Jesus Christ. Quentin was nothing if not an unmitigated heartless asshole, listening to Raine sing her song from the landing between the two floors. How had he been able to just stand there, listening to Raine pour her heart out, writing a song that was clearly about him and what he’d done to her?
Only an uncaring asshole could do that.
But he knew deep down it was for the best. It was for her that he was maintaining his distance.
And that night, he lay in his bed thinking about that song, tossing, turning, and staying wide awake. It had been like that all week. There was far too much occupying his brain to allow sleep.
And all those thoughts…they reminded him of why he’d used—not just the recreational stuff, but booze had always done a good job numbing him. And right now, lying in bed, staring at the darkness in the room, nothing sounded better than a smooth shot of tequila. He could all but taste the lime and salt followed by the bite of the liquor, warming up everything in his cold body. And the shot had always just been the beginning, the way to get the party started.
Christ, it would be so easy. He knew every place in town where he could get anything from beer to Everclear, and it wouldn’t be hard to get other substances. You just had to ask the right person.
Up until now, giving in to sleep had been one of the ways he’d dealt with occasional cravings…but battling insomnia simply compounded the desperation.
The next morning, he got up, feeling like he’d been in a boxing match, having barely slept.
Still, he pulled himself out of bed, determined to finish getting Raine’s album ready for the world. Once he was in the kitchen, he made coffee like usual—and then he decided to head outside for a walk. For that, he’d need a heavy jacket because, this time of year, the nights got cold. Days were still tolerable but worthy of an extra layer—and the cold nights signaled that winter was just around the corner.
But he knew that the brisk air would help him shake the grogginess and, followed by several cups of coffee, he should be able to make it through the day halfway coherent.
As he stepped outside, he drew in a deep breath through his nostrils. This place…it had saved him. It had become his haven, his escape from it all—but it wasn’t working like it used to. Being out here, away from the city and all the temptations that went with it, had kept him sane—and sober.
But it wasn’t helping anymore.
Maybe, though, reconnecting with nature and its harsher elements would help. It usually did.
As he walked along the perimeter hoping to ground himself, he drew in one deep breath after another as if meditating—and he found that it did help, even if just a little.
That was at the back of the property.
But as he began walking toward the front of his land, far past where the house was nestled, where he could begin to see the public road…he wasn’t sure at first what he was looking at. There were several vehicles right near the entrance and, as he got closer, he realized them for what they were.
The fucking paparazzi. What the hell were they doing here?
It was a rhetorical question he asked himself—because he knew. This was all thanks to two things: the leak paired with the label demanding that he and Raine fake a relationship—and these vulturous motherfuckers were hovering nearby, hoping for an exclusive shot. They couldn’t see his house from the road—unless an enterprising photographer stood on top of their van and used a telephoto lens. But he knew they were likely waiting for him and Raine to leave the house so they could follow them around, hoping for exclusive pictures.
This shit did nothing to help him with his struggles.
What the hell was going on that they felt like they had to report on her every move?
When he got back to the house, he grabbed a cup of coffee and went to the studio, relieved that Raine wasn’t up yet. Then he logged into his computer with one goal in mind—figuring out what, if anything, had changed.
There was nothing big as far as “news” went—but on social media, it was another story entirely. All he had to do was type in Raine D to select her name from the top of any list, and then he was bombarded with what everyone was talking about.
But there was so much fucking hate aimed at her. Why were people still talking about her collapse at the charity concert? Why weren’t they talking about her upcoming album? About the single that he thought was doing well?
Or, better yet, why weren’t people talking about their fake relationship? Why the hell did they keep focusing on the negative shit?
It made him even angrier that, while a lot of fans were enjoying the single, a lot of them were using it as a reason to trash her all the more, saying things like, She just wrote this song to try to explain why she was such a mess at the concert. They called her a pretender, a phony, a has been.
Unable to help himself, the old rage flared in his chest, and he wanted to fight every last motherfucker who wouldn’t stop saying nasty things about Raine. They didn’t know her like he did—how much of her rough exterior was hiding a misunderstood woman inside, one who was trying to find her way in the world. No, all those assholes were far happier cracking mean jokes or dismissing her talent.
Was she reading all this shit?
Quentin heard Raine enter the studio before he saw her. Although her boots didn’t clomp like his often did, there was no mistaking the sound of them on the landing when the outer door was open, especially because the door to the control room was also ajar. Turning in his chair as she entered the space, he said, “Please take a seat.”
Goddamn, he hated the way she looked. Her expression was much like it had been on day one—untrusting, wary, and closed off.
He’d done that.
