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Even though the entire house was mine, this was the thing that felt like it invaded my privacy. Why were strangers in my part of the house? Annoyed, I grabbed the door handle and pushed it open.
There was a pull-out couch in here—as if this house needed more bedrooms—but the couple using it hadn’t bothered to pull it out. They were making out on the couch, the guy on top of the girl. He had long hair, and when they both pulled back to look at me, I noticed he was wearing a Pantera shirt. The girl wasn’t wearing any shirt at all. She didn’t even cover up when she saw me, just scowled with her breasts right there, in plain view.
I blinked, even though I’d seen boobs before.
“Do you mind, man?” the guy asked, annoyed.
“Sorry,” I said, and backed out, closing the door. I didn’t even think of how stupid that was, that he’d cut me down so easily, a stranger in my house. I was blindsided by the breasts. It wasn’t just the fact of them, but their size, their fleshy imperfection compared to the models I’d seen. The way she didn’t cover them up, as if being topless was completely natural. It was startling—and hot—in a way I wasn’t used to.
Even though I was a famous pop star, I was also a nineteen-year-old boy. Breasts had the power to rob me of speech.
Still dazed, I wandered the rest of the way down the hall to the kitchen. I found some vegetables in the fridge, then some cooked lean chicken that had been prepared for me. I had to be photographed, I had to go on talk shows, I had to go to the Grammys. I could eat lean chicken, and that was it.
I put the cold chicken on a cutting board and sliced it into bites, eating it right off the board without a plate. I stared at the wall, picturing the girl’s nipples. They were dark red, and they had been hard.
“Oh, Jesus,” someone said in the doorway. “Who the fuck are you?”
I whirled to find a girl in the doorway. She was wearing jeans with frayed hems and a loose shirt that she’d tied in a knot right below her breasts, so a slice of her belly was visible above the waist of her pants. Her hair was dyed bright red, like Gatorade. She gripped the doorframe with one hand, as if she was so startled she might fall over. She stared at me with wide eyes that were lined with dark, smudged eyeliner.
I blinked hard at her. I was still seeing the other girl’s naked top, so I had to strain not to stare at the soft, curved lines under her shirt. “I’m Finn,” I said.
Her eyebrows rose. “Huh,” was her only comment. Her gaze moved down me to my feet, then up again. I couldn’t tell what her conclusion was.
I cleared my throat. Since I had forced my gaze to stay on her face, I realized she was pretty. She had a neat chin and nice lips. Her eyes were perfect, and I suspected that even without makeup, she would be beautiful to look at. “Are you hungry?” I asked, because she wasn’t saying anything, and I felt like she might leave, and I didn’t want her to go yet.
“Finn.” The girl cocked her head, as if trying to place the name. Was it an act? I had no idea. “You’re Alistair’s brother,” she said.
Alistair’s brother? “You don’t know who I am?” I asked.
The girl rolled her eyes. “I know who you are. Okay? Does that satisfy your ego?”
I suppressed a smile. Fair enough. “Yes, thanks. How do you know Alistair?” What I meant was, Are you dating him? Are you his girlfriend? Please, please tell me you’re not my brother’s girlfriend.
“He works with my sister at the restaurant,” the girl said, oblivious to how my shoulders drooped with relief. “I don’t know him, really. I kind of crashed this party.”
“It doesn’t matter if you crashed, because this isn’t his house. It’s mine.”
“Whatever,” the girl said, because she honestly didn’t care. “So you’re home now. Are you going to kick us out of your house?”
“Should I?”
“Sure,” the girl said. Then she turned around, bending at the waist so her jean-clad butt was facing me, a juicy pear shape. She slapped one of her ass cheeks with her palm, a single sharp sound. “Kick my ass right out the door,” she said.
I realized that she was a little bit drunk. Not drunk enough to slur, not drunk enough to forget this conversation later, but drunk enough to have lost her filter. It was adorable and incredibly sexy. I had never looked at a lingerie model like I looked at this girl’s drunk, perfect ass.
“It’s okay,” I said, because I was responsible for everyone. “You can pass out here.”
“Kick me to the curb, Finn!” She smacked her ass again, the sound loud in the quiet kitchen, and this time I laughed. “Put me out in the rain!”
“Stop it,” I told her. “What’s your name, anyway?”
“I’m Juliet.” She straightened and turned. “Like the Shakespeare play.”
“Well, Juliet,” I said, “I don’t kick out drunk girls, so you’re safe.”
“I don’t like your music.” She said this politely, without a hint of scorn. “No offense. It’s nothing like mine, that’s all.”
“You play music?” I asked.
