Page 122 of Hard to Hold

“I’ll do a public signing of the contract, Finn. That’s it. No one is going to capitalize off a personal decision I made. No interviews about it. No exclusives. I’m not budging on this.”

“Why the fuck not?”

“Because the pitch is where I perform. Nowhere else.”

“Fine. Yes,” he says, but I can already hear the wheels turning so loud in his head that he hasn’t heard a word I’ve said. “Hey, Rush.”

“Hmm?”

“We did it.”

I hang up without answering, unsure and unsettled over how I feel about his comment.

We didn’t do shit.

It took months.

Back and forth, Rush. Communicating every day, Rush. Utter shit.

I have wondered why I don’t feel the same resentment toward the club. And I don’t think it’s simply about who is employed by whom. But deep down I think that’s where it partly sits.

I employ Finn. So, even if out of fiscal loyalty, he should have been shouting from the rooftops, as Lennox said. He was supposed to support me one hundred percent publicly, and shouldn’t have doubted me in private.

The club is essentially a business. Yes, it’s my career, but I can understand that they had to look at the financial aspects of whether or not to trade me. Their loyalty is a bit trickier to define, and I never suggested that the photo wasn’t of me. That loyalty was driven by the pound.

Does it make me feel good knowing they doubted me? Of course not, but . . .

“Welcome back, sir,” the driver says with a chuckle as my house comes into view. The gates are just as overloaded with paparazzi as the night I left here but this time, the questions aren’t accusations. This time, the shouting of my name isn’t with derision but out of desperation to get the first quote. Bloody vultures.

And just like last time, I hurry through the lot of them without giving a single comment.

I’ll let Rory’s press conference speak for itself.

Besides, there’s not much more I can say.

But when I sink into my own bed after a quick shower, when I let the silence envelop my thoughts, there’s only one thing missing in this balls-up day.

Lennox.

She’s not there to hold on to.

There’s no hair of hers to tickle my cheek as I rest my chin on her head.

There’s no soft snore of hers to fill the room.

There’s just the silence and solitude I used to crave that feels fucking rough now.

CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

LENNOX

“THINGS GOOD?”

I hate that tears flood my eyes when his face fills the screen. “Yes. And you? Has the media attention died down some?”

“I don’t really pay attention,” he murmurs.

But I do. I’ve scoured all websites for any real-time glimpse of him and by the looks of it, he’s still being hounded.