Page 129 of Sweet Surrender

I step back, out of earshot, before she or Nathaniel realizes I’m here. My hands curl into fists but I force myself to move. To shake it off.

This was always the deal, right? An arrangement?

But fuck if it doesn’t feel different now. She said she loves me. Was that a lie? A heat of the moment fib?

I move into the studio, lock the door behind me, and do the only thing I’ve ever been able to do to cope. I fixate on music.

I write until the lyrics pour out of me.

I write to ignore her texts asking if I’m coming out for dinner.

I write to try and figure out where the fuck to go from here.

But I know the answer. I always have.

Where do I go from here? Nowhere. That’s where I go.

On a world tour away from this place. Away from her.

Because once again, I’ll be here while she moves on. While another person I love can’t love me back.

Yeah, I went and fell for her.

That’s on me.

And I hate everything about it.

My phone buzzes. Again. I pick it up, knowing it’s going to be her, but am surprised to see Rocket’s name on the screen.

“You alive? Or did Hendrix finally kill you in some sex-slave coma or some shit like that?”

“Alive,” I mutter, rubbing a hand over my face.

“Good. Then play us the song you’ve been working on.”

“Not happening.”

“Oh, so you are a sex-slave then.”

I sigh. “Nah. Think I’m over that already.”

Rocket whistles. “Wow. Okay.”

“You know me. I get bored easily. Same shit, different pussy.”

Rocket laughs but it grates, because I know the words I said are a blatant lie. “And here I thought you were beginning to like that ring on her finger.”

“No need to get attached,” I add and take a sip straight from the bottle of Jack beside me. I hiss at the burn. “They all leave in the end.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

Hendrix

Music has a way of filling a space, seeping into the walls, vibrating through the air until it settles under your skin. It has a way of making you escape the noise in your head and the worry in your heart.

I need all of that and more—and get it—the moment I step into the darkened arena where BENT is rehearsing for the tour.

The steady thrum of the bass, the haunting notes from the keyboard, the powerful yet smooth voice of Hawkin carrying through the mic—it’s intoxicating, electric. But none of it pulls me in the way the steady, relentless rhythm of the drums does.