When I first joined the magazine, I told Harrison—the CEO and my boss—that I had bad history with Ryder and that I never wanted to be assigned to anything to do with Torment. He wasn’t happy about it at first, believing my connection with him could give us an in, but after their manager contacted the magazine, specifically requesting Kayla be assigned to report on the band, he backed down. Although it was something I’d asked for, because I didn’t trust myself to be around him and not fall apart, I remember going home and crying myself to sleep that night.
“Anyone can see that, Kayla,” I reply, because you only have to read the headlines and look at pictures of him falling out of clubs, completely smashed, with groupies hanging off his arms, to know he’s not in a good place.
Even though he ruined me, it still hurts to see him hurting, especially knowing I can do nothing about it. Becoming the rock star he always wanted may have given Ryder fame and riches beyond his wildest dreams, but it seems to have tormented him on a personal level. I don’t need to be an active participant in his life to understand that. “And it’s got nothing to do with me.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that.” She chews on the inside of her cheek, looking unsure of something, and that’s rare for my outspoken best friend.
“Just say what you’re going to say.” I knock back the last of my beer and signal at the waitress passing by for another.
“He always asks me about you,” she quietly admits. “Every single time I’ve interviewed them, he’s pulled me aside at the end and asked me if you’re happy.”
My mouth drops open. “Why didn’t you say anything?!” I shriek.
“Because he asked me not to.” She sighs. “And because you are so reluctant to talk about him. I didn’t know if you’d want to hear it.”
“I don’t know what to make of that,” I honestly admit, feeling conflicted.
“Do you want to know what I think?” she asks, as the waitress appears with another beer and bottle of water.
I hand her a couple bills, telling her to keep the change, before refocusing on Kayla. “Always.”
“I think he still thinks about you, possibly still loves you, but for whatever reason, he’s not permitting himself to reconnect with you, but he wants to feel close to you, and that’s why the band requested me as their assigned reporter and why he drills me for info on you every time we meet.”
I can’t deny or confirm her statement, and I can’t talk about him any longer because it kills me every time. Kayla knows me inside and out, so she understands that, instantly dropping the subject of Ryder Stone.
We focus on enjoying the night, and when I leave the bar a few hours later, with Gus’s arms wrapped tightly around me, I toss all thoughts of my ex-love from my mind.
And, back at my apartment, as Gus thrusts in and out of me, I’m numb to everything but the pleasurable sensations he’s drawing from my body.
CHAPTER 18
Ryder
“You look like you need something stronger,” Sawyer says, placing two glasses and a bottle of whiskey on the table in front of us. We left the stadium as soon as both our sets were finished and came straight to Just an Illusion. Scott didn’t join me after all. His wife, Linda, made a surprise visit. She finagled her in-laws into babysitting and flew out to spend the night with her husband, so they’re staying in some top hotel for the night, and we’re all meeting in the airport in the morning.
I drain the last mouthfuls of beer and lean back in the booth. “It’s that obvious?”
“You’re tense, man. Figured you could use it.”
I nod, watching as he pours generous measures into the two glasses. “Returning to southern California is always hard for me. Tonight, I just want to forget.”
Sawyer knows my backstory or at least the version the press reports. My true identity remains sealed, along with the true nature of my crimes, and the only other person who knows the truth, outside of those who were involved and the authorities, is Rod.
“I can get with that plan.” Sawyer grins, chinking his glass against mine. “You don’t miss it at all?” he asks a couple minutes later.
“I miss the weather, and I fucking hate the rain and snow in New York, but it’s my home now. I have a pad in L.A., but that’s purely so I have a place to stay when we’re here on business. The minute I don’t need it, I’m selling it.” I shove my feet up on the empty side of the booth, stretching out my legs. “Nice place Jordan’s got here, and business looks good.”
The large stage is the center attraction, as well as the sizable dance floor in front of it, currently occupied by an enthusiastic crowd, jumping around to the local band playing tonight. They’ve mainly stuck to playing covers, interspersed with some original stuff. They’re decent, and the crowd seems to agree. Oversized, cozy booths and sleek, leather furniture round out the décor in the space. There are two bars, one on the left and right side of the rooms, and both are mobbed with customers lining up for drinks.
“This place is a goldmine. Jordan’s a shrewd businessman even if you wouldn’t think it to look at him.” Jordan’s tatted up like Sawyer, but he’s shorter and stockier, and in his black shirt, worn jeans, and scuffed boots, he looks more like a customer than the owner. “Most everyone underestimates him, and he has a lot of self-doubt, but he’s done good with the place,” Sawyer adds with a note of pride.
Just then, the gorgeous female bartender approaches our table, fixing Sawyer with a look that would get most guys in trouble if they tried it. Her generous tits are almost spilling out of the tight-fitting corset top she’s wearing, but she’s still got nothing on Zeta. And, of course, my mind goes there again. It’s been worse today because being back in Orange County always reminds me of her.
“I’ll be back,” Sawyer says, sliding out of the booth and shooting me a knowing look.
I unscrew the cap on the bottle of whiskey. “Take your time, man. I’m going nowhere.”
“You could always join us,” the pretty bartender says, eye-fucking me without shame.
I’m smiling as I shake my head. “Thanks for the offer, sweetheart, but I’m good right here.”
I don’t want to fuck anyone in the mood I’m in. Tonight, I just need to drink myself into oblivion. To blank all thoughts and memories from my mind.
I’ve drunk half the bottle by the time Sawyer returns, and I’m well on my way to achieving my goals. His hair has that just fucked look about it, but he doesn’t look overly happy. “She a shit lay?” I ask, quirking a brow in surprise, because that woman looked like she knew how to show a guy a good time. I pour him a double, because he’s got some catching up to do, and he takes the drink from my hand, knocking half it back.
“Sasha’s a great fuck, and we tend to screw whenever I drop by the bar, but I’m just not feeling it tonight.”
“I hear ya.”
We don’t talk for ages, and I get a sense Sawyer’s got a lot on his mind too. We sit in companionable silence, drinking and listening to the music, slowly getting smashed.
“You ever been in love?” he asks me, a while later, completely out of the blue.
Reporters love to ask this question, and I always lie, but Sawyer’s a buddy, and it’s not like we usually sit around and talk about this shit, so I give him an honest answer. “I was in love once.”
“What happened?” He crosses a leg over his knee, slouching a little.
“Fate fucked me over.” I pour another shot of whiskey and knock it back in one go. The room spins, and I close my eyes for a second.
“Tell me about it,” he murmurs, sounding as sad as I feel.
“And you?” I have a feeling I’m slurring my words.
He glances briefly over his shoulder before answering me. “I think I might be in love,” he confirms in a low voice, and I wonder if he’s afraid of someone overhearing or if he’s just afraid of admitting it to himself.
“Good for you.” I throw back my drink.
“She’ll never be mine,” he adds, draining his own drink. “Fate fucked me over too.”
“I’m sorry, man.”
“Tell me it gets easier. Tell me I’ll be able to move on,” he continues, his voice laced with pain.
“You want me to lie or you want the truth?”
“Fuck.” He buries his head in his hands, and we’re both quiet for a few beats. When he lifts his head up, I spot the torment written all over his face. “How do you deal with it?”
I shrug. “I do everything I can to numb the pain. Bleed my emotions onto the page and infuse it into my music. Work nonstop. Fuck around, get drunk, get high more than I should, but nothing works.” I tap my temple. “She’s embedded so far into my psyche that I’ll never be able to forget her, and there’s a sick part of me that doesn’t want to. A part that clings on even when there’s no hope of anything changing. But it doesn’t seem to matter. She’s the love of my life.”
I pause to draw a breath because I’m close to losing it, and this conversation is already weird as fuck. Sawyer and I don’t usually do this, but I’m figuring he needed this night as much as me.
“I knew it the minute I met her,” I explain, “and I know there’ll never be anyone else. She’s it for me, but she’ll never be mine, and I have to live with that knowledge every fucking day, and every fucking day it almost kills me.”
“Fuck me. I wish I’d never asked.” Sawyer sighs, dragging a hand through his black hair.
“I never imagined you could have it all yet have nothing at the same time,” I muse, resting my head back. “My success, my life, means absolutely nothing without her, and I don’t know how much longer I can go on like this—just existing, not living.” Pain is a heavy weight pressing down on my chest. “I just want to hold her and touch her and wake up with her lying by my side.” I snort out a laugh, and Sawyer pins me with a questioning look. “I sound like a total fucking pussy.”
He smirks, looking over his shoulder again. “Just making sure there’s no reporters around. Imagine someone overheard us; we’d never live it down.” He chuckles.
Mention of reporters makes me wonder if he knows Zeta. I’m sure he does. RockOut cover all the main events. But I don’t ask him because he hasn’t offered up the name of his mystery love, and I’d rather speak in hypotheticals. “I can see the headline now. Bad boys of rock struck with the lovesick bug!” I joke, even though there’s nothing amusing about it.
Sawyer seems to agree as his smile fades. Silence engulfs us for a beat, and I sigh. “This fucking blows, man.” He slides out of the booth, and I think I might’ve run him off.
“You going somewhere?”
“I’m not nearly shitfaced enough for this conversation.” He jerks his head in the direction of the nearest bar. “I’m getting us another bottle.”
CHAPTER 19
Zeta
“Hell no.” I shake my head. “No way.” My boss has just summoned me to his office and informed me I’m to attend the press conference and private interview with Torment later on today. “Why isn’t Kayla going?”
“Because she’s gone into labor.”
“What!?” I screech, jumping up and knocking the chair to the ground. “But she’s still got two weeks to go!” My tone is borderline hysterical.
“All I know is her water broke an hour ago, and she was en route to the hospital when she called,” Harrison says, and I bolt out of his office door, racing back to my workstation.
I shove papers off my desk onto the floor, desperately searching for my cell. I’d switched it off this morning because I was trying to finish an article for this week’s edition, and I didn’t want any distractions.
“What’s wrong?” Brody asks from behind me.
I don’t look up, grabbing my bag and rummaging through it. “Kayla’s in labor, and I can’t find my cell.”
“It’s right there.”
I look over my shoulder, following his pointed finger. My cell is sitting on top of the small printer on my desk, right where I left it. I hate feeling flustered, but I’m worried about my friend. I make a grab for it as Brody’s hands land on my shoulders, and he starts rubbing the corded muscle he finds there. “Don’t touch me.” I shirk his hands off, still hating it when anyone touches me uninvited. And Brody’s been very touchy-feely since we had sex, and it unnerves me.
“Relax, Zeta. I’m only trying to help.” His blue eyes radiate sincerity, and I know he means well and that there wasn’t any ulterior motive.
Brody is a nice guy, and he’s hot, smart, and funny.
Perfect boyfriend-slash-husband material.
Maybe if I wasn’t so hung up on a boy from my past, we might have a shot at something. I think it, but I don’t believe it. Brody’s never been my type. I prefer the moody, possessive, asshole rocker type. The type who promises you the world and then flees without a proper explanation, stomping on your heart and leaving you broken forever.
“I know, and thank you, but I’ve got it from here.” I send him a tight smile, and he walks back to his desk, looking a little crestfallen.
I grab my cell and my empty mug and make my way into the staff kitchen. I skim over the missed calls and texts from Kayla as I switch the Keurig on, calling her back. She doesn’t pick up, and my panic-o-meter cranks up a few levels. I call her again, and this time, Gage answers. “Hey, Zeta. Kayla’s a little busy right now.”
“Is she okay? Is the baby okay?” I ask as I hear muffled sounds of conversation in the background, and then Kayla’s on the line.
“It’s okay to be an only child, right? Because I’m never going through this again,” she shouts, panting like she’s running a marathon.
“But everything’s okay though, right? There isn’t anything to worry about?”
“Our boy thought he’d surprise us early, but everything’s good, according to the doctor.”
“Thank God.” A layer of stress lifts off my shoulders. “I shrieked at Harrison and ran out of his office the minute he told me. I was freaking out so bad.”
“My notes for the Torment interview are in the top drawer of my desk,” she says, in between panting down the line.
“Don’t worry about that. I’ll handle it,” I lie, not wanting to stress her out.
She bursts out laughing. “You’re such a bad liar. Oh, my fucking God!” she screeches, and my ears protest in earnest. “You are never getting laid again!” she screams at Gage, I presume. “Zeta, babe, I’ve got to go,” she pants. “I’ve got a little person to squeeze out my hoo-ha.”
I roll my eyes, laughing. “I’m on my way. I’ll see you soon. Good luck.”
By the time I arrive at the hospital, Kayla has already delivered her son. He looks just like his daddy, something Kayla is not impressed with. She hasn’t stopped lamenting how she did all the work and the child doesn’t resemble her in the slightest. But I know she’s only kidding, because the way she gazes adoringly at her beautiful son, and the way she swoons at Gage, tells me the opposite.
I rush out of there an hour later, heading to the hotel in Manhattan where the press conference is being held, trying not to lose the contents of my stomach on the way.
I stare out the window of the cab, trying to convince myself I can do this. But I’m a fucking nervous wreck every time I think about being in the same room as Ryder again. My hand is shaking, my leg won’t stop jerking, and the butterflies in my chest are going haywire, making me even more on edge. I take deep breaths, telling myself I’m a grown-ass woman, a professional music journalist, and he’s only another egotistical rock star with an inflated sense of self-importance. I’ve met my fair share of them over the last few years, so I can handle Ryder Stone, I lie to myself.
I touch up my makeup, run a comb through my long wavy hair, and spritz some perfume on my
wrists and neck before smoothing the wrinkles out of the tight-fitting black minidress I’m wearing today. I’ve teamed it with my studded knee-length boots, and I brought my gray leather jacket and silk scarf with me too. I’m hoping if I Iook suitably composed that it might disguise the mess I’m hiding inside.
I flash my media card at the beefy bouncer standing guard outside the room in the hotel where the conference is taking place, and he opens the door for me. I say hi to a few reporters I know as I make my way through the room, hoping they can’t tell I’m on the verge of a mini meltdown. Choosing the most innocuous seat I can find—in the middle, over on the far left—I’m hoping I can blend into the background and go unnoticed. I’ve already decided that I’m not asking any questions. The last thing I want to do is draw attention to myself while there are cameras around. I’ve no idea how Ryder will react when he sees me, and I’m not sure if he’s been informed that I’ve replaced Kayla. I don’t want anyone suspecting we have a past, because I like my anonymity, and I’ve zero desire to have my name connected to his or splashed all over social media.
So, I’ll keep a low profile during the press conference and take advantage of the opportunity to get used to seeing him up close and personal again. Hopefully, by the time I speak to the band in private, I’ll have gotten a hold of myself.
But I’ve either underestimated how delusional I am or I’ve forgotten the power that man holds over me.
Their manager opens the meeting, welcoming the assembled media audience and thanking us for coming. My knee is bouncing off the ground, and I press my free hand into my thigh, urging my body to cooperate. A little whimper flies out of my mouth when the side door opens and Garrett Jones steps into the room. I can see Scott White standing behind him and two more forms at his back. All the blood drains from my face and my stomach is churning so badly, I’m terrified I’m going to puke. The hand holding my pen and notepad is shaking like I’ve no control over my limbs.
The guy sitting beside me stares at me like I’m some dazed newbie or a crazy fan who managed to smuggle her way inside.
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