Page 11 of Worth the Fight

“You mean my place. It’s my place now. Not ours.”

“You were gone,” he says, completely ignoring my correction.

“Yep. Sure was.” I hate that my heart aches. I hate that I miss him. And I hate that I even wanted to see him.

“You packed up and left in such a hurry that⁠—”

“I think once we’re in the studio and hear the whole thing put together, I’ll be able to pinpoint what needs to be changed.”

“You could be in the studio with me on Wednesday . . .”

“No, I can’t.” I won’t. For so many reasons more than just the physical distance between us.

Needing to abate the emotion rioting within me, I walk to the open window and look out at the darkness beyond. The warm night breeze blows gently against my skin, and it smells so clean. I’m so used to being able to watch the city come alive as the day fades to night that it’s unnerving to look outside and see silhouettes of trees against the moonlit sky.

“You’re not going to budge, are you?” I don’t respond. I can’t. There’s always been something about Jett that has made me melt, and I can’t melt this time. Yes, he cheated on me. Yes, I swore if anyone ever cheated on me I’d turn my back on him and never look back, which is exactly what I’ve done here. I called Damon, told him I needed help, packed my shit as fast as I could, and came to Sunnyville where he had helped me find a place. Just because it was easy to hold up to my own promise, doesn’t mean I can turn off the emotions or tell my heart not to hurt. That part is a lot harder than it seems.

But I’m here. I’m here because I knew it would be much easier to cave—to be weak—if I was in my place where his things surrounded me. Where he and his charm could wear me down.

“Dylan?”

“No, I’m not going to budge, Jett.” I clear my throat.

“Well, if you’re not going to come here, then I’ll come to you. Where are you?”

“I’ve already moved on. Found someone new.” The words come off my tongue without thought, and I hate the need to lie just to get him to stop.

“I don’t buy that for a goddamn minute.”

“You should.”

“You want to tell me where you’re staying?”

“No. It’s none of your business.”

“Are you staying with him?” As much as I’m not trying to play games here—and lied just to end the topic of conversation—a part of me enjoys hearing the shock in his voice.

“It doesn’t matter who I’m staying with. Get to the studio on Wednesday. Don’t be an asshole to Kai and the rest of the guys,” I say, referring to the audio engineer. “And listen to the lyrics I put over the track. Let me know what you think. I’ll move on to the next song until I hear from you.”

“I love you, Dylan.”

I close my eyes and let my head fall forward as I hear words from him I know he doesn’t often say. “If you loved me you wouldn’t have fucked someone else.”

And with that, I end the call and sink onto the edge of my bed. My phone is clutched to my chest as the reel of me walking in on him and Tara plays over and over again in my mind.

I glance at the clock to see that it’s two in the morning. We always worked best when it was late and our brains were fuzzy and that kind of delirious state kicked in . . . I guess not even distance can change that.

Picking up my guitar, I hum the lyrics and play the chords, my mind trying to pinpoint where the song is off.

A sound breaks through my process. At first, I assume it’s the scanner, my telltale sign that Grady is home from his shift, but just as I strum the guitar, I hear it again.

“Help. Please. Oh. God.”

Grady’s voice is filled with anguish and need. I drop my guitar and am out of my room within seconds, heading down the hall to where I can hear him waging a verbal struggle. His bedroom door is open, and when I enter, he’s sprawled across his bed, asleep.

He’s dreaming. Not in trouble.

My heart slows a beat, but the deep mewl of agony he emits as he bucks his body on the bed has me moving to him without a second thought.