Chapter One

Maren

"Baby." He breathes it in my ear, which should have made me hot. But nothing about Brock makes me even lukewarm. He's just a means to an end, a Band-Aid to my non-existent love life, and the reason I don't feel the need to couple up and settle down. He's also kind of my meal ticket, since he manages the apartment I live in. I have a feeling it's why my rent hasn't raised.

Hey, I'm not above securing rent control, even in non-conventional ways. Brock has been eyeing my ass since I moved in, and a couple years ago I finally gave it to him. We're not exclusive. Hell, I have no idea what he does in his own time. But now and then—especially when I'm in a dry spell like my current situation—I text Brock and he comes trotting. Consider it my cure for California's housing crisis.

He cradles the back of my neck, shifting his weight as he pulls my leg around him. "Fuck, your legs are so long," he murmurs, running his hand over my calf, then my thigh, and over my bare ass before he resumes thrusting into me.

"Less talking, more fucking." I nip his bottom lip, sucking on his lip ring as he groans against my mouth.

"Maren, baby, you make this so hard."

This . Not me . I don't slow my pace, because if he's breaking off this casual fling we have going, I at least want to get my rocks off before it happens.

"I hope we can keep this going after you find a new place to live."

That stops me. I still my hips and press my hands on his tattooed chest, my black manicured nails digging slightly into his skin as I fight the urge to carve his heart out.

"What do you mean, find a new place?" I narrow my eyes, daring him to retract his words. He grins, then nuzzles my neck with his nose. It's a move that would normally send shivers up and down my body. Instead, I'm trying to ignore the feelings of repulsion that want to reject his dick that is still hard inside me.

"Consider this your advance notice," he whispers, then rolls his hips as he continues grinding. I wrap my leg around his, grab his forearm, then flip him on his back so that I'm straddling him. His face breaks into a wide grin, his eyes hooded with lust as he licks his lips. "Damn Maren, you're a good fuck."

"What advance notice?" He reaches for me, but I swat his hands away. When he shifts under me, I thrust down to immobilize him. I can see the impatience washing over his expression, but I don't care. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

"Hey, you still have thirty days."

I freeze, letting his words sink in. Thirty days. To find a new place. I can barely afford this place, and I know it's below market rate. How the fuck am I supposed to find a new place in a month?

Then I remember the guy I'm sitting on. Despite this sneak attack, he's still hard. And the way he's snaking his hands over my thighs, he thinks we're still fucking.

"You're evicting me while you're inside me?" I slam my hands against his shoulder, pushing him hard against the mattress as I hoist myself off him. I'm deceivingly strong when I want to be, despite my wiry frame, and I find some satisfaction as he grunts from the move, and even more at the red marks I leave behind. I should have clawed his heart out while I had a chance.

"Baby, you'll be fine. With a body like that, I bet you can find a new place in no time."

"I'm not some fucking whore, Brock. "

He grins at this, sitting up in the bed. "Come on, Maren. I'm not calling you a whore. But I'm not dumb, either. Why are we even here? It can't be all the non-existent dates we went on, or the sunset strolls we never took. Maybe it's my charm, my good looks, or the way I make you come every time we fuck."

Not every time, but I'm not taking the time to correct him. Sometimes a girl just needs the guy to finish, and a little fake orgasm speeds things along. Speaking of speeding things along, why is his naked ass still sitting on my bed?

"Do you have a point?"

"Yeah, I have a point. You're fucking me because you think I can keep your rent low. But the truth is, I don't have that kind of power. The owner is just too lazy to raise rents."

He's had no power over my rent. The fact that this new knowledge makes me regret the past few years says a lot.

I drag my eyes over him, trying to find the part of him I find attractive. His broad shoulders. His chiseled jawline. His solid tattooed chest and tree trunk arms. His giant hands that have been all over my body…

Not one thing attracts me, especially not in this moment.

I snatch his shirt and pants off the floor and throw them at him. "Get dressed and get out. Lose my number, Brock." Then I turn on my heel and head for the shower, not even waiting for him to leave.

He's gone by the time I get out. Not even a goodbye. Sure, this was nothing but a casual fling. And sure, I was using him. But his absence without a fight feels like a rejection.

"No, him kicking you out of your apartment is a rejection," I mutter as I towel dry my hair. Fuck, I can be so stupid.

I've never done well with rejection. Correction. In my adult life, I have not had to deal with rejection. It's why I don't do relationships, and why I always break things off while things still feel hot and heavy. I'd rather leave them wanting more than be left behind with a broken heart.

My heart isn't breaking now, but my security is because I'm one month away from being homeless. Again.

I glance at the clock and groan. 3:23 a.m. Letting that fucktard come over when I had to work the early shift was a stupid idea. One I was going to regret later today, for sure. The coffee shop I work at is called Insomniacs, and at this late hour—or early—the name is more than ironic.

I have a decision to make. Go to bed now and get an hour and a half of sleep before my alarm goes off, or power through and sleep when my shift is over. I choose the latter, slipping on a pair of yoga pants and an oversized sweater. Then I grab my guitar and settle onto the funky orange couch I once scored when a neighbor moved out. The walls are thin, so I can't go ham. But I strum lightly, smoothing out the kinks to a new song I've been working on.

This is the magic that soothes my soul, the thing that makes me forget every single event from my past and all the stress of my present. When I feel like all the dominoes are about to fall, all I need to do is pull out my guitar and lose myself in the music.

But this time is different. My fingers fumble over the strings, the notes sounding tinny within the four walls of my tiny living room. It's not much, but it's mine. Or was mine. Even with the funky smell I can't seem to find, and the dark spots on the walls that I think might be growing. Even with the foul-smelling water I can't drink and the wall heater that gives me a headache every time I use it.

I earned this place. I kept myself afloat without the help of anyone. I turned my whole entire life around and found myself a home, supporting myself while most kids were going to college on their parents' dime.

Yet, this is where it got me—evicted without a safety net to land in.

I look at the poster-covered walls that surround me, absorbing the images of Shirley Manson, Hayley Williams, and Chrissie Hynde, trying to soak up the courage I desperately need through osmosis. It's what I do when I'm on stage. I call on my idols like some New Age crystal-toting hippie calling on their angels. It's their persona I put on, like putting on my favorite shirt. It's what keeps me from getting too shy about performing in public and keeps me from hiding away. When I stand behind that microphone with my guitar strapped to my body, I am Shirley, daring the crowd to fuck with me as I glare at them through kohl-lined eyes. I am Hayley, singing the anthem of a generation, my fist in the air. And in the times when I'm alone with my lyrics, trying to find the words to feelings I wish I had, I am Chrissie, the songwriter who probably wrote the best love song of all eternity when she wrote "Don't Get Me Wrong."

I'm hardly into love songs now. All I can think about is that fucktard who came in here and stuck his dick in me only to tell me I needed to find a new place to live.

Fuck him.

What I need is a new song. I play a few chords, trying to loosen some lyrics from my angry brain in an attempt to move beyond the foul mood that asshole put me in, but each strum of the guitar sounds like fuck you —which is both juvenile and cathartic.

So I go with it .

Fuck you, you fucking loser.

You piece of shit, you two-bit poser.

Fuck you, you think you're cute.

Don't act surprised when I give you the boot.

You had your chance, you fucking poodle.

I'm tired of your dangling noodle

Grab your things, it's time to go

You're not my prince, I'm not your hoe.

I burst out laughing, even though I'm still mad at that asshole and this impossible situation he's put me in. Okay, maybe not him. It's really the guy who owns this building. But Brock is the messenger, and a shitty one at that. I mean, he had his dick in me when he broke the news. Who does that?

And the song is shit, I definitely can't play it anywhere. At least not at the venues I usually perform at. I think of my friend Claire and her seven-year-old son Finn, who are almost always at my shows when I perform at Hillside, especially now that Claire's fiancé Ethan owns the outdoor bar venue. Whenever I put the word fuck in my lyrics, she can tell me exactly how many times I sang it because Finn sang them with me.

I fucking love that kid.

And I fucking hate this situation.

And, glancing at the clock, it's time to start getting ready for the longest shift ever at Insomniacs. At least it might help get my mind off the mess I'm in.