Page 60 of Sweet Distraction

“It’s complicated.”

“No shit. Well, I demand a full debrief in person. Soon,” she says, switching back to lighthearted. “We need margaritas and judgment and at least one dance floor.”

A smile tugs at my mouth. “Soon. I promise.”

“Good. Because I miss you in that irrational, clingy best friend kind of way.”

We both laugh, and for a second, I forget about the tension in this house, the letter, the girl with the quiet eyes, and the man who’s a contradiction in more ways than one.

“Soon,” I say again.

“Soon.”

We hang up.

And even though nothing’s changed, I feel a little more like myself again.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Rocket

Otherwise, you wouldn’t give me a second thought.

Willow’s words from the other night loop in my head like a hook stuck on repeat. One I keep jotting down but can’t seem to write the chorus for. They replay over and fucking over, and I hate how loud they scream.

Because it’s a total fucking lie. Not give her a second thought? Does she realize that goddam kiss nearly ruined me? That I’ve thought about it more times than is probably healthy?

I groan, dragging both hands through my hair and tipping my head back toward the ceiling of the studio. Because isn’t that exactly what I’ve done? Thought about her? Wanted her? Fought against taking her?

She’s just a distraction, Rock.

That’s all she is.

So I don’t have to focus on the terrifying part. The part that’s three years old and sleeps with a bunny and has eyes that look exactly like mine. The part that I’m struggling with. I know I need to get over my own fears, I know I need to figure my shit out . . . and I know my failure to do so is one hundred percent on me.

No one else.

And it’s a fucking miserable place to be.

“Hello?” Hawkin’s voice cuts through my thoughts. “Earth to Rocket. You in there, fucker?”

I blink and look up.

We’re in the studio—guitars slung, mics hot, drumsticks at the ready—and by the jump of colored bars on the computer screens on the opposite side of the glass, the track is still rolling in the background. Apparently, I’ve spaced the hell out mid-verse.

“Yeah. Sorry. I—uh—”

“You just stopped playing,” Vince says from the corner and lifts a brow. “Mid-chorus you just stopped playing. Do we need to be worried? Call an ambulance?”

“Call an escort,” Gizmo mutters, and the guys snicker.

“I’m fine,” I say.

“Oh, so you already got the escort, and that’s why you’re so tired?” Hawkin chimes in.

“When have any of us ever had to pay for pussy?” I flip them off, but by the nods, I’ve made my point.

I yawn, only fueling their speculation that I had a hard night. Too bad it’s not for what they think it was.