Page 120 of Filthy Beautiful
Show him the nips…
Ugh. Was I really doing this?
I squeezed my nipples a bit to make them hard. I wasn’t going naked like Shay told me to. But this bra left very little to the imagination… and still made me feel kinda sexy instead of like a total whore.
I took a bunch of shots, until I got kinda comfortable with it and managed to take one that seemed okay. One that I thought I could actually send.
I’d always told myself if I really needed him, Xander would be here for me. He’d come if I called.
Maybe I needed to believe that, to survive everything I had.
But I’d never put that theory to the test. Because I was afraid that if I did, I’d find out I was wrong—and every fantasy I’d ever had about my tattooed prince would crumble for once and for all.
I was so scared of that, I didn’t even try.
But, to be fair, I didn’t even let him be nice to me whenhetried, either.
So I opened Snapchat and sent him the pic, along with five words.
I need you right now.
Chapter Fourteen
Xander
Iwant you to be my first…
I want you to do with me what you do with those other girls…
It had been forty-eight hours since Courteney said those words to me.
And for forty-eight hours, I’d been going fucking mental.
At least it wasn’t an uneventful two days.
I’d been playing drums. I’d been shopping. I’d taken my mom and dad out to dinner and caught them up about everything going on in my life—you know, besides the fact that I was trying not to fuck Cary’s eighteen-year-old virgin sister—which I made sure to do at least once a month when I was home from the road. They were proud of me, so at least there was that.
I’d even been to the fucking dentist.
Just about every fucking thing I could think of to keep myself occupied.
I’d worked out with Trey twice, and given him the Coles Notes version of what went down between Courteney and me.
Predictably, he’d laughed his ass off. Then feared for my soul.
And for my friendship with Cary, obviously.
Last night, I’d gone to Brody Mason’s bachelor party, where Ash had cornered me and demanded an answer. Was I joining his band, yes or fucking no?
I chose yes.
So, officially, I had a new band.
And new band management.
Now, I was sitting in Zane Traynor’s grandma’s backyard, at my new manager’s wedding reception, nursing a beer. The members of my new band sat at my table, shooting the shit in the lantern light.
The Players; that’s what we’d decided to call ourselves, a nod to our lead singer.
