2. Chapter Two #3
Willow sees and her face does not change, which irritates something ugly inside me. I want her to stare down at that woman’s hand on me and hate it enough to do something about it.
So I smirk at her instead. “What dragged, Wills?”
Damon sighs. “Phoenix, not now. We don’t need to workshop the show five minutes after you walked offstage.”
I don’t even look at him. “No one fucking asked you.”
His mouth shuts.
Willow shifts the notebook against her stomach. “The first half of the verse. You pushed too hard.”
“I pushed because the song needed heat.”
“It needed ache.”
I laugh under my breath, letting my gaze drag over her for half a second longer than it should. “You want ache, Wills? I can give you ache. I can make it slow, deep, and fucking unforgettable if you ask nicely.”
Her eyes narrow slightly.
There she is. Not so unreadable now.
“You can perform ache,” she says. “That’s different.”
The words hit harder than I let show.
I tilt my head, still smiling, because fuck letting anyone in this room see that she landed a blow. “You saying I sounded fake?”
“I’m saying the song deserved better.”
Jax mutters, “Oh shit.”
The brunette’s hand slips lower, fingertips brushing lightly over my cock. My cock stirs, because attention is attention and I have never pretended to be a saint.
But my eyes never leave Willow.
She notices. Her jaw tightens ever so lightly. Good.
That ugly thing in my chest purrs.
Willow looks at the brunette’s hand, then back at me.
She’s calm, too fucking calm.
“What else do you have an opinion on?”
Damon makes a warning sound. “Phoenix.”
I snap my gaze to him. “You want songs that hurt, Damon? Let the songwriter fucking talk then.”
He goes still.
Willow exhales through her nose, tired already. “The bridge is too clean. Even for you.”
I grin. “That sounds dirty.”
“It isn’t.”
“It could be.”
The brunette’s hand runs over my cock again and I let my smile turn filthy because I’m aware that Willow is watching. Because I am a bastard and sometimes the easiest way to hide something is to put a woman’s hand over it and pretend that is the thing you wanted all along.
Willow ignores my assholeness, because she has had years of practice.
“You’re holding back before the final chorus,” she says.
“I don’t hold back.”
“You did tonight.”
The room shifts again. Enough that even Cruz stops looking at the girl laughing against his shoulder.
My grin stays in place, but something behind it goes still.
Willow doesn’t blink.
I lean back into the couch, spread my knees wider, and let the brunette’s hand stay exactly where it is. “Careful, Wills. Keep talking about me holding back and people might start thinking you know what I look like when I don’t.”
Cruz whistles softly. “Fuck.”
Jax leans against the wall, grinning as if this is better than any reality show.
Jett watches Willow, then me, before his eyes shift to the brunette’s hand still stroking my cock through my jeans.
I sit forward on the couch and the brunette’s hand falls away.
Willow doesn’t move. She has always been braver than her soft voice makes people think.
My smirk grows wider. “That your professional opinion?”
“That’s my honest one.”
She turns as if she is done with this conversation and something twists behind my ribs. I hate the way she can walk away and take the temperature of the whole fucking room with her. That one step from Willow Hart can feel louder than seventy thousand people screaming my name.
“Willow.” Her name leaves my mouth before I can make it sound casual.
She looks back over her shoulder and fuck me. For half a second, I see her. Not the calm songwriter. But the girl under the tree who handed me her notebook and looked terrified I might laugh.
Then it is gone just as quickly as it appeared. Her face smooths out. Her grip tightens around the notebook.
“You already are aware of what I think.”
This time, the words are not about the songs or the way I performed them and we both know it.
She walks away. I don’t move because chasing Willow Hart through a green room while a stranger’s perfume is still on my skin would look desperate. And I‘m not fucking desperate.
I lean back against the couch instead, letting the brunette’s hand find my cock again and I remember exactly who I am supposed to be.
Not the boy who still looks for Willow during every song. Not the pathetic little thing with old lyrics lodged under his ribs.
This version. The one everyone pays to see.
I pull the brunette closer, my hand sliding to her waist, fingers digging in hard enough to make her gasp. Her mouth curves against mine before I even kiss her. Already pleased to be chosen. Already mistaking my hands for interest.
The room cheers at something. Someone laughs. Someone says my name.
Hearing that sound fixes everything. I kiss a groupie with Willow’s words still on my tongue and the taste of something I refuse to name rotting underneath.
So I take the noise.
I take the version of myself everyone claps for. And I bury the twist of what I really want in my chest so deep even I can pretend it was never there.