Chapter 21
I make terrible decisions.
In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever made a decent decision in my life.
And I’m fully aware of this. I’m so deeply self-aware that I drive myself absolutely mental with it, and I’m pretty sure everyone in my life, myself included, would be so much better off if I weren’t so self-aware …
and also didn’t make such terrible decisions. Et cetera, et cetera.
But knowing I’m making a terrible decision doesn’t seem to stop me from seeing it through.
I scream at myself to get away from the door I’m lurking in front of, sprint as fast as I can from this posh hotel and back to my dingy tour bus, do one single thing to protect my already battered self-worth.
But I’m a fool searching for some sort of humiliating closure. Which is why, with one more deep breath, I knock on Connor’s door.
No answer.
Lazy fucker.
I knock (pound) on the door again, adding a rattle of the handle for good measure.
Still nothing.
I’m about to take this as a sign to leave well enough alone when the door cracks open, and Connor appears. He fixes me with a careless smile, eyes heavy-lidded and hair mussed like some girl has been running her hands through it for the better part of last night and most of this morning.
It’s a look I’m all too familiar with on him.
It’s the same one he wore countless times on my doorstep after disappearing for a night or two when we were still a bunch of nobodies playing crap pubs.
I’d glare at him, taking in his rumpled clothes, trying to push away the seared image of some random woman on his arm in his Instagram stories from just a few hours before.
And he’d give me that half smile, both of us knowing I was too chicken to ask the questions I didn’t want honest answers to.
Glad to know fame hasn’t changed him.
“Hey, darling,” he says, voice low and accent thick. I roll my eyes.
“You wanted to talk, yeah?” I say, hooking my hands on my hips. “Can we get on with it? I only have so many minutes on this planet and I’m sick of wasting them in your presence.”
Connor lets out a laugh through his nose, smirking at me. He holds up his hands like he’s calming an aggressive animal. “Down, girl. I’m not looking to fight.”
“Keep talking to me like that and there won’t be a fight, I’ll simply push you out your posh window.”
Connor’s gaze flits over his shoulder to the floor-to-ceiling glass overlooking the city. “It is pretty posh though, innit?”
“The point, Connor?”
“Right, yeah. Come in, come in.”
The suite is expansive and open, with white walls and gray art and red accents thrown in here and there. It’s so cultivated. So perfectly sterile yet chic. A good fit for Connor.
There’s an entire living room set up through an archway off the bedroom—couches, chairs, a desk in the corner—but Connor doesn’t have the decency to lead us in there to talk.
He plops on top of his messy bedsheets, legs crossed at the ankles in front of him and arms clasped behind his neck as he leans on the headboard.
The only options he leaves me are to perch like an awkward, worried mum on the edge of his bed or sit on the floor and stare up at him.
I opt for the nearest wall, leaning against it and crossing my arms over my chest. He scrolls on his phone as I stand there like the world’s biggest dickhead.
“Something you wanted to talk to me about?” I eventually ask, hating myself for being the first to speak.
He glances up like he forgot I was here. “Oh. Right. Yeah. How’s it going?”
“How’s it going?” I gape at him. “Did you really drag me here to ask that? Fucking stellar, Connor. Time of my life.”
He gives me that classic, pacifying smile of his. Like I’m predictable. Like I’m a capricious toddler lashing out. Like I’m too much. “I’m sure you can guess why I asked you to come by.”
“You love taking the piss on your exes?”
He ignores me. “It goes without saying that you’ve got a bit of a celebrity presence growing, yeah?”
“Not for anything I’d like to be known for.”
“Whatdya mean?”
I scowl at him. “People only mention my name if it’s in the context of you or Harry. I’d much rather be known for my music?”
Connor clicks his tongue against his teeth, waving me away. “Any press is good press, Cub. Which is actually what I wanted to talk to you about. Or, more so, my label wanted me to talk to you about.”
“Your label?” My hackles rise, legs tensing. I’m a moment away from bolting.
“Right, yeah, here’s the thing. You’ve caught the attention of some of the producers at my record company. Publicists too. They like your whole mopey-yet-bitchy vibe or whatever. It’s stirred up some really good buzz for me.”
I generally consider myself a pacifist, but everything about Connor makes homicide seem appealing. He’s special like that.
“And when they first presented this idea, I told them to fuck off, but they’re persistent and have made some really good points,” he continues, looking at me like I should be fully aware of whatever points those were.
My brain recoils in my skull as a truly awful conclusion jumps to the front. “I am begging you to grant me peace just this once and not suggest what I think you’re about to.”
He smirks. “Come on, Cub. It makes sense. I created a stir, opened that door for you to stick your foot in, and you’ve created a stir right back. The next step is obvious.”
“I’m sorry, you opened a door for me now, did you?” I feel my pulse pounding at my temples and wrists, face heating as I push away from the wall, storming the few steps between us and looming over him.
He’s unfazed, yawning as he glances at his vibrating phone. “We collaborate. Lay down some tracks. Spend a bit of time in public together, give them something new to talk about.”
I stare slack-jawed at him for a good ten seconds before letting out a laugh so shrill and loud, it’s a miracle all of the shiny glass in this tacky room doesn’t crack. “Why would I ever do that? Even knowing your name is an insult to my intelligence, let alone willingly spending time with you.”
Connor, for once, has the decency to react beyond his usual apathy, his lips twisting and eyes darkening. “Why would you do it? Oh, I don’t know, Cubby, maybe because I made you famous? No one would know your name if it weren’t for me. And this is a way to grow that.”
Rage streaks through my body so succinctly, it embeds itself in my bones, my cells, my DNA.
I want to scream at him, claw off that hideous smile creeping back up his pompous face, tell him to rot in hell.
But instead, the emotions swell into this grotesque blob, squeezing my throat closed, pushing pinpricks of tears at my eyes. I will die if Connor sees my cry.
He stares at me for a long moment, running his hands through his hair and letting out a deep breath.
“I’m not trying to upset you, Cubby,” he says, continuing to upset me.
“Despite whatever lies you’ve convinced yourself of, I did love you.
I still care about you. And this would help you as much as it would help me.
Take both our careers to the next level. ”
“Is this supposed to be your apology? Because it’s pretty shit.”
“Apology for what?”
My mouth drops open. “You must be joking.”
His face scrunches up like he’s genuinely confused. “You aren’t still on about the breakup, are you? That was ages ago, Cub.”
“I’m not upset about the breakup, you walking trash can. I’m upset about you stealing my song. My music.”
He has the gall to look affronted, and he gets up from the bed, taking a step toward me. “We wrote that together.”
“I wrote it with you sitting next to me, that hardly takes effort on your part,” I yell. “Those lyrics were mine, Connor. My art. My ideas. Mine.”
He fixes me with a patronizing glare, letting out a scoff of disgust. “Jesus, Cub, it’s just a song. It’s words and notes. You’re acting like I shat on your mattress and robbed your house. It’s not that deep.”
“Easy for you to say, you have the emotional depth of a puddle.”
He lets out another humorless laugh, shaking his head. “You really love to pick on the past, you know that? I was there, wasn’t I? I sang those words. Told you when something wasn’t working.”
I stare at him, anger churning in my gut. “You truly believe that, don’t you?”
“Well … yeah.”
Jesus fucking Christ. How do you reason with a brick wall? Apparently, I’m a glutton for punishment, so I push on. “If I went into your fancy studio and stole the song you were supposed to record tomorrow and played it for millions and claimed it was mine, would you not be a little pissed off?”
“I’m not recording tomorrow.”
“What is it like to be utterly unencumbered by the thought process?”
“Cubby, like I said, I didn’t invite you over here to fight.” He reaches out, palm wrapping around my shoulder.
Red bleeds across my vision, his touch shooting hot rage through my body.
“Well, tough. Because a fight is what you’re going to get.
” I smack his hand away. “I’ve bit my tongue so many times with you, it’s a miracle I can even speak, so you’re going to hear what I have to say whether you want to or not. ”
“I don’t.”
“I don’t care!” My voice is high and piercing, hands fisted in my hair. “I don’t care about your opinion or your reasoning or how you talk yourself out of being the bad guy. I don’t care what lies you tell yourself to fall asleep at night. Because you don’t matter to me. You don’t.”
“Kind of ya, thanks.”
“I care about my music,” I say, gesturing in the space between us like the music is a physical being.
“I care about this awful, wonderful, maddening thing I rip myself to pieces for over and over again to try and create something beautiful. Something real. And you taking that from me is the cruelest thing you could have ever done. You knew that. You knew that and you did it anyway. You wanted my words but never the person that came with them.”