Sweet Temptation

A voice in my head whispers . . . Kope would refuse . . . and that thought infuriates me.

How the fuck is he so perfect? Why am I so weak? The absolute worst part of this—the bit I don’t care to admit—is that a small part of me is rejoicing at what awaits.

The scents. The softness. The sounds . . .

My heart races and the beast raises its lazy head after a long hibernation.

It’s not in my power to end this curse. I hate myself.

Michael, Be

Once the party gets rolling, there will be no boundaries. No modesties. No privacy. No saying no. By tomorrow morning my bandmates will have seen things they can’t unsee. They’ll have done things they can’t undo. This will not be like the parties they are used to.

When we arrive in New York City, a limo is there to meet us. Full rock-star treatment.

Acid is churning through me by the time we arrive at the building of Pristine’s penthouse suite. The guys completely geek out the entire way up.

“Are the models going to be walking around naked and shit?” Raj asks.

“Possibly. Or nearly.”

He and Be

“Seriously, man,” Be

I shrug. “Depends. Loads of rich men show at these things. It helps that you’re in the band, but you’ve got to calm the fuck down.”

All three of them stand taller, taking deep breaths, schooling their faces like cool cats. Better.

The lift opens and spills us into the sounds of laughter and tinkling glass. Women are walking about in those German Oktoberfest getups with tiny hats, loads of skin on show. The doorman looks us up and down and says, “Ah, the band. This way, please.” He leads us around a corner to the larger room with chandeliers sparkling above a raised platform. Our instruments are set up and ready. Through the crowd of suits steps Father in a navy designer suit, with four gorgeous females at his heels. They’re all wearing indulgent smiles and tiny black skirts with string bikini tops, covered in different-colored gems for the fall.

“Bad. Ass,” Raj whispers as they approach.

Father comes straight to me, an award-wi

“I’ve been bragging on you to our Harvest Girls here,” he says, turning to wave a hand at the four models. “They didn’t believe I had such a handsome and talented son.”

I grin, but not too big—more like a smirk. The girls look me up and down, taking in my black jeans, boots, and gunmetal-gray fitted shirt.

“God, he’s practically your mini-me,” says the girl with dark red hair and brown-tinted jewels.

“A little Richie?” says the platinum blonde with burgundy gems. She steps closer to me. “I wonder how much of you is like your daddy?” Her pink tongue touches the corner of her shining red lips.

“You’ll just have to see for yourselves, luvs,” Father says. The girls laugh, gazing up in adoration and touching him with open intimacy—they’ve all clearly been with him. Now they’re looking to me. My soul sinks, but my body stands tall.

I catch the eyes of my mates, ogling for all they’re worth. I clear my throat.

“This is Raj, our bass; Michael, our lead singer; and Be

Father shakes their hands and introduces the girls.

“We’ve got one of every fall flavor,” he says. “Catherine was our September girl.” He points to the blonde in burgundy. “Emily did October.” The redhead in brown tones smiles. “For November we’ve got both Fátima . . .” The black-haired Latina in yellow-gold. “And Alina.” He motions to a girl with creamy brown skin and chocolate-colored hair, wearing orange stones. “They’ll shoot together.”

Fátima and Alina share a small kiss. Raj makes an involuntary sound beside me.

Amateur.

I’m more than a little glad when Father motions to the stage for us to take our places. I can’t see his colors, but I know he’d be dripping in the purple of pride when he introduces us to the room. All eyes are on me, filled with intrigue, as I take my place in front of the drums.

The son of Richard Rowe.

We begin playing, and I wish I could slam these sticks against the drums all night. I don’t want to think about what I’ll have to prove to these people later. Though I’ve attended my share of these events throughout my teen years, this one feels different. As I look out at the women dancing in front of us, I realize this party is no different than the others. It’s me who’s different now.

I try not to think about A

Yet, I know it will feel good at the moment. I know too well.

Hours pass, and my arms burn at the finish of our last song. The room erupts into cheers. I look at my mates, flushed and sweating as they stare out at the sea of bodies, the breasts that defy gravity, the carefully crafted perfection of bodies there for the taking.

The sickening pit inside me deepens.

Father approaches, beaming at the crowd as he holds an arm out toward us. They cheer wildly again. He ushers us offstage and a horde of women surrounds my mates and sweeps them away into the party. The Harvest Girls are on all sides of me, having lost their bejeweled tops somewhere along the way. My eyes are locked on Father’s knowing grin as acrylic nails run down my arms, and extended eyelashes flutter up at me. But beyond all of the fakeness is warm skin, and that is real.

My chest is tight. Father thinks he owns me, but he ca

A

So, I know what I must do. I must let the beast have complete control. I must live another day.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The Chill of Winter

“When you’re living a life that you gotta deny,

When you feel how we feel, but you gotta keep lying.”

—“Secret Love” by Hunter Hayes

In spite of the su

At Christmas I get the call I’ve been waiting for—the one I’m certain will break me for good. But to my surprise, the call is from Kope himself. My initial thought is that something’s happened to A

“Hallo?” I stand in the middle of the television room, gripping my mobile.