51. Rory
RORY
After I shower and dress, I return to the small back lounge where Layla is in her pack and play.
I pause to read a text message.
Quinn: Hey! Sorry I missed you tonight. I was hoping we could catch up.
I’m not ready to share anything personal so I go with something vague.
Me: I wasn’t feeling well. Let’s touch base in Chicago.
Quinn’s been kind to me, carefully ignoring the elephant in the room, that the label is pushing the Marlowe and Jace “narrative.” She knows we’re really married. Jace mentioned it that first day in Daytona.
I’d like to see her one more time before I leave the tour.
With a heavy heart, I turn to Layla. “Hey, ladybug. Let’s go to bed.”
She holds her arms up as she bounces at the edge, and I pick her up.
It’s strange not to attend tonight’s show, but I need to regroup. My conversation with Jace this afternoon made me so conflicted, but mostly, I’m wrung out emotionally, like I could pull the covers over my head and sleep for a month.
But at the end of the day, this comes down to one factor. If Jace doesn’t love me, what am I doing here?
Exhausted, I head to my bunk, pull back the curtain, and freeze.
Because on the center of the bed is a grocery sack.
I back away like it’s a bomb. Outside, thunder rumbles and lightning strikes and rain hammers the bus, making me flinch when the lights flicker.
“Screw this.” I’m tired of being scared. I put Layla back in her playpen and grab the stupid bag.
The top is stapled shut, and I tear it open and peek inside, where there’s another note.
Written in the same blocky writing as the last card, it says, YOU NEVER SAID WHETHER YOU LIKED MY OTHER GIFT. THAT’S RUDE. I LIKED SHREDDING YOUR CLOTHES. BUT I HAVE SOMETHING EVEN BETTER. HERE’S A PHOTO YOU MIGHT ENJOY.
At the bottom of the sack is a picture. I pick it up. The image bends because it was printed on paper. In color, not black and white.
It’s a photo of Jace and Marlowe, standing outside, maybe in an alley. Maybe behind the studio? He’s bracing his arm against a brick wall, facing her, while he smirks at her and she grins up at him like she’s in love.
The joke’s on this psycho. Did she want to make me cry? I’m all cried out today, asshole.
I stare at the image so long, it goes blurry. Shaking my head, I blink quickly. That’s when I realize there’s writing on the back, so I flip it around. It says, HE’S MINE NOW. DON’T YOU SEE THAT?
Has this been Marlowe all along? On this tour, she’s had ample opportunity, being at the exact places we were anytime we got a delivery from the Cherry Smasher. She was even on our bus all afternoon. Or maybe she paid someone to deliver this.
But what about those early gifts, the ones sent before the tour started?
Did Marlowe ghost Jace initially but send him these creepy gifts as a way to keep her hooks in him? Or process her loss? Is she sending me these items now as a victory lap? Has she been our deranged stalker all this time while smiling for the cameras?
Or is it someone I’d never suspect?
I sit with that thought for a few minutes.
I hadn’t heard from Quinn for a while until tonight, and it coincides with a Cherry Smasher delivery. She’s been at most of our concert dates, so she’s had opportunities to make those deliveries.
No. It can’t be her. She’s always been nice to me, and she doesn’t give off stalker vibes in any way.
I get Layla to bed and wait up to talk to Jace. He should know who he’s dealing with. When I suspect his post-show VIP line is wrapping up, I text him.
Me: Can we talk when you get back? I got another delivery. Everyone is okay, though.
Me: Keep this between us.
Because I have no idea if someone on our bus is helping this weirdo.
Five minutes later, he stomps down the corridor, panting. “What happened?” Water drips off his face, and I hand him my towel.
“I got a Cherry Smasher special.” I point to the bunk opposite us where I put the package.
After he dries his hands and face, he reads the card and the writing on the photo. “What the fuck? We should call the cops. If Marlowe’s behind this… Jesus.” Closing his eyes, he drops his head back.
“I thought you’d want to know.” I don’t bring up the photo, which he and Marlowe probably took when they were recording this week. He’ll say it was a promo shot, and I’ll nod because we just broke up.
“I’m glad you’re okay.”
I get into bed and pull the covers up, careful not to disturb Layla, who’s sleeping on top of my comforter with her own blanket on the other side of me.
“I was in the shower when this happened, so I don’t know who was here.
But sometimes Ozzie leaves and Edmond goes out to smoke.
I was too creeped out to check. What if someone boarded the bus while they were gone?
The baby was right there.” I cover my mouth because I don’t want to think about the nightmare that could’ve unfolded.
Jace mutters several curses. “Give me ten minutes.” He grabs a duffle from his bunk and ducks into the bathroom, emerging a few minutes later with damp hair and droplets all over his chest, wearing only shorts. “Scoot over,” he says as he stands at the side of my bunk.
“There’s not much room.”
“Aurora.” He gently grabs my face. “Some asshole waltzed in here while you were in the bathroom, basically right under my fucking nose. I can’t protect you and my daughter from over there.” He points across the aisle to his bunk.
That’s a good point. Truthfully, I don’t want to sleep alone. “Okay.”
“Scoot. I’ll stay above the covers. I promise to be respectful.”
I turn my back to him, and he slides in behind me. “You’re ice cold.” This is stupid. I tug at my blanket. “Get under the blanket before you freeze.”
“I’m gonna have to spoon you, or I’ll end up on the floor,” he says quietly against my ear.
Am I okay with that? I suppose it’s nothing we haven’t done before, so I nod. When he wraps his arm around me, I shiver. “Has anyone ever told you you’re a menace?” A menace I’m going to miss every day for the foreseeable future.
He chuckles and squeezes me. “Once or twice.” He kisses the back of my head. “Go to sleep.”
Wrapped in his strong arms, surrounded by his scent, I can almost forget that we just broke up and I’m leaving in two weeks.