Page 1 of Flames and Flowers
ChapterOne
Matt
Iwas already grieving before it ended, because it ended before it had even begun. But even in the midst of grief, hope can flower.
Blind, drunk and stupid hope.
Because the first stage of grief is denial, right?
It was four days before Christmas and I was in a world of denial. One where the vivid memory of kissing a man who would later become lead singer of my new band—in a dank castle corridor half a year ago—was making me think some stupid shit.
And do even stupider shit.
Like buy a way expensive, overly meaningful Christmas gift for said lead singer. And harbor holiday-cocktail-fueled fantasies of hooking up with him.
Oh, and with his beautiful girlfriend, too.
In my defense, he kissed me back. A kiss is a two-way street, right? Or at least it should be. And it definitely was that night at the castle.
Until he put the brakes on.
Though I tended not to dwell on that part in my memories.
So there I was, getting my festive on at a holiday dinner with friends, then putting in an early appearance at a couple of parties… hopping from taxi to taxi while snow drifted down, the sky grew dark and Christmas lights glittered across downtown—with his special gift in tow. I carried it with me, along with her gift, in a shiny red gift bag.
Like a fucking fool.
You know when you find yourself doing something stupid and you kinda know it’s stupid, but you do it anyway?
Me. That night.
I did all those things you did when you were about to see someone you liked, a fuck of a lot, and you wanted them to like you back—and you were pretty sure that you might just get laid for your efforts. But what could I say? Hormones, alcohol, and that blind bitch goddess, Hope, had circumvented my better senses. Combine those with the fact that Ashley Player was forged by the gods of fire and sex like a gift from hell’s most sinful inferno, and his woman, Danica, was spun of sugar and spice and everything that was so fucking nice I wanted to get naked with it… and I was punch drunk on pheromones and the memory of that fucking kiss.
The taste of his mouth…
His tongue piercing.
His inky black hair andcome-here-if-you-dareeyes.
And all the shit I’d heard about him, too.
That he was into guys. That he was into girls. That he was a player; I didn’t even mind that part. I liked Ash the first time I met him, long ago, at a show down in L.A. where we’d briefly shared the stage.
I liked him more ever since he’d kissed me and we breathed the same air for those few brief moments.
Honestly, I kinda liked him even more when he turned me down because of a girl. Because of Danica.
He could’ve gotten so much more from me that night at the castle, and he knew it. But he didn’t. It said something about him.
That he wasn’t just a player.
That behind those smoldering blue eyes, Ashley Player had depth and a heart. That he was a man of convictions. A man who knew what he wanted and stood for it, no matter what anyone thought—and no matter what other temptation got in his face.
I knew he was tempted by me that night. I felt the pressure of that temptation, hard against my hip when I pressed up against him, and I felt the heat pumping between us. But somehow, it only made him hotter when he said no.
So far, everything Ashley Player did made me like him more.
I definitely liked him more ever since he told me he wanted me—in his band.
