She sniffed the Lavender Seafoam Beach Escapade Bliss candle. It stunk worse than the three-week-old stale vapor trail of Sean’s cologne. She replaced the lid and chucked it in the trash.
Emily dragged herself to the bathroom, stripping out of her clothes and turning on the shower. For the first time in her life, she couldn’t look at herself in the mirror. As she stood under the hot water, her cheeks burned; whether from her tears or the hot spray, she didn’t know. She cried in the shower till the water ran cold. If Emily didn’t have such a pounding headache from crying, she’d drink that expensive bottle of wine he’d left in the fridge. Getting drunk appealed but dealing with a hangover didn’t.
Emily sat at the computer and looked through ideas she had for stories, but nothing excited her. It was hard to write with a headache; unless her character had a headache, then it could be useful.
She should eat something, but she still felt the nausea in the pit of her stomach. Jack would’ve read the letter by now. She’d half-expected him to be banging on the door. Guess he decided to honor her wishes. A rush of disappointment ran through her. The sex had been amazing, and she’d miss it, that was all. That was why she felt disappointed. Not for any other reason. A little voice in her head said liar.
Wasn’t she entitled to a few white lies? She couldn’t have written a worse story than the last three weeks of her life. Sometimes it sucked to be a writer. Maybe she’d write a murder mystery. First victim, Sean Sullivan, age thirty-one, investments. Death by choking on his own dick. Second victim, Tiffany Fake Tits, age twenty-two, assistant at an investment firm. Death by drowning in the toilet. Suspect, Emily Prescott, age twenty-seven, copywriter by day, novelist by night. Jilted by victim number one with victim number two. They were both number two, all right. Not much of a whodunit.
Jack would’ve laughed at that story.
She’d gone three minutes without thinking about Jack. What was wrong with her? She’d made her decision. Why was she second-guessing herself?
Even if she had agreed to see him, where would that leave her? They’d have a great time, maybe even leave the hotel room. Then what? Off he’d go to other cities for almost two years. How could they have a relationship like that? They couldn’t. Even if she was ready to have one, which she most definitely wasn’t. She wanted a quiet, anonymous life. Life with Jack would be anything but. It was better this way. He’d find someone who’d give him what he needed, what he deserved.
Sleep, that was what she needed. Emily crawled into bed and hauled the covers over her head. The new mattress smell further nauseated her, so she uncovered her head. How could she be so tired yet unable to sleep? All she’d wanted to do for the past three weeks was go to sleep and wake up when the nightmare ended. Just like ten years ago.
She could call Vince or Eddie. Emily had promised them both a call, but she didn’t want to talk. She wanted to cry, scream, and swear at the unfairness of it all. Oh fuck, now she was feeling sorry for herself. She should call Nicki. She’d do most of the talking. It would be better than this silence, but since Nicki hadn’t shown up on her doorstep, she was probably still with Curt.
She wandered into her office and turned on the laptop. She needed to hear Jack’s voice. She typed Stone Highway into the search bar and, within a few minutes, purchased their catalog and downloaded the songs. She connected her cell and transferred the music. She queued up the four albums, put them on shuffle, and hit play.
Jack’s voice sang to her, a love song. Skip. Second song was better, hard rock, a little raunchy. Emily smiled. She liked this one.
Pulling out a bottle of Maker’s Mark from the pantry, she grabbed a glass and poured a generous portion. She sniffed the amber liquid and her stomach rolled. Bad idea. She poured it down the drain and rinsed the glass.
She wandered back into her bedroom and crawled under the covers. “Rely” came on. Nicki had told her she’d read in an interview that Jack wrote that song about his dad. He could’ve been writing about himself. The words washed over her, comforting her. Not that she deserved comforting, especially not from Jack after what she’d done to him.
She wished her parents were here. She’d wished that a million times in the past ten years. Maybe her dad would’ve seen through Sean, known he wasn’t trustworthy. Riley would’ve beaten the shit out of him. She smiled. He was a good older brother and always looked out for her. No one ever picked on Riley’s little sister. They’d all been so close. Growing up on military bases, families came and went, but her family was always a constant.
No one understood what it was like not having her family. They knew it was awful, but they couldn’t really comprehend. A hole that never closed resided in her heart, although it had gotten smaller. In some ways she felt like she was stuck at seventeen. Forever that scarred girl, trapped in a hospital bed, people coming and going as they pleased, issuing orders and commands. “We’ve scheduled your next surgery; go to physical therapy; work hard and maybe walk again.” Not that they weren’t compassionate, they were, and they were looking out for her. But they were all strangers. They’d go home to their families, but she’d never see hers again.
If her parents were alive, she could’ve gone to their house and cried on her mom’s shoulder. Her mom had a way of comforting that didn’t need words. There was that hand thing they did when other people were around, like their own secret language. Three squeezes meant I love you. Four squeezes meant I love you, too. They all did it. Even her and Riley. Her parents had always been demonstrative about their love for each other. It never embarrassed Emily; she’d thought it was sweet.
Not that her mom wasn’t happy to listen to all her teenage babble, and babble she had. Usually about a boy she was infatuated with. She’d thought it was love. Dad and Riley would make fun of her. Every time she danced around the house, it was love with a new boy. “Who is it this week?” he’d ask. Or “How’s Terry?” Her answer was often “That was last month, Dad.” Emily missed them.
She thought she’d gotten used to it, until Sully proposed, and she had to plan her wedding alone. Who’d walk her down the aisle? She shouldn’t have had to make that decision. It should’ve been her dad. In the end, Nicki and Trina, her only other friend from rehab besides Vince, helped her plan. They went dress shopping with her and helped her pick flowers and color schemes. She’d asked Eddie and Vince to walk her down the aisle together and they’d agreed. They were the foundation on which she’d built her new life. She couldn’t imagine getting married without them.
She awoke to Jack’s voice still singing to her. She had to stop thinking about him.
Maybe she’d get dressed, go out to a bar, and hook up with the first guy she saw. No guy would turn down an offer of no strings sex. Except Vince.
They’d both been through something awful, which was why they’d bonded. After the hurt of his rejection wore off, she understood just how screwed up she was. Vince had let her down gently, said he’d loved her, but… It had never hurt their friendship. Since he ended up in a band, that was almost as popular as Stone Highway, it was just as well. Emily loved Vince but didn’t want any part of that life. Not even for him, and he’d understood.
Maybe Nicki had it right. Love ’em and leave ’em. She should’ve done that with Jack. Lesson learned. According to Nicki, no matter how gorgeous the guy or how hot the sex, leave. Guys fell asleep right after sex anyway, so it was easy. Except, Jack hadn’t fallen asleep. He was a cuddler. Definitely a con. Emily hated to cuddle. Although, it wasn’t so bad with him; he wasn’t a crowder. Enough about Jack.
Emily laughed. Nicki had broken her own rule; she’d stayed with Curt. Emily would’ve been concerned if Jack hadn’t vouched for him.
Nicki. Thank God, she’d forgotten about today. She had explaining to do though. She’d promised not to go off the deep end. “Who wants to spank me?” Seriously? Only Nicki could walk into a room and say such a thing. It was kind of hard to stay pissed considering—No. Nicki woul
d have to pay.
Emily dozed off again, pondering ways to maim Nicki.
chapter
TWENTY-SIX
A faint vibrating and a muffled song jarred Jack from sleep. It was annoying and he wished it would stop. It did, but not for long. Music played louder now. Fuck. Cell phone. Jack rolled over. Why was the bed so hard? Opening his eyes, he saw dismal, dark clouds outside the window. What time was it? He sat up and realized he was on the floor. The room spun, so he didn’t try to stand.
Music and vibrating again. He didn’t have the energy to get it out of his pocket. It was still daytime, judging by the light outside, but dark, heavy clouds hung in the sky, taking away all the sunshine of earlier in the day.
Emily left. His eyes focused on the note on the floor and several empty bottles from the mini bar. Resting his back against the wall, Jack had never been so tired. Ringing and vibrating again. Fuck. Not good. He dug his phone from his pocket but not in time. The light from his cell hurt his eyes. It was after five; no wonder his phone rang incessantly since they were late. Thumbing through the call list, he saw Elliot, Buzz, Curt, and Jeff. The last call was from Brian. Really fucking bad.
His eyes closed. Jack should get up, get moving, but his body wouldn’t cooperate. A sudden and persistent knocking on the door startled him. He tried to stand, but the room spun again, so he crawled toward the door. Jack tried to yell out that he was coming, but his mouth was so dry it hurt to swallow. Knocking turned into pounding. Just as he got to the door, it opened, smacking him in the head. “Fuck.”
“What the fuck was that?” Elliot said.
“My head,” Jack yelled. He rolled away from the door and sat up against the wall. “Asshole.”
The door opened, and the light switch flicked on, flooding the room with sun-intensity brightness.
Elliot, Buzz, Curt, and Jeff stood in the doorway.
“Hey, man, you okay?” Jeff asked.
Buzz walked over to Emily’s letter and read it. “Damn.”
He handed the letter to Elliot, and they exchanged a glance. “Jack, I’m sorry. I know you really liked this girl.”
Jack let his head fall forward between his bent knees.
“This is bad,” Curt said. “Really fucking bad.”
“What the fuck do we do? We have a gig in three hours. Any chance we can sober him up by then?” Elliot asked.
“Jeez, man, it’s not like I’m the expert,” Buzz said.
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
Buzz huffed in disbelief.
“Okay, I did a little, but you’ve been in this situation, what did you do?” Elliot asked.
“Uppers. Not an option.”
Someone picked up the bottles and tossed them in the trash can. The shrill clanking had Jack covering his ears.
“Should we call Dex?” Buzz asked. “I mean, what did you guys do?”
“We took care of things in-house, only called Dex if we needed damage control.” Elliot paused. “Look man, that’s ancient history. We have no doubts about you, so you don’t get to doubt either. Dumbass.”
“Better a live dumbass than a dead fucker,” Buzz said.
“I’ll call Brian. The techs can do soundcheck. Gonna need to stall, too,” Elliot said.
Jack should be pissed with himself, but he only felt an ache in his chest where his heart used to be.
“Motherfucker,” Elliot said into the phone and then kicked something metallic.
Jack’s stomach rolled. As quickly as possible, he stood and ran for the bathroom. Just in time. Oh fuck. After throwing up what felt like everything he’d ever eaten, he sat on the cool tile of the bathroom floor. His knees hurt, his throat burned, and his eyes felt like they were coming out of their sockets. Someone handed him a wet washcloth. He wiped his face and neck.
“Here, drink this but just take sips,” Buzz said, handing him a bottle of water.
Jack swished the water around his mouth and spit in the toilet. Resting the cool washcloth over his hot face, he took a few sips of water.
If he hadn’t been such an arrogant fuckhead, he’d have realized that, after assuring him all day she’d leave, she’d agreed too easily to stay. What choice had he given her? He’d pushed too hard; she was brave but fragile after her breakup. She’d lied, and he felt like shit because he’d driven her to it. Emily never wanted to see him again. His head pounded, but that was nothing compared to the crushing ache that resided throughout his body. She’d called him spoiled.
“Am I spoiled?” Jack asked, his voice loud in the tiled bathroom.
“Fuck yeah,” Elliot said. “We all are. Glad you’re still with us.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Curt said.
“Says the only child,” Buzz taunted.
Jack opened his eyes in time to see Curt give Buzz the finger. “She left, and she’s not coming back.” Saying it out loud had such a final ring to it. Tears pricked the backs of his eyes. He wasn’t one of those macho assholes who thought only pussies cried, but now wasn’t the time.
“Man, I’m sorry,” Curt said.
“Where’s Nicki?” Jack asked.
“Still tied to your bed?” Elliot snorted.
“Hey, it’s what she wanted,” Curt said. “She said the anticipation was half the fun. I made sure she was comfortable.”
“Now that Jack’s somewhat coherent, what are we going to do?” Buzz asked.
How could he have forgotten that they had a gig tonight? Fuck. Grabbing hold of the side of the counter and the front of the toilet, he attempted to stand, making it halfway before two sets of hands helped him the rest of the way.
“Thanks,” Jack said, trying to get his bearings. He took one step and then another. Okay, moving was doable. “I fucked up. I’m sorry.”
The most he ever drank before a gig was one beer. He’d never been this fucked up before. The only time in his life he drank to the point of puking was senior year in high school at a year-end party. He’d gotten so drunk that he had to call his dad to come get him. His folks were angry but happy he’d called for a ride. They’d been disappointed in him, and he’d felt like shit for letting them down. They’d made him promise before his first party; if he ever drank, no driving. No excuse then, and none now. How could he have been so irresponsible? The band, the crew, the fans, all counted on him.
“Don’t sweat it, brother. We’ve all been there. Remember that time on our first tour? Siobhan and I had a huge fight, and she hung up on me, then wouldn’t answer my calls. We were in Virginia at some shit-hole college bar, and I got so drunk you did the entire set without me.”
“Yeah, and when Shauna dumped me by stealing most of my stuff and moving out. We lost two days in the studio because I got so shit-faced. You guys covered for me,” Curt said.
“I wish it was only once you guys covered for me,” Buzz said. “That’s what friends do for each other. Jack, you fucked up, no worse than we have over the years. If anything, it’s long overdue.”
“Thanks.”
“Sip the water, you need to hydrate,” Elliot said.
“What about coffee?” Curt asked.
“That doesn’t help,” Buzz said. “You should eat something, it’ll help settle your stomach.”
Jack grunted. “The thought of food makes me want to puke.”
“I’ll call room service and ask them to send up crackers and ginger ale,” Elliot said. “What? It helped Siobhan when she had morning sickness,” Elliot said, flipping them off as he left to make the call.
“Isn’t there a song about how the fans will forgive us no matter what?” Curt asked.
“At least one,” Jack said.
After eating the crackers and sipping the ginger ale, his stomach felt less like the Atlantic Ocean at high tide. His throat burned less, so he hoped singing wouldn’t be a problem. They’d already missed soundcheck. No way they wouldn’t play tonight. “I’m gonna grab a quick
shower.”
He stood under the hot shower spray, letting the water warm him, at least on the outside. A chill took up residence in his body that had nothing to do with the outside temperature. Needing to get a move on, he grabbed for the shampoo but lost his footing and landed on his ass. “Fuck.” Part of him wanted to stay there, but too many people depended on him for him to wallow in his own misery right now. He’d have the rest of his life to do that. He got his feet under him and leaned forward, but the wall was closer than he realized, and he smacked his head on the tile. “Fuck!” Jack yelled. “That’s going to leave a mark.” His voice echoed off the bathroom walls.
The bathroom door crashed open. “Jack, you dead?” Elliot asked.
“Not yet.”
“Good.” The bathroom door closed.
He finished showering without further injury and in a few minutes joined everyone in the living room.
“Damn, Jack, you sure you’re okay?” Buzz asked.
“What?”
“That’s some bump,” Curt said. “What happened?”
“I slipped and fell on my ass, then trying to get up, smacked my head against the wall. In case you care, I also squashed my nuts when I landed.”
Jeff examined Jack’s forehead. “Are you nauseous?”
“No more than I was before I fell. Why?”
“You might have a concussion.” Ever to the point, Jeff asked Jack a series of questions. Blurred vision, double vision, did he lose consciousness? No, no, no. Dizziness, confusion, memory loss. No, no, and Emily’s gone. After a few more questions, Jeff led him through physical tests of balance, which Jack assumed he passed since Jeff grunted.
“If any of those symptoms occur, we’re going to the hospital,” Jeff said. It wasn’t an offer.
With You: A Rock Star Romance (Rocked in Love Book 1) Page 23