Midnight Blue

“Good. And it will get even better once I break it to Jenna that I want to produce my own album. No more Suits.” Our pinkies collided and curled around each other.

“No more Suits,” I repeated.

We walked through the gray streets of Camden Town, past pubs that reeked of stale, warm beer and cigarettes. The scent of fried food constantly floated in waves, and it could have been a lot less pleasant if the air was not so fresh from the rain. We walked uphill until we reached the Cambridge Castle, a small pub with a two-floored apartment building above it.

“This is where I said I’d live if I ever made it big.” He pointed at the apartments above the red banner of the pub.

“So how come you’re not living there?”

He shot me a look I couldn’t decode. A mixture of disappointment and annoyance. “I’m an idiot who lost sight of what’s important. I really should be living there, shouldn’t I?”

It looked kind of small, kind of old, and kind of stuffy. But it was a part of his dream, and when life gives you the tools to fulfill your dream, it’s your duty to do so.

“Definitely.” I nodded.

Alex took my hand in his and jerked his chin to the chipped, wooden door. “Drink?”

“Virgin,” I warned.

“I’ll rectify it later.”

We had cranberry juice and chips—see: “crisps”—at a secluded table. It was just us and the bartender, who was new, and even though he couldn’t remember Alex’s golden years at the venue, he still asked for an autograph and five selfies.

Afterward, we took the tube to London Bridge and visited the London Dungeon. It was really scary, and I found myself jumping several times and clutching Alex’s leather-clad arm. We were walking around with a group of tourists from Eastern Europe who didn’t speak a word of English, which worked in our favor.

Though they asked for autographs and selfies, too.

We decided to head back to the hotel at six o’clock. We took a black cab, watching the streets of the capital flashing by. London was gorgeous and cruel, just like Alex. Too busy. Too hectic. Too brooding. Too dark. Yet I couldn’t help but drink her in like I did Alex. Like I’d finally found the one thing I hadn’t known I was missing.

Alex took off his beanie for the first time since we’d left the hotel room, and his wavy, shaggy hair was sticking out to one side, which was so adorable I needed to look away to protect my heart.

“I love your London,” I blurted out to the window. “I love that people shoulder past me and avoid eye contact and have a no-bullshit attitude. I love that no one looks the same. I love that it’s rich, but grim. Poor, but classically beautiful. It inspires me.”

“I hate your Los Angeles,” he replied. “I hate how it doesn’t suit you. I hate how it’s flat and sparse and shallow. The agreeable weather and the big-teethed people. You deserve better, Stardust. You deserve to be inspired. All the time.”

“Maybe,” I said. I wasn’t unhappy. But I wasn’t happy, either. I just didn’t know if Los Angeles was to blame, or the general chaos that was my life. “Maybe when it’s all over I’ll travel from planet to planet, city to city, to find what I’m looking for.”

“You should know, though”—Alex’s voice sounded sad and far, like he was already drifting away from me—“Craig is your rose. He will root you in place and never let you go. I’ve had these kinds of roses back at home. You don’t have to put up with Craig’s shit in order to still be there for Ziggy and Natasha. You need to tell him to get better, or he never will.”

Turning around to look at him, I put a hand on his cheek. “Are you happy, Alex?”

“I’m an artist. My job is not to be happy. My job is to feel, to suffer, and to conjure the same feelings in others.”

I wanted to tell him he was wrong. That he could create greatness whilst holding onto his bliss. But I didn’t know if it was true, and I knew better than to hand out empty promises, like the ones my brother gave me.

I said nothing, even when Alex slipped his hand into mine and laced our fingers together.

My heart was loud enough to hear, even in the midst of London traffic.

And it spoke all the words I couldn’t give him.

The most important dance you’ll have in your life is one that does not require music.

Alex Winslow, Broken Hearts Blvd

That night, he practiced what he preached. Each movement was an impulse, an instinct, a compulsion. We didn’t need to practice that dance. It was a necessity, like breathing. As real as something could feel.

We got into our suite silently. I walked backward as he cornered me toward the bed. Pressure was building inside me, and I knew he was the only one who’d be able to unknot it into an orgasm. His hard breaths came down on me as he peeled his jacket off and rolled the zipper of my dress down all the way to my tailbone, where he stopped, pressing a teasing finger to the slit between my ass cheeks until he pushed me toward him, my stomach meeting his throbbing erection. His skin burned with an animalistic need, and I touched him everywhere to make sure he was real. He felt so alive under my fingertips. So terribly human, despite his god-like status. The pressure between my legs became agonizing before my panties dropped to the floor. I don’t remember how we got naked. I just remember how it felt a second before he laid me on the bed.