Empty.
He wasn’t here.
I frowned. Had he gone out for milk? I opened the fridge. Inside the door was a full quart. I checked the other rooms. Nope. He definitely wasn’t in the apartment. As I returned to the kitchen, my eyes caught a piece of paper lying on the floor. I bent to pick it up.
I’m sorry.
That was it. No explanation, no call, no fucking conversation. He’d just left.
Son of a bitch.
An ached bloomed in my chest, but anger burned right through it, dispelling pain with a storm of rage. I showered and dressed in silence, my jaw clenched so hard that by the time I was ready, I had a headache, and my teeth felt as though they were going to fall out. My gloom only worsened when I called his hotel and was told he’d checked out over an hour ago.
Fuck you, Joz. Fuck you to Hell and back.
On the car journey to the studio, I contained my rage by practicing box breathing. For all I knew theI’m sorrycould’ve meant sorry for leaving me so he could get a head start on recording the rest of his album. Except, deep down, I knew that wasn’t it.
He’d bailed.
Again.
Last time he did this should’ve been warning enough to stay away from the man. I counted myself as a highly intelligent woman, yet I’d fallen for the practiced repertoire of a sexy rock star. One who happened to be a fucking amazing kisser with a pierced dick that had given me the best orgasms of my life.
Womankind should cast me adrift, send me to purgatory, make me walk naked through the streets like Cersei Lannister while onlookers bellowed, “Shame” as I passed them by.
My driver pulled into my parking spot. I climbed out and entered the building, a spark of hope that I was wrong still flickering somewhere inside me where faith resided.
I smiled at the receptionist. “Is Joz here?”
She shook her head. “Sorry, Ms. Kingcaid. I haven’t seen him this morning.”
The spark extinguished, snuffed out by a selfish asshole who deserved a swift kick in the balls and at least two of those barbells ripped out of his dick and jammed down his throat.
“Thanks.” As I headed for the studios, I pulled out my phone and called him. Voicemail. Fucking coward. I waited for the beep.
“Joz, it’s Aspen. Call me.”
If he bothered to listen to his voicemail, he’d know how pissed off I was. Not that it would make much of a difference. If a man could sneak out, leaving nothing other than a shitty note after spending the night in my bed, he’d hardly grow a conscience with one curt voicemail.
God, I wasfuriouswith him.
If he thought I’d take this lying down, he’d picked the wrong fucking girl to ghost. I’d check in on Presley, make sure everything was going to plan, then get on a goddamn plane—again—and chase after him.
Again.
This time, though, I’d demand answers. Deep in my gut, instinct screamed at me that this hot and cold behavior he favored had something to do with his dead ex. Every time she’d come up in conversation, he’d put up barriers faster than erecting a prefab house. Well, not this time. He’d come inside me, twice. Heowedme the truth, even if that truth ended whatever this was before it had a chance to begin.
Presley was strumming on his guitar when I entered the control room. He greeted me through the glass with a broadsmile, then launched into an upbeat tune. I took a seat at the sound desk and closed my eyes. Listening to him took me back to a rainy day in London, but it wasn’t Presley on stage in that dive bar who I saw behind my lids. It was Joz, plying me with brandy and openly ogling my tits.
Last night, as I’d fallen asleep in his arms, I thought we could’ve had something real, something special, but now…
I was so fucking mad. At him,andat myself.
Presley played three more songs, then his engineer called a break, nodding at me as he left the control room. Presley propped up his guitar against the wall and exited the sound booth.
“What did you think?” he asked me, eyes shining. He appeared to have taken to recording like a pro, even though he’d never cut an album before.
“It’s going to be a bestseller.”
