When I smudge the material over her jaw and swipe it over her chin, the tips of my fingers slide over her bottom lip. I watch it happen in slow motion. Chalky white over plush pink. My fingers. Her lip. The way it flattens and presses to the side with the lightest pressure. Everything about her is so soft and malleable.
She gasps again, her mouth popping open, and this time my eyes snap to hers. They’re wide and glowing, all the shades of blue. A kaleidoscope of colors. A prairie sky. A robin’s egg. A glacier lake. Streaks of something darker, making all those pale colors pop.
And that fucking gasp is a shot of lightning to my groin.
“You know what?” Her lashes fall down like a curtain, and she pulls away, unfolding herself from the bed. “I’ll just finish this myself. Won’t make you do it.”
Before I can say anything, she’s in the bathroom and the sink is running. By the time I get there, she’s scrubbing at her face and avoiding making eye contact with me.
She eventually gives me a flat smile while casting a furtive glance my way through the mirror, eyes lingering on my face that’s covered in what looks like drying white paint. It clings to my stubble and is cracking in spots.
It reminds me of myself in a way. A fragile shell. One little crack and the entire thing is liable to burst open.
“You okay?”
“Yup,” she says a little too brightly while drying her face. “Just realizing I should go to bed if I don’t want to feel like total shit tomorrow.”
When she leaves, I let out a heavy breath and drop my palms onto the counter before me.
I’m not sure what’s going on with us today, but we’re both going to feel like total shit tomorrow, regardless of alcohol intake.
Because Sloane is going to be hungover. And I’m going to be tired from staying up all night fighting off thoughts about all the filthy things I want to do to her and those soft, puffy lips.
17
Sloane
Sloane: Send help.
Summer: Help with what? Are you guys okay?
Sloane: I’m so hungover. I want to die.
Willa: Nice. Shame spiral. Did you bang him?
Sloane: No. We gave each other facials and passed out awkwardly.
Willa: High five. I love it when Cade gives me a facial.
Summer: Good god.
Sloane: That is . . . not what I meant.
I really nailed it when I said I was going to feel like total shit in the morning.
It’s like I had a premonition or something. Because my head is pounding, there’s a heavy weight that reminds me an awful lot of shame pressing down on my chest, and the silence in the truck is fucking deafening.
Jasper and I exchanged good mornings. He asked how my nose was, and I rolled my eyes at him. He’s acting like he hit me with a fastball, not lobbed a flimsy bottle of water at me that sort of rolled down my face.
Because yes, I remember everything about last night in excruciatingly clear detail. I was just drunk enough to not give a fuck about anything, but not drunk enough to forget it.
Most times I would say getting hammered and not blacking out was a win. But I’d have happily blacked last night out. It would have prevented me from running that tape in my head on repeat.
The sky above us is dark gray, and snow falls in big fat flakes, landing in loud wet slaps against the windshield. The windshield where we both keep our gazes fixed.
Because shit is awkward this morning and it’s probably because I went all green-eyed on fans of his and then dragged him back to our hotel room where I asked if he’d sign my melons and give me a facial.
What can I say? We all have our breaking points, and it would seem I’ve hit mine.
I glance over at the speedometer, and we’re going a good chunk below the speed limit.
You live near the mountains long enough, and you know what heavy snowfall looks like before it hits. And this is that.
I know it. And Jasper knows it.
And I know Jasper well enough to know that inside his head right now, he’s agonizing over our safety. That’s his default mode.
“You must think I’m an idiot,” is how I open our conversation.
His head flips my way so sharply that I wonder if it hurt his neck. His face softens when his eyes land on me, and my heart skips a beat. Within seconds that chiseled face turns back to the road, knuckles white on the steering wheel.
“I absolutely do not think you’re an idiot.”
“My life is in shambles and I’m ignoring it by choice. And I was definitely an idiot last night,” I joke, turning to stare out the passenger window at the rocks and trees crowding the mountain pass so tightly it feels like I could open my window and touch that dark, craggy stone. Icicles cling to the sharp edges from the hard frost that hit overnight.
“No. You deserved to let loose. You were funny. I needed it. I had fun. We had fun.”
“Hmm.” I let his words bounce around in my head. We had fun.
“I’m sorry if I embarrassed you.”
“How could you have embarrassed me?” He sounds genuinely confused.
“With those girls. I was a major cockblocker.”
He chuckles quietly now. “And I appreciate the blocking.”
“You’re just saying that. Let’s not pretend you don’t enjoy female company.”
He shocks me when he responds bluntly, “I like sex. The rest is too much.”
I try to swallow and end up choking on my saliva—like the winner I am right now. He’s always so damn quiet. I didn’t expect the word sex to crest his lips so effortlessly. Let alone the part about him liking it.
I recover with, “I’ve seen you out with women at those fancy awards and stuff. So nice try.”
He shrugs, and his thick biceps rise and fall with the motion. “Looks can be deceiving. Sometimes it’s just a friend of a friend. Usually it’s someone I only see now and then. Who gets what I want and doesn’t ask for more.”
“Like a fuck buddy?” I almost want to say friends with benefits. But somehow the thought of him actually being friends with some other woman is worse. Sex is sex. Friendship though? With Jasper, friendship is love.
He clears his throat. “Basically.”
That’s such a fucking Jasper thing to say. Elusive and secretive.
“Whatever that means.” I roll my eyes and stare back out at the mountains. I don’t know how to handle this newfound tension between us. Before, it was just me in my head. Now his eyes linger a little too long, and so does his touch. Fingers twined with mine. Hand on the small of my back.
“It means meeting someone who actually likes me for who I am and not what I am feels downright impossible at this point in my career. It means I can spend surface-level time with people, but it always comes back to what I do for work or how much money I make or how famous I am. It means I can never just meet a person without that notoriety hovering over me, and that means I question everything and everyone.”
My tongue swipes over my bottom lip and my chest tightens as I unravel everything he just admitted.
“Even my mom pops up when I’m in the news or if she sees me on TV.”
I still. Jasper never talks about his parents.
“She does?” My voice is small, and I regard him carefully.
“Always.”
“Just to . . . say hi?”
He scoffs, and one corner of his lips tip up. But it’s not in amusement. It’s more of a wry twist, a cover for a deep hurt. “No, Sunny. For money.”