Pepper
The Sores are playing at the Paramount where the venue is about the same size as the Bellissimo, and the house is packed. Tony walks past the long line of concert-goers, queuing up and goes straight to the front. He leans forward and speaks in the usher’s ear, jerking his thumb at me.
The usher looks over, then snaps to attention. “Right this way, Ms. Heart. I’ll show you to your seat.” We don’t have seats—at least, we didn’t, so that means they’re finding me one. Score one for being famous.
My body is languid and warm from the s*x, my knees a bit wobbly. I know I’ll have to unpack the r**e—because I know that’s what must’ve happened—but I’m not going to do it tonight.
Tonight is too magical. Too perfect.
I keep trying to tell myself it’s not because of Tony. It’s because of me
