“That’s you,” she snapped. “Not me.”
“It is you,” I said. “That’s what you’re meant to do, Lex.” I cupped her face. “You can’t tell me that didn’t feel amazing while you were out there.”
“It felt like I was about to barf and piss myself at the same time. You did the grind, Myles. Day after day, week after week, year after year, playing, learning how to perform, being in front of people, doing what you love to do, what you chose to do. You were an overnight success that took—what?—a fucking decade of slogging along in dive bars to achieve?” She tapped her chest. “I didn’t have that. You think you went from dive bars to stadiums in record time? I went from not ever having played on a stage before, with no one even knowing I’m a musician—” she gestured at the Tokyo Dome, “to that. Never playing for anyone, never being recorded, nothing. Playing alone in a bathroom because I can’t help but need to play and sing...alone in a bathroom because…because I fucking suck, Myles. I’m nothing. No one.” She was sobbing, words scraping out past harsh breath and ragged sobs. “My dad said it, and he was right. I’m no good. They didn’t love me—they loved you. If they liked anything about me, it’s just because of this—” and she cupped and shook her tits, “and this,” and slapped her bare thigh near her hip, “and this,” and she tugged on her hair.
That made me angry.
“You really believe that?”
“Of course I do, Myles,” she said, far too calmly. “It’s the truth.”
“You think fifty thousand people, seeing you from stadium seats, at least half if not more of them straight females, were cheering the way they were because of what you look like?”
“Giant screens, remember?”
I hunted for words. “Lex, that’s…” I turned away, at a loss. “I have never seen anyone play the way you do, sing the way you do. You’re made for this, honey.” I spun back, grabbing her shoulders. “Lex, listen to me. You are talented. Beyond talented. You’re a natural. Sure, you were nervous. You think I’m not? You think you’re ever, no matter how many times you do it, ever totally ready to go out and perform in front of fifty thousand people? Pro tip, darlin’, you’re not. I get nervous every single night. I get the jitters. The butterflies. The shakes. I get off stage and I’m shaking, every single night, because it’s scary as hell and it’s a fuckin’ rush.” I stared her down. “Yeah, so you messed up. I fucked up at the Grammys, Lex. The Grammys. I was so fuckin’ nervous I forgot the words to a verse and improvised an entire solo, and it was awful. The guys had no idea what I was doing, and neither did I. Everyone knew I’d fucked up. I got torn apart for a shitty performance—the same night we won four fuckin’ Grammy’s. I fuck up all the time. Forget words. Mess up a solo. I tripped on a cord once, and nearly took a header off the stage—Brand somehow kept playing with one hand and yanked me back on stage with the other.”
She shook her head. “Not the same.”
“No, maybe not. Point is, we all get nervous and we all fuck up.” I let her go. “Lex, you have to learn how to believe in yourself.”
She laughed bitterly. “Yeah, okay. Let me just put that on my little ol’ to-do list—” her voice went sarcastic and she mimed writing something on an invisible notebook. “Note to self—be less of a colossal fuckup. Also, believe in yourself. All you need is faith, trust, and a little pixie dust.” She glared at me. “You got pixie dust, Myles? Because I don’t.” She slapped my chest with both hands. “This isn’t A Star Is Born, Myles. You’re not going to shove me on stage and make a star out of me. Not everything has a happy fucking ending.”
“It can, though,” I said, stung by her words. “If you let it.”
She turned away, shaking her head.
“Lex—”
She turned back to me, suddenly sultry. “You want a happy ending, Myles?” She pressed herself up against me, eyes burning with sexual promise, leaning forward to give me a glimpse of the tits she was pushing against me. “I’ll give you a happy ending, and you don’t even need a massage first.”
“Lex.”
She cupped my crotch over my zipper—despite my mixed emotions, my body responded. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. You want to have a happy ending?” She ripped open my zipper. Reached in and hauled me out, fisting my cock. “This is the happy ending you want.”
“No, it’s not.” I growled. “Quit.”
She bit her lip, her smirk a succubus smile. “Ah, wait, I know.” She dropped to her knees. Brought me to her mouth, spoke in a whisper, her lips sliding against me. “This is what you want.”
I grabbed her wrists, pulled away, and lifted her to her feet. “No,” I snarled. “That ain’t what I fuckin’ want, Lex.”
She wiggled against my hold. “Let go, Myles.”
I let her go, but zipped myself up—with intense difficulty and very real pain as I fought to bend my hard cock into my jeans. I faced her. Seething. Angry. Confused. “You can’t distract me with sex this time, Lex. I ain’t askin’ about secrets, I’m just askin’ for you to fuckin’ be real with me. You loved being on stage. You know it, and I know it. I know what that looks like, and I saw it out there in you. I saw a woman with massive fuckin’ talent doing the thing she was fuckin’ born to do, and doing it like she’d been doin’ it her whole life. I saw fifty thousand
