37. Jace
JACE
Uneasy, I glance at my phone again, but Rory hasn’t responded since she texted she was going to the bus over an hour ago.
What the hell is going on with the VIP line tonight? It’s never-ending.
“Y’all were so good tonight,” a lady wearing a t-shirt with my face on it says.
“Thank you, ma’am. Glad you enjoyed it.” I scan the room. “Hang tight for one sec. I’ll be right back.”
When I reach Frank, who’s leaning against a pillar, he holds up his hands. “Just a little longer, Jace. We’re almost done.”
“I told you I need to check on Rory and Layla.”
He pats my back. “They’re fine. I just got a text from security that they made it to the bus.”
I have a sneaking suspicion Rory is not fucking fine, and I need to go, but if I ditch the signing, Frank will lose his shit.
Our fans pay extra to get backstage, and I feel responsible for making sure they have a good experience, but I don’t know how to balance that with my responsibility to my girls.
I’ve never been in this position before.
I sit next to Cooper and sign a few more autographs. I’m just about to sneak out when Marlowe and her band join us. Shit.
“Hey, y’all!” She acts like she’s surprised we’re back here and hugs several fans. Then she trots behind the table, but before I can get up, she pushes me down and plops herself on my lap.
“What the fuck, Marlowe,” I growl into her ear.
She hugs me like we’re long-lost friends. “Jace, smile for the camera!” She points to Frank, who’s giving us the thumbs-up as he takes video or whatever the hell he’s doing.
He must not like what’s on my face because he lowers his phone and glares at me.
That asshole.
Cooper elbows me. “Just do it, dude. Five minutes, remember?”
Almost every person in the VIP line has their camera pointed at us, and I blow out a breath and try to regain control of myself.
Pretend you’re holding Rory, man. Think back to the other night at the lookout.
Feeling like I just sold my soul to the Devil, I clear my throat and smile at Frank. He gives us a thumbs-up again while Marlowe wraps her arm around my neck and leans her head against mine. I bite my tongue so hard, I taste blood.
I can’t just get up and dump her on her ass, right? But I’ve had enough.
“Get off me,” I grit out.
Turning to face me, she juts out her bottom lip. “Don’t be like that. Just think about all the tickets we’re gonna sell. Our fans will eat this up.” She tries to hold my face, and I tilt my head away. “Why so mad? I thought you wanted this?” Her voice drops to a whisper. “I thought you wanted me.”
I laugh, and once I start, I can’t stop. “I wanted this three years ago. That ship has sailed.”
For a second, her mask slips and I see what I think is genuine emotion in her eyes. “I’m sorry about how things ended back then. I was overwhelmed and didn’t handle it well. If I could do it all over again—”
I cut her off because I’m not interested. “But you can’t, and that’s fine. I’m in a great place now. Thank you for showing me exactly what I don’t want in a relationship.”
Because back then, I thought I wanted someone like Marlowe. Someone who’d love this life. Someone who wanted to write songs with me and perform them together. Someone who loved living on the road and lived to sell out stadiums.
Marlowe’s eyes get shiny, and I feel like a dick. But she knows I’m in a fucking relationship. She’s either vying for me to dump Rory or cheat on her, neither of which are options.
Or maybe she just wants to sell tickets and doesn’t give a shit about me, which is honestly the best option.
I don’t need her to care about me. So I feign a smile and turn toward our fans, who are waiting to talk to us a few feet away from behind the VIP ropes.
Fine. Let’s sell this. “Who’s seen Marlowe’s show? It’s awesome, right?”
Everyone starts talking at once, and Marlowe finally gets off my fucking lap so she can be the center of attention.
And I sneak out before anyone can tell me I shouldn’t.
The bus is dark and quiet when I make it back. As I climb the stairs, I whip off my baseball cap and wipe the rain and sweat from my face. Inside, the only sound is the rain and the hum of the AC.
I don’t know what the hell I’m gonna tell Rory, how I’m gonna explain what happened at the show.
And I may know fuck all about relationships, but I see how my brothers hash things out with their women, Rhett and Paige in particular. Mav’s more easygoing and Beau’s loopy in love with Honey, but Rhett’s grumpier and he makes more mistakes. The man apologizes a lot.
I guess that’s where I need to start. With an apology.
As I walk by security, I hold up my hand. “Did the girls get in okay?”
Edmond’s wearing a fierce frown. “Listen. Uh, something… something happened.”
I freeze mid-step. “What do you mean? Are Rory and Layla okay?” I glance down the hall, but the door’s shut.
“I swear I wouldn’t have given it to her if I had known.” Given what? To who?
“Tell me everything, but first, are my girls okay?” I barely breathe as I wait for his response.
“Yeah. They’re good.”
Relieved, I stagger toward the couch and sit. “Tell me what happened.”
“A girl stopped me earlier. She said she had a delivery for Rory. You know Rory’s made a few friends on the tour, and I thought it was from one of those nice groupies.”
A gift from a groupie? I don’t like where this is going. “Show me the delivery.”
He points to the kitchen table. To a brown paper bag. On the other side of the bag, there’s a book lying on the table.
Anyone who knows Rory knows she likes to read. “Okay. And?”
“It’s about a stalker. Some woman who goes after girls who cheated with her boyfriend or husband. I don’t know, really.”
Weird, but I’m not into thrillers. “Did Rory not like the gift?” Because I’m confused.
He hangs his head a second, then grabs the paperback and starts flipping. Holds it open to a page that’s been marked up with a giant red pen.
When I read the letter that’s been circled, I clench my jaw. “Who the fuck dropped this off?”
“I don’t know, just some girl. I’ve never seen her before. But Jace? There’s more than the book.” He points to the grocery sack where there’s a Ziploc bag.
I flip the sack over and dump it on the table.
What the hell am I looking at? There’s a photo in the bag, but it’s hard to tell because there’s red liquid and food. Maybe fruit.
When I realize I’m looking at a photo of Rory, I stop breathing.
It all clicks together at the same time. It’s a photo of Rory earlier in the summer. At Daytona maybe.
And the reason I can’t see it well is because it’s sitting in a baggie of smashed cherries.
As I stare at the creepy gift, I feel like I’m in one of those long shots in Jaws when the camera zooms in. Like I’m Chief Brody staring at the beach when the shark attacks.
What the fuck?
“Call the cops. This has gone too far.”
Because the goddamn Cherry Smasher is sending my wife gifts.
This shit stops now.