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he fills me with his warm seed.
    Collapsing next to me on the bed, he loops his arms around my waist and cuddles me close. He kisses my forehead, each of my eyelids, the tip of my nose, and finally, my lips before whispering, “I love you, Angel. Sweet dreams.”
    “Goodnight, Mase. I love you too.”

SCARLETT
    Waking up in the middle of the night in our new home, it takes me a few moments to grasp my bearings and remember where I am. The luster of the moonlight shines through the room at a different angle than our old place, and the deafening silence of no televisions or radios being on is a bit unnerving. Twisting at the waist, I peer over at Mase where he sleeps soundly, his chest rising and falling with each deep breath. We’re both naked, and I realize we must’ve passed out immediately after having sex.
    I lie there for a few minutes trying to fall back asleep, but to no avail. Slithering off the bed ninja-style trying not to wake him, I tiptoe over to the freshly-stocked dresser and grab some panties and a sleep-shirt. I quietly put them on and sneak out of the room to get a glass of water. However, en route to the kitchen I pass through the living room, and the container of photos in the corner calls out to me, begging me to go through a few more. My feet answer their plea, and before I know it, I’m sitting cross-legged in front of them and opening the lid.
    Setting aside the ones I’ve already gone through, I pull out another batch, and tears of joy flood my eyes at first glance. The pictures are from the private concert the band played at Hotel Café in Los Angeles — the concert for me.
    Life on the road with my rock-star boyfriend definitely had its ups and downs. After a couple of months, I thought I’d faced pretty much anything the lifestyle could throw at me. I realized the overzealous girls weren’t going to go away, Cruz and Sebastian were going to continue to act like the sloppy, horny bachelors they were, and every outfit and hairstyle I wore would be equally loved and hated by the fashion critics. That was, until one of the tabloids somehow found out about Evie and Ash.
    People are ruthless. Overnight, my nickname changed to “Angel of Death,” and everywhere I went, I was questioned about why everyone close to me dies and how long it would be until I killed Mason. Not only did these stories and questions bring back terribly painful memories, but they grew into vicious lies about what an awful person I was. They portrayed me as a malicious, cold-hearted bitch that triggered both of their deaths, and some even suggested I murdered them.
    Needless to say, I didn’t handle any of it well; I refused to go out in public, spending nearly two weeks without getting off the bus. I withdrew myself from everyone, including Mason. When he tried to discuss things with me, I’d sit silently and cry, and when he’d attempt to hold or kiss me, I’d retract from his touch. It didn’t take long for the media to notice my disappearance from shows and other outings, and the reports about our break-up followed shortly thereafter, claiming he dumped me in fear for his life.
    One evening in Seattle, I was sitting alone in Cerrano, reading yet another depressing book while wallowing in my misery, when I heard a tap on the fiberglass door. Groaning, I rolled out of bed assuming I’d have to tell some other desperate groupie to get lost, so imagine my surprise when I swung the door open to see Heather’s face as she stood in the parking lot.
    “Oh my God, he wasn’t lying—you do look like shit,” she said as she snarled her nose up at me. “You’ve lost way too much weight.”
    “It’s great to see you too,” I quipped back. “Did you come all this way to give me a makeover and make me eat a cheeseburger?”
    Pushing past me into the bus, she dropped her bag on the closest chair and put her hands on her hips. “No, I’ve come to pull your head out of your ass, and to remind you that these stupid