Page 9 of Sweet Distraction

I usually love the silence and solitude after a long stretch on the road. I welcome the emptiness of my house and lack of schedule.

Not this time.

Not now.

This fucking waiting for Sandra’s call is going to be my undoing.

The clock ticks. Seconds pass. Minutes drag . . . hours feel like fucking days. There’s an awareness of the time. The kind you can’t drown out—I’ve tried—even when I’m trying to convince myself I already know what the results say.

It’s not mine.

She’s not mine.

She can’t be mine.

I rub a hand over my face, then press the heels of my palms into my eyes and try to stop the loop from running through my head. The one that’s taken me days to scrape together. The highlight reel is brief and uneventful, save for a few great orgasms.

Olivia. Red heels. Dark hair. Whiskey on her breath and a laugh that carried through crowded rooms.

The last time I saw her, she kissed me like there was no tomorrow, but like she didn’t want there to be one with me either. I think I said something stupid—something about us being fun while it lasted. No promises. No tomorrows. Just fun times and great orgasms.

Her words? “Good thing I’m not a clingy bitch, or I’d have a hard time letting you walk away, Rocket Caldwell.”

Then she pulled me in for another dick-hardening kiss before winking and walking away with a smirk and a sway to her hips.

I didn’t ask questions. What fucking guy would? We parted on good terms, and I never expected to see her again.

And now this . . .

She can’t be mine. Poppy can’t be—

Fuck.

I pick up my phone out of habit, but there are no missed calls. No messages. No new texts.

The results are supposed to be in today.

They told Sandra it would be today.

I grab a bottle of water from the fridge, crack it open, and take a swig like it’s going to settle the chaos in my chest. It doesn’t. No wonder, given I’ve been living on amber liquid out of glass bottles.

My phone buzzes in my hand.

Hawkin.

I hesitate, then swipe to answer because I can’t fucking hide forever.

“What’s up, man?” I try to sound like my life isn’t in a fucking upheaval.

“You good, man?” he asks, curiosity tingeing the edges of his tone.

“Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?” Has the media already found out? Did someone get a large payday on this rumor?

“You’ve been quiet as hell. You’ve usually blown up the group text at least twice by now and it’s been silence. You didn’t even respond to Giz’s last comment. It was the perfect opportunity for a classic Rocket cutdown, and you didn’t take it.”

“Shit, man,” I say and run a hand through my hair. “I must’ve missed it. I’ve kind of been on do not disturb. Guess I needed a little recharge. Post-tour coma and all that.”

“Right . . .” His tone is suspicious. “You’re not dying, are you?”