23. Twenty-Three
Twenty-Three
Nate
I slam my drumsticks against the snare, the force behind the beat harder than it should be. The sound reverberates through the studio, a relentless, driving rhythm that does nothing to ease the tension coiled tight in my chest.
“Jesus, Nate,” Vince mutters, wiping sweat from his brow. “You trying to break the damn thing?”
I don’t respond.
Because if I do, I might just snap.
My drumsticks hit harder than necessary as I try to drown out the echo of Lacey’s voicemail greeting for the third time today. The rhythm is off—aggressive and unsteady—nothing like the precise control I usually maintain. But precision isn’t what I’m after right now.
“Still no answer?” Sam asks from across the studio, his voice carefully neutral.
I don’t bother responding. He already knows.
Two weeks. It’s been two fucking weeks since I last held her, since that night after the album launch party when everything felt perfect—right before it all went wrong.
We’d stumbled through my front door laughing, both of us still high on adrenaline and each other. The heat from our encounter at the party had followed us home, building with every touch, every kiss. The sex was off the charts—we couldn’t get enough of each other. We were both wild and insatiable. I smile, remembering how she’d tasted like champagne, how her fingers had traced fire down my chest, how she’d whispered my name like a prayer…
But now? Radio silence.
I grip my sticks tighter, barely resisting the urge to throw them across the damn room as memories from that night flood back—her skin glowing in the moonlight, the way she’d arched beneath me, how perfectly we came together. We’d fallen asleep tangled in each other, and I’d thought... I’d actually thought...
“Fuck.” I toss the sticks aside, running a hand through my hair.
The next morning, she’d kissed me goodbye before heading to her meeting with Rachel, already subdued but still smiling. “It’ll be fine,” she’d said. “Rachel’s dealt with worse scenarios.”
Except it wasn’t fine. Whatever happened in that meeting changed everything.
She was gone when I got home, and now, all I get are brief texts: ‘ In meetings.’ ‘ On set ,’ and ‘ Can’t talk now .’
The band leaves on tour in three days. And all I know—the only thing I’ve been told—is that the company is making demands on her time.
Demands.
For Christ’s sake, we’re supposed to be engaged. Does the company and Rachel not understand what that means?
I thought, at the very least, Lacy would want to see me before we left for the tour. I’d planned for it. Hell, I was counting on it.
But now?
Now, I’ve got a sick feeling in my gut that won’t be happening.
I push back from the drum kit, scrubbing a hand over my face, feeling my bandmates watching me.
“You gonna talk about it or just keep punishing your drums?” Cass finally asks.
I scowl. “There’s nothing to talk about.”
Sam snorts. “Yeah. Right.”
I glare at him, daring him to push it.
But it’s Luke who does.
“Look, man,” he says, setting his water bottle down. “We all see it. You’ve been on edge since the launch party. And I don’t blame you—Lacey vanishing for two weeks without a real explanation? That’s messed up.”
My jaw tightens. “She didn’t just vanish.”
“No?” Vince lifts a brow. “Then where the hell is she?”
I don’t answer because I don’t know why she isn’t here.
And that’s the worst fucking part.
Cass exhales heavily. “Did she at least say she’d see you before we left?”
“No,” I grind out. “She’s barely said anything at all.”
A moment of silence stretches between us.
Then Vince shakes his head. “Man… that’s not good.”
No shit.
I push to my feet, pacing the length of the studio, my muscles coiled so tight I feel like I might snap.
“This is bullshit,” Sam declares, voicing what we’re all thinking. “They can’t just—“
“They can,” I cut him off grimly. “That’s the problem.”
“Maybe you should just show up at her place,” Cass suggests, setting down his guitar. “You know where she’s staying.”
I shake my head. “Rachel’s got her scheduled down to the minute—damage control after that photo leaked.”
The photo. Christ. Every time I close my eyes, I can still feel Lacey pressed against that wall, her leg hitched around my hip—both of us lost in each other. The picture hadn’t shown anything explicit, but the raw passion was undeniable. Too real for the company’s precious new princess image.
My phone buzzes, and I grab it too quickly, hope flaring before I see it’s just another tour logistics email. The disappointment tastes bitter.
Standing, I grab my jacket. “I need some air.”
“Nate—“ Cass starts.
“Just... give me some time,” I say as I turn to leave.
The drive home is a blur of frustrated thoughts and memories. Every song on the radio seems to mock me with lyrics about love and loss.
Two weeks ago, everything was going great. It felt solid.
Now, it’s slipping through my fingers, and I don’t know how to stop it.
All I know is that I need to see her. I need to hear her voice—and not just through a phone.
I need to feel her and remind her that what we have isn’t just some PR stunt.
I need her to tell me that Rachel, the company, and whatever the hell else is pulling her away from me doesn’t matter.
But I have a feeling that’s not what I’m going to get. And I don’t know if I’m ready for that.
When did I become this person? This guy who can’t stop thinking about a woman?
But Lacey isn’t just any woman. She’s everything I never knew I wanted until she crashed into my life with her sexy smile and sharp wit—until she saw past my walls and made herself at home there.
And now?
Now I’m standing in my empty house, staring at a pink coffee mug, wondering how the hell everything went so wrong so fast.
My phone buzzes again, and I almost ignore it. But the name on the screen makes me pause.
Blaire Monroe.
“Hello?”
“So,” Lacey’s sister drawls, “are you as miserable as my sister?”
My heart stumbles. “What?”
“Because, let me tell you, she’s a wreck. The company’s got her running ragged—appearances, script readings, interviews. But that’s not why she’s miserable.” Blaire pauses meaningfully. “She misses you. Like, pathetically misses you.”
I grip the phone tighter. “Is she—“
“She’s actually got a free evening tonight. The company’s handlers are occupied with some crisis involving another actor, and Rachel’s in New York.” There’s a smile in Blaire’s voice. “Just thought you might want to know.”
The decision takes about two seconds.
“Thanks, Blaire. I owe you.”
I’m already pulling up flight schedules before we hang up. There’s one leaving in ninety minutes. Perfect.
A quick text to Cass: ‘ Taking care of something. Back before tour. Cover for me with Emily .’
His response is immediate: ‘About damn time. Go get her!’
I throw some clothes in a bag, grab my wallet, and pause only long enough to put on a baseball cap and dark glasses. The last thing I need is to be recognized and have this get back to Rachel.
The drive to the airport is a blur of anticipation and planning. Security is quick—being a frequent flyer has its perks—I keep my baseball cap low and my hoodie up, avoiding as much attention as possible.
The flight is nearly full, but soon I’m settled in first class, grateful for the window seat and trying to calm my racing pulse.
As the plane takes off, memories of the last time we were together come flooding back, but this time, I let them come.
The way she’d looked that morning before everything went wrong, wearing my t-shirt, her hair a mess, making coffee in my kitchen like she belonged there.
The text she’d sent after her meeting with Rachel: ‘They’re not happy. Already at the airport, boarding my flight. Sorry, wish I could have said goodbye.’
The ache in my chest when all our communication dissolved into short texts and missed calls.
“Can I get you anything to drink, sir?”
I blink, realizing we’re already at cruising altitude. “Just water, thanks.”
Seven hours. Seven hours until I see her.
The flight feels endless, but finally, finally, we touch down at LAX. I navigate through the terminal, keeping my head down, and grab the first available taxi.
“Address?” the driver asks.
I give him Lacey’s place, then watch Los Angeles slide by through dirty windows. The sun is setting, painting the sky in pinks and oranges.
The taxi pulls up to her building forty minutes later. My hands are actually shaking as I pay the fare and grab my bag.
The doorman checks my I.D. and waves me through with a knowing smile. The elevator ride to her floor seems to take forever.
And then I’m standing at her door. I knock before I can overthink it. There’s a pause, then footsteps. The door opens, and she’s wearing her signature yoga pants and an oversized t-shirt, her hair piled messily on top of her head, and she’s the loveliest thing I’ve ever seen.
Her eyes go wide. “Nate?”
“Hi,” I manage, drinking in the sight of her.
“What are you—How did you—“ She stops, shaking her head. Then she grabs the front of my hoodie and pulls me inside, kicking the door shut behind us.
The moment it closes, she’s in my arms, and everything else falls away.
She feels like a dream.
“I can’t believe you’re here,” she whispers against my neck, her arms tight around me.
I bury my face in her hair, breathing her in. “I couldn’t stay away. Not when—“ I pull back just enough to see her face. “God, I missed you.”
Her eyes are bright with unshed tears. “I missed you too. So much. These past two weeks have been—“
I cut her off with a kiss, pouring everything I can’t say into it. She responds immediately, rising on her tiptoes, her fingers threading through my hair as she pulls me closer.
The kiss deepens; two weeks of separation and longing ignite into something desperate and consuming. I walk her backward until she hits the wall, echoing our moment from the party, but this time, there are no cameras—no interruptions.
Just us.
“How long can you stay?” she gasps as I trail hot kisses down her neck.
“I’m here for two days. Then I have to leave. The tour starts—“
“Don’t.” She pulls my mouth back to hers. “Don’t talk about leaving. Please? Not yet.”
I grip her hips, lifting her. She wraps her legs around my waist automatically, and everything else disappears.
We have tonight.
And I intend to make every second count.
We don’t make it to the bedroom. Hell, we don’t even make it out of her foyer. Instead, I lower us both to her floor. In seconds, I have her stripped naked. Her panties and bra thrown somewhere behind me. While she’s all bare soft skin, I barely got my jeans zipped down, and my engorged cock freed before I have her legs spread and am surging into her. She doesn’t seem to mind as I mutter my gruff apology in her ear. “Sorry, but I need to be in you—now.”
I was worried she might not be ready for me, but she is. Wet and aching to be filled—and I oblige. In fact, there is no stopping me. I couldn’t stop if I tried. Two whole weeks of being denied her body, her warmth. But now the drought is over, and as I continue to thrust into her blindly, my mind stops functioning. Instead, I can only feel.
Feel her gasp, her breathing as it quickens. Her soft whimpers as I increase the pace, my hands on her hips the only thing keeping her anchored instead of moving across the floor from the force of my thrusts. Being inside her, I feel like I am finally where I’m meant to be.
It doesn’t take long before she’s panting and then shouting my name as she comes hard in my arms. I can’t wait—as I feel my balls tighten and draw up, and I empty myself inside her—finding my release. I let out a hoarse groan, followed closely by a sharp curse.
“Shit…” Escapes my lips as my weight settles fully over her, pressing her down into the unforgiving tile.
She doesn’t seem to mind my weight, but when I can finally breathe and move my body to the side, she takes in a deep gulp of air, and I feel her hands grasp the back of my hoodie.
Leaning back, I look down at her naked form and then at how I am still fully dressed. “Damn. Are you okay? Was I too rough?”
Instead, she only voices one complaint. “What took you so long?”