Chapter Twenty-One
Xander
It was official. Courteney wasn’t speaking to me.
Tuesday. Wednesday. Thursday.
Three days of radio silence from her… while I went about the mind-numbing routine of life as a rock star in a band-in-the-making. With not much to do but sit around and fucking wait.
How the fuck was I making it through nine-and-a-half more months of this?
I’d messaged her to ask if she was okay. Seemed like the right thing to do. I’d taken her virginity and then she’d stormed out on me, pissed off and hurt.
She still hadn’t replied.
And I couldn’t stand it. But what the fuck could I do?
I couldn’t make her talk to me, and anyway, getting in her face about it would only end in another fight. Or another fuck.
I wasn’t sure which would be worse.
All I knew for sure was I was gonna go fucking crazy keeping all this shit to myself. So, I finally spilled the fucking beans—along with the skeletons and all the dirty laundry—right in Jordan’s lap.
While we were shoe shopping.
She blinked at the white-and-gray Golden Goose Superstars on my feet, the ones I was trying on, then looked at me, deadpan, and said, “You already have those ones.”
I looked at my feet. “So?”
“So, you already have them. Why are you trying them on?”
“I have last year’s,” I said. “They’re different this year.”
I pulled off the shoes and handed them to the salesperson when he wandered over to check on us. “What colors do you have these in?”
He checked his tablet. “In your size, in stock…. we have the camo, the snakeskin, blue suede, red suede, silver sparkle—”
“I’ll take the camo, the red suede, and the silver sparkle.” I grinned at Jordan.
She rolled her eyes.
The dude went to fetch the shoes and ring them up for me.
“You have a problem,” Jo said, but before I could hand over my credit card, she added a bunch of socks to the pile. “Take some socks. You always forget the socks.”
Almost three grand later, we headed out of the store with my new shoes.
“Why am I here?” Jo eyed me. “Helping you pick out shoes you already own…?”
“You’re not. And why the fuck are we talking about shoes? Did you hear anything I just said in there? About Courteney Clarke?”
“I heard what you said.”
“And?”
“And what? Nowhere in that tirade of twisted verbal vomit was there a question.”
Oh. I thought I’d asked her for advice or something. Wasn’t that implied?
