{ I am so sorry for this. I love you all. Whew. This chapter is a lot to handle, I know, but I am pretty satisfied with how it came out.}
{Play "Haunt//Bed" by your favorite band the 1975, "Pull My Hair" by Bright Eyes, and "Transmission" by Joy Division. My taste in music is lit, y'all}
{Matty's POV}
"Harper, don't," my words slurred as I turned my head from her.
The club was hot, dark, heavy. The smells were too strong. It was all cherry chaptstick and liquor and cloves. The cocaine was making head head spin.
But that part, that part I liked.
Harper took my face in her hands anyways, kissing my jaw, my ear, my collarbones.
She whispered something into my ear, and I don't know what it was, only that it was dirty because afterward she grabbed my cock and stuck her tongue down my throat.
I let her, though.
What else was there to do? Rehearse for songs the band and I had played a hudred times in preparation for our second word tour? Tell one more interviewer how I came up with the name for my band? Shoot the shit with George and pretend it's cool that he's marrying my ex? Act like I'm not going to have to do massive amounts of blow before I see her walk down the aisle, especially considering her belly is starting to swell with mini-George growing in there.
No.
None of that.
Harper was pulling me away from the crowd now, her little pixie feet moving so fast in the Chucks she was wearing. Claire would have shit twice and died before she wore Chucks to a dance club, especially if they were as beaten up as Harper's were. Claire had a strict philisophy that Chucks were to be clean at all times and paried with leggings or skinny jeans only.
She always looked cute in them.
She always looked cute in anything.
George had a fucking tattoo of her lipstick stain on his collarbone now.
My tattoos of her were not visible.
Harper had dragged me into a bathroom. She was kissing me everywhere, touching me everywhere. She didn't even care to lock the door.
I really liked her.
"Red," I said to her. "I need a hit."
Even though I'd already had too much.
Harper perfected four glorious white lines on the counter with symmetrical perfection. Two for me, two for her. I saved a bit from the end of one of my lines for a little surprise for her. Her mouth was at mine again the minute we had inhalted the white lightening, and my fingertip went into her mouth.
She licked the tip of it and looked me dead in the eye.
Harper knew exactly who I was, and what I needed. And I knew the same about her.
I took my dampened fingertip and dipped it in the remaining coke on the counter, then yanked Harper's panties to the side, pressing the substance onto her clit.
She moaned.
She was never scared to look right at me when she did.
"Fuck," she said, biting her lip.
"C'mere, Red," I said, flipping her around and bending her over the counter, entering her immediately.
Harper wasn't Claire.
She never needed a warm-up. She didn't want me to take my time with her.
Harper wasn't Claire.
She knew herself better than to say she loved me. Claire didn't.
Harper was looking at me, her reflection in the mirror haunting me and pulling me in. I didn't love her, but I loved the thrill of being around her.
"Matty," Harper's cherry lips moved.
But it wasn't her voice that I heard.
"Matty," she said again.
It was that velvet voice. That sweet, soft yet devastatingly sexy voice.
"Matty!"
Claire.
"Baby," Claire's voice sang from a distance.
"Hellll-ooooh," Claire's voice said in a sing-song manner.
My eyes shot open.
Claire was crouched over me, her hands stroking my hair, beconing me to the morning. Her gorgeous face was smiling, but she was confused.
"Happy Halloween," she said, kissing my lips.
My arms immediately wrapped around her, as tight as they physically could. Her perfect hourglass body was adorned graciously by the cute little long-sleeved, romper she was wearing, and I wanted to retrace the maps that I had made. She giggled as my hands were all over her, my mouth starting to do the same.
I was on top of her now, her perfect breasts heaving out of the top of her pajamas, nipples hard underneath the thin fabric. Her face was flushed and gorgeous as her breath hit my nose. The toothpaste and cigarette smell filled my nostrils as she giggled.
"Good morning," I said onto the flesh of her neck, my lips grazing her soft, soft skin.
Her hands were around my neck, legs wrapped around my torso.
"Were you having a bad dream, Matty?" she asked me, her eyes closing in delight as my mouth moved down to her breasts.
"It was a fucking nightmare," I said.
Her pretty little face pouted. "Aw, poor thing."
Claire sighed softly as I took her pajamas off, her full, pale breasts exposed now, pale, ample mounds adorned by crowning nipples in a shade like a beige rose.
"You're so beautiful," I spoke to her, my mouth moving down her soft, slim waist and to the thickness of her hips, spreading her smooth legs and meeting the already wet mound between them.
"Oh!" she moaned, those gorgeous hazel eyes fluttering open and shut in delight.
I pursed my mouth against her cunt, kissing each of the lips that formed a smile between her thighs.
"Daddy," Claire moaned, and I was instantly hard as a rock.
My tongue devoured her wetness, making figure eights and circles, stars and half-moons. Claire's taste was my favorite thing in the world: tangy and sweet and citrusy. Her full hips bucked against me, and I cradled her in my arms, my hands squeezing her ass.
I would eat her until she was gone if she'd let me.
And she did, for a long, long time, arching her back and moaning my name over and over. I loved watching her. It was like a sunrise, a sunset, or some kind of precious majestical secret you knew you were blessed to know.
Her body was trembling beneath me now, putty in my hands, in my mouth. My hands reached for hers and she grabbed them tightly, like she needed me to walk her through what she was abou to experience.
I smiled between her thighs, but didn't dare move my mouth off of her. I was watching her, her gorgeous features expressing the intesity of what she couldn't speak because she was moaning so much, alternating between "yes", "there", "Oh, Matty!", the occasional four-letter word, and, my favorite "Daddy, please."
Claire was visibly shaking now, and my hands gribbed her hips as her legs seized. She bit her lip in preparation, fighting off the orgasm that was coming for her. Her hands ran through my hair, her nails dug into my shoulders.
I continued to enjoy her, exhilirated, waiting for the glorious moment when she came. Her pussy was like a drug that I never built up a tolerance to, never came down from, but always, always craved.
"Ah! Don't stop, please, Matty, please," Claire screamed, all the syllables breaking in gasps and moans.
But I would never, ever, if she didn't want me to.
Her mouth pursed into an "O" shape and the heavenly sounds of her orgasm filled my ears as she shook violently beneath me. Her face was red, gorgeous, her breasts heaving up and down as she tried to catch her breath.
She was lost for a minute, as I rested my head on her stomach, her body still twitching, legs flickering below me like a light struggling to come on again.
And when she asked me "What was that for, handsome?" my reply was to do it again.
And then again.
She was starting to wear down after the third orgasm I gave her, her body so heavenly and tired, her gorgeous hazel eyes watering. Claire was a damn masterpiece.
Claire was begging me to stop now, her voice drained, saying that she couldn't endure it anymore. My heart was full, heavy, alive, when she said she loved me, over and over as tears were adorning her pretty little cheeks, I told her that she was the only thing I had ever truly loved, and I kissed her everywhere, her fucking kneecaps, her shoulders, her belly button, her temples.
I rested my head against her breasts, and her arms were weakly wrapped aroung my neck, fingernails tickling my shoulders. She was so exhausted. I cherished it.
"What are you doing to me?" she mumbled, her eyes still closed, her mouth swallowing dry.
"Reminding you how much I love you," I said, kissing the mole between her breasts.
Claire's eyes fluttered open, and played out this fantastical blend of emotions: exhaustion, love, ache, happiness.
"I love you, Matty," she sighed.
I knew that she understood this, the ramifications of it.
"Can I tell you something?" I asked her.
Claire made an "mmm?" sound, and went back to closing her eyes and focusing on her breathing.
"You taste like fucking tangerines," I informed her.
And her gorgeous face lit up in a smile, eyes still closed, knowing that I was going to be the only man to ever, ever do this to her body.
=
The boys and I were only going to be in the studio for a few hours today, going over editing stuff with our producers, planning out our acoustic stuff.
George was playing it absolutely cool. Too cool.
He was exstatic, for multiple reasons I'm sure. Three of them were as follows.
1. He was going to DJ tonight at the posh club we'd been invited to by the record company, and he thought he was the absolute shit.
2. John had ordered pizza for everyone.
3. Claire had SnapChatted him a photo of herself in her Halloween costume and it probably gave him masturbation material for days.
It sickened me the way his stupid face lit up in a smile whenever he looked at the picture she'd sent him, her body hugged perfectly by her Bonnie to my Clyde costume. He looked at it a little too long, and bit his lip, awkwardly adjusting his snapback.
"She looks good, hmm?" I asked him, leaning over his shoulder and grabbing a slice of the pizza from the table in front of him.
George cleared his throat. "Uh, yeah. Cool costumes."
He was such a bad liar. Danes locked his phone and shoved it into his pocket.
I thought that he had gotten what he wanted those days ago when I sped to his house, when Claire didn't accept any of my calls or texts. When I had barrelled into the Daniel's house, nearly knocking Tom over.
"Well, hello, Matthew," George's Mom had said, confused as I rudely ignored her and sprinted up the stairs to George's room.
The room we hung out in when we were kids, first learning to roll spliffs and strum guitar chords. I got to know George Bedford Daniel so well in that room, this tall goofy kid with a big heart and talent for playing lacrosse and banging on things.
I chomped on my pizza as Harper did the same, tapping her Converse on the carpet, her cherry lips perked up in amusement as she guaged George's reaction.
"What are you two going to be?" she asked me. "Oh, wait, lemme guess, probably something ridiculous."
Harper devoured her pizza, pulling the slice from her mouth as the cheese formed a long, gooey rope.
"Are you like Beauty and the Beast?" she chewed. "Oh! I bet you're going to be Danny and Sandy. Fucking cliche, it's great."
I narrowed my eyes, because the Grease costumes were indeed suggested by Claire.
"Wait til you see what Chelsea picked out, it's pretty cool," Adam's soft voice spoke as he reached for a slice.
"Nah, man," Ross interrupted him, eating two slices of pizza stacked on top of each other. He was doing something called "Carbo-loading" and would do push-ups in between recording. "Tinsley and I are going to be the best."
"I bet," Harper nodded. "What about you, Gigantour?" she turned to face George, who was now awkwardly clenching his bicep.
George sighed. "Oh, typical costume. I'm going as a Disney princess as well."
Harper rolled her eyes at George's joke and we finished our lunch in chatter about equipment and whether or not the rumors about our manager having an affair with Robert Smith's wife back in the day.
Our band's personal assistant, a guy who looked a bit like Troye Sivan and who was more of a waif than I was, tidied up for us as Harper dug around her jacket for her cigarettes.
"Can I get one?" I asked her.
=
Harper was shuffling her feet outside, shivering in the cold of the afternoon.
I took my leather jacket off and draped it over her shoulders before reaching into her back pocket, snatching her Zipp and lighting my menthol after I'd thrown the clove she loaned me to the ground.
"Thanks, Healy," she said, her eyes focused on the taxis and luxury cars going by.
"You got it," I mumbled.
Her oceanic blue eyes caught me, and her lips turned up into a smirk.
"George is acting weird," she spoke.
I shurgged my shoulders underneath the greem flannel shirt I was wearing and toyed with the necklace I was wearing.
"George is always weird," I answered her honestly.
We didn't speak for a few moments, instead, enjoying the hum of the city as the happenings went about. She wasn't one to fill the air with small talk.
"I had a nightmare this morning," I admitted to her, though I wasn't sure why.
Harper Halifax had a face I couldn't lie to, no matter how much I tried. I was opening up to her with every smart-ass comment she made, every clove she loaned me, every time her baby blues rolled when I said something pretentious.
"What? Did those precious locks of yours fall out or something?" she asked me.
I shook my head, choosing carefully about the details I endulged her in, omitting our drug-fueled sexual escapades and instead explaining I'd had a terrible dream that Claire had left me for George.
Harper licked her lips. "Mmm."
She blew out the smoke and eyed me once more. "I think he's fucking her, Matty."
I groaned at how perceptive she was of my own suspicions.
"He's not. She wouldn't. They've kissed before, when she first moved to England," I explained.
Harper nodded knowingly. "Ah. But they're not...kissing anymore?"
My hands ran through my hair nervously. "No. I thought something might have happened the other day, when she went to brunch's at his parents. She didn't answer my calls and I sped over there like a demon. But turns out, her phone was on silent and she was wrapped up in Pulp Fiction with George."
Harper giggled at this. "Brunch? Of course. Jesus."
I wrapped myself in my own arms, cold, uneasy, my gaze focusing on the exit door as it opened, and George as he walked out awkwardly.
"Sup," George said, reaching into his puffy black-and-white jacket adorned with something in Russian written all over it.
"Hey, Georgie," Harper spoke.
I gave him a head nod and shoved my hands into my pockets.
"What was that movie you were watching the other day with Claire?" she asked him.
George bit his lip nervously, refusing to make eye contact.
He put fag in between his lips and lit the end of it. "Ah, Reservoir Dogs."
My face sank, along with my heart.
Harper's sapphire eyes met mine as she opened the door, and she raised a brow.
"Hmm. Well, whaddaya know," she eyed me before shaking her head to herself and entering the building, leaving me standing there with George.
=
{Claire's POV}
The club was like something I'd never seen, beautiful bodies packed into the giant area. It was embellished with modern, luxury furniture, and lit up by blue lights. No one in the room as less than a ten, and I felt a little uneasy.
The whole gang had arrived together to celebrate. The band's album was almost wrapped up, and they plans were already set for next month for a wrap-up party and this same club.
Matty and I went as Bonnie and Clyde, and words can't begin to describe how handsome he looked in his costume. He was built to dress as a '30s gangster, I swear. George had shared a few laughs with the people from the record company and the skanks that flocked toward all of them. He was now at his DJ booth, and his Fresh Prince of Bel-Air costume was absolute perfection.
The band's manager had ordered a half-dozen bottles of Cristal for our party. Matty guzzled the booze and charmed the pants off of everyone, and I was disgruntled at how little he was involving me in the conversations.
"Whaddaya say you take me on the dancefloor and show me your best moves, Macklin?" Tinsley said to Ross in her best American old movie star accent.
Her fake cigarette holder hanging from her mouth, her hand pursed on her little black veiled hat. Ross's eyes lit up behind his sunglasses. He put his hands to the protruding little bump on her belly and smiled.
"My pleasure, Ms. Snakehole," he said as Tinsley grabbed his fake FBI jacket and pulled him in the direction of the dancefloor.
Their Bert Macklin and Janet Snakehole costumes were on point. Chelsea G was looking like a sexy Garth and Adam looked funny in his Wayne's World hat, wig, and black tee as Chelsea smooched him on the cheek.
There were no girls even near Adam, and Chelsea made damn sure of it.
Matty was on cloud nine, moving his hands in exaggeratted mannerisms, relishing in the fact that all these girls were near him, totally fascinated with him. I was standing a few feet away from him, trying to ignrore my uneasy feelings and focusing on Nick, who had tagged along.
Nick was dressed in an adorable boy scout uniform, short shorts, badges, hat and all. He and I ordered a few drinks and gulped them down, talking about how posh the club was and how big of a deal the band were starting to become.
He and I danced a little to the beats George was playing.
"Matty's being a little weird," Nick said.
I looked back at Matty, and he was still chatting it up, his manager next to him and the barely-dressed girls dressed as Playboy Bunnies surrounding him. Harper was by his side, of course, dressed as Wednesday Addams. Her costume was truly fitting.
I shuffled my feet and danced on Nick a little. Matty didn't mind, I'd explained to him that Nick much preffered boys over girls.
"Yeah. It's weird. I mean, he's been so devoted to me lately, sexually. But if we're not in between the sheets, he barely acknowledges me," I said into Nick's ear so he could hear me clearly.
Nick noded and brought his hands to my hips, moving his body in unison with the beat.
"Your boo's famous," he chuckled.
Nick and I danced for a few songs, and I was enjoying myself, despite the fact that Matty had barely made eye contact with me and spoken less than a dozen words to me since we got here. My gay boyfriend lost interest in dancing, though, when Troye Sivan's twin was eyeing him from a few feet away.
"Have fun, killer," I said to Nick before kissing his cheek.
Nick trotted to the band's personal assistant and was immediately working his All-American charm on him.
I decided I didn't feel like dancing on my own, and wormed my way back to the area where Matty was. Matty knelt down, brought his face close to to the glossy black table adorned with various drinks, and inhaled two lines of the white powder that Harper had graciously created for him.
I gulped my drink and averted my gaze.
My boyfriend was a rock star. He was going to do things like this. His spirit and body were made to fall in love, write beautiful music, and do drugs. Play it cool, Claire.
"Matty," I said, calling my boyfriend's name as he sat on the sleek leather couch about six feet away from me.
He was chatting with his producer and manager, and Harper was next to them, chiming in at the perfect times. She said something that Matty apparently thought was funny, and he touched her knee for about three seconds.
The three seconds was three seconds too long.
"Matty," I said again, practically yelling his name.
His chocolate brown eyes blinked in slight frustration. I was interrupting.
"What, love?" he asked, shooting his new friends an apologetic look.
The music was quite loud, but I knew that he heard the scoff that came from my lips. My hips swayed with extra movement as I stepped toward him, leaning down and running my fingertips down his chest.
"Dance with me," I asked him.
Matty was smiling at my attempts, but shook his head. "No, babe. I don't like this song."
I bit my lip and batted my lashes at him, hoping he'd change his mind.
"Can you see if we can get a bottle of Patron, darling?" Matty asked me.
The features of my face fell, my eyes narrowed, lips turned downward in alarming unapproval.
Did Matty seriously just fetch me?
It was Halloween. He was looking so handsome. I just wanted to dance with him.
"What?" I asked him.
Matty chuckled a little. "Come on, Claire."
The top and bottom set of my teeth grinded against one another, and I turned and walked to the bar. But I wasn't walking to ask for his Patron. I was walking to order six top-shelf shots for myself and put it on that motherfucker's tab.
I kept my focus on Matty I downed three shots in a row. He was looking so handsome, but so full of himself, basking in the people oohing and ahhing at every word he said. There was pride in my heart for Matty, for his achievements, but I was hurt he seemed to have lost me along his way to fame.
Ross and Tinsley were nowhere in sight, and I think Adam and Chelsea might have left by then. George was visible though, on his podium, headphones on and spinning the records with exquisite handwork, gorgeous face focused. Nick was now making out with the Troye Sivan look-alike.
And here was I, alone at the bar.
Claire Madeline McDaniel. Age 23. Double major in English and Women's studies. Avid reader, writer, cook, and hip-hop enthusiast. I was classically trained in ballet. I liked cool movies. My bra size was the complete oppostite of my grades.
Who the fuck did Matty Healy think he was to ignore me?
The fourth shot went into my mouth and I answered my own question:
Oh, yeah. A beautiful, amazing rock star.
But no, this would not pass.
As I was contemplating my next step and biting my lip and how good George was looking tonight, I heard her irritating voice to my left.
"You forgot to bring us our booze, Ms. California," Harper said. "Or did they not teach you that in charm school?"
"I'm no one's servant," I said. "And did you even go to school?"
Harper giggled like a Disney movie villain.
"Why do you loathe me so much? You're supposed to be sweet, innocent, Queen Claire," she said, lighting a black cigarette.
"Oh, I don't know. Maybe because you're trying to reminisce with my boyfriend by deluding his brain with cocaine," I spat at her.
The smoke from her cigarette smelled like a Thanksgiving dessert. I did my best to ignore her, and glanced to Matty, who was still charming his manager and a few other scantilly-clad club skanks.
"You should be thanking me, Matty stays hard for hours when he's on that white gold," Harper said.
I wanted to gouge her fucking eyes out with the empty shotglasses behind me.
But instead I chose to look at George, who was bobbing his head to his own remix of a favorite Drake song of his. George's eyes found mine and he sent me a smile and a wink before returning his focus to the music.
She pursed her dark, matte lips. "Forgive me, but this is such a sight to see. Matty's looking at you, you're looking at George."
I gulped and looked at my boyfriend from across the large, packed room. He cocked his neck and gestured for me, but I declined.
If he wanted me, he'd have to come for me.
"Tell me something, Claire-Bear," Harper took a drag of her cigarette, one hand up as if to announce she was saying something of importance. "Are you just eye-fucking George, or are you actually fucking George?"
Now I wanted to knock her teeth out against the edge of the bar as well.
"Excuse me?" I asked, my hands beginning to shake with rage.
Harper exhaled the smoke in my face. "I always wondered what he's like in the sack-- I mean he's giantly tall and his hands and feet are huge."
She brought her hands to her mouth, eyes growing wide saracastically. "Oh, is he bigger than Matty? Hmph. I'll bet he is, and he probably eats pussy better too because he fucking worships you. Then again, there's just something about how passionate Matty is when he fucks. I'll bet he makes you come so many times you can't keep count."
My fists were clenched. I had only ever been in one fight, in the ninth grade when Jenny Armstrong spread a rumor that I stuffed my bra and I punched her face so hard she had to re-order her school uniform jacket because the blood stains wouldn't come out.
Harper Halifax was working her way dangerously close to joining the Jenny Armstrong club.
"Who the hell is wrong with you?" I asked her.
She didn't asnwer me, instead chose, quite poorly, to continue on her rant.
"No, darling. What's wrong with you? Why do you need all these boys to lust after you? You want Matty to fuck you senseless, and you want George to bring you back to your senses," she said, her words hitting me in the gut.
Just as I was raising my fist to meet her face, a large hand snatched my wrist.
"Claire," George's voice boomed.
Harper laughed and shook her head. "Perfect."
She rolled her eyes and walked away, back to Matty and his new friends.
I turned around to face George, and his Fresh Prince of Bel-Air costume made me forget, albeit briefly, that I was just about to beat Haper Halifax to a pulp.
"You good, kid?" he asked.
The liquor from the last of the six shots I'd ordered went down my throat, cold and buring at the same time.
"I wanna dance, Georgie," I said, the room beginning to spin, my rage, my lust, my drunkeness all combining into an overwhelming feeling.
George's handsome face smiled. "Alright. I'd put on the tracks to take a break anyways."
My best friend put his hand on the small of my back as we slithered through bodies, making our way to the center of the dancefloor as the song was ending.
"But first," he said, cupping my hind in his hands. "I need to ask you something."
"What?" I asked, no music filling the air now, just the heat of his body against mine.
"Can you do something for a boss?" George said, as the song "A$$ Drop" by Wiz Khalifa chimed in, the bass low and sultry, but happy and poppy at the same time.
A fit of laughter came from my lips as I threw my arms around George and rotated my hips side to side, back and forth. He bobbed that handsome head of his and shuffled his feet, moving his arms in the air then around my lower back. We were both all smiles.
I stepped toward him a little, my thigh against his pelvis, dancing in usison to the beat.George Daniel was a good dancer, and I was having fun with him so close to me.
But I wanted him closer.
The expression on his face had changed, now, going from giddy to serious, sultry, aching, as I yanked him closer to me, my body pressing on and off of his. I turned around and he immediately pulled my ass to his pelvis, and I was delighted at the friction growing between our bodies.
My fingertips traced the square of his jaw as he grinded against me, his hands caressing my hips as grinded against him. His mouth was at my ear, my hands were at the back of his neck.
"Damn," his deep voice oozed into my body.
He was hard now.
There was no map now.
I was lost.
But I didn't care.
I continued to grind on him, my skirt riding up so far my panties were probably showing. George's hands toyed with the hem of it and my body was becoming hot. We were in a sea of others dancing, all lost in each other and alcohol.
George's fingers slid down the side of my breast, then down to my hips, then along the bottom of my ass. I licked my lips and closed my eyes, losing myself in the beat, losing myself in George's body as it explored mine.
"Claire," his voice melted my body again.
I continued moving against him, not caring I had no idea what I was getting myself into. I turned around to face him, my hands sliding into his jacket and feeling the rippling muscles of his arms, his torso, his abdomnen.
Fucking Matty, who did he think he was ignoring me?
There were so many things to fix your eyes on at the club: gorgeous women, gorgoeous men, the lights, the decor. But George's brown eyes and my hazel ones were completely fixed on each others as we moved together into dangerous territory.
Suddenly, George got a strange look on his face. He squinted his vision and his mouth dropped open. My hands explored his body, my hips moved against him, but he suddenly wasn't dancing back.
Before I could ask him what was going on, his hands moved to my shoulders and he turned me around, so I could see what he was so dramatically reacting to.
And there it was.
The nightmare I knew would come.
Harper was perched on the lap of my boyfriend, her eyes locking his in, a little blue pill on the tip of her tongue. Matty's hands were on her non-existant ass. She looked at me, dead in the eye, from across the large room. She knew I was watching, and she was putting on a fucking show.
And as my heart sank, Harper's tongue slid against my boyfriend's, and she introduced him to her friend Molly.