Roxy (Pandemic Sorrow #3) Read Online Free PDF

close to mine, he let out a hot breath over my lips, and then…
    I woke up.
    What the actual fuck?
    I sat up in my bed, panting and wet between my legs. Was I seriously dreaming—having wet dreams about this narcissistic ass? Holy shit. I wiped my hands over my face, slung the covers off my body, and shuffled out into my living room.
    Layla was passed out on my couch, halfway hanging off of it and snoring. I fiddled with the coffee maker and then went over to the side of the room to pick up last night’s discarded clothes.
    The smell of coffee brewing woke Layla up. She sat up, groaning before rolling into the floor and stumbling into the kitchen. She slung the cabinet open and rummaged for something to eat. “I feel like death,” she groaned. “God, my head is pounding, and every time I burp I taste vodka.”
    “Well, lush, maybe next time you should slow it down a notch,” I said as I counted the money I’d pulled out from my jeans.
    “Whatever. You’ve got a stick up your ass.”
    I frowned at her and rolled the cash back up. “You’re just pissed because you didn’t get a dick rammed up yours last night.”
    She shut the cabinet and leaned over the counter, clutching her head in her hands and groaning. When she finally looked up her eyes accusingly narrowed on me. “Oh, my God. I just remembered you… you cussed Jag Steele out! You are such a dumb cunt!”
    Shaking my head, I stood up and walked toward my bedroom. “I didn’t necessarily cuss him out. I just put him in his place.”
    An angry laugh pressed through her mouth. “Yeah. Okay.”
    She tapped her fingers over the laminate countertop and sighed. Not a sigh of whimsy, or one of contentment. That was a sigh of jealousy, of anger, of frustration. I think if she’d had more strength, it would have actually been a growl.
    Whacking her palm over the counter, she shouted, “Then he dedicated a song to you. I can’t believe that. Unbelievable! You don’t even like him, you insult him, and he dedicates a song to you. He pointed at you, called you princess, and dedicated their number one song to you!”
    “He was just being an asshole. Trying to embarrass me for embarrassing him.” I shrugged and walked into my room.
    Layla tossed her hands up. “He dedicated a song to you. Who cares why? He looked you in the eyes and told you this song was for you. And did I mention he called you ‘princess?’ Do you know how many girls would have taken clitoral mutilation for that moment?”
    “He’s just a guy, Layla.”
    “Yeah.” Layla followed me, eyes wide and mouth still gaping open in shock at my lack of enthusiasm over the previous night’s events. “A famous rock star guy.”
    A smirk fell over my lips. “Yeah. Like I said, just a guy.” I took my shirt off and yanked another from the wire hanger in my closet.
    I thought about what she’d just said as I watched the hanger rocking back and forth on the rod. I would never admit it to anyone, but it had been pretty amazing, even if he was an asshole and an addict. Hard or not, having someone the caliber of Jag Steele call you out of thousands of screaming fans and dedicate a song to you—that was a little unbelievable.
    “You know, you really have issues, Rox. You can’t just keep pushing everybody away from you—”
    I cut her off. “Who? Jag Steele? Layla, really?”
    What the hell was she talking about? It’s not like he confessed his undying love to me, he just thought he could get a blow job.
    She shook her head and yanked my shirt from my hands. “Pay attention to me. No, not fucking Jag Steele. God. People, Roxy. Me. Anyone that tries to get in your personal space. Who the hell do you have?”
    I stood there staring at her. She was right, but I didn’t care. I’d isolated myself on purpose. I shrugged and said, “I don’t need anybody.”
    Layla fell silent, concern fogged her eyes, and she let out a heavy sigh. “I don’t know how you do it. You think keeping to yourself,