Technically speaking, Matt Tisdale still lived with his parents. Not in the conventional sense - he didn't share a room under the same roof or get nagged about chores. But his setup did qualify. He lived on the same five-acre property as his folks in Gardenia, one of Heritage's wealthiest suburbs. He paid no rent. And his mail still landed in the family's shared mailbox.
His father was a self-made millionaire who'd built an empire drilling water wells in Cypress County. Practically every suburban home built in the past three decades got its water courtesy of Tisdale Drilling Inc. By the time Matt was born - an unplanned late-life surprise - his parents were coasting on that fortune. They loved him, sure, but he'd grown up largely under the care of nannies and housekeepers while they jetted off to Europe, Palm Springs, or Hawaii.
To compensate, they gave him everything he wanted. One of those gifts - a cheap guitar on his twelfth birthday - became an obsession. Another was the "mother-in-law quarters" tucked away in the farthest corner of the estate. A detached 1800-square-foot house with its own kitchen, two-car garage, and zero parental supervision. By fifteen, Matt had moved in. He'd barely spoken to his parents since - only when he needed money and they happened to be home.
Now twenty-two and the lead guitarist for The Saints - a band rapidly earning underground notoriety - Matt's bungalow had become something else entirely: party central. After every show, the most elite degenerates in Heritage's club scene got invited back for what could only be described as madness incarnate. Booze. Drugs. Sex. Music. A sort of rock-and-roll bacchanalia that would become the stuff of whispered legend in years to come.
People who weren't even there would one day claim they had been. Just to say they "partied with Matt and Jake back in the day." Ninety-nine percent of them would be lying.
The rules for getting in were strict.
Rule one: you had to be invited by a member of The Saints. No exceptions.
Rule two: if you were a guy, you better show up carrying a solid contribution - booze, weed, or blow. And Matt would personally check you at the door.
Rule three: guests provided their own transportation. Matt didn't care if you were blackout drunk or high as a kite - when he decided the party was over, your ass and your vehicle were leaving.
Other than that? Total free-for-all.
That night, a caravan of twelve cars trailed the band back from Willie's Roadhouse. Eighteen women and six guys followed them down the winding access road behind the main house. Jake and the others left their gear in the van and the bus - unloading could wait till morning. Matt gave the male guests a once-over and confirmed they were properly armed with substances. Within minutes, music was blasting through the bungalow, joints were circling, beer was flowing like tap water, and the air was thick with smoke.
Jake grabbed a seat on the love seat near the bar. Colette nestled in beside him, her body glued to his left side like Velcro. Her leg pressed against his, her chest against his shoulder, her lips occasionally brushing his ear with breathy confessions about how "incredibly horny" she was. Jake barely responded. He was halfway through a joint of Panama Red, passed around by some Ticket-King lackey who claimed he could land Jake front-row seats to any concert in NorCal.
Jake didn't care. He hit that thing deep and long, holding the smoke until nothing escaped on exhale. He wasn't trying to get a buzz - he was aiming for full emotional anesthesia. He needed Michelle gone from his brain. The words she'd said. That look on her face. The ache in his chest that wouldn't let up.
The weed helped. Kind of. But the phrase "The Point of Futility" still kept echoing inside his head, like some bastard mantra.
Colette, meanwhile, wasn't letting up. She kept whispering and writhing and pressing herself against him with increasing boldness. By the time the joint was a smoldering nub in the ashtray, Jake felt like a grenade with the pin pulled.
He turned to her, voice low.
"Wanna check out the bedroom?"
She grinned, her eyes glassy but electric. "Yeah," she said, breathless. "Let's go."
Jake muttered a few quick goodbyes to the circle around him and stood. Colette grabbed his hand like it was the last ticket to heaven and they headed down the hallway toward the back of the house. Matt had already made it clear earlier: "Nobody touches that room until Jake breaks it in." A party joke, maybe. But one everyone took seriously.
The spare bedroom was small, standard. Desk in one corner. Lamp on the nightstand. Queen-sized bed with fresh linens that had been made up earlier by Ruby, the maid from the main house.
As soon as the door shut behind them, Colette launched herself into his arms.
She kissed him with zero hesitation, grinding into him with a hunger that didn't need explanation. Her hands roamed freely - neck, shoulders, back, waist. Her breath was hot against his cheek. Her tongue insistent.
Jake didn't resist.
The bed creaked softly as they tumbled onto it together, her laughter turning into sighs, and his thoughts turning to nothing at all.
The door stayed shut for a long time.
When it finally opened, the lights in the hallway had dimmed, and the thrum of music from the party outside was muffled behind closed doors and slurred conversations. Inside the bedroom, nothing was said. Nothing needed to be. Clothes were half-stripped, laughter turned into breathing, and eventually, everything faded into a long, indulgent blur of skin and heat.
Jake didn't love Colette.
He had no desire to take her to dinner, to meet her parents, to talk about politics or music or even her favorite color. Outside of this bedroom - this night - he had no interest in her at all.
But the allure of what she had to offer, what girls like her could offer, was something he couldn't ignore anymore. This woman was beautiful, sexy, miles above what he used to believe was in his reach. Yet she'd given herself to him freely, eagerly, just because he was a musician - just because she'd seen him on stage, liked what she heard, and wanted to be close to that spark.
And she wasn't faking it. Not the way she moaned his name, not the way her nails raked across his shoulders, not the way she clung to him afterward, breathing hard and smiling like she'd just had the time of her life.
Jake lay there in the aftermath, staring at the ceiling, her hair tickling his chest as she curled against him. It was quiet except for the faint bassline pounding from the living room stereo.
He could have this again. Women like Colette - hell, maybe even two - after every show if he wanted. No strings, no drama, no judgment. Just heat and skin and something to forget the rest of it for a while.
And for the first time, Jake realized the true magnitude of the gift his talent and drive had brought him.
For a kid who'd grown up being called Bonerack and left in the margins of high school life, it hit like a revelation.
It was a powerful thought.