Founded on Goodbye: A Rockstar Romance

by Kat Singleton

  At least for two weeks, that is.

  Derrick keeps emphasizing how sexy and sultry the song is, as if I didn’t fucking write it myself.

  And apparently, because it is so sultry, he wants the sexual tension between us to be palpable. Again, not my words.

  We’re now at the part where the chorus begins, and Derrick tells us this is the point where Nora will take it from me and do some fancy dance things to hand it to a crew member.

  Then the real fun begins, because now I’m supposed to fucking slow dance with her, or as they refer to it, perform a contemporary number, all while I’m still singing.

  I repeat: Fuck. This. Shit.

  “Stop it right now! You did not pinch Nash Pierce.” Riley laughs, dipping her chip in the salsa and taking a bite.

  I lean back in the booth, shaking my head. “Stop saying his first and last name, it’s weird. And he was being an asshole! Looking back, I probably shouldn’t have but—”

  “But what?” Ziggy asks curiously, leaning forward on his elbows.

  “But he was being an ass! I was just doing what Derrick told me to do.” Shrugging, I take my own chip and glob some salsa on it.

  It’s been almost two weeks of nonstop rehearsals, my days running even longer as Nash and I practice Preach each night with Derrick.

  I wish I could say Nash has been nicer since we’ve become well acquainted with each other—our hands have touched almost every location on each other’s body—but he hasn’t. He’s been as peachy as ever lately, but I don’t let him deter me. Deep down, I think he’s a lot less of an asshole than he pretends to be.

  “He’s not really an ass to anyone else on the team. It’s weird he’s that way with you,” Ziggy points out. “Don’t get me wrong, he’s not the warm and fuzzy kind of guy, but he’s civil with all of us. He actually told me he liked my sneakers the other day.”

  Riley looks at me, and I pray she doesn’t spill the beans to Ziggy about why I’m really on Nash’s tour. That secret is staying between me and her. And I guess Monica. But his coldness to me does throw a wrench in the whole get-close-to-him plan.

  Ziggy talks through a mouthful of chips as our waitress refills our waters. “Did you know the other day I saw him give all the cash from his wallet to a woman who was sitting outside our studio?”

  Riley gasps and leans in closer, and it’s painfully obvious she’s hanging on Ziggy’s every word.

  I stay in place, mumbling a “thank you” to the waitress as she refills my water and walks away.

  “Yep! He snuck out the back entrance of the studio, not wanting to be noticed by anyone. I was outside on the phone with my mom. She was rambling on about how she wants me to get home. Anyway, there was a woman sitting on the corner with her dog. She was holding some kind of sign, but I couldn’t read it. Nash talked to her for a few minutes before he pulled his wallet out and thumbed through all the cash he had stored in there.”

  Riley shoves me playfully. “Did you hear that, Nora? What a gentleman he is!”

  Ziggy enthusiastically nods. “He really was. There’s even more! The woman wrapped her arms around him and pulled him in for a hug. I couldn’t see her face, but I could see his. And he didn’t look disgusted, put off, or anything by this stranger who probably could’ve used a bath. Not even when she hugged him. He held her for as long as she wanted. It was dreamy.”

  Our waitress walks back toward us, a large tray in her hand. She props it on her hip as she hands each one of us our entrees.

  I can instantly smell the cheesy goodness of my enchiladas, my stomach grumbling in excitement. I take a long whiff, ready to get down on some Mexican food.

  Riley and I have been coming to this restaurant for as long as we’ve lived in California. We found it randomly and have since refused to get our queso fix anywhere else. I finally invited Ziggy with us last week, and he and Riley were instant best friends.

  I savor the way the gooey cheese melts in my mouth as Ziggy continues to talk. Have I ever mentioned he talks a lot?

  “Oh, and get this,” he says, pausing to take a bite of his taco, while cheese falls out the back of it. “When I came out of the studio twenty minutes later, I saw one of Nash’s beefy bodyguards handing the same woman a large bag of dog food and some grocery bags.”

  My eyebrows lift in surprise. With the way Nash has been acting toward me, I wouldn’t have pegged him as the silent charity type. Maybe I was right and there are more layers to him than meets the eye. And maybe for some reason, it makes him feel better to act like an utter dick to me instead of just admitting that maybe he’s not a complete douche.

  “Oh my god, he’s a saint,” Riley swoons. She’s so busy getting mushy over Nash that her forkful of rice almost misses her mouth.

  I can’t help but laugh, because no matter how kind Nash’s gesture was, I still wouldn’t call him a saint.

  I’ll let her and Ziggy continue to put Nash on a pedestal though, too engrossed in my meal to point out his constant attitude.

  Luckily, the two of them fall into a different conversation, completely unrelated to Nash. I chime in every now and then, but for the most part I’m too busy shoving food in my face as fast as possible to add anything in.

  “We should go out dancing tonight!” Riley says excitedly, pushing her empty plate away from her.

  Completely stuffed, I mimic her. I pull my phone out of my purse, checking for the time. “Can’t,” I begin. “I have to be at rehearsals in two hours for the solo. Monica wants to see it tomorrow, and Nash has to decide if it’s a dance he wants to keep or not. He wants to do one last rehearsal, just the two of us.”

  Winking at me, Riley takes a drink from her straw. “Just the two of you, hm?”

  I give her the dirtiest look possible, trying to remind her with my eyes that Ziggy is sitting right next to me.

  “You know, you’re living every teenage girl’s dream by being alone with him,” Ziggy muses, clearly unaware of the daggers I’m aiming at Riley.

  “Yeah, well, there’s nothing more romantic than running the same routine over and over with an unwilling participant.” Grabbing my check from the waitress, I slide my card in and set it on the table.

  “He’s not that bad.” Ziggy laughs, then moves onto a new topic with Riley.

  I ignore him, clearly fighting a losing battle here.

  An hour and a half later, I arrive to the studio early.

  The more time that ticked by, the more nervous I got at the idea of being alone with Nash. So far, all our rehearsals have included Derrick. This time, it’ll just be me and Nash—and my looming task at hand is sitting at the forefront of my mind.

  The more time I spend with Nash, the more time I find to see that the whole reason I’m on this tour is a lost cause. For some reason my mere existence pisses him off. He’s all jagged edges and snide remarks when talking to me. Yet he’ll turn around and give that playboy smile to the person next to me.

  There’s absolutely no way Nash Pierce will fall for me. At this point, I’m just trying to get him to tolerate me. Flicking on the lights of the studio, I strip out of my jacket. I place it next to my dance bag and water bottle. The cold air hits my bare skin, the crop top I’m wearing not fighting off the air conditioning effectively.

  I slide each one of my sandals off, opting to warm up completely barefoot. I make the mental note to find a way to get in some ballet practice in my spare time soon. I miss the bite of the ballet slipper on my foot, the pressure of being perfect and meticulous with each turn of my body.

  Walking over to the stereo system, I select my dance playlist and begin stretching. Once I feel like my body is loose, I stride to the middle of the dance floor and begin to freestyle. It feels amazing to just let my body lead me in my movements. I’ve been practicing the same routines over and over for weeks now, forgetting what it’s like to get completely lost in the music.

  My mind goes numb as my body takes over. For the first time in what seems like forever, my mi
nd is still. I close my eyes, relishing in the freedom I feel.

  Three songs go by before I finally open my eyes.

  When I open them, I immediately stop, my eyes connecting with Nash’s. He leans against the barre on the far side of the room. His tattooed arms are crossed over his ripped T-shirt, his eyes staring intently at me.

  I’m stuck in place. My feet refuse to do their job and move. And my eyes…my eyes can’t look away from him.

  For the first time since we met, he isn’t looking at me with indifference. There’s no hint of coldness in his gaze.

  This time he’s watching me carefully, burning a hole right through me. It’s intense and sends my stomach into a spiral.

  I couldn’t tell you how long the two of us stare at each other. What I can say is that it feels like forever. It feels like his eyes are telling me a million different things, but at the same time it’s like he’s giving away nothing.

  “You’re early,” I finally breathe out, my steps slowly bringing me closer to him.

  He nods, raking his eyes down my body before putting his own bag down. “I could say the same thing to you.”

  He stands right next to my bag, a smirk on his face. What the fuck, he’s smiling?

  “Yeah, well, I wanted to warm up.” I take a drink from my water bottle, my throat suddenly dry with Nash so close.

  “I saw that,” he notes, looking at me with an inquisitive look. The music still blares around us, the bass rattling the floor beneath our feet.

  “Why are you early?” The second the words leave my mouth, I realize that for how long I’ve been dancing, he isn’t that early. I open my mouth to say just that, but he speaks first.

  “Well, it was either come to this early or get drunk early. For some reason I chose this.”

  I nervously laugh, craning my head to look up at him. “Yeah, that would’ve made things a little complicated.”

  He quirks an eyebrow at me, causing me to quickly elaborate.

  “If you were drunk for rehearsals, I mean. You might’ve forgotten the steps.”

  Nash shakes his head at me, taking a step closer to me. “Oh, Rose,” he says, and I try to ignore the way my heart reacts to the nickname as if I don’t hate it.

  “You have no idea how many shows I’ve done drunk,” he confesses. “In fact, some of my best performances were when I was toasted.”

  He quietly observes my reaction, his eyes tracing my face. All I can do is nod, thinking back to every article I’ve read on him. There’s not a lot I’ve read, but I don’t remember any of them mentioning him being drunk. Not that it should matter to me.

  “Why do you think they were your best?” I ask.

  He gives me a sad smile. “People like me better when I’m drunk. I’m not as bitter.” He says the last word sarcastically, mischief in his eyes.

  I’m about to argue, but he quickly takes a step away from me and heads toward the middle of the studio. “Let’s practice,” he says.

  And just like that, he’s got his walls back up. I can tell there’s nothing else I’m going to get out of him, so I don’t even try. I go to the speakers and choose Preach from my phone. I grab the remote and walk across the dance floor to hand it over to Nash.

  It’s silent as I take my spot behind him. Without any more words, he presses play on the music. On cue, I turn around, running my hands over his body. The T-shirt he’s got on is thin and has holes in random places. Occasionally, I feel the warmth of his skin against mine. I ignore it, continuing the routine.

  I pretend to take the guitar from him, handing it off to a pretend person. When the beat picks up, the chorus ringing through the speakers, I move around in front of him. His hands find my waist, his fingers creeping underneath the fabric of my cotton crop top.

  My hands reach behind me, sliding down the backs of his legs as I fall to the floor. Slowly coming back up, I blindly reach out, his hand finding my own.

  As soon as I stand all the way up, he spins me away from him. I continue to lean away from his outstretched hand, extending one of my legs into the air. Then it’s time for him to spin me into his embrace once again.

  My head rests against his chest in the same way we’ve rehearsed many times, except in the moment when he’s supposed to grab my neck and dip my body in front of him, he doesn’t.

  The music stops abruptly. Nash shoves me away from him in the next instant. “You’re off,” he grumbles, shoving his hair out of his face.

  “What are you talking about?” I ask confused, knowing I wasn’t off.

  “Start over.” He leaves no room for me to argue. The music is restarted, and I have no choice but to take my spot behind him once again.

  We attempt to run through it five more times before my patience wears thin with him.

  “I’m not messing it up!” I demand, pulling my ass off the floor from where he just dropped me—on purpose.

  “Yes, you are,” he barks, not bothering to help me up.

  I let out an annoyed laugh, dusting off my bottom. “No, Nash. Hate to break it to you, but it’s you that’s off.”

  The asshole rolls his eyes at me, penetrating me with a condescending stare. “I should’ve known this wouldn’t work. I said I’d give it a shot, but you can’t even get all the way through without making some kind of mistake.”

  My eyes widen, completely in shock he’s blaming this on me. I start to back up, throwing my hands in the air. “You know what, you’re right. This isn’t working.” I turn around, giving him my back.

  I quickly walk over to my bag and grab it, not even putting on my jacket before heading toward the door. At this point I’m just hoping I stuck my feet in the right sandal, but I don’t take the time to double check.

  “Where in the hell do you think you’re going?” he yells behind me.

  “You said it yourself, this isn’t working. I’m tired of being blamed for mistakes I’m not fucking making. I’m leaving. Tell Monica you tried but it didn’t work!” As I say this, I don’t look back at him over my shoulder. I’m too upset by his constant nagging. He’s managed to make me feel like complete shit in the mere thirty minutes we’ve been practicing.

  “You can’t just leave,” he says, this time a little closer to me.

  I spin around in the doorway, enunciating my words and looking him dead in the eye when I say, “Watch me.”

  I’m halfway out the door when his hand finds my waist. “Nora, hold on a second.”

  I should just let her walk out the door.

  It shouldn’t bother me that she’s storming out as if I’ve hurt her feelings or as if she’s pissed—probably both.

  Yet here I am, quickly closing the distance between us until I meet her in the doorway.

  My fingertips find the warmth of her stomach. “Nora, hold on a second.”

  Her stomach muscles clench under my touch. To my surprise, she turns around, angling an aggravated gaze toward me. “What is it, Nash?”

  There’s a small wrinkle between her eyebrows as she stares up, waiting for me to elaborate. When I don’t answer her right away, that wrinkle smooths as she lifts her eyebrows impatiently.

  “You can’t just leave,” I finally repeat, inhaling and getting hit in the face with the scent of her. It smells just like roses should. Not that fake overpowering floral scent some women wear, but subtle enough to slowly yet madly take over my senses.

  She looks at me, annoyed. “Why do you care? You’ve made it abundantly clear you don’t want this dance to be part of the tour lineup. Here’s your chance, Nash. Take it.”

  She isn’t wrong. Two weeks ago, I hated the idea of doing this dance, but I can’t deny that the work we’ve put into it has paid off. What we’ve created…it works, and it works well. I have no doubt my fans will love it. I just hate that it feels so intimate to share this dance with her.

  I bare my soul—the naked truth of myself—to my fans when I get on stage and sing my own lyrics. And now, sharing the stage with her and only her in a d
ance that drips of sex…well, it’s fucking with my head.

  I hate the feeling of not being in control of my head.

  I’ve been there before. I fell so deeply and passionately in love with a woman that only used my love for her against me. I have no desire to ever do it again. Sex at this point doesn’t even feel intimate to me. It’s a means to an end. Dancing with Nora feels intimate, though. It feels so much more intimate than when I’m inside of a girl. And that has all my alarms ringing.

  “Are you going to answer me?” I can tell by her tone that she’s growing more irritated with me by the second. The problem is, I don’t want to answer her question truthfully.

  My grip tightens, making me realize my hand is still placed on her waist. I pull it back, shocked I was even touching her for that long. I typically hate touching or being touched by people—a side effect of being groped by fans every time I come in contact with them.

  I barely let women touch me when they get me off, only letting them touch what is needed. But after two weeks of having Nora touch me, and my hands roaming over her body repeatedly, it hasn’t bothered me in the slightest.

  Even if I’ve made it seem as if I’ve hated it. It’s all been an act.

  “Yeah, well, maybe the dance doesn’t suck as much as I thought it would.” I scratch my head, watching as her attention focuses on my bicep.

  She pops a hip out, looking at me with an amused look. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

  Nervously looking around the room, I avoid her question for a moment. “I’m saying I’m technically your boss and thinking about what’s best for my tour, and this dance might be it.”

  Taking a step closer to me, she looks up at me confidently. “Ask me nicely, boss.”

  I try not to roll my eyes at the way she easily throws my words right back at me. She’s one of the only people who has the balls to do so. Typically, everyone but the people closest to me fall at my feet, acting as if every word I utter is gold.

  Tracing along her naked shoulder, I think my words through carefully. I lean in closer to her, my lips just millimeters from the shell of her ear. When I look down, I’m almost positive I can see her thumping pulse beneath her fair skin.