Chaos Read online

  Oh God. Now what? Now I’m just sitting awkwardly beside him for no apparent reason, and blondie is going to be back any second and order me to move, and then what? Then my shot is gone. Then I jumped out of my bedroom window for no freaking reason.

  “Hey,” I say, tapping Shawn on the shoulder and trying not to do something humiliating like stutter or, you know, throw up all over him.

  God, his T-shirt is so soft. Like seriously downy-soft. And warm. And—

  “Hey,” he says back, something between confusion and interest shading the way he looks at me. His eyes, glassy from drinks he’s had, are a deep, deep green, and staring into them is like crossing the border into an enchanted forest at midnight. Terrifying and exhilarating. Like getting lost in a place that could swallow you whole.

  “You sounded really good tonight,” I offer, and Shawn smiles wider, giving the butterflies in my stomach a little puff of confidence.

  “Thanks.” He starts to turn away again, but I speak up to keep his attention.

  “The riff you did in your last song,” I blurt, blushing when he turns back toward me, “it’s amazing. I can never quite get that one.”

  “You play?” Shawn’s entire body shifts in my direction, his knees coming to rest against mine. Both of us have worn-through shreds at the knees, and I swear my skin tingles where his brushes against mine. He gives me his complete attention, and it’s like every light in the room focuses its heat on me, like every word I say is being documented for the record.

  A shadow falls over me, and the Abercrombie model from before glowers down at me, all blonde hair and demon eyes. “You’re in my seat.”

  Shawn’s hand lands on my knee to keep me from moving. “You play?” he asks again.

  My eyes are glued to his hand—his hand on my knee—when Demon Eyes whines, “Shawn, she’s in my seat.”

  “So find a new one,” he counters, casting her a glance before returning his attention to me. When she finally walks away, my cheeks are candy apples that have been left out in the sun too long.

  Shawn stares at me expectantly, and I stare back at him for a loserly amount of time before remembering I’m supposed to be answering a question. “Yeah,” I finally say, my heart cartwheeling in my chest at the feel of his heavy hand still resting on my knee. “I watched you . . . at a middle school talent show”—please don’t throw up, please don’t throw up, please don’t throw up—“a few years ago, and”—oh God, am I really doing this?—“and it made me want to learn to play. Because you were so good. I mean, you ARE so good. Still, I mean”—train wreck, train wreck, train wreck!—“You’re still really, really good . . . ”

  My attempt to salvage my heartfelt reasons is rewarded with a warm smile that makes all the embarrassment worth it. “You started playing because of me?”

  “Yeah,” I say, swallowing hard and resisting the urge to squeeze my eyes shut while I wait for his reaction.

  “Really?” Shawn asks, and before I know what he’s doing, he removes his fingers from my knee to take my hands in his. He studies the calluses on the pads of my fingers, rubbing his thumbs over them and melting me from the inside out. “You any good?”

  A cocky smile curves his lips when he lifts his gaze, and I confess, “Not as good as you.”

  His smile softens, and he releases my hands. “You’ve been to a few of our shows, right? Normally wear glasses?”

  Is that me? The girl in the freaking glasses? I’ve screamed from the front row for more than a few of the band’s shows at the local rec center, but I never thought Shawn noticed me. And now when I think about how dorky I probably looked with my thick, square frames . . . I’m not so sure I’m glad he did. “Yeah. I just got contacts last month—”

  “They look good,” he says, and the blush that’s been creeping across my cheeks blooms to epic proportions. I can feel the heat in my face, my neck, my bones. “You have pretty eyes.”

  “Thanks.”

  Shawn smiles, and I smile back, but before either of us can say another word, Joel is pushing at his arm to get his attention. He’s shouting and laughing about some joke Adam told, and Shawn shifts away from me to rejoin their conversation.

  And just like that, the moment is over and I didn’t say anything even close to what I came here to say. I didn’t say thank you or tell him that he changed my life or express anything even remotely meaningful.

  “Hey, Shawn,” I start, tapping at his shoulder again when Joel’s laughter dies down.

  Shawn turns a curious gaze on me. “Yeah?”

  “I actually wanted to ask you something.”

  He turns his body back toward me, and I realize I have no fucking clue what to say next. I actually wanted to ask you something? Of all the things that could have come out of my mouth, that’s what my brain settled on? The desperate, girly part of me that I don’t like to acknowledge wants to tell him that I love him and beg him not to move away. But then I’d have to go drown myself in the pool.

  “Oh yeah?” Shawn asks me over the music someone just turned up, and to stall for time, I lean toward his ear. He leans forward to meet me, and as I breathe in the scent of his shower-fresh cologne, my mind goes completely blank. I’ve lost the ability to form words, even simple ones like thank you. He’s moving away soon, and I’m blowing my last chance to tell him how I feel. With my cheek next to his, I turn my face, and then Shawn’s eyes are right in front of mine and our noses are practically brushing and his lips are centimeters away—and my brain says fuck it. And I lean forward.

  And I kiss him.

  Not quickly, not slowly. With my eyes closed, I press a warm kiss against his soft bottom lip, which tastes like a million different things. Like beer, like a dream, like the way the clouds swept across the moon tonight. My brain is flickering between wanting to melt into him and needing to jerk away when Shawn makes the decision for me.

  When his lips open to mine and he deepens the kiss, my heart kicks against my ribs and my trembling hands anchor themselves to his sides. His fingers bury in the thick of my hair, pulling me closer, and I’m far too lost to ever want to be found. I fist my hands in the loose fabric of his T-shirt, and Shawn breaks his lips from mine to purr low in my ear, “Come with me.”

  Before I know it, my hand is in his and I’m following him through the crowd. Up the stairs. Down a hall. Into a dark bedroom. The door closes behind us, and in the faint moonlight casting a soft glow throughout the room, those delicious lips claim mine again.

  “What’s your name?” Shawn asks between kisses, his talented mouth dropping to my neck.

  I think I might answer him if I could actually remember. Instead, I’m drunk on his lips and every spot they’re touching, on his hands and the way they’re charting forbidden territory across my skin. His touch sends shivers dancing over my goose bumps—and then heat, a fire licking over my neck, my arms, my heart.

  “It doesn’t matter,” I pant, and a soft chuckle sounds against my neck before Shawn straightens and gives me a smile that turns my knees to gelatin. He tugs at the knot of my flannel shirt and lets it fall to the floor between us. Then his fingers hook into my tank top and tug it over my head.

  I’ve made out with guys before. I’ve passed first base and have lingered at second. But when Shawn tugs me toward the bed and lays me down on top of it, I know I’m being drafted into another league—one that I’m probably not ready for but will try to be good at anyway.

  Because it’s him. Because it’s Shawn. Because even though I didn’t come here for this tonight, now I think I’ll die if I leave without it.

  With my body sunken into covers that aren’t mine, I pull him down on top of me so I can feel his lips again, moaning when every inch of his body molds itself against the dips and planes of mine. My fingers slide beneath his worn-soft T-shirt, and together, we tug it over his head.

  “Shawn,” I moan as I kiss him, the hardness inside his jeans sending me over the edge. I say his name just to make this real, to convince myse
lf I’m not dreaming.

  “Fuck,” he breathes, and he separates our bodies only enough to unbutton his fly as he’s kissing me. He unbuttons mine right after, and I wiggle out of my jeans and panties as he kicks out of his jeans and boxers. A foil wrapper is between his teeth a second later, and then he’s rolling a condom over himself and I’m sneaking a peek down below and biting my lip between my teeth.

  Everything is moving in fast motion, so fast that my brain keeps shouting, this isn’t really happening. Shawn is a sweet dream kneeling between my legs, and when my gaze travels back up to his face, he’s smirking at me. “This has got to go,” he says, plucking at my bra strap, and I arch my back to unclasp it.

  He removes the last item of clothing I’m wearing from my shoulders, and then his eyes are drinking me in and I’m shivering under his gaze. His calloused palm cups the ample swell of my breast, and he massages it gently before flicking his thumb across my nipple the way he would flick the tuned string of a guitar. I gasp at the sensation that ambushes every nerve ending in my body, and Shawn’s eyes lock with mine again. He holds my gaze as he positions himself between my legs. As he eases forward, I feel pressure, then pushing and stretching that make my eyes squeeze shut. My fingers sink into his back, pulling him as tight as I can get him, and my chin anchors in the warm crook of his neck.

  “Are you okay?” he asks, and I lie by raking a hand into his hair and sucking his earlobe between my lips. He doesn’t know he’s taking my virginity—because he doesn’t need to know, because I don’t want him to know.

  What would he think? Would he stop?

  He starts moving again, slowly, and I command my body to relax, to loosen for him so it doesn’t hurt as much. This wasn’t quite how I envisioned my first time. I imagined scented candles and music and . . . for the guy to at least know my name.

  Oh my God, my virginity is being taken by a guy who doesn’t even know my name.

  “Kit,” I blurt, and Shawn continues moving in and out of me as he pants, “Huh?”

  “My name,” I answer with my eyes still squeezed shut. I turn my face into the heat of his skin and fill my head with his scent, needing to remind myself that candles and music don’t matter because it’s Shawn, and that was always something too perfect to even dream of.

  “Kit,” he says, and when he pushes into me this time, my toes curl and a breathy moan drifts from my lips. He pulls away from my vise-grip hold to kiss me, and my body responds to him, adjusting to the increasing tempo of his thrusts.

  His tongue is between my lips, his hips are between my thighs, and his body is in my hands—but it’s me who is lost to him. I’m his, silently begging for more and more as he gives himself to me in the darkness of a stranger’s room. When his body spasms and he collapses on top of me, I hold him close, allowing my hands to memorize the planes of his back and the way his sweat-dampened hair curls against the top of his neck.

  I want to kiss him again, but now that what we did is over, I don’t know if I should. With my fingers in his hair, I fight with myself too long and lose the battle when Shawn pushes off of me and begins gathering his clothes. He tosses me mine with a tired smile on his face, and I try to remind myself I should be happy. Even if I never see him again, at least I had tonight.

  “Do you see my phone anywhere?” he asks, and I search the sheets around me to find it. He flips on the light switch, and I thank God when I don’t see any blood anywhere. We’re in Adam’s room, judging by the band posters and lyrics scrawled on the walls, and I find Shawn’s phone in black satin sheets and hand it to him, ignoring the pain that throbs down below with each little movement I make. If he knew it was my first time, he probably would have been gentler. But if he knew it was my first time, he probably wouldn’t have done it at all.

  Realization hits me like a wrecking ball to my gut—because I know he’s never going to talk to me after this. He’s going to leave, going to move a hundred miles away, and my heart is going to break worse than it would have if I had just let him go.

  “What’s your number?” he asks, and I stare up at him. He’s holding his phone in his hand, waiting for me to answer him, and the wrecking ball explodes into a thousand butterflies that flutter over my skin and tickle at my cheeks.

  I get my hopes up before I can help it, rattling off numbers as Shawn enters them into his phone. When he’s finished, I slide my last article of clothing over my head and eagerly take the hand he offers. He helps me up and then chuckles, pocketing his phone and saying, “Here.” His fingers lift to comb through my hair, but he quickly gives up and simply smooths it out, finishing the job by tucking a long strand behind my ear.

  “Better?” I ask, and he smiles before giving me an unexpected kiss that leaves me wanting to do more of what we just did on the bed, throbbing pain be damned.

  The moment ends when he reaches for the knob and opens the door, and then we’re walking into the hall and his arm is draping over my shoulder. In front of everyone. I contain a squeal and play it cool, smiling like I belong here at Adam’s party. Like I’m not just some nerdy freshman who used to wear thick glasses. Like Shawn Scarlett’s arm draped possessively over my shoulder is no big deal. Like he didn’t just take my virginity and make my entire life. Like him asking for my number, giving me a kiss, and putting his arm around me doesn’t make my heart want to explode in my chest. Like I’m not hopelessly in love with him.

  “What the fuck are you doing, man?” a familiar voice asks when we reach the living room, and every hair on my body stands on end as Shawn and I turn and see my brothers approaching us from the crowd. Bryce’s tone is light and amused, which tells me he has no idea we just came from upstairs. He laughs when I blush under his gaze. “Dude, that’s my sister,” he tells Shawn, and then he turns his attention to me. “Is this why you wanted to come here tonight?”

  Oh God, oh God, oh God.

  “You’re his sister?” Shawn asks me, and I see it happen—the moment when he recognizes me as a Larson, when he realizes I’m the little sister of Bryce, Ryan, and worst of all, Mason.

  “Yeah,” Bryce answers for me, “and she’s fifteen, man.”

  I barely have time to catch the mortified look Shawn gives me, but it embeds itself in my memory forever. His arm drops from my shoulder even before someone outside yells, “COPS!”

  Red and blue lights flash through the windows, followed by sirens that trigger a stampede. Bryce grabs me by the arm and tugs me away from Shawn, and Shawn drifts farther and farther away in the chaos, staring after me in that way that breaks my heart. Like what we did was a mistake and all I am is a regret.

  He moves away. He doesn’t call.

  He forgets, but I never do.

  Chapter One

  “THAT WAS A hundred years ago, Kale!” I shout at my closed bedroom door as I wiggle into a pair of skintight jeans. I hop backward, backward, backward—until I’m nearly tripping over the combat boots lying in the middle of my childhood room.

  “So why are you going to this audition?”

  I barely manage to do a quick twist-and-turn to land on my bed instead of my ass, my furrowed brow directed at the ceiling as I finish yanking my pants up. “Because!”

  Unsatisfied, Kale growls at me from the other side of my closed door. “Is it because you still like him?”

  “I don’t even KNOW him!” I shout at a white swirl on the ceiling, kicking my legs out and fighting against the taut denim as I stride to my closed door. I grab the knob and throw it open. “And he probably doesn’t even remember me!”

  Kale’s scowl is replaced by a big set of widening eyes as he takes in my outfit—tight, black, shredded-to-hell jeans paired with a loose black tank top that doesn’t do much to cover the lacy bra I’m wearing. The black fabric matches my wristbands and the parts of my hair that aren’t highlighted blue. I turn away from Kale to grab my boots.

  “That is what you’re wearing?”

  I snatch up the boots and do a showman’s twirl before plo
pping down on the edge of my bed. “I look hot, don’t I?”

  Kale’s face contorts like the time I convinced him a Sour Patch Kid was just a Swedish Fish coated in sugar. “You’re my sister.”

  “But I’m hot,” I counter with a confident smirk, and Kale huffs out a breath as I finish tying my boots.

  “You’re lucky Mason isn’t home. He’d never let you leave the house.”

  Freaking Mason. I roll my eyes.

  I’ve been back home for only a few months—since December, when I decided that getting a bachelor’s degree in music theory wasn’t worth an extra year of nothing but general education requirements—but I’m already ready to do a kamikaze leap out of the nest again. Having a hyperactive roommate was nothing compared to my overprotective parents and even more overprotective older brothers. Pair that with Kale, who always knows what I’m thinking even when I’d rather keep it to myself, and I’m pretty sure I need to figure out what the hell I’m doing with my life or accept that eventually the white coats will need to drive out to retrieve me.

  “Well, Mason isn’t home. And neither is Mom or Dad. So are you going to tell me how I look or not?” I stand back up and prop my hands on my hips, wishing my brother and I still stood eye to eye. A growth spurt in high school gained him a few inches over me, and now he’s almost as tall as the rest of our brothers, even if he is a whole lot lankier. At five foot eight, I have to tilt my chin to glare at him.

  Sounding thoroughly unhappy about it, Kale says, “You look amazing.”

  A smile cracks across my face a moment before I grab my guitar case from where it’s propped against the wall. As I walk through the house, Kale trails after me.