Ryder.
I stare at the letter, rereading it several times, until I can no longer see through the tears coating my eyes.
I don’t understand.
Everything was fine two weeks ago. When he was declaring his love for me and proposing marriage. Was it all a lie? Did he mean anything that he said? Or was it just pity that drove him to help me?
I’m so confused and still in a state of shock. I half-expect him to jump out from under the bed, laughing at my distress, like it was some sick, perverted joke. Or a test to prove my loyalty, but I know that’s just my stupid foolish heart speaking.
I can’t believe he’s fallen for someone else so soon, but is it really that much of a surprise? Maybe he’s one of those guys who falls in love at the drop of a hat, moving from girl to girl, professing undying love until someone new captures his eye. That’s the only explanation that holds any weight and the more likely scenario. I prefer to think like that than accept he never loved me at all.
Fat teardrops drip onto the page, smudging his messy handwriting. I curl into a ball under the covers, wrapping my arms around my body tight, as if that will somehow hold the heartache at bay. Wracking sobs heave my chest, and I bury my face in my pillow, trying to muffle the sound of my pain. I cry until my throat is raw and my eyes sting.
Today should’ve been one of the happiest days of my life, but Ryder has managed to destroy every joyful feeling.
At some point, Jill slips into the room, crawling into the bed with me and wrapping her arms around my frozen body. She whispers reassurances, telling me how much she loves me and that she’s here for me, but there’s no comfort she can offer that will fill the huge gaping hole in my chest. I’ve never experienced such heart-crushing pain before, and the ache in my chest penetrates cell deep, invading every part of me, ensuring no organ, no tissue, no cell, is left unscathed. The scars on my heart run wide and deep, and I know I’ll carry them with me forever.
Ryder is gone, and he’s taken part of me with him.
The part that believed in the dream.
In the healing power of love.
His love may have been fleeting, and he may have gotten over me and moved on, but I know, without a shadow of doubt, that he is my one true love, and I will never, ever get over him.
And, for as long as I live, I will never forgive him for destroying me like this.
PART II
Eight Years Later
CHAPTER 16
Ryder
I slowly come to, conscious of something hot and heavy pressing down on my back. Ignoring the dull pounding in my head, I lift my upper body, glancing over my shoulder and scowling at the naked girl using my back as her own personal pillow. She’s snoring and drooling onto my skin, and a nasty shiver works its way through my body as I slide out from under her.
Mike,” I croak, my throat rasping from the aftereffects of last night. “Mike,” I yell, louder this time, while swinging my legs over the side of the bed and reaching for the bottle of water on top of my bedside table. The girl groans, turning over onto her back, blinking her eyes open.
“Hey, sexy,” she purrs, sitting up while stifling a yawn. Smudged, thick, black mascara rims her bloodshot eyes as she fixes them on me. Bile mixes with the nasty sandpaper-like taste in my mouth when she crawls on her hands and knees toward me, licking her lips and scanning my naked body with hungry eyes.
“You looking for me, boss?” Mike pops his head through the bedroom door.
“Get rid of her!” I snap, pissed that she’s still here.
My bodyguard narrows his eyes as he steps into the room. “And the two on the floor?” he asks, raising a brow.
I look over the other side of the bed and cuss at the sight of the curvy girl with short blonde hair being spooned by the leggy redhead. Both of them are naked and in a deep sleep.
“Get rid of all strays. You know the score.” Spotting a bottle of JD tucked down the side of my bed, I snatch it up and take a swig, welcoming the burn as it slides down my dry throat.
The girl on the bed grabs hold of my ass as I stand, and I see red. “Get your fucking hands off me, and get the hell out of my penthouse.” I shove her hands away, picking up an article of women’s clothing off the carpeted floor, tossing it at her. “Don’t forget this. Would hate for you to do the walk of shame without any clothes on.”
“You’re a fucking asshole,” she spits, clutching the dress to her chest.
I smirk. “You think that’s news to me, darling?” Her nostrils flare, and I laugh as I walk toward my en suite bathroom. “I’m taking a shower, and I want them gone by the time I’m done.”
“I’m working on it,” Mike huffs out, shaking both girls on the floor by the shoulders in an attempt to wake them up.
I decide to help him out. Grabbing an empty pitcher from the table by the wall, I fill it in the sink in the bathroom and return to my bedroom, throwing cold water over the two comatose girls without a moment’s hesitation. They bolt upright, screaming and shrieking, glaring at me as they push strands of sodden hair back off their faces. Mike gives me the evil eye, tugging at his soaking wet shirt, looking like he wants to murder me in cold blood.
I toss the empty pitcher on the bed and saunter toward the bathroom without a backward glance.
Standing under the steaming hot water, I close my eyes and picture her face.
The only woman I’ve ever loved. The only one I ever will.
No matter how hard I try, I can’t forget the woman I was forced to walk away from even though it fucking destroyed me leaving her behind. It’s been eight long lonely years without Zeta by my side. I thought it’d get easier, but it’s only getting fucking harder. I’ll never stop missing her. Stop wanting her. Not until my dying breath.
Propping an arm up against the wall, I slide my other hand down my body, stroking my rock-hard cock as Zeta’s stunning fiery brown eyes stare back at me through my mind’s eye.
I permit myself to think of her every morning when I’m showering. To give myself this one indulgence.
I imagine I have her pinned up against the wall, her legs wrapped around my waist, and she’s writhing and moaning as I thrust into her hard, fucking her like she’s never been fucked before. I can almost hear her cries and screams as I bring her to release, and it’s not long before I’m jerking hard in my hand, cum spraying everywhere.
I lean against the wall, pressing my forehead to the cool tile, wishing the dream was a reality even though thinking like this always sends me into a spiral.
Is it possible to love someone so much it feels like I’m dying every day I spend on this planet without her in my arms?
“Boss, you okay?” Mike’s concerned eyes meet mine through the steamed glass doors.
I push off the wall, turning the shower off with a sigh. “I’m peachy. Just fucking peachy, Mike.”
“Heads-up. Rod’s on his way. ETA in forty minutes.”
He hands me a towel, and I wrap it firmly around my waist. “Thanks. He’s going to lose his fucking nut when he sees the state of the place.”
“Don’t sweat it. Maggie has already worked her magic.”
“Remind me to give that woman an increase in pay.” I move past him, grateful at least my housekeeper knows how to do her job. “And to reduce yours,” I add, narrowing my eyes to slits.
“Don’t fucking pin that shit on me, Stone.” Mike crosses his arms, challenging me with his stare. While Mike is the consummate professional, he’s also one of my closest friends, and sometimes, the lines blur. He’s way too familiar with me, and I should probably pull him up on that, but I value his role in my life too much to risk going there. Besides Rod, he’s the only other person who gets through to me although most of the time I ignore both their advice, hence why my life is one messy clusterfuck after another.
“What the fuck were they still
doing here?” I grab my toothbrush and start vigorously brushing my teeth.
Mike’s been my personal bodyguard long enough to know the drill. The girls never stay the night. As soon as I fuck them, I want them gone. I want no reminder of the encounter, and I never go back for seconds. It’s a pure physical release. A way to block out the destructive thoughts in my mind and nothing else. The last thing I need is to wake up beside a woman. Because if she isn’t Zeta, then she has no business being in my bed.
“Why do you think?” he says, just as other voices start making a ruckus outside.
“Fucking Garrett,” I grumble, wondering how I let my bandmate talk me into the impromptu session last night.
You know why. I punt kick that troublesome inner voice to one side.
I need to focus on looking semi-human before our manager gets here, because if he finds out I’m partying hard again, he’ll string me up by my balls. Or send me to rehab again.
Rod is the best fucking man I know. He literally saved me single-handed, and our band, Torment, has received worldwide fame thanks to his expert management and savvy business skills.
I owe him so much.
I owe him everything.
As messed up as I am, I shudder to think of how much worse it would be if he hadn’t found me busking that day. If he hadn’t taken a chance on me. If he hadn’t whisked me away to New York and given me so many opportunities.
Letting him down only adds to my guilt, and I wish I could say I never do, but I’m locked in a vicious circle where guilt and remorse drive my actions, only adding more shit to the pile.
I have the music career I’ve always wanted, wealth beyond my wildest dreams, women throwing themselves at me everywhere I go, and I should be on top of the world, yet I feel like I’m stuck at the bottom of the ocean, my feet harnessed to the ocean floor, my mouth open in a silent scream, gagging as I drown in a sea of self-hatred, my body bucking as I’m sucked downward into an endless dark void that refuses to let me go.
“He’s still out there with his fuck buddies,” Mike supplies, dragging me back into the moment.
My anger instantly flares. “Do you actually want to be fired?” I roar, shoving past him out into my bedroom.
“I tried to get them to leave, and one of them screamed I was manhandling her. Garrett just sat on his ass and laughed.” He, at least, has the decency to look apologetic. “You know I won’t touch that.”
My anger fades instantly. We had an incident, a couple years ago, just before I went completely off the rails, when Mike was accused of assault by one of the groupies after a party in my L.A. pad. All he’d been trying to do was help the girl to leave, but she was fucking smashed, and she fell over as he was escorting her down the hallway. The top half of her dress had fallen open in the process, and she screamed bloody murder, accusing him of undressing her with intent even though he hadn’t laid a finger on her. I wrote a check and made it go away but Mike’s wary of touching any of the girls now, and I can’t say I blame him.
I storm into my open-plan living room, my skull protesting at the noise blaring from the wall-mounted TV. Garrett Jones, guitarist and backup vocalist for Torment, my usual wingman and closest friend, is sprawled across my leather couch, in just his boxers, with a scantily clad girl on each arm and one on her knees between his feet.
Yanking the remote off the table, I mute the TV and stalk over to my buddy. “Get them the fuck out of here now!” Gar knows how I feel about this, and I’m pissed he’s taking advantage. “Rod’s on his way here.”
I claw a hand through my hair, forgetting it’s so much shorter now, instantly grieving the loss of my longer tresses. “Are you fucking insane? He will rip us a new one if he knows what went on here last night.”
“Dude. Relax.” Garrett steps over the girl at his feet and clasps hold of my shoulders. “He won’t hear about our eightsome from me.” His piercing green eyes are laughing as he raises his hand for a knuckle touch.
Ignoring him, I collapse on the couch behind me, shaking my head. “Fuck. Me.”
That’s a new record even for us.
I swore I was giving up the orgies after the last one. One of the girls had secretly recorded footage on her cell, and she wasted no time releasing it. It went viral in minutes and crashed Twitter. Shit like that does wonders for the band, but I cried like a pussy that night imagining Zeta watching it. Not that it should matter. She must hate my guts after the way I ended things, deserting her like that without another word.
“Been there, done that, and have the aches to prove it,” the brunette in the black lacy panties and bra says, sitting down beside me and running her hand up my chest.
I slap her hand away, more irritated than usual. “Get the fuck out now.”
“Dude.” Gar pulls his mouth away from the blonde he’s currently locking lips with, looking over at me. “Relax, it’s not like Rod doesn’t know you’ve fallen off the wagon. And the redhead Mike just kicked out has already posted pics online.”
I bury my head in my hands, groaning. I know I’m going to get the rehab speech now.
“Just get them the fuck out of here, Gar. I mean it. I want them gone.”
I storm back into my bedroom, violently slamming the door behind me. My hands ball into fists, and I really want to hit something.
Controlling my frequent bursts of anger is becoming more challenging. Every little thing seems to set me off these days, and I know I’m losing my grip on my sanity.
Stepping into my walk-in-closet, I drop the towel and spend fifteen minutes beating the shit out of my punching bag. After another quick shower, I pull some clothes on, and when I emerge from my room, Garrett is dressed, sipping a coffee as he flirts with Maggie in the kitchen. It doesn’t bother him that she’s in her late fifties with children older than us—he still flirts up a storm any chance he gets.
“Here,” Maggie hands me a cup of her special honey and lemon concoction the instant my foot hits the kitchen floor. “I’m guessing you need that.”
“Thank you.” I kiss the top of her head. “And thanks for cleaning up the place.”
She cups my cheek. “You don’t want to do this again, Ryder. Remember what happened last time. You might not be so lucky again.”
My stomach drops to my toes at the memory, and I hate that I’ve let her down too.
She came to work for me shortly after I bought this place, seven years ago, and she’s put up with a lot of crazy shit over the years, but she never judges. She just cares. She’s the closest I’ve ever had to a proper mother figure in my life, and I don’t like disappointing her even though it’s a regular occurrence.
I don’t get a chance to offer false platitudes we both know are lies because Micah and Scott choose that moment to make a grand entrance. “Sup, assholes?” Micah shouts, grinning as he enters the room like he owns it.
“Why you all sunshine and rainbows?” I ask, sipping on the delicious honey drink, feeling it soothe the ache in my throat.
“Bella finally let me take her ass last night. Hottest fucking fuck of my life.”
Gar reaches over to Micah for a knuckle touch as Scott wraps his arms around Maggie, hugging her while shaking his head at me. I thump Micah in the upper arm. Hard. “You can’t say shit like that in front of Maggie. Show some respect.”
“Maggie, sweetheart.” He slings his arm around her shoulder, drawing her away from Scott. “That was out of line, please excuse my excitement and accept my most heartfelt apology.”
“You boys will be the death of me,” she murmurs, pinching his cheek and ruffling his blond hair. “And I hope you’re treating that young lady right. She’s a sweet girl. Don’t lose this one.” While Gar and I are the stereotypical manwhores of the band, Micah bounces between groupies and girlfriends when it suits him. Scott is the only one tied down. He’s been with his wife Linda since high school, and th
ey recently welcomed their first child. He doesn’t know it, but I’m so fucking envious of him.
We shoot the shit for a few minutes over coffee and pastries until Rod arrives.
We reconvene to the living room as Maggie makes fresh coffee. The others take seats on the couches, but I prop my butt on the edge of the sideboard near the floor-to-ceiling window that offers magnificent views of New York City in the distance. I love living in Greenwich Village although I’d live full time in my house in the Hamptons if I had a choice. But this place is closer to the studio and the airport, so it makes more sense to live here, although I escape to my beachfront property every chance I get.
Rod is all business-like as we discuss plans for recording our next studio album in the coming months, along with a few event dates scheduled for the next couple weeks. I perk up when the subject of our forthcoming biography crops up. “Have you given any more consideration to the idea?” he asks.
“I love it,” I cut in first. “It’s a different take on the usual rock bios, and I think it would work.”
Rod pitched the idea at our last meeting. We already have an official biography of the band, written a year after we burst onto the scene, and it’s your typical rags to riches tale, told in the same vein of every other rocker bio. This time, Rod is suggesting a more intimate look at the band with the focus on our professional lives and how our career has evolved over the years. He suggested we invite a journalist to watch us creating and recording our next album so the world gets a warts-and-all view of the entire creative process involved in producing a Torment album.
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