Free Hot Summer Lust by Juliette Jones Page A

myself to care. I barely slept last night. I should have slept. It’s practically the first night – not practically, it is the first night I’ve slept alone after a show since this whole circu s started. I ended up kicking a bunch of groupies off my bus and locking the goddamn door. Trevor went ballistic but fuck him. My bass player’s a maniac and a party animal: there’s nothing new. It’s not something that’s ever bothered me before. But it’s bothering me now.
    Usually I don’t care that they’re all over me. Groping me and playing with my hair. Sitting on my lap and begging for it.
    Usually I like it. Of co urse I do. What red-blooded male wouldn’t enjoy the fact that he can take his pick of dozens of women each and every night? One, two, three at a time, even. They don’t fucking care. They stalk me and write me letters and camp outside my door. A t first I thought it was goddamn Christmas. But after a while, that shit starts to get old. The facelessness of it all. The undeniable fact that they want you for your money or your fame or some part of you that they’re hoping will rub off on them. It’s the stardust they want. The hope that you’ll take them along for the ride. Then they cry and plead and stalk you even more, after the fact. Once they get a taste they go even crazier.
    Some days it’s enough to make you feel weirdly, utterly alone. Like you’re in the middle of this ravenous swarm of vampires who won’t rest until they’ve feasted on every part of you and there’s nothing left but a pile of bleached bones.
    I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with me.
    Actually, I know exactly what the fuck is wrong with me and the whole thing is pissing me off.
    That naïve little farm girl with the wide eyes and sun-kissed face. With the white-gold hair soft as silk. With the voice that could break your fucking heart. A nd the body that could make you lose your goddamn mind.
    Why her? How is it that she’s gotten under my skin when so many others have tried and failed? And so goddamn easily. I have movie stars coming on to me. I’ve had rock divas and heiresses undress in my dressing room before I even knew they were there.
    I shouldn’t be so goddamn hooked .
    It’s like some kind of crazy magnetic pull.
    I can literally think of nothing else.
    I want to get the fuck out of here, jump in my Shelby and drive straight back to my house – where she’s waiting for me – at two hundred miles an hour. I want it so bad I can taste it.
    “Well, come on , do tell ,” says the douchebag.“ When will the album be released? Is it a departure from what you’ve done so far, or are you sticking to the magic formula?”
    “I never really know where the direction of the music will go until I sit down and write it. The songs pour out of me and I go with it. I feel it, I don’ t overthink it.” What the fuck? I sound like a pretentious asshole . I would never say something so vapid and ridiculous.
    The problem is, I can’t think.
    I’ve got other stuff on my mind.
    What if she’s not there ? What if she gets tired of waiting for me and leaves ? I know what I’ll do. I know where she lives. I’ll go to her window. This time, I’m sure as hell not going to leave her sitting there on that fucking bench with her moonbright eyes and her soft pink nipples and her skimpy little nightgown that’s just asking to be ripped to shreds . This time, I’ll scoop her up and carry her home with me. Straight to my bed where I plan on licking every inch of her creamy skin before –
    “Sing a song for us, Elias. Could you do the newest single, right here in the studio?”
    I’m relieved. I’m better at singing than talking. We can fill in the rest of the airtime with a few songs.
    I save it. The interview was stilted and awkward. But I’m singing to her , and it’s one of the best acoustic versions I’ve ever done. They all clap and the phones are going crazy so I agree to take some questions from fans.
    The