I scroll through messages from industry contacts and fellow musicians, all praising last night’s stripped-down performance. The entertainment headlines tell the story:
“Power outage becomes magic: Sinful Distraction’s acoustic masterpiece”
“Viral video: When the lights went out, the music came alive”
“Acoustic gold: How a technical disaster became the performance of the year”
“Morning,” Justine murmurs, her voice husky with sleep. She props herself up on my chest, her fingers tickling my chest. “What’s all the buzzing about?”
“The usual media circus,” I say, setting the phone aside to focus on her. “How are you feeling?”
She stretches like a cat, completely comfortable in her skin. “Amazing. Last night was . . .” she trails off with a satisfied smile. “Perfect.”
I pull her up for a kiss, tasting the lingering intimacy of our night together. “We should probably get moving. We have a meeting with Elle.”
“Shower first,” she says, sliding out of bed, naked, and without a care in the world. “I can still smell the cold air from last night’s performance in my hair.”
“Do you mind if I join you?” I’m already pushing the covers back in anticipation.
Justine doesn’t miss a beat she turns her head slightly and smiles. “I expect you to.”
She doesn’t have to tell me twice. I scramble out of bed, trip over our pile of discarded clothing, and stumble after her.
The hotel’s oversized shower has dual heads and enough space for both of us comfortably. She turns the water on, full blast and cranked all the way toward the H. Steam fills the glass enclosure and fear builds as I think about our skin melting off.