Sebastian Maddox's Point of View
1:07 a.m.
The lights in her bedroom are out.
I hover in the dark hallway, listening for the soft inhale-exhale pattern of her breathing through the cracked door. She's out cold. Passed out in a silk robe and dreams about the Eiffel Tower and how well-adjusted her son is.
I slip past the hallway mirror and catch my own reflection.
Buttoned-down pajamas. Innocent, sleepy face.
Poster boy of obedience.
Until the moment I pull the zipper on my duffel bag and out comes the devil:
Leather jacket. Black jeans. Fake ID.
A smirk she would never recognize.
I push the window open in the guest room—my designated "chill zone," as she calls it, because God forbid her baby boy smokes weed in the same space he sleeps.
I don't do weed.
I do vodka. And tequila. And blonde lies that taste like cherry gloss.
The city air bites against my skin as I swing a leg over the sill, landing like I've done this a hundred times.
Because I have.
---
1:41 a.m.
Engine roars.
Bike eats the road.
I ride like I've got ten lives, not one.
No helmet.
Cigarette between my teeth.
Black helmet hanging off the side because wearing it would ruin the thrill of tempting death.
I hit 80 before I even realize it.
Street lights blur like we're time-traveling. I let the smoke burn down to the filter.
The club lights appear like neon heaven. Music bleeding onto the sidewalk.
I toss the cigarette.
Straighten my shirt.
Swallow my guilt.
---
2:03 a.m.
She's already there.
Demi.
Wearing one of my shirts and none of her dignity.
"Sebby," she purrs, dragging her fingers down my chest. "You're late."
"I'm worth the wait."
And she kisses me like she agrees.
We don't even make it past the hallway.
My hands are on her waist, lips on her neck, her breath in my mouth. She tastes like strawberry shots and bad decisions.
She claws my jacket off. I push her into the wall.
People whistle. Someone laughs.
I don't care. Neither does she.
And that's the problem.
Because ten minutes later we're in the VIP lounge. She's straddling me on the couch, her lipstick smeared, neck marked, nails leaving red stripes behind. She moans into my mouth like I'm all she wants.
But I'm already bored.
"Demi," I say between kisses.
"Mm?"
I tilt her chin up. Cold now. "We're done."
She blinks. "What?"
"I'm not your boyfriend."
Her hands fall from my shoulders like dead weight. "But you—last night, you said—"
"That you looked hot in my shirt. I didn't say anything else."
"You're a piece of shit."
"I'm the whole garbage truck, sweetheart."
She slaps me.
Doesn't hurt.
I walk out without looking back.
---
3:14 a.m.
Back home.
Window creaks open.
I crawl in like sin trying to pass as a bedtime story.
She's still asleep.
I shower off the perfume, the lipstick, the guilt.
Put the innocent boy mask back on.
By the time the sun rises, I'm sitting at the kitchen island in a hoodie, spooning cereal into my mouth like I didn't make out with a girl and destroy her last night.
Sky pads in, sleepy-eyed, her hair in a messy bun.
"Morning, baby," she coos, voice thick with love. "Did you sleep okay?"
I nod. Smile.
"Like a baby."
She smiles back, kisses my head, and pours her coffee.
I sip mine.
And wonder if she'd still kiss my forehead if she saw the devil under the halo.