Page 150 of Broken Lines

“I—I don’t know how long I’mwelcometo stay, but I—”

“Forever.”

She blinks in surprise.

Shit, so do I.

But the second I do say it out loud, it just sort of clicks. Like it’s the obvious answer.

“Stay forever.”

She leans up as I lean down, and our lips fuse hard as my hands tighten possessively on her.

Kissing her. Holding her. Being here in a moment with her that I never want to end.

34

Melody

“Forever”comes in small increments. First, it’s days. Then, as those days blur together in a heated swirl of music and pleasure, it becomes weeks. Then the weeks become a month.

Amonth.

We spend our days and nights alone with each other, splitting the hours between bed and the studio, then bed, then back to the studio in a haze of lyrics and orgasms. Of music and pleasure, until I begin to lose track of what’s a line on a page and what’s the real-life fantasy I’m living.

Or maybe, they’re just blurring together at this point.

At times, it feels like a rush—like I’m on this perpetual rollercoaster. Like I’m always smiling, and always lost in the man I share every waking minute and breath with. Other times, it’s almost terrifying to realize how wrapped up in him I am. Or how real this is all becoming.

Or how helplessly and utterly head over heels I am for him.

We share a bed. And our bodies, throughout most of almost every day. We share space, and time together. We share a creative spark, too. Because after a month’s worth of hours and hours pouring over lyrics and guitar lines and melodies, that one song we had before has turned into eight.

Eight. Fucking. Songs.

That’s a mind fuck in and of itself. No one in the world but us has heard them, but sometimes I have to stop and make sure I’m actually in reality when it hits me that I’ve cowritteneightfreaking songs, with Jackson fucking Havoc.

But even under the bright glow of him, I still manage to find shadows. Maybe that’s my flaw, or maybe it’s the way I was raised with my mom being the disaster magnate she is. Whatever the case, even when he’s got me laughing, and smiling, andmoaningin sweet agony, I’ve still got one eye open.

Waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for reality to take this happiness from me.

Or maybe I’m just waiting for my shit to sabotage it for myself.

I try to hold the line with reality. I tell myself that as incredible as it is here with him, and as much fun as I’m having, that Jackson is…well,Jackson.

A beautiful disaster. A fallen god. And most terrifying, given the way he’s got me and my naked heart in the palm of his hand, a man possibly incapable of a normal relationship.

And of course, the second I even think something like that, I cringe at myself.

This isn’t a “relationship”. Even if I’m—recklessly and dangerously—crazy about him. Even if I’ve opened myself to him, emotionally anddefinitelyphysically in ways I’ve never even come close to before, with anyone.

We’re just two people who…write well together. Two people who seem to spark a creativity in the other that isn’t there by ourselves.

Two people who fuck like I imagine Greekgodsfucked—savagely, recklessly, and seemingly tirelessly.

But—because I’mme, I guess—that’s another thing about us where I can’t help but purposefully seek out the shadows. And in the case our…physical relationship, the shadows I find aregreen.

And monstrous. And they cruelly pick at every single insecurity and jealous itch I’ve got bottled up in the minefield of my emotional baggage.