“Some women are just as selfish and clueless as men,” I say. “Believe me, there’s no golden ticket when it comes to finding great sex.”

Jules’s eyes go wide. “I don’t know if I should be jealous of all your experience or thankful I don’t have it, given what you’re saying.”

I find myself grinning, but it fades quickly. “Definitely don’t be jealous.”

I’m still alone and still unfulfilled. Actually, it kind of blows to realize I’ve struck out with two genders.

“I’m serious, though,” I say, frowning now. “Whatever the gender, whatever the sexual orientation, we all suffer the same pitfalls and have to weed through the same bullshit when it comes to finding happiness.”

“Well.” Jules sits back against the booth. “I guess we’re doomed, then.”

I sit back as well, letting the sounds of the bar move over me. I’m tired, and my feet are aching to be free of the heels I stuffed them into eight hours ago. Not for the first time, I consider no longer wearing them. But they are, in a very real way, defensive weapons, armor against a business that is ruthless.

My aunt Isabella, a famous fashion model, bought me my first pair of heels—black patent leather Manolo Blahnik Mary Jane pumps. She told me then that, whether we like it or not, women in the entertainment industry would always be judged by their appearance, and underestimated, compared to their male counterparts. But put on a pair of killer heels with a sleek suit and the naysayers would be too dazzled to notice you climbing over them. She’d taken me under her wing back then, taught me about fashion, poise, how to handle obnoxious assholes, how to charm people. Mercenary, but I found her lessons to be painfully true.

Over the years, I had to cover myself in a shell of icy perfection. My power is in maintaining the illusion that nothing can get to me, and I accept that as part of doing business. But some days? Some days, I want to crumble. I want…comfort, touch, release.

I should go home and crawl into bed. But I can’t shake the restless feeling swelling within me.

I catch Jules’s eye, and my shoulders slump. “I know we’re not supposed to admit this for fear it might make us sound pathetic or some other bullshit, but I’m horny. Not in a general, I-want-to-have-sex way, but in a deep, irritating, can’t-stop-thinking-about-it way. I ache, you know? As in, I go through the day actively hurting for release.”

Jules watches me with solemn eyes as if she knows at least a little about that pain.

Shaking my head, I go on. “And, yeah, I can take care of it myself. Hell, I’m so good at it now, it’s only a minute or two before I get off. But it isn’t the same as feeling someone else’s hands on my body, not knowing exactly where they’ll touch me next or how. It isn’t the same as being mouth-to-mouth, skin-to-skin, sweaty and frantic.”

My smile is wry, but my heart hurts. “I’m twenty-eight years old. I am at the top of my profession, have awesome friends, fabulous parties every night if I want to go. I own a kick-ass condo on the Upper East Side and have a shoe closet most women would kill for.”

“Truth,” Jules says with a laugh.

“I have the world at my fingertips. But I can’t fix this problem.”

It pisses me off, this weakness, this damn need that won’t go away.

Jules licks her lips and hums. “Then go find someone tonight. Take the edge off.”

“I’ve tried that. One-night stands aren’t enough.” My fingers curl into the leather booth beneath me. “Truly great sex, for me anyway, takes time. More than one night. More importantly, it takes trust. On both sides. We need to trust each other enough to give and take and learn what really works.”

“In short,” Jules says. “A relationship.”

“Except I don’t want one.” A humorless laugh huffs out of me. “Outside of sex, that is.”

The utter bitch of it is, I know I haven’t explained my problem properly. Yes, there is this need for sexual release, but it’s more. I want that on a deeper level. It’s not the daily minutiae of a relationship I crave, but the simple physical connection. I want to be wanted. Craved above all things. Needed with a breathless devotion.

I want to be seen, not just as a quick fix—but as something essential. And I want to crave someone too. I want to learn their body, know what sets them off, and what brings them to their knees. To own and be owned. But in admitting that, I’ll expose too much of myself, and the hurt of the open wound will be too hard to ignore. “I want the ease and trust of a relationship, but I know I’d utterly fail at a real one right now. Maybe when my life is less about the band…Which it will be never. The band is my life.”

Purple curls bounce as Jules nods. “Friends with benefits, then. Too bad I don’t go for women, because I’d totally offer my services. And I absolutely know what I’m doing.” She grins, all saucy and impish.

“Too bad,” I tease before growing serious. “Maybe I’ll just hire someone.”

Again comes that choking sound from behind me. Or maybe I’m just paranoid. But I lean in a little, drawing away from the seat and toward Jules. “Whip is always going on about that, how it’s safer, and you can control the situation.”

At this, Jules flushes, irritation flashing in her eyes. “Whip is going to end up fronting tabloids. Please tell me you aren’t listening to that boy.”

“I won’t go there. Everything in my life is business. I’m not going to make my sex life another business transaction.” I plop back with a sigh. “But it would solve a lot if I did.”

We soon finish our drinks, and Jules heads out. “Got an early day with Boss Man.”

I love Scottie like a brother, but he makes drill sergeants look like slackers when it comes to work. So far, Jules is the only assistant he’s had who has been able to handle his exacting standards without running away in tears.

Before leaving, I head to the bathroom to wash my hands. Standing in front of the sink, cool water running over my wrists, I stare at my reflection. My skin tone has morphed from warm ivory to pasty, the dark auburn of my hair too harsh in contrast. Purple smudges show beneath my eyes despite the fact that I put on concealer. Somewhere along the way, all the polish I so meticulously perfected has hardened into a veneer that’s starting to show its cracks.

I can no longer see any trace of the wide-eyed eighteen-year-old who just wanted to fit in somewhere. The girl who begged her cousin to let her be a part of his band, at least on the periphery—because even though she didn’t have a glimmer of musical talent, she still wanted to feel the heady rush of excitement that world gave her.

Confessing to Jules had felt good, a purge. But it also made it worse. I gave voice to my problem, sent it out into the night, and, in doing so, I allowed it more strength.

Like it or not, I work in a man’s world. Record execs, concert promotors, producers, venue managers, journalists—a good majority of them are male. Over the years, they made certain I was aware that I was in their territory. They tried to make me believe I didn’t truly belong. To survive, I had to develop a tough skin and a guarded heart. I had to be perfect, never take an awkward step, never show weakness, vulnerability, or softer emotions. To be seen as needy was to open myself up to the wolves. If it ever got out that cool-headed, take-no-prisoners, Brenna James yearned to be held… I’ll never be able to show my face again.