Harnessing a soft smile, I unzip my suitcase and rummage around for a pair of pajamas. Out of my periphery, I watch as Chase pulls out his phone, starts to scroll.
I clear my throat. “Everyone’s down at the bar. I’ll be fine for a few hours if you wanted to join them. There’s a lot to celebrate.”
His eyes lift through dark, fanning lashes. “I’m good.”
“Groupies are probably flocking.” I laugh lightly, though the thought clogs my throat with something sharp and ugly. “Could be fun.”
“You want me to ditch you for groupies?”
“No,” I say quickly. Too quickly. “I mean, you can. If you want. I wouldn’t blame you.”
He slips his phone into his pocket. “I’m where I want to be.”
I curl my hand around a silky pink sleep set. “Have you thought about that?”
“About hooking up with groupies?”
“Yeah,” I breathe out, stomach pitching. “Comes with the rock star life. Beautiful women throwing themselves at you.”
Chase leans forward, props an elbow on his knee. He rubs a hand over his jaw, watching me, turning a response over in his mind.
He doesn’t reply right away, so I keep babbling. “Surely you’ve considered it. I mean, you’re single. Hot. Talented. The way you sing, engage with the crowd…”
“Yeah. It’s crossed my mind.”
The lump expands in my throat. “You basically have your pick of the litter. You can—”
“I don’t have my pick of the litter.” He cuts me off, tone gruff. “If I did, things would be a lot different right now.”
His truth slips through the cracks. Bruises on the way down.
He gives me a look like it cost him something to admit that.
I pull to a stand. Stare at him, all out of words. My palms sweat around the pajamas.
“Go change. I’ll get the pullout ready.”
Mouth dry, I watch as he moves to the other side of the room, fumbling with the bed.
Ducking my head, I escape into the bathroom with flushed cheeks and a thumping heart. The door clicks shut behind me, and I press my back to it, exhale hard.
My fingers shake as I change into the pajama set, pale pink with black piping, soft as a sigh. I let the fabric slide over my skin like armor, giving myselftime to breathe. Time to not think about Chase on the other side of the door, folding a pullout bed like it’s the only thing he can control right now.
When I move toward the counter to wash my face, I go still.
Amber prescription bottles clutter the space around the sink. Four of them, some open, labels peeled. One’s knocked over, little white pills spilled like teeth across the marble.
My stomach sinks.
“Chase?” I step out of the bathroom, voice tinged with concern. “What are those pills for?”
He’s still shirtless, all corded muscle and blue and black ink, hunched over the unfolded couch as he tucks a fitted sheet over the flimsy mattress.
Faltering, he looks up, over my shoulder, then back at me.
A muscle in his cheek ticks. “Nothing. Just something for my headaches.”
“All of them?”
