Chapter 21
“Jealous” - Nick Jonas
Rhett
There’s a bite in the air that makes its way into my lungs as I jog. It’s the perfect antidote for the raging libido I’ve had since this trip started. I’m lucky Saylor is as eager to fuck as I am, or I’d be even better acquainted with my right hand than I already am.
Things have been . . . good between us. After she got over what she perceived as me flirting the other night (okay, it may have been slight flirting, but only because the label demanded it), we’ve hardly been apart except during my shows.
I’m working on some new stuff, and she always manages to thread her way through the lyrics.
We’re in Seattle for one more night, then hitting the road tomorrow. It will give us the perfect chance to get out of the hotel room and spend some time together.
I nod at the doorman as I walk into the lobby, already planning what I’m going to do to Saylor after my shower. Maybe I can convince her to join me. She was still sleeping when I left, but she should be awake by now.
She’s not in the living room when I get inside, so maybe she’s still in bed after all.
I’m heading for the bathroom when I hear someone talking on the other side of the suite.
I turn and follow the sound to the second bedroom, the one I originally booked for Saylor but which we haven’t used because she’s been spending every night in my bed.
I recognize her voice as I approach. Who the fuck is she talking to at eight in the morning? My first instinct is to barge into the room like a caveman, ready to protect his woman’s honor. Then I remember that she’s not my “woman,” and she has a right to her privacy.
But that doesn’t mean I’m above a little eavesdropping.
The door is slightly ajar, so I gently push it open far enough to be able to see into the room. Saylor is sitting on the bed, her back to me. In front of her, a silver laptop is open on the duvet. A man’s face is on the screen.
I can’t make out what he’s saying, but I can see his features well enough.
The bloke is average looking, although he has that kind of face girls seem to think is hot.
Personally, I don’t see the appeal. Sandy-brown hair cropped close to his head, a jawline you could use to cut a line, and light-colored eyes, either blue or gray.
Saylor responds in her soft, sultry voice. My anger surges as I listen to her, although I can’t make out what she’s saying either.
Who the hell is this guy, and what’s he doing talking to my girl?
I pull the door shut again and stalk down the hall toward our bedroom. Is this her idea of payback for the other night? Who gives a fuck if I was flirting? It didn’t mean anything. It’s not like I was going to sleep with any of those girls, so who cares if I macked on them?
Grabbing a clean set of clothes, I can’t decide if I’m glad I caught her or not. At least now I know that to her this relationship is as fake as a Kardashian. Better to be aware than act like a bloody fool who thinks it might be something more.
On the other hand, now I’m pissed. At her, at myself—I don’t even fucking know, but it’s ruined what was supposed to be a good day. Instead, I have to live with the knowledge that she’s talking to other guys behind my back. Am I supposed to just be okay with it?
Fuck that.
Fuck this bullshit mess I’ve gotten us both into.
When I get out of the shower, I have several new messages. Some of the anger dissipates when I see who they’re from. God, I miss my friends.
Pierce: How’s the tour going, mate?
Walker: You and your girlfriend have been blowing up the news lately. When do we get to meet her?? xx
Maeve: God, yes. I need fresh meat to sink my teeth into.
I wince at that one.
Lux: We’ll make her behave, Rhett!!! xx
Me: Tour’s fucking unbelievable. Most days I still can’t believe I get to do this. That would be a no to the gf
Lux: Whyyyyy?
She should know better. It was her idea, after all.
I pull on a pair of jeans, and the image of Saylor sitting on that bed, talking to some guy whose name I don’t even know, fills my head. Apparently, the shower did less than I thought to cool me off. I type out a reply.
Me: Because it’s fake
I may have just shot myself in the foot revealing that, but I don’t give a fuck right now. Besides, none of my friends are going to blab, and it feels good to finally tell someone the truth.
Me: She’s talking to her lover as we speak
I’m not interested in their opinions on the subject, so I send a third text.
Me: So Maeve, still with Preston?
Heath: Snort
Pierce: Yeah, Maeve. Do tell us how the pinprick penis is treating you these days.
Lux: Is it actually that small??
Maeve: FUCK. OFF.
* * *
I forget about the date I arranged with Saylor until it’s six o’clock and too late to cancel. Our dinner reservation is at seven thirty.
She steps out of the bedroom wearing the tight black dress I bought for her. It hugs her in all the right places, and for two seconds, I forget that I’m mad at her.
My eyes sweep her from head to toe. “I thought you swore off dresses.”
She glances down at it and approaches the armchair I’m sitting in. “It’s too nice to waste.” Her hand skirts across the silky fabric. “Besides, it was this or ripped jeans.” A flicker of a smile crosses her mouth as she looks down at me.
I blink to clear my head before returning my attention to my phone. “Good choice.”
If she’s hurt by my less-than-stellar reaction to her outfit, she doesn’t say anything, just starts setting up an area for the hair and makeup team to come in and give her a hand, since I’m not performing tonight anyway.
Our reservation is at a quiet restaurant, one of those places that advertise “intimacy.” When I booked it, I thought it would be the perfect place to take Saylor.
Give us a chance to drink good wine and get to know each other.
Real date stuff. Not being stuck in the back bedroom on a tour bus, banging each other on every possible surface. (There are nine. We counted.)
Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but this feels different than most of my flings. Like there’s something of substance here. I’m not usually first in line to take a girl on a date, but for some reason it’s different with Saylor. I want to take her out.
When we arrive promptly at seven thirty, the ma?tre d’ escorts us to a private alcove in the shape of a half circle. Thick red curtains hang across the opening and line the inside of the room. He shows us how to unfasten them if we want more privacy.
Beside me, Saylor turns pink. I let her slide into the velvet-covered booth first, then move in beside her. It’s arranged in such a way that we’re both next to and across from each other. Several small candles flicker on the table. The rest of the alcove is dark.
“This is nice,” she says quietly.
I murmur my agreement, then place an order for a bottle of wine.
“Are you glad for a night off?” she asks after the ma?tre d’ leaves.
“Yep.”
A stilted awkwardness hangs in the air between us, but she pushes ahead as if she’s not talking to other guys behind my back, pretending to be into me while she’s making plans to fuck them later. “I heard that ‘Take a Chance on Me’ is moving up the charts.”
I nod and taste the sample the sommelier pours from the bottle. I give him a thumbs up, and he retreats after serving each of us a glass.
“How’s the new song coming along?” Saylor asks, taking a sip of hers.
“It’s fine.” I swirl my wine, the dark red liquid sloshing up the sides.
A tense minute passes, then finally, she says, “Are you going to tell me what’s wrong, or are you going to keep acting like a child for the rest of the evening?”
I meet her eyes for the first time all night. “I don’t want to talk about music.”
She gives me a peevish look. “That would be a first.”
I stick my tongue in my cheek and stare at her. She really is so fucking beautiful. That thick black hair, her smooth brown skin, those bottomless dark eyes . . . Too bad she has commitment issues. “First time for everything.”
“Rhett, I don’t understand what’s going on. Did I do something?”
My laugh is sharp enough that a lady at a table near us turns to look. I give her a tight smile and turn back to Saylor. “Yeah, you did something. Or maybe I should say someone.”
To her credit, she actually manages to look confused. Maybe she should take up acting. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I pick up my glass. “Really? Bloke with the hair”—I move my hand in a vague circle in front of me—“and the face?”
“Are you on drugs?” she says.
“Don’t joke about that.” I take a long swig of wine.
“I’m not.”
I set the goblet back down with a little extra force. “I saw you on the video call this morning. Ring any bells?”
Her eyes widen. “Nate? You’re talking about Nate?”
“I don’t know how many there are.”
A tiny scoff blows from her nose as she lifts her glass to her lips and takes a sip. “Wow.”
“Glad I amuse you.”
“I’m sorry, were you jealous?” She says it like that in itself borders on hilarity.
I clench my jaw so hard something pops. “No.”
She bites the side of her lip, and I know it’s to hold back a smile. “You don’t need to be jealous.”
“I’m not.” I cross my arms and lean against the back of the booth.
She bends across the table as though she’s making up for the space I’ve added between us. “Nate’s my husband.”
I don’t school my features in time to hide my surprise, both at the revelation and her use of the present tense. “Ex-husband, you mean.”
She deflates at this, dropping her gaze and picking at her nails. “He’s on tour, and they lost several squad members today.”
“Oh, shit.” I reach across the table for her hand. “That’s fucked up.”
She doesn’t look up, not even when the server brings our plates.
“Why did he call you, though?” I ask gently. It’s hard to tell how upset she is, since she won’t look at me. I scoot her plate toward her.
Taking it, she spreads her napkin over her lap. “Both of his parents are gone, and he’s an only child.” Her eyes finally rise to meet mine. “As difficult as our marriage was, I’m all he has.”