Chapter 33
Chapter Thirty-Three
Roderick
Today was supposed to be a good day. That’s exactly what I told myself when I woke up early, took a shower, and even went to the gym. My self-help workbook said it was a great day to accomplish something.
Which is why I decided that today was a good day to say, “Let’s get my career back.”
Except it seems I was wrong. When I called my old agent, his assistant informed me—without an ounce of hesitation or fake sympathy—that he’d be too busy for the next twenty to thirty years.
Obviously, I got the hint, hung up, and decided to check what Connor Dempsey had to offer.
He never followed up after our phone conversation, but maybe he was still interested.
What did I find out?
Bernice, his loyal companion, informed me that he’s been out for weeks. He had a stroke, and he had someone new in charge of all his accounts. She apologized profusely for not reaching out, but it’s been crazy while her boss recovers—because he’ll recover.
He will recover. She said it as if she’d punch death in the throat if it even tried to get too close to her boss.
She ushered me toward Connor’s private office while she figured out what to do with me. She said the “right person” was already reviewing things. That didn’t make sense—especially since I haven’t signed shit.
Since my goal is to figure out my career, I stayed. A few minutes later, I heard some commotion outside the office. I stepped out and saw a woman next to Bernice who clearly didn’t like being asked about me.
Kit Dempsey.
Not the girl I remembered.
The woman. All curves and cool contempt. Dressed in black. Slick ponytail. She looked at me like I was gum stuck to the bottom of her Louboutins. Like just breathing the same air as me was beneath her, and she’s hoping I disappear.
Correction: she’s not hoping I disappear. She’s waiting to make it happen.
It’s obvious that she hates me—I deserve that much for what I did. Though I would like to start with an apology, this isn’t the place, is it?
“Kit, I need to know where I’m standing.” There, that’s a sensible thing to say.
“She’ll take care of you,” Bernice butts in, and I can sense Kit’s annoyance.
I wouldn’t be surprised if she says something like, “Fuck off, Bernice.”
Surprisingly, Kit takes a long breath. “Why don’t we go inside to discuss your . . . career?” Her voice is velvet dipped in venom.
The way she says career, like the word physically repulses her. It stings. I glance at Bernice, thinking something along the lines of, “Is there anyone else who can help me? Anyone who won’t try to crucify me with a look?”
Kit Dempsey is going to tell me I’m a washed-up sellout who doesn’t deserve redemption. And I’m not sure I can hear that from her. Not today.
She walks past me, hips swaying like taunts, pushes the door open, waits for me to follow, and then closes it behind us.
Click.
“Why are you here, Roderick?” she asks, her voice cool and businesslike as she drops her oversized backpack onto the leather chair.
She pulls out a clunky black laptop, then flips it open with a sigh. It hums to life with a low whir, like it’s already annoyed to be working. “I don’t have much time to waste, so whatever this is, say it now.”
“Just like that?” I blink. “Your father was begging me to sign, and now you’re . . . what exactly are you doing?”
She moves the backpack and lowers into the big chair like she owns the world. Her palms press against the desk, the tension in her arms so controlled it’s erotic. Then she pins me with that stare—the one that used to undo me in bed, in hallways, in every fucking place we once touched.
“Me?” Her voice could cut glass. Calm. Low. Maddening. “I’m working. You? Still not sure.”
“Your father promised me my career back.”
She laughs. A breathy, cruel little sound that brushes my skin like a slap. “He did, huh?”
“I’m serious.” I try to sound firm. Like I have it all figured out.
As if I’m not hanging by a fucking thread, the raw edge of desperation cuts closer to the bone every second I’m near her.
The truth is, I don’t know shit.
There was a plan. A direction. Now it’s all slipping through my fingers like sand, like her, and I’m fucking drowning in the possibility that I’ll lose everything again. That I’ll crawl back to my old dealer or wander into a liquor store and let it all go quiet.
One drink.
One hit.
One moment of stillness.
Underneath the bravado is a man terrified of his own patterns. And even more afraid of the way she’s looking at me right now—like she doesn’t see the man who used to make her tremble, only the wreckage I’ve left behind.
“I believe you,” she says. “I love him because he gave me life, but the more I dig into his business . . . the more I realize he has no clue how it works. Worse, he doesn’t give two shits about the artists who trusted him. Honestly? I’m surprised anyone ever signed with him.”
I scoff, fire licking up my spine. “You’re not better than him.”
“Me?”
“Who tells a prospective client the owner has zero scruples?”
She shrugs like she doesn’t owe me shit. “Who said I wanted to sign you?”
I stare at her, stunned. “I’m Roderick fucking Wilder. Of course you want me.”
Her lips curve in something that’s almost pity—but not quite.
“Listen, Rod—” She says my name as if she needs to rinse it from her mouth.
“Can I call you Rod? Not that it matters. Point is, I don’t give two shits about you, but I care about my best friend.
Cleo is praying her big brother figures his shit out.
And getting back on stage? That’s not it. ”
“She would want me to get my life back,” I snap, my voice rising before I can pull it back. “You don’t know me. I quit. I’m clean. Why can’t you give me a chance?” There it is.
The crack in my voice, raw and bleeding. But it sounds like this isn’t just about music anymore. I don’t even know what I’m begging for. Her forgiveness? A chance to explain what I couldn’t years ago? Maybe I want her to let me try again—not just to play, but to be someone for her.
And, fuck, standing here in front of her like this—it breaks something in me.
Kit.
My Kit.
My mouth goes dry. My fists clench at my sides.
God, I want to drag her into me, slam our mouths together until she can’t remember why she hates me.
I want to press her against the door she just locked behind us and remind her how we used to burn, how she used to need me like oxygen.
I want her moaning my name, nails raking down my back, voice cracked open by need.
But more than that, I want her to look at me like she used to. Like I was hers.
I want to fucking kneel at her feet and confess every ugly truth, beg her to let me love her again. Let me prove that I’m not the same man who vanished into a bottle and forgot how to fight for her.
One chance.
That’s all I need.
One shot to show her I never stopped loving her—needing her. That I still ache in the places she once touched. That every lyric I ever wrote was for her.
And maybe she knows it. Maybe that’s why she hasn’t kicked me out yet.
Because this—whatever the fuck is between us—it’s still alive. It’s a live wire between our bodies, coiled tight with lust, fury, and a love old enough to be sacred.
I can feel it.
No doubt that she can too.
Her jaw tightens, but her chest rises faster. Her eyes flick down my frame—so quick I almost miss it—but it’s there. Hunger. Memory. Maybe even want.
And if I get one more second in this room with her, I’ll make her say it.
I’ll make her feel it.
Because even if she’s pretending otherwise, I know Kit Dempsey.
And I know she still wants me.
Kit’s face softens—barely.
“When was the last time you craved?” she asks.
“What?” I blink a couple of times because that’s not what I expected her to say—or ask.
“The last time you craved?” she repeats.
“I. Am. Clean.”
“Sure, you haven’t touched anything, but that’s not what I asked, is it?
” She crosses her arms, leaning against the chair.
“Did you wake up hoping you could get a sip of tequila before your coffee? Wonder if anyone would notice if you took the edge off before you had to smile and pretend you’re okay? ”
I go quiet.
Because fuck me, she’s right. She still knows me. Even now. Even when she wants to hate me. Maybe especially then.
The truth is that every second I’m awake and alone and spiraling in my head I crave. More so when everything starts slipping through my fingers.
But the craving shifted the second I saw her.
Now it’s her I want to sink into. Drown in. Lose myself in. I crave the burn of her mouth on mine, her fingers pulling at my clothes like we’re going to tear each other apart again. I crave the way she used to whisper my name when no one was around and scream it when she didn’t care who heard.
“I crave all the time,” I say, and it comes out rough.
Like confession and accusation in one breath.
“When I’m alone. When I spiral. When the silence turns into static and my brain starts cataloging all the ways I’ve fucked up my life.
I crave something—anything—that’ll make it stop. That’ll make me stop wanting you.”
Her lips part. Just a little. Her arms unfold.
“Right now?” I step forward, slow, measured. “Right now, I crave the feeling of your nails on my back. Your legs around my waist. The sound you make when I bite your neck and you hate that you love it.”
Kit’s breath hitches. Her throat works as she swallows, eyes locked on mine like she doesn’t trust herself to look away. Her pupils are blown wide, lips slightly parted, like she’s replaying every moment we used to come undone together. And, fuck, I want to remind her—inch by fucking inch.
I move closer. Close enough that I can smell the hint of flowers in her perfume and something warmer beneath it—skin and memory. The air between us turns molten.
“You want the truth?” I murmur, voice low, raw. “The moment I saw you, I wanted to fuck you and forget everything. Then I wanted to remember exactly how we used to be. I wanted to feel you—wild, loud, aching—and know you still wanted it just as much.”
She doesn’t move, but her breathing changes. Faster. Shallow.
“I’m not asking you to fix me,” I say. “I’m telling you, Kit—I want you. I crave you. You.”
Silence stretches. Her gaze drops to my mouth. She licks her bottom lip like she’s trying to wipe away the thought before it wins. But it’s already too late.
The craving’s mutual. And it’s not just about addiction.
It’s her.
It’s always been her.
And I can’t answer.
I just . . . blink.