Page 35 of Seven Lost Summers (Broken Oasis #3)

Quinn

M

y

nerves

are

a

fucking mess.

I didn’t sleep. Not properly.

I must’ve closed my eyes a hundred times, but my brain wouldn’t shut up long enough to let it count. It kept circling. Over and over. This job, this chance. This one shot I can’t afford to mess up.

I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, running through camera settings in my head, reminding myself how to blend in, how to stay quiet, how to catch the real moments without disrupting the guys. I kept repeating that I need to focus and remember why I’m here.

But none of that stuck.

Because my head was somewhere else entirely.

Back on that patio. Back in the dark with a beer in my hand and two boys sitting beside me, their laughter curling around the night as if it had never left. And all I could think about was how easy it seemed.

And how much I wanted to be closer.

All I can fucking think about when I look at them, talk to them, laugh with them, sit beside them on that patio as if it’s another ordinary night, is how much I want them.

Both of them.

Pressed against me. One behind, one in front.

Theo’s mouth rough and greedy against my throat while Nate’s hands slide up under my shirt, as though he already knows every place I need to be touched.

Their bodies surrounding me, pinning me, their heat, their strength, their weight driving me right to the edge.

I imagine Theo gripping my hips, dragging my ass back against his cock while Nate palms my tits and sucks at my neck, whispering filthy things in that low, gravel voice that always makes me squirm.

I imagine their fingers tangled in my hair, their hands pushing my thighs apart, forcing space for everything I’ve been trying so fucking hard not to crave.

I picture them taking turns. Or maybe not even bothering with turns—both of them at once.

Their mouths on my skin, lips trailing down my chest, my stomach, my thighs.

Nate muttering about how wet I am while Theo smirks against my inner thigh, eyes dark and starved, like he’s been waiting years to taste me.

The image alone sends a bolt of heat straight to my core.

My thighs clench. My breath hitches. Suddenly, I’m not thinking about the job anymore.

All I register is the throb between my legs, the ache in my chest, and the way my body is screaming to let go.

To stop pretending. To let them ruin me.

Beautiful, filthy, no-coming-back-from-this kind of destruction. And fuck, I’d welcome it.

When I finally crawled into bed last night, I gave myself a good, long talking to. Reminded myself why I was here and why this job matters. Kit took a chance on me. If I screw it up, I don’t get another shot. No do-overs. No second fucking chances.

But my body didn’t give a fuck about professionalism or boundaries or any of the responsible shit I tried throwing at it. I wanted. I ached. No amount of tossing, turning, or screaming into my pillow could quiet the pulse between my thighs or ease the way my skin seemed too tight for my body.

All I could see when I closed my eyes were their faces lit by the patio lights—Nate with that stupid crooked grin, and Theo leaning back with his beer, eyes glinting with mischief. Both of them laughing, teasing me, pulling me in without even trying.

It became too much.

So I did what I had to do.

I shoved my hand between my legs, pressed down hard, and chased the edge like my sanity depended on it. Rubbed myself raw, biting back their names as wave after wave crashed through me. I came fast.

Pathetically fast.

And then again, slower, grinding my hips against my fingers, picturing Theo’s voice in my ear and Nate’s hands holding me open, telling me not to stop.

When it was over, I lay still. Panting. A fucking mess of sweat, shame, and satisfaction.

And the worst part… it didn’t help.

I tell myself I have to get it together.

Meeting the rest of the band is a big deal. This isn’t some open mic night at the back of a bar or a favor from a friend. This is Broken Oasis. Headliners. Rock legends. Guys who are so far out of my league it’s laughable.

I’ve seen the headlines. Their faces are plastered over magazine covers.

Jawlines sharp enough to cut glass. Tattoos peeking out from behind unbuttoned shirts.

Eyes that smolder straight through camera lenses.

They look like sin and sound even better.

Together, they’re sex on stage, swagger in interviews, trouble behind the scenes. And the world cannot get enough.

Broken Oasis isn’t a band. They’re a goddamn phenomenon.

Fans sob at their shows. Paparazzi stalk them across continents.

There are viral compilations of Ace losing his temper, hundreds of thirst traps of Theo, entire subreddits dedicated to Nate’s arms. And then there’s Xander, the one they write fantasies about.

The brooding frontman with a voice full of gravel and heartbreak, and a mouth every girl wants between her thighs.

They don’t enter a room. They claim it.

And now I’m supposed to be around them every day, camera in hand, documenting the madness.

But I’m not stupid. I’ve seen the clips. I understand what they’re capable of.

I watched Xander tell a reporter to go fuck himself on live TV for spreading shit about Poppy—and that clip practically broke the internet. That glare alone could curdle milk.

And Ace. Jesus Christ.

That camera incident last year. The one where he got out of the car, ripped the camera straight out of a paparazzi’s hand, and simply stared at the guy with murderous intent.

I watched that on repeat. Not because I enjoyed the violence, but because he didn’t even flinch.

He stood there, daring the world to try him.

It was brutal. And kind of hot.

Not the point.

The point is, I can’t tell who I should be more nervous about meeting, Xander or Ace. Both of them carry that edge.

Still, Nate and Theo swear by them, call them family, insist they’d bleed for each other. So perhaps they aren’t what the media portrays.

I check my watch for what seems like the hundredth time, as if the damn numbers might rearrange themselves if I glare hard enough.

5:57 AM.

Too early to be this amped up. Too late to back out. No point worrying about chasing sleep when I’ve barely closed my eyes.

I exhale, running my hands down my face, trying to get my body to finally relax for a few hours, but my brain is still too wired.

A noise from the other room catches my attention. It’s soft, but enough to make my ears perk up. Light spills under my closed door from the hallway.

I wonder which one of them is awake.

Do they share the same room, or do they each have their own?

Do they sleep together?

Not only passing out in the same bed after a long night. I’m talking about fucking. The kind of sex that strips you bare and leaves you vulnerable.

I’m not talking about lazy mornings tangled in sheets.

Not only the brotherhood, the bond, the ease that comes with years of sharing the same space.

But mouths on skin. Hands gripping hard.

Theo pushing into Nate, or Nate taking him apart with nothing but his mouth and a fist in his hair.

Perhaps they’ve never crossed that line, or they have and never speak about it.

God, what the hell is wrong with me?

I bury my face in the pillow, trying to breathe through it, but the image is burned into my brain now… Theo’s hands gripping Nate’s hips, Nate whispering filth into his ear while one of them bites back a moan.

I squeeze my thighs together. Pull it together, Quinn. Get your shit straight. I’m supposed to be working with them, not fantasizing about them. Not craving what it would be to fall apart between them.

But fuck, I do. That kind of intimacy makes you want in.

I shove the covers aside and swing my legs over the edge of the bed. The floor is cold beneath my feet, jolting my sluggish body awake.

Coffee.

That’s the only thought cutting through the haze.

Someone’s already up. Maybe they’ve made a pot.

I stand, stretch the tension from my spine, and cross the room. My hand closes around the doorknob. A moment passes before I twist it open and step out.

The house is still, the only sound drifting from the kitchen. I step into the hallway, nerves simmering beneath my skin. My feet move on instinct, pulled forward by the sound, and soon I see him.

Theo.

He’s standing in the kitchen, wearing nothing but a pair of black boxers, the soft light from above catching every inch of him.

Broad chest, tight abs, every line of muscle flexing with the smallest movement. His back is strong, tapering down to a narrow waist.

His body isn’t only fit. It’s brutal. Built from pain and purpose.

The kind of physique you get when control over your body is the only thing left to hold onto while everything else falls apart.

Tattooed angel wings spread across his chest, massive and detailed, each feather etched with a precision that looks painful. They frame the words: Freedom. Hope. Loyalty.

That tattoo does something to me.

Not only because of how fucking good it looks on him, but because I understand the weight of it. Bianca wore those angel wings around her neck every single day. Now Theo carries the same wings on his skin, inked right over his heart.

My gaze dips lower, following the hard lines of his abs, the deep cut of muscle leading down to the sharp V that disappears beneath the waistband of his boxers. They hang low on his hips, offering only enough of a tease to make my stomach clench.

My eyes drop further and fuck me… there it is.

The thick outline of his cock strains against the fabric.

Even soft, he’s impressive—the kind of size that makes you ache before he’s ever touched you.

I should look away.