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he was saying. We’d only known each other for a few hours, but I felt a connection too, even if it was only lust. I wanted him. Right now. I felt my breath speed up as I started to speak, “I …”
    “Julia,” he interrupted. “I’d love to get to know you better,” he said. “But I’m not going to sleep with you. Good night.”
    Then, unbelievably, he leaned forward and kissed me again. Slow. Our tongues just made contact. Wet and warm. Hungry. I wanted to whimper, pull him inside, but he turned and slowly walked back down the hall until he was out of sight.
    I just stood there and watched him go, and part of me, a huge part of me, wanted to run after him. But I still remembered.
    I remembered what it was like to have a hot, sexy, charismatic guy want me. I remembered what it was like to lose control, to feel that rush of emotion. To be overwhelmed.
    I remembered what it was like to have my heart torn out, to have my dreams smashed, to be bleeding and lost in the back streets of Beijing. To have scandal nearly tear my family apart.
    No matter how much I might have wanted this guy: I couldn’t go back there. Not now. Not ever. If it wasn’t going to happen for just tonight, it wasn’t going to happen at all.
    So, I walked in the condo and closed and locked the door. I didn’t turn on the lights. I didn’t want to see the inside of this place. Instead, I made my way to the couch and lay down, alone.
    I didn’t cry. Not here. Never again.

CHAPTER THREE

    Under the Surface (Crank)
    Seriously, I’m a frickin’ idiot.
    I ended up waving down a cab outside her apartment building, kicking myself in the ass the entire time. I didn’t leave because I didn’t want her. Because, oh, man, did I want her.
    I left because I did. I left because I’ve had plenty of one-nighters, but something told me I wanted more. Or … whatever. I don’t even know why I left.
    It was one in the morning by the time I got back to the hotel, which is still pretty early for me, but all I wanted to do was go to sleep. Mark wasn’t there, thank God, so I crashed. And the next morning we were up, loading the van, and heading back to Boston. I spent the ride in back, headphones on with my guitar, writing a song. I just wasn’t in the mood for the banter and occasional bickering going on with Mark and Pathin. You’d think they’re siblings, they fuss so much. Serena didn’t talk to any of us during the drive; she was busy studying, which was fine by me.
    We got back to Boston at three in the afternoon, and I caught the T over to my dad’s. I was dragging: I hadn’t slept well, my head was hurting, and I couldn’t stop thinking about Julia. I couldn’t stop thinking about how her clothes had hugged her body, how her hair sometimes slipped in front of her face, and she would casually swipe it back behind her ear. I couldn’t stop thinking about how we’d laughed at the Chinese restaurant, about how easy and comfortable it was with her.
    Jesus. What the hell was wrong with me?
    It was near enough to four when I got off at Broadway station and walked the eight blocks to the house I’d grown up in. It was a narrow old house, three stories with greying wood, sitting on Gold Street. My dad kept it up the best he could, but he didn’t make a huge amount of money, so there was always more to do. Gold is a narrow street, no more than twelve feet wide, with narrow sidewalks on either side. I rapped once on the door, then unlocked it and stepped inside.
    “The prodigal son returns!” my dad shouted when I walked in. He was standing in the kitchen, a grimace on his face as he cooked. My dad says everything at a shout. With a classic Irish face, a knob for a nose and cheeks red from a little too much to drink over the years, he didn’t move from his station in front of the stove when I walked in.
    “Hey, Dad,” I said as I came in. “Hey, Sean.”
    My little brother Sean didn’t answer. He was sitting at the kitchen table, a huge