Page 47 of Goode to Be Bad

Not for my body or, for my sexual prowess.

Which was, honestly, the only thing I ever let anyone see, aside from my bold as brass balls, take-no-shit attitude.

Which was a front.

Fake.

I’d been faking for years, and you’d think it’d just be real by now, but I wasn’t.

I mean, it was me, it was the only me that existed anymore. But deep down, there was another Lexie. And music was bringing her to life.

Playing for people—beingseen, beingheard—was breathing life into her.

And that, more than anything, was what terrified me, was what kept me awake into the smallest hours of the morning, no matter how late I went to bed.

Myles was true to his word: he never made anything deep or personal. Never asked me to talk about myself or my past, even when we were alone and naked together and nooking in the afterglow. He would just hold me and let me pretend we weren’t snuggling, and that I didn’t love snuggling in his arms more than just about anything in the world, including the sex itself, which was in turn better than sex had any right to be.

See, my pretenses were vital to my worldview:

I had no heart;

I didn’t know how to love or have feelings;

All I knew was sex;

I had no talents beyond sex;

Sex defined me as a person and as a woman, and I was okay with that;

I didn’t want, have, or need a purpose in life;

My secrets would stay secret forever, because I could not and would not ever trust anyone enough to reveal them.

But Myles was erodingmy belief in my pretenses.

Chipping away at my ability to hold on to them.

Good thing I’m the stubbornest woman alive. He could chip away forever, but he’d get tired of it eventually. He’d said so himself. I just had to outlast him and eventually he’d give up.

And that was what I wanted.

I dared not admit to myself thatthatwas yet another pretense, because that one was rooted way down deep, way under the rest, hidden under the others.

That week was, honestly, one of the best of my life. Myles and I had very little time alone, what with Mom and Lucas being up at the crack of dawn every day, and being hauled all over Ketchikan for day trips with Mom, and hiking with Lucas, and impromptu recording sessions for Myles and Crow at the twins’ record label/studio, where Myles and Crow put down acoustic stripped-down recordings of their favorite songs as well as a few Myles North originals, including a handful of songs Myles and Crow had written on the spot. A surprise release, Myles was calling it, but it wasn’t a Myles North album, it was a one-off: Myles & Crow Unplugged.

Damned Myles and damned Crow—they sweet-talked, bribed, threatened, and coerced me into playing on two songs with my ukulele and sing harmony.

And damn, damn, and double damn if the songs on which I appeared didn’t sound…fucking amazing.

Despite me, my insecurities shouted.

Because of me, my newly reborn dreams whispered.

I was both dreading and anticipating the resumption of Myles’s tour. It was going to be a whirlwind, and I’d get to see places I probably never would have otherwise. It’d be just me and him again, mostly. Close quarters, lots of alone time. But that also meant more time for Myles to sink his hooks into me. More emotional attachments for me to pretend I wasn’t forming.

I was in denial, and I knew it.

I had shit to face, and I knew it.