Heartless (Starcrossed Lovers Trilogy 1)

Yeah, I did know that. It was my only skill in life. It had always been my only skill in life.

Even in my hazy state I felt the shiver of shame inside me, of wanting something dirty and cheap and forbidden, but there was more tension building along with the shame. That first tingle of knowing you don’t want something, even when your body is going along for the ride. My body wanted Stephen from London. My heart wanted Lucian Morelli.

The hallways were crowded with partying punks. People were getting it on everywhere I looked, that or dancing around to the beat or playing drinking games with ping pong balls and plastic cups. Stephen from London led me along after Tristan and Blue, right through a cluttered kitchen at the back of the building, where someone handed me a fresh beer.

I didn’t want it, but my body did. I downed it in one and took hold of another.

“Check out this song, Rebecca,” Stephen ordered me, his bark of a voice straight in my ear. “This is me on vocals. Slay the rich, feed the poor, it’s called.”

I smirked to myself at that. Nobody would ever slay the rich. The rich controlled the world.

Stephen from London clearly hadn’t noticed the diamonds in the ears he was talking to, or the collection of gold rings on my fingers. He hadn’t noticed the designer dress I’d torn slashes into, or the one-off stilettos on my feet. He hadn’t noticed the value of the clutch next to me on the sideboard, or the cosmetic sheen of the teeth in my jaws, or the way I was as suited to punk rock as a cow was suited to the moon.

He didn’t care. He didn’t care who I was, and he didn’t care about me. Still, it made no difference. Welcome to my world, Stephen from London. Welcome to my world. I was used to it.

My ear prickled when he spoke next, another growl right into my mind. “Come with me. I want that pussy. I wanna get my hands on you.”

I didn’t speak. I couldn’t find an answer.

“You want that, don’t you, baby girl?” he pushed. “You want a piece of Stephen Cannon dick?”

I should tell the truth. I should tell him I didn’t want a piece of Stephen Cannon dick, I wanted a piece of Lucian Morelli.

That’s all I wanted.

That’s all I needed.

But I didn’t.

I smiled as my body pressed up to him, pushing my own crappy needs aside in pursuit of something cheaper.

“Yeah,” I told him. “I want a piece of Stephen Cannon dick.”

I turned to find Tristan, but he was in the darkest corner of the room, his hands on Blue. I felt Stephen’s fingers squeezing mine, and he pulled me.

“I’m staying at Blue’s drummer’s place a few blocks down. We’ll walk.”

I reached back for something, but my mind was dazed as he tugged me. What was I reaching for? He answered me.

“Another beer for the road,” he said and shoved a bottle in my hand. “Cheers,” he added and clinked his drink against mine.

“Cheers,” I said as he dragged me outside.

It was cold, and my stilettos were noisy on the sidewalk. He didn’t care. He kept on tugging me, kept on telling me about how amazing he was, and how damn amazing his songs were. He sang one to me as we crossed the street at the end of the block, and I remembered his voice from the club, looking up at him and seeing the darkness in his eyes all over again.

Lucian.

He stopped us next to a late-night store and ran inside to get some cigarettes. He lit one up as soon as we left, offering it over.

“Fancy a drag? You a smoker?”

I nodded, even though I didn’t fancy a drag and had never been a smoker in my life.

I wanted a line of coke. I was done with the denial. I wanted a damn line of coke.

I reached under my arm for my clutch, but it wasn’t there. Crap, my clutch wasn’t there.

I stopped in my tracks and cast the cigarette to the ground. Where the fuck was my clutch?

I patted myself down like a stupid bitch, even though there was no way it could be anywhere near me. I glanced back at the street behind us, but it was nowhere in sight on the sidewalk.

“I’ve lost my clutch,” I told Stephen, and he laughed.

“I’ve lost my cigarette, so I guess we’re even.”

He thought it was funny.

I tried to pull backwards up the street, but he held me firm.

“My clutch . . .” I said, but he didn’t move.

“You don’t need your clutch, Rebecca,” he told me. “You need my dick.”

I needed coke. Not dick.

He pulled me along again, holding me tight to his side.

“You need my dick, Rebecca, and you’re getting it.”