Truth

Chapter Eleven

Reid

I couldn’t stop staring.

I couldn’t stop staring at her, even though she was several feet away from me on a lounge chair in the corner of her room. I may have shut down my heart for good, and I may have been a melodramatic bachelor who had internal scars all over his chest, but my dick still worked, and I hadn’t been with a woman for many, many months.

I hadn’t had sex since Angelina, and that was a long while ago. I knew the difference between a one-night stand and having somewhat meaningful sex, but after I found her carving out her stomach to get rid of the “baby,” it just freaked me the fuck out.

The what-ifs were enough to get my dick out of any pussy that I didn’t truly know.

Although, I wasn’t sure I even truly knew Angelina.

Even the thought of having sex with another woman after the vivid memory of Angelina made me recoil.

But God, the image of Brooklyn, all doe-eyed in the shower, naked with water pouring down her body, her curves glistening under the steam… my body kicked into overdrive.

And what scared me the most?

The guilt didn’t come.

Something came… but it wasn’t the guilt.

I had to force myself to walk out of the bathroom. I kept reminding myself that (1) she was my music teacher, which I was supposed to be pissed about; (2) sex was off limits with anyone, especially her; and (3) Angelina…Angelina and the not knowing.

The thought of Angelina snapped me out of my trance long enough to walk away, to put some necessary distance between me and Brooklyn. I got myself together and brushed it off my shoulder, and yet, I still found myself at her bedroom door, asking to get back to work.

Work.

That was what I was calling this. Me in Brooklyn’s room the night before a show, finishing up a game of twenty questions that didn’t truly need to be finished. I needed to focus on my writing, collaborating with her to get my shit back in line.

What I didn’t need to do was focus on the curve of Brooklyn’s hips as she adjusted her jeans on her legs.

“You’re wearing jeans,” I said aloud, suddenly noticing the difference of her.

“What?” she asked, giving me a strange look.

I glanced at her tight skinny jeans once more before repeating myself.

“You’re wearing jeans. You never wear jeans.”

“Nice observation, Reid. Would you like me to add another gold star to your chart like I do for my students?”

I almost… almost cracked a smile. God, the mouth on her was nothing I’d ever dealt with before—at least, not from someone who wasn’t Nana or Carissa.

“Actually, maybe if I had a gold star chart, I’d be better at writing songs. Rewards and all.”

Brooklyn’s mouth rose before she suddenly wiped it away, sighing. “Okay, we each have one question left, and then it’s time to move on to some serious lessons. You have one show tomorrow night, and then, on the tour bus, we’re getting down to the next lesson. It’s time to start making headway.”

I nodded. “Okay, then shoot. It’s your turn.” I sat up and scooted against the headboard of her bed, with about fifty pillows, and realized I felt more relaxed here than I did in my own room, alone, either staring at a notebook full of blank paper or lost in my own thoughts.

Brooklyn’s pink-tinted mouth opened. “What do your shows make you feel?”

I hastily took my stare away from her mouth and moved it up to her eyes. “What do you mean?”

Brooklyn ran her hand through her auburn locks, the tangled mess looking even more tangled than before. “What do your shows make you feel? When you’re up there onstage, with your bandmates behind you, having your back, creating music with you, fans screaming your name, bras being thrown at your feet… what do you feel?”

“Why do we always have to get so intense with these questions? I thought this was an exercise to make me comfortable.”