I stare at the rain suddenly lashing against the windows in the darkness.
Does Jace really expect me to stand on the sidelines for the rest of the tour while he and Marlowe perform together and flirt on stage every weekend?
This, right here, is why I had my walls up when I met him. I suppose some part of me always expected this from Jace Walker.
As I dab my eyes, I can admit I’m mostly pissed at myself because he got me to do things I’d never consider if any other man asked. Go on tour and stand in crowds for hours on end. Withstand heat and bugs and annoying bandmates to cover his events. Live on a cramped bus for months straight.
But the worst part is the sex. Not that I slept with him, but that I was so vulnerable with him. I can honestly say he didn’t coerce me at all. I offered myself willingly.
Give him blow jobs all the time? Sure. Sixty-nine him so we can both get off at the same time? Great. Spread my legs in the bathroom mirror so he can watch? No problem.
It’s ironic I judged the groupies when I first joined the tour. How am I any different? We call this a relationship, but is it? Or does Jace give me lip service because he needs my help? Does he have sex with me to make me malleable? Does he call me his girlfriend because he has no other options because we’re already married?
See, I thought I knew him, but that was before I had to stand three feet away from him and Marlowe as they sang about how he’s obsessed with her body.
By the time I’m done posting and scheduling more posts, I’m pissed all over again, especially when I remember he extended his tour without so much as mentioning it to me.
That’s fine. Jace can continue his whirlwind tour with his asshole band and his asshole label and his asshole friends.
But he’ll have to do it without me.
Because I’m applying for that librarian job and going home.
47
JACE
Windshield wipers swipe furiouslyas the rain pummels the streets of Dallas. Shane elbows me. “Think Rory’s still pissed?”
I don’t have to talk to her to know that answer. “Yup.”
That conversation with Rory on the street this afternoon fucked me up. It kills me knowing I hurt her. I was so distracted when I returned to the studio that Frank had to print out the lyrics of a song I’ve sung five thousand times because I couldn’t concentrate. The only thing I could think about was the pain in Rory’s eyes. The hurt in her voice. Her parting words.
Does she really want a divorce? An ache forms in my chest, and I rub it.
“At least you got your phone back,” Shane says.
The one bright side in an otherwise devastating day. “Yeah.”
“Nice of Edmond to bring it to you.”
I nod.
“The new songs are dope. You killed it.” It’s not like Shane to try to cheer me up. I’m usually in a good mood. He must be concerned if he’s blowing smoke up my ass.
“We’ll see.” I’m hoping we have time to record “Firefly.” We spent a stupid amount of time dealing with “Red Light.” “You think I did the right thing, signing our song over to Bandit?”
“It’s worth the gamble. It’s not our whole catalogue, but it’s enough to show Niles we’re serious. And we’ll see if he gets our shit on the radio to promote us. In a way, it’s like we’re auditioning him.”
Hadn’t thought of it that way.
When we reach the hotel, I nod to Shane. “I’m gonna stay in the lobby and call Rhett.” We charged my phone at the studio. When it lit up, I had a million notifications.
Shane smacks my shoulder. “Calling on the big guns for woman advice, huh?”
“Basically.”
“Get some sleep. We’re at it again bright and early.”
