“I wanted a grown man. Instead, I got you.”
Salem’s eyebrow kicks up. Houston’s mouth flattens. Knox doesn’t move.
Troy steps toward me, fists balled. “You bitch?—”
“Nope,” Salem says, straightening. “It’s time for you to go.”
Troy laughs. “Make me.”
Houston doesn’t raise his voice. “Don’t do this.”
Knox puts a hand on his shoulder. “Come on.”
Troy jerks away. “You don’t get to?—”
“You’re done here, Troy Boy,” Salem says. Softer. Worse.
I didn’t see when he grabbed Troy’s other shoulder, but his hold is firmer than Knox’s. Gripping. When Troy squirms, he can’t get out of it.
“Fine, I’m fucking going,” he grumbles. Only then does Salem release him. He grabs his gear and storms out. The door hits, rattles, stops.
“You okay?” Houston asks.
“No,” I say. “But I will be.”
“Do you want water? A ride? Space?”
“I don’t know what I want.” Didn’t realize I was shaking until now. I’m not upset about losing him—honestly, I lost him months ago. But I’m pretty sure he was going to hit me.Actuallyhit me, not just get in my face.
Knox perches on the desk, not crowding me. “I should’ve said it different. About the band. You didn’t need to hear it like that.”
“He told me he left because the groupthink was killing him. He said he had to take risks. I believed him.” I take a deep breath. “I’m an idiot.”
Salem whistles, low. “He’s good at lying to himself and to everyone around him.”
I huff a laugh that doesn’t rise. “I built my life around him. I said no to projects so I could be on call…” A professional girlfriend.
Now that I’m no longer a girlfriend, what the hell am I?
Houston’s jaw flexes. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your job to be sorry.” I pick up my bag. Light. Most of what I own is in his hotel room. “I’m not your problem.”
“You’re in our place,” Salem says, gesturing around us. “That makes you our problem for at least tonight.”
“That’s sweet, but?—”
“You don’t have to do it alone.” Houston says it simple.
“I’m good at alone.” Or I was. Before I met Troy. “Don’t worry about me.”
“Or,” Salem says, drawing it out, “we take you out. Debauchery on the Strip. Sticky floors, loud music, bad decisions. You pick the bar. We can be your consolation prize.”
Houston snorts. Knox shakes his head but says nothing.
I laugh at first, but they’re serious. I weigh the picture. Me in a cheap room, thin pillow, the ice machine rattling through the wall. Or me out with three men who haven’t been lying to my face for the past few months.
I’m not stupid. I’m also done auditioning for martyr. “One night?”
