Chapter Forty-Two
Paige
Empty.
The other side of the bed is fucking empty.
The bathroom is empty.
The entire hotel room is empty.
For a second, ice starts to penetrate my veins, nasty thoughts whispering inside my head.
I huff a self-deprecating laugh, shaking them away.
Maddox wouldn’t do whatever my imagination is trying to construct.
He would have disappeared to get coffee or something, slipping out early to avoid being seen.
Him leaving is…strategic. A way to stop Beau throwing sly looks over breakfast or Eli inundating us with questions.
Except Maddox doesn’t do strategic when it comes to feelings.
He does walls, distance.
I roll onto my side and inhale deeply. He’s still here, faint, but enough to be embedded into the pillow. That mix of cedar, sweat, and whatever addictive scent clings to his skin. It’s soaked into the pillowcase and the twisted sheets around me.
Like a lovesick fool, I run my hand across it, my fingertips brushing against a folded piece of paper lying on top. I freeze, pulse spiking as I reach for it, already knowing what it is.
Sitting up slowly, the sheet pools around my waist, the morning chill skimming across my skin as I stare at the hotel emblem on the bottom of the page, at his handwriting bleeding through from the other side, uneven and rushed.
My hand shakes as I flip it open, my stomach bottoming out when I read his words.
I can’t do this anymore. I’m sorry.
That’s it.
One fucking line.
Nothing more.
I read it twice, then a third time, as if more words might magically appear and explain what the hell this means. But they don’t; instead, they detonate quietly, the blast delayed, but inevitable.
My heart is in my throat as I try to convince myself it doesn’t mean what I already know it does. That the faint imprint of his body and the cold sheets beside me don’t scream that he didn’t just fuck me and vanish like I was a one-night stand with good timing.
He could’ve said something, could’ve looked me in the eye and told me. I would’ve understood, respected it even. Business and pleasure don’t mix. Not when we’re this close to getting everything we’ve worked for.
But instead, he slipped out like a ghost and left a single sentence behind.
My entire body aches in that perfect, delicious way that’s quickly turning bitter, the proof that last night actually happened, that we were something more for a few breathless hours.
And now, instead of basking in the afterglow of the best sex of my life, I’m staring at five fucking words like they’re a goddamn goodbye.
Because they are.
I scrub both hands through my tangled hair, ignoring the tight, burning pressure behind my ribs. I will not cry. Not over him.
Swinging my legs off the bed, I stand, wobbly and sore, and reach for my discarded shirt. Tugging it over my head, I stalk toward the bathroom, grimacing as I look in the mirror, barely recognizing myself.
Rumpled, flushed, well and truly fucked.
And left behind.
My gaze snags on a red mark at the base of my neck, and my fingers fly up to touch it. Heat coils low in my gut, but not with desire, not this time. Something hotter. Meaner.
I snarl and smack the faucet on, the water hissing as it splashes violently into the sink. Cupping my hands, I throw it over my face, trying to drown the stinging sensation behind my eyes.
“Don’t make this a thing,” I mutter, gripping the edge of the counter like it might stop me from cracking. “Don’t you dare.”
Shoving away from the sink, each movement angry and jerking, I flick the shower on before stepping back into the room for my bag. Yanking open the zipper, I grab underwear, a clean shirt, and stop.
Thea’s voice echoes in my head, dread and nerves swooshing like a disgusting cocktail I can’t stomach.
“I’ve set up a radio interview the day after the Vegas show… Maddox, you’ll go with her. We want a united front.”
Shit.
My stomach drops, and I scramble to grab my phone from the nightstand to check the date.
It’s today. Not tomorrow, not next week. To-fucking-day.
I have to sit next to him, in a studio, with microphones, and pretend I’m fine. Pretend he didn’t leave a five-word breakup note on my pillow and disappear before sunrise.
I close my eyes, inhaling for three and out again.
I can do this. I’ve done harder things than answering a few questions about myself.
Just…not with his fingerprints still on my skin.
The studio is all glass walls and soft-lit panels. Everything feels expensive, a curated minimalistic vibe with microphones that look like someone designed them with a mood board and a brand deal in mind.
“Live in two,” Mitch, the host, says, chugging back an energy drink before swinging his chair into position. He counts down on his fingers, nods toward the mic in front of Maddox. I sit ramrod straight, my back as rigid as his shoulders.
I don’t look at him, not once, keeping my eyes fixed forward, jaw locked so tight I’m getting a headache.
“And welcome back,” Mitch drawls to his listeners. “We’re joined by the legendary Maddox Knox from Sip Station.” He grins like an idiot, staring at Maddox like he’s royalty before dragging his gaze to me. “And their new addition, Paige Erikson. The chick behind the drums. Gotta say, I love it.”
My smile is tight as I lean forward to speak into the mic.
“Thanks.” It sounds brittle, hollow, and I don’t even care.
“So…” Mitch says, clasping his hands and leaning back. “Austin Keller was with you guys for what? Eight years? Must’ve been a pretty big change bringing Paige in. How did you find trying to fill those impressive boots, Paige? A lot to live up to, huh?”
Before I can reply, Maddox shifts beside me.
“She gelled with us almost immediately,” he says, leg bouncing as he stares at the host, hands clenched around the armrests of his seat. “It wasn’t about replacing Austin. It was about what she brought to the band, and she’s brought a lot.”
Mitch chuckles, glancing between us before lowering his voice like we’re sharing a secret.
“And I don’t doubt that, but c’mon, Paige. Be honest. There had to be some part of you that felt out of your depth, right? I mean, the fans loved Austin—”
“And they love her too,” Maddox cuts in, again, and I have to bite my tongue not to snap at him. “She’s one of the best drummers I’ve ever seen. It’s like she was born to be behind the kit.”
His words are technically correct, praise on paper. But right now, they sound like someone covering a stab wound with a compliment.
“Hey, no offense, man,” Mitch says, hands raised. “Only messing. Sip Station’s definitely got their groove back since she joined…”
I tune out after that, letting Maddox answer every question like he’s seemingly so eager to do. My arms fold tight over my chest, my fingers reaching up to the P pendant on instinct. I can feel him looking at me every few minutes, like he’s checking if I’m okay.
Let him look. I don’t care what’s in his gaze. Guilt? Maybe. Regret? Possibly. But neither would shine enough to justify what he did.
The studio continues around me like I’m not even here, my body on sensory overload. The air conditioning feels too cold on my bare arms, the producers clicking on his laptop too loud, and Maddox’s restless energy that used to pull me toward him, now only grates.
“…and what’s it like, Paige?” Mitch says suddenly, snapping me back into the interview. “Being the only girl on a bus full of guys? That’s gotta be…interesting.”
I blink and refocus, his question making my heart ache as I think about the day he bought all those tampons, his embarrassed smile and pink cheeks when he watched me leave them on my bunk.
Maddox shifts again, ready to swoop in and defend my honor like some goddamn knight.
I beat him to it, pushing his mic away so it’s out of reach, leaning into my own, my voice syrupy-smooth. “It’s a job, like anything else. I hit things for a living, and I’m pretty fucking good at it.”
“Fair enough.” Mitch laughs awkwardly. “And sorry for the F-bomb there, ladies and gents—”
The moment the segment cuts to commercial, I stand, shove my chair back without a word, and walk out, feeling Maddox following me. As soon as we’re in the hallway, I spin, jabbing my finger at him.
“What the hell were you doing?”
Maddox frowns. “What are you talking about?”
“Coming to my defense like I needed saving? Like I can’t answer for myself?”
He glances around, smiling at a woman who walks past before taking a tentative step toward me and lowering his voice. “That’s not what I was doing.”
I step back, needing space from him, from the scent of cedar and everything I let myself want.
“Really? So, you weren’t doing it out of some sense of guilt? Trying to play noble protector after what you did? You don’t get to leave me like a goddamn secret, and then try to look like the hero in public.”
He flinches, if only briefly, but I know his cues, his signs, and I see it before his face hardens. “I was trying to shut down a prick who thought you were a novelty.”
“I’m not a novelty,” I snap. “And I sure as hell don’t need you speaking for me.”
“Paige, I—”
He tries to reach for me, but I jerk away. My throat thickens with the disgusting feeling of fighting back tears. I can’t be near him right now. Not like this. Because seeing the sincerity in his eyes is even more painful and confusing than anything he could say.
“I can’t do this.” The words taste like acid as they crawl up my throat, throwing them back in his face the way he so easily left them on paper.
He winces, his hand falling back to his side.
“I need to go,” I whisper, brushing past him.
“Wait, there’s a car—”
“I’ll get an Uber,” I say, rushing for the front door before he can stop me. If I stay a second longer, I might scream, or worse…cry. And I will not let him see either.