“No!” Exasperation changed his voice, tinged it higher. “I don’t want you to quit the fucking band! You’ve worked your entire life for this!”
“Yeah, I have.” She stood still, watching and waiting.
David looked away first, absently hugging Marly tighter. “I love you. It’s way too soon to say that, especially since I don’t know how to be with you and still be me. I fought my entire life to be me.”
“I’m not asking you to change.” Even as the words came out, she knew they weren’t correct. Because relationships did change you. Partnerships changed you. Friendships.
She’d seen that with Ray and Zavier, then with Dom and Adrian. Hell, she wasn’t the same person she’d been when they’d started this tour.
David didn’t even have to say anything. His expression spoke every word. And maybe—maybe he did love her. Maybe it had changed him. Maybe he didn’t like who he’d become with her. That, more than anything else, sliced her open.
“Okay,” she managed to push out of her mouth. “So that’s it.”
“Yeah,” he whispered. “That’s it. I’m going to suggest the band find another person for this job once you guys take your July break.”
Just like that, he was leaving. “It was just a meaningless necklace.”
David set Marly on the seat next to him, and rose. He took both of Mish’s hands in his own, his fingers so warm against her skin.
Only then did she notice she was shaking. Trembling. Ah, fuck.
“You’re right. It’s not the necklace. It’s not about tonight. I’m not lying when I say I loved every second with you. With the band. But we live in two different worlds, you and me.”
At least he wasn’t giving her the “you’ll find someone better” speech. But this still felt fucking horrible. “It’s the same world.”
“It’s not. You know it’s not. I’m not built for it. I need—I don’t know. Work. Simple things.”
“Not to be a rock star’s boy toy.”
He flinched. “It’s not the press, either.” He squeezed her hands, then let go. “It’s in here. It’s me. I can’t...be who you’d need me to be if we stay together.”
She could taste the bitterness of her words in her mouth. “Doesn’t matter what I say, does it? Even if I were to tell you how fucking much I love—” Her voice broke and the damn tears streaked down her face. “You’ve got all the fucking answers, don’t you?”
“I’m sorry, Mish.”
She wiped at her eyes. “No, I don’t think you are. I think when I walk off this bus, you’re gonna be relieved that this is over. You’re going to think you did the right thing.” She straightened up, setting her spine and her will. “I hope that gives you some comfort, because we’re not fucking talking for the rest of the tour.”
Then she turned on her heels and walked off the bus.
The boys and Marcella were on the band bus when she returned there. “I don’t want to talk about it.” The words came out like a whip as she marched to the back of the bus and yanked the privacy curtain shut.
Then she doubled over as her lungs and heart warred with her despair and sorrow. Gasps of air, because she would not fucking break down and sob over fucking David Altet, who’d decided she was—something. Out of his league? A fairy tale? God only knew.
Yes, she was a rock star. But she was also still herself, with feelings and emotions. She was also that young woman singing in a dive bar on the Jersey Shore where Ray’d found her. She was all these things and more, and if David didn’t see that, couldn’t fight for that...
Well. His loss.
Except it felt like the end of the world for her.
The curtain on the entryway fluttered. “Mish, may I come in?” Zavier’s voice.
“Yeah.” She sounded like a cheese grater.
Zavier slipped past the curtain. In his hand he held a white mug, which he offered to her. “Not gonna ask you anything. Just wanted to bring you this, to take the edge off.”
From the smell and the lovely amber color, it was a shot of Adrian’s whiskey. She took the offered mug and sipped. “Thanks.”
He hesitated. “Do you want company?”
She didn’t know. There weren’t any answers in the mug. “You don’t drink much anymore, do you?”
Zavier crossed the lounge and sat down. “No, not since Ray and I started living together. He’s fine with me drinking. We sometimes even open a bottle of wine if he’s in the mood. But I follow his lead on that.”
“You changed for him.”
Zavier cocked his head. “Yes. But also no. I’m more myself with him, more than I’ve ever been with anyone else, if that makes sense.”
“Yeah.” It did. She took another sip of the whiskey, and the tightness in her chest eased. The tears came back. But Zavier was safe. A brother and a friend. “I don’t understand people, Zav.”
He huffed a soft laugh. “Welcome to my world. I’m not sure I understand Ray entirely. But he lets me be who I am—and lets me figure out who I am, too.”
“I’m sure you do the same for him.”
“I try.” He waved a hand. “I fail sometimes. I’m an asshole and overprotective and a whole host of things. I’m not sure why he puts up with me. But I want to be with him.” Zavier folded his hands together. “No one was more surprised about that than me.”
She sank down on the couch next to him and threw back the rest of the whiskey. “David doesn’t know how he can be with me once the tour is over.”
Zavier seemed to consider this. “Lots of answers to that.”
“Mmmhmm. He had a reason why it wouldn’t work for all of them.”
Zavier opened his arms, and Mish accepted the hug. He didn’t offer them too much, but his hugs were some of the greatest.
“I don’t know what to tell you,” he said. “I know you hurt. If there’s anything I—or any of us—can do to ease that, you know we’re here.”
“I know. You guys are the best.”
They were hers, and if nothing else, she’d always have them to love and watch over.
Chapter Twenty-One
Every day hurt. There was an odd familiarity to that for David, similar to an old wound aching, though this pain was unlike all the others—physical and mental—that he’d experienced before. He was with Twisted Wishes on tour, walking the rounds at shows. Coordinating with site security. Working with Adrian and Marcella to keep the band safe. All the things he’d done before.
But the warmth was gone. That sense of belonging. He was an outsider, in a way he’d never been on day one. There was an air of pain and sadness in all his interactions, even with the other crew members.
He’d expected it, but it still hurt so fucking much. So did seeing Twisted Wishes perform in Chicago and in Detroit. Each show was phenomenal. Ray’s voice was stronger than ever. Mish still sang several of the songs, and she was glorious on stage. Glowing, triumphant. Beautiful. Everything he’d wanted but couldn’t have.
A true rock queen, with a heady life ahead of her.
He ached for a touch or a smile. But none was coming, not for him. That he deserved—he’d broken her heart. He’d broken his own, but that was better than pretending they could be more than a tour hookup.
Even if she had been the one person who’d understood him, both mentally and sexually. Who didn’t angst about his body. Who loved him for who he was, no strings attached.
There were always strings, though. They pulled against him whenever he read another email from Mish’s stalker—since the fucker had to gloat about his latest prize, stolen right from under David’s nose. Or saw the way the media interacted with the band or, for that matter, the way the fans did. They worshiped the ground the band walked on.
If he wanted to be himself, he couldn’t paste himself onto Mish’s life. Or Twisted Wishes. He needed to liv
e on his own.
Plus, his interaction with Mish had only fueled her stalker—David was the reason the necklace had been stolen. To show that the stalker was the better man. She didn’t need to know that. Didn’t need David making her life harder by being close.
At each show, he ignored the voice telling him he was making a mistake, that he was walking away from something so good he should be clinging to it instead. But the logical side of his brain told him this way was right. He was more focused now—seeing the things he should have seen before. People slipping line. Trying to get closer to the stage. Small things, but exactly the shit that put the band in danger.
He’d been a fool to think he could be all business and still pal around with the band. Or date Mish.
He missed her so damn much, even when he was only a couple of feet away.
They’d made it through the rest of the shows, though, and were back in New York City. There was a concert tonight, then the band were guests for a night show taping the next day, then that was it—at least for David. Twisted Wishes would take a break, and when they went on the next leg of their tour, there’d be someone else watching over Mish and the band. Someone more competent than him.
Ray’d promised David a decent referral, despite everything. “You’re being too hard on yourself,” Ray’d said. “You were doing a fine job.” He said nothing about Mish, though every word spoken, every movement Ray made, was marred with hesitation and sadness.
Adrian was the only one who managed a smile around him, but even that was strained. He shared the texts and emails with David. Talked strategy. As expected, a photo of the necklace had been sent in. Nothing had changed.
Everything was different.
During the New York concert itself, David was on the left side of the venue, monitoring the entrance to the stage as Domino’s guitar wailed over Zavier’s drums and Mish’s bass. Ray belted out another anthem and the crowd was dancing and screaming. David didn’t blame them. Twisted Wishes was perfect tonight—a fantastic hometown show.
Mish was dressed in blood-red and white—an untouchable goddess. It hurt so much to watch her, he had to look away.
That was why he felt his phone vibrate in his front pocket—he wasn’t distracted. He dug the thing out and peered at a text from Adrian. A photo. Here at the concert—but that was all he parsed out before the screen dimmed and he scrambled to unlock it.
The photograph was of David—his back—taken at an angle, but unmistakably him, standing exactly where he was now. The text was from Adrian.
This came in email. He’s here. Watch your back!
Adrenaline slammed into David, and training took over. He clicked his phone off and shoved it back into his pocket, far too aware of the noise around him. Fans jostled one another as they danced and sang. The pulsing thrum of Twisted Wishes and the movements of the lights and the band on stage cast shadows around the building.
At the same time, silence descended but for a high-pitched ring in David’s ear. Everything turned sharp and slow. He stared, unseeing at the stage, all his senses tuned to his back. Then he moved to the right—the same direction the photo had been taken from.
A calculated move—the man behind the texts and emails was obsessive, but also careful. Chances were he’d have left that spot. So David glided past, then around, until he reached an emergency exit and put his back to the doors. There, he finally relaxed somewhat and the din in his ears died down. Glancing around the venue, he didn’t see one damn thing that attracted his attention. No one watching him and not the stage. Yes, there were fans in a few of the aisles, hurrying back to their seats, but no one looked out of place. No one ever had. Every incident had been the same—no warning.
It was a fucking rock concert. This was Twisted Wishes, who skirted punk and metal and pop and were very queer. Everyone looked like they belonged, no matter what they wore.
Goddamn it.
David’s phone buzzed again. He took it out again.
You okay?
Yes. No. He hadn’t been okay since that jerk had snatched Mish’s ring. He had no way to protect her. No idea who this guy was. And the man had just drawn crosshairs on David.
I’m fine. Moved near an exit.
Anything we should do?
He should suggest cancelling the signings. Refund the fans their money. He doubted the band would go for it. Still, worth a shot, even obliquely. Short of nixing the signing event, I don’t think so. Be extra vigilant. And tell the band when they come off stage.
Will do. They might agree. We’ll see. There was a pause before the next text. Stay safe out there.
Something twisted in David’s gut—a pain of his own making. These people—Mish’s people—could’ve been family.
Don’t worry about me.
Yeah, well, I do. We do.
David didn’t answer that one. The twist inside stung his eyes. They understood him and they didn’t. Just like Mish. Just like all of the people in his life.
A fling had been a bad idea. It had put them all in danger.
* * *
As David had predicted, the band didn’t cancel the signings after the show—though only because the argument went back and forth with everyone giving pros and cons until it was far too late.
“Make a decision.” Marcella looked at her watch. “We’re almost out of time.”
“Look,” Ray said at last. “We either go out there and do this thing, or we probably end up with a riot of fans.”
“Our fans have never rioted,” Dominic said.
Zavier picked at his jeans and said nothing. The silence wasn’t unusual, but his hesitancy was. Mish sat on a stool, arms folded around her middle, closed off.
“There’s a first time for everything,” Ray countered.
There was, though David doubted a riot would ensue. The fans would be sorely disappointed, which the band hated. He pressed his back against the door, still feeling the phantom eyes of the stalker on him, the lingering threat keeping his pulse up and grinding his stomach with memories of sand and fear.
Mish stirred and looked up. “David?”
His name ripped through him. She hadn’t spoken it—or anything to him—since that night on the bus.
“Yes?” The word lodged in his throat and he had to cough it out like an old bone. He met her gaze.
“Can you keep me safe enough for this?”
A simple question, spoken into the now dead-silent room. Not a single other person moved. Hell, David could barely breathe. I’m still in love with this woman. I’ll always be in love with his woman.
He cleared his throat. “I think so.” His response was careful, even as his mind whirled through the logistics. “We’re indoors. We can control the flow. If you don’t mind being on the end of the table with me standing next to you.”
Her gaze didn’t waver, and that ripped him to shreds. “I don’t mind,” she said.
He swallowed and nodded.
Ray shifted and exhaled. “Then I guess we’re doing this?”
Murmurs of agreement.
They trooped out, sat, and signed, with David hovering close to Mish and watching each fan as they passed by. Fans gushed. Mish started out somber but was soon laughing and smiling as she greeted people and listened to their stories and signed their items.
Every laugh, every smile, the way her cheeks rose and her eyes glittered—they were tiny bullets to David’s soul. Mish was every inch a beautiful person. One that deserved all the hope and happiness in the world.
It took all his energy not to watch her. Instead, he scanned the lines and focused on people interacting with Ray, Zavier, and Domino. Not a damn thing was wrong. No one sparked his nerves or worried him. In fact—nothing at all happened except that Twisted Wishes made memories for a bunch of fans.
In the end, they headed backstage, cleaned up, and then—si
nce it was New York City and their last show for a while—Marcella had a car service drive everyone home.
Before Mish left, she laid a hand on David’s shoulder—briefly—but it had him swaying on his feet. “Thank you.”
Her eyes were that beautiful green he remembered from nights in bed. “You’re welcome. I’m glad nothing happened tonight.”
“Me, too.” Her smile was sad. “See you tomorrow, David.” Then she was gone.
Tomorrow. Night show taping. His last gig with the band. He should have taken the train home, but he was too weary to argue with Marcella, so he took the ride she’d booked for him, closing his eyes as the car worked its way uptown. By the time he got to his apartment, his throat hurt—not from illness or overuse, but from corking up all the pain and sorrow building and building inside him. His lungs hurt. So did the scars from deployment. He took a hot shower, then collapsed into bed.
He was doing the right thing. Absolutely doing the correct and proper thing. Anything else would only bring Mish pain. He told himself that over and over, even if every part of his soul rebelled at the thought.
* * *
The night show studio was frigid—nearly cold enough that if David exhaled hard, he’d see his own breath. He was glad for the sweatshirts Marcella had thrown into a bag for the band members when they got there.
“I was warned,” she said.
Apparently the audience had been as well, because a number of them sported coats even though it was in the mid-nineties outside and so humid the entire city smelled like old socks that had been left in rotting pizza.
In some ways, the cold-ass studio was a blessing.
Under the bright lights, though, the band quickly stripped off the sweatshirts, even during their warmup session. After that, they were whisked back for makeup and wardrobe, then the whole show taping happened.
Given the security of the studio, David was superfluous. He was in the way and not part of the group. His job was done, had been since the night before.
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