CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
Hendrix
I wandered the town for a bit. The City of Angels. I figured I’d give Jase time to collect himself, to come to grips with the fact that I know his secret, and then maybe once he did, we could talk about it.
There’s nothing to be ashamed of. Hell, he should be prouder of who he is because of it.
But I still figured I’d give him time.
So I sat at the beach and imagined what it was like for him growing up. I searched the internet for mentions of his childhood to see what I could learn—not much—and then felt guilty for doing so rather than waiting for him to tell me himself.
But I was trying to prepare myself for what I’d learn. I was trying to steel myself against making an expression on my face he’d deem as pity or disgust.
All I want is to tell him how much I admire him. That I love him and seeing his truth doesn’t negate that. And even though he’s pushed me away—doesn’t seem to want me anymore—I still think he’s an incredible man. Loving him isn’t easy, and I may not get the chance soon when he goes on tour, but I want to keep trying. I want to keep us.
However, after some time of thinking, I come home to something I thought I’d never see.
I don’t know what I expected, but it sure as shit wasn’t this.
The pool is packed with half-naked women, their laughter ringing through the air, mixing with the heavy bass from the outdoor speakers. The hot tub is just as bad—bikini-clad bodies pressing in around Jase, hands on his shoulders, in his hair, draped over his lap like they belong there.
And he’s drunk.
Completely, devastatingly wasted.
I stand in the shadows for a moment, my heart sinking lower and lower. I learned something real about him earlier—something raw and painful and honest. A glimpse of the man no one else gets to see. A glimpse of his loss.
And to add salt to the wound for ignoring me for days, this is what he does?
This is how he deals with it?
This is what he did on the day of the gala too? Fuck, I read him so wrong that night.
I should leave. Should turn around, walk inside, lock the door, and pretend none of this matters. But I can’t move. Can’t look away from him, sprawled in the middle of all of them, laughing, drinking, accepting the kisses they’re pressing to his neck, his chest... as though I’m only a long-forgotten memory. Pretending like nothing happened.
Like I don’t exist.
One of the girls tilts her head back in a flirtatious laugh, tracing a finger down his arm. My stomach twists. I hate this feeling. This anger eating at me. This stupid, irrational ache.
How do you fight for someone who doesn’t want to fight for himself?
How do you love someone who doesn’t want you to?
Jase finally catches sight of me. He grins lazily, lifting his drink in some kind of mock toast. “Hey, wifey,” he drawls. “You wanna join in? Or call some of your friends over?”
And that’s when I shatter.
I don’t reply. Don’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction. I just turn and walk away, my hands shaking as I push through the house, ignoring the burn in my chest.
I should have known better.
I knew he would push, but not like this. Cruel. Unforgiving. Devastating.
“You win, Gizmodo.”
Because I do deserve better.