36. Rory
RORY
Women bustle around me as I stare at my blotchy reflection in the mirror. I’m holed up in one of the stadium bathrooms because I’m too raw to see Jace at the VIP signing table.
“Are you okay?” a girl asks me, and I sniffle and nod.
I ignore the buzzing phone in my pocket and splash more water on my face. When I look up, I feel bad for the woman in my reflection. Raccoon eyes stare back, red and devastated. My ponytail droops.
Here’s the truth. Jace is way the hell out of my league.
That’s why Frank said no one would believe we’re really together. Because Jace is a music god, and I’m me.
I’m not saying I don’t have strengths or skills.
I’m a damn good librarian. I’m great with kids.
And apparently, I’m pretty decent at this whole social media thing.
Looks-wise, I’m pretty. I have an okay figure.
I’m in shape from running all over kingdom come on this tour while hauling a one-year-old.
But when I saw Marlowe up on that stage tonight with Jace, looking like a beautiful avenging angel out to get her man back, I fully grasped that I’ll never be able to compete.
This is why I swore I’d never fall for a guy like Jace again. Because the highs are incredible, but the lows are really fucking bad. And what did I do? Dive headfirst into this fake relationship like I have no sense or self-preservation.
If Marlowe is Jace’s red light, he’s my addiction, a sweet drug I know I need to quit.
I pump out some paper towels and wipe my eyes. This is stupid. I never should’ve agreed to come on this tour.
Am I overreacting? Maybe. But I can’t control how I feel even though I’m desperately trying to get a grip on my emotions.
Layla calls out to me, and I kneel next to her stroller and take off her headphones. “Honey, are you hungry? Do you want to eat?”
“Eat!” She claps and kicks her legs.
Poor thing is so sweaty. So am I. I wipe my forehead with my arm before I pull out a cloth diaper, dampen it, and wipe her face and neck and arms. “Better?”
“Behha.”
If Jace and I break up, I’ll lose Layla too. The thought makes my stomach hurt.
I dig through my backpack until I find her bottle, which I’ve kept cold with an ice pack. She needs to hydrate. She sucks it down and makes hungry little noises. That won’t hold her over long. I need to get her some dinner. I meant to bring her a snack, but it’s not in my bag.
Do I go back to the bus and skip the promo table? That’s not a tough decision tonight.
Screw the dumb promo table. Frank can take video if he wants it.
I finally brave my phone. The screen lights up with three missed calls from Jace. Yeah, I’m not calling him back right now.
I pull up our texts. There are four new ones.
Jace: I’m so sorry about tonight.
Jace: I swear I didn’t plan that.
Jace: Where are you?
Jace: Call me!
Layla kicks me, and I realize her father could be worried about her.
It’s a good reality check. Jace hired me for a job, not to be his bedmate. Just because we’re sleeping together doesn’t mean I can slack on my responsibilities with Layla.
So even though I’d like to toss my phone at the nearest concrete pillar and tell Jace to go fuck himself, I respond rather professionally, I think.
Me: I’m tired and I forgot Layla’s dinner. Headed back to the bus. Please tell Frank to record whatever he wants, and I’ll post it tomorrow.
I hit send and shove it in my purse.
More than anything, I feel stupid for encouraging Jace to do that duet. I can appreciate that he didn’t have much of a choice, but there I was, trying to be supportive, pushing him to sing with that gorgeous woman.
I’m so in my head, I forget to call Edmond to tell him I’m returning to the bus. I pause in the hallway because the next act has started. Marlowe.
Listening, I pause and close my eyes. She’s so versatile. Earlier, with Jace, her voice was light and airy. But now it’s huskier and more emotional.
If I didn’t hate her so much, I’d be a huge fan.
My feet weigh a hundred pounds as I push Layla’s stroller through the concourse. When I get outside, I breathe in the cool air, relieved I’m almost done for tonight. It’s drizzling, so I pull out a small blanket from my backpack and cover the baby.
I push the stroller through the main parking lot. It isn’t until we reach the back area that I realize it’s completely blocked off. What the hell?
As I stand in the rain, I realize I’ve never approached the bus this way. I’m always backstage where I access the tunnels the roadies use.
I bite my tongue so I don’t curse like a sailor.
I’ve never felt like I was going to have a full-blown meltdown as an adult, but here I am, once again on the verge of tears.
I’m not sure how, but I manage to keep my emotions in check. An eternity later, I’m backstage, hoping to avoid Jace. I spot him and his band on the opposite end of the large room where the production crew runs around and VIP fans wait in line, hoping to spend a minute with Wayward Sons.
Jace smiles and signs autographs while women fawn and gush and tell him he’s their favorite, batting their abnormally long eyelashes at him or shaking their large assets.
Jace doesn’t seem fazed at all by what happened tonight. Why am I the one tied up in knots when he’s freaking fine?
I don’t bother stopping. Just push Layla’s stroller behind the roadies and down the long underground hallway. Chilly air whistles by and footsteps echo along the concrete pathway.
When I reach the bus, I’m so tired, I could curl up on the ground right here and sleep.
I knock on the door, but it doesn’t open.
“Hello?” I shout and knock again.
Damn it. Edmond doesn’t know to expect me, although usually our driver’s here.
I try calling our security guard, but get his voicemail. “Hey, it’s Rory. I’m at the bus, but it’s locked up. Could you help me get in? Thanks.”
As I stand in the rain, shivering, I glance around at the dark parking lot, wishing I had thought this through better. Roadies from other bands walk by and stare at me. I feel like a drowned rat. Like that sad girl in the puddle when my landlady’s son saw me wipe out.
But after a long stretch when no one walks by, I start to worry. We haven’t had any deliveries from the Cherry Smasher in a while, but I can’t help but focus on that time she slashed our tire. She probably did it when we were all at a show. When no one was around.
Like right now.
“Miss Rory!” Edmond’s voice makes me jump. He waves as he trudges between the buses. “I’m so sorry. Let’s get you inside before you catch a cold.”
“It’s my fault. I should’ve called earlier. It slipped my mind.”
He helps me get Layla and her stroller on the bus. I toss our stuff down, wash my hands, make her some chicken nuggets and grab an apple. I get her situated in her high chair, and I cut up her food into bite-sized pieces.
“How’d the show go?” Edmond asks, like he always does.
“Great,” I say, like I always do.
Because everyone on this bus is here for the label. For the band’s success. For the bottom line.
There’s no room to freak out like I want to. Or complain. Or cry.
I have to wait until I’m alone to process tonight.
Numbness settles over me. It’s a familiar feeling. It’s what happened when I found Hayden with Taylor.
Not that Jace cheated with Marlowe. I know he didn’t have any choice about the show, but my heart is having a hard time telling reality from fiction.
As Layla eats, I stare out the window, past the rain and into the darkness.
When she’s done, I clean up our mess and pick up Layla, about to head to our room.
“Oh, miss, I almost forgot. Someone left you a package.” Edmond hands me a brown paper bag, the kind you get at the grocery store. Only the top is stapled shut.
“How do you know it was for me? It doesn’t have my name on it.”
“Some girl dropped it off for you. I thought maybe she was a friend.”
I set it on the table. “Can you hold Layla a minute?” When he agrees, I hand him the baby before I tear open the top of the bag and peer inside.
Who thought to send me a book? I smile, wondering if it’s a gift from Jace.
But then I see the title. The Shadow Behind Her.
It’s a thriller.
I don’t like thrillers.
Hesitant, I pick it up and read the back cover. It’s about a woman who stalks everyone her husband cheated on her with. Okay, that’s really not my speed. I’m about to set it aside when a red reading tab catches my eye.
I flip to the page it’s sticking out of. A passage is circled in red ink. It’s a letter from the stalker to one of the victims.
Bitch, can’t you see he’s mine? If you fuck this up for me, I’m going to fuck you up.