WILDER: A Rockstar Romance Read Online Free
Author: Vivian Lux
point. Choosing to remember only the good parts. That was the whole point of a fantasy.
I grunted my climax, but it was joyless and perfunctory. I cleaned myself off, feeling pathetic.
Where was all this Scarlett shit coming from?
All these years, I carried Scarlett with me, familiar as a body part. All these years, I held her in as something that was part of me and my identity. No day went by that I didn't think of her, but it was in the way I thought about something like...well, fuck, Rane writes pretty words, not me. She was like...my elbow or something. Just...there. Something I'd miss if it were gone, but not something I consciously thought about at every moment.
Why was I suddenly thinking about fucking her again? Remembering her gasps, her smiles, the promises we made? Why now?
The answer to my question was pretty obvious. I was thinking about her again because I was reminded of her again. All this time, I thought she had stayed in Buffalo, under her parents' thumb. All this time, I thought there was a continent in between us. That she had made her choice and I made mine.
To find out she was here... In the same city...
It was such a stupid thing. A discarded copy of Grip was left backstage at one of our shows a few months, back ,when Rane and Maddie were first starting up their thing. I was bored and irritated with Rane over something I couldn't remember anymore, so I’d picked it up and started leafing through it.
And saw her picture.
It was a grainy little thumbnail shot. By rights, I shouldn't have even recognized it as her. But I did, because I was fucking tuned to her frequency or whatever...
I saw her photo—as grainy and indistinct as it was, it was still her—and suddenly Scarlett Sawyer moved from being my elbow back to being my heart.
I got up off the couch and headed over to my bedroom. Late afternoon sunlight slanted across the floorboards and shone like a spotlight on the end table where I kept it. The little blue velvet box.
She had tiny fingers. I used to tease her for her "elf-hands," delighting in giving her the rings I wore back then and watching them slip right off her fingers to land on the floor with a clang. I had to be so careful when I bought this one. Finding the right size right out of the gate had taken some serious detective work. But I had done it. It slipped onto her ring finger and stayed there like it belonged.
Now, it seemed too small in my hand. Cheap and a little gaudy. It was funny how I still held onto it, this symbol of old pain. I could buy one of these about every five minutes now, but back then it represented the classic two months’ worth of salary. Which, as a working musician, meant it cost me four hundred fifty-eight dollars with tax.
Scarlett wasn't the one who gave it back to me. Maybe that's why I had always kept it, hoping I could see her again and ask her why. Why wasn't she there that afternoon like we planned? Why, when I went to her window, was it her mother that met me there instead?
Mrs. Sawyer. I knew she was evil, but I never knew how evil. Scarlett let a few things slip here and there but never let the full story out. I had to find out myself.
She was standing in the middle of Scarlett's bedroom, just staring. The only movement was her hand, opening and closing at her side like she was trying to catch hold of something that had already passed her by.
My heart sank when I saw her there. Had she caught wind of our plans somehow? We had been so careful.
Behind her, Scarlett's closet stood wide open. I had never been inside Scarlett's bedroom before. It was on the main floor in the back of the house, a converted porch that was hot in the summer and freezing in the winter. The one time I had tried to surprise her by showing up at her window late at night, she was nearly hysterical with fear. So all the time we spent together was at my house next door.
She told me she had packed her suitcases and stashed them in her closet behind the blankets her
I grunted my climax, but it was joyless and perfunctory. I cleaned myself off, feeling pathetic.
Where was all this Scarlett shit coming from?
All these years, I carried Scarlett with me, familiar as a body part. All these years, I held her in as something that was part of me and my identity. No day went by that I didn't think of her, but it was in the way I thought about something like...well, fuck, Rane writes pretty words, not me. She was like...my elbow or something. Just...there. Something I'd miss if it were gone, but not something I consciously thought about at every moment.
Why was I suddenly thinking about fucking her again? Remembering her gasps, her smiles, the promises we made? Why now?
The answer to my question was pretty obvious. I was thinking about her again because I was reminded of her again. All this time, I thought she had stayed in Buffalo, under her parents' thumb. All this time, I thought there was a continent in between us. That she had made her choice and I made mine.
To find out she was here... In the same city...
It was such a stupid thing. A discarded copy of Grip was left backstage at one of our shows a few months, back ,when Rane and Maddie were first starting up their thing. I was bored and irritated with Rane over something I couldn't remember anymore, so I’d picked it up and started leafing through it.
And saw her picture.
It was a grainy little thumbnail shot. By rights, I shouldn't have even recognized it as her. But I did, because I was fucking tuned to her frequency or whatever...
I saw her photo—as grainy and indistinct as it was, it was still her—and suddenly Scarlett Sawyer moved from being my elbow back to being my heart.
I got up off the couch and headed over to my bedroom. Late afternoon sunlight slanted across the floorboards and shone like a spotlight on the end table where I kept it. The little blue velvet box.
She had tiny fingers. I used to tease her for her "elf-hands," delighting in giving her the rings I wore back then and watching them slip right off her fingers to land on the floor with a clang. I had to be so careful when I bought this one. Finding the right size right out of the gate had taken some serious detective work. But I had done it. It slipped onto her ring finger and stayed there like it belonged.
Now, it seemed too small in my hand. Cheap and a little gaudy. It was funny how I still held onto it, this symbol of old pain. I could buy one of these about every five minutes now, but back then it represented the classic two months’ worth of salary. Which, as a working musician, meant it cost me four hundred fifty-eight dollars with tax.
Scarlett wasn't the one who gave it back to me. Maybe that's why I had always kept it, hoping I could see her again and ask her why. Why wasn't she there that afternoon like we planned? Why, when I went to her window, was it her mother that met me there instead?
Mrs. Sawyer. I knew she was evil, but I never knew how evil. Scarlett let a few things slip here and there but never let the full story out. I had to find out myself.
She was standing in the middle of Scarlett's bedroom, just staring. The only movement was her hand, opening and closing at her side like she was trying to catch hold of something that had already passed her by.
My heart sank when I saw her there. Had she caught wind of our plans somehow? We had been so careful.
Behind her, Scarlett's closet stood wide open. I had never been inside Scarlett's bedroom before. It was on the main floor in the back of the house, a converted porch that was hot in the summer and freezing in the winter. The one time I had tried to surprise her by showing up at her window late at night, she was nearly hysterical with fear. So all the time we spent together was at my house next door.
She told me she had packed her suitcases and stashed them in her closet behind the blankets her
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