Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 114223 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114223 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
We were toe-to-toe now. He put his palms on my cheeks, and my eyes stung, my heart racing wildly. I didn’t push him away. Even the pain he gave me was special because it was his. I knew exactly what he’d meant by saying he needed me. I needed him, too. My life felt so hollow without him in it. Most days, I felt like I was merely existing, but nowhere near living.
“Fact number four—it doesn’t matter what or who brought us together. But it happened, and we can’t undo it. It’s there, and we can’t go back. When I saw you with a baby this afternoon, the first thing I wanted to do was snatch you both and run away from here with you in tow. Most of all, what scared me was that I wasn’t even remotely disturbed by the idea of having a kid with you. And that says a lot. Shit, Stardust, that says everything. You’re holding my world together in your delicate, freckled hands, and all I ask is for you not to toss it against the wall and break it to pieces.”
His mouth closed in on mine, his lips tracing mine like braille, like he was trying to read the reaction out of me. I sucked in air and opened up for him, and we kissed so slow and so soft I thought I was being drugged into a lull. Eventually, I was the one to suck his tongue into my mouth and moan, trying to peel off his leather jacket. I wanted to believe he was sober and was going to stay that way, because deep inside, I’d already forgiven him.
Alex Winslow made me lose a part of my heart.
But he’d also sewn it back together, in tattered patches, in ugly patches, but it was whole. In its own, imperfect-but-still-working way.
“I love you,” I whimpered into his mouth, tearing our kiss apart to say something important. “Before she died, my mother told me that in order to know if you’re in love, you need to make a list of all the stupid things you did for that person. I made a list, Alex. It’s not pretty. On paper, I’m kind of a fool.”
He stared at me for a second, curving one side of his mouth and showing off the perfect row of teeth, like in the movies. His everywhere eyes sparkled with newfound happiness.
We stumbled to my bedroom. I laughed when we tripped over my new sewing machine. He hoisted me up and wrapped me around his waist, his signature move, and we were together again, in Moscow, Poland, Germany, London, and Paris.
He licked my cheek like a dog. “Mine. Claimed it.”
“Yours.” I licked his stubbled jawline, smiling. “Until the very last note.”
“And the Grammy for Best Album of the Year goes to…” Bella Jordin is stalling, clutching the envelope, a smug smile on her face. I’d like to believe I’m above punching a woman, but the ball of tension blocking my throat begs to differ. Does she think it’s cute? Does Bella Jordin think any of the fuckers who sit at the Oscars and Grammys and Emmys and have spent their entire year—fuck that, plural, years—working on their albums and movies and shows, really find it adorable, the way she drags it out like a juicy gum? I would like to do the same to her next time she gets checked for an STD.
“Hold it…just a little longer, Bella. Don’t you like the anticipation of it all?”
Jenna, squeezing my bicep, throws a glance at my bouncing foot.
Tap. Tap. Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap.
The bloke in front of me—a newbie R&B producer who probably wrote two songs for Justin Bieber and now thinks he’s God—turns around and shoots me a death glare. I shoot him an I’m-alive glare. Toothy grin galore.
“And the Grammy goes to…Alex Winslow! ‘Harquebus’!” she shrieks into the microphone, and the camera zooms in on me, and I do the usual thing where I feign surprise and point at myself.
I get up and squeeze past Jenna and Blake, who are holding hands. Blake is on his phone—shocker—probably asking the babysitter how their daughter, Cecilia, is doing. Alfie is sitting beside me with his date—some girl from the British Big Brother—and Lucas and Hudson are all but making out behind me. On my way to the stage, I tap Will Bushell’s shoulder, and he gives me the thumbs-up. This doesn’t mean I like him, but I definitely don’t hate him anymore. Mostly, I’m relieved he didn’t steal the one thing that truly mattered.
Then again, if Fallon were Indie, I wouldn’t have fallen so far down in the rabbit hole. I would’ve stayed above water just in case I needed to save her, too.
I climb up to the stage. There’s always this weird notion up there, like the whole world is watching you, waiting for you to cock up. Fall on your arse, burp into the mic, or shit your trousers. The Grammys two years ago was such a disaster. The Prime Minister of England was recorded shaking her head and muttering, “Oh, Christ” when she watched the video of me representing our fine nation. Today, I want to get it over with as soon as possible.