Chapter 17
“She Knows It” - Steven Rodriguez
Saylor
Rhett’s gone when I return from the restroom. I check the entire party suite, but he’s not in any of the small groups clustered around the edges of the space, and he sure as hell isn’t in the crowd of groupies mooning over Randy Cole.
Do they have any idea how desperate they look, clawing at him, laughing at his stupid jokes, tossing their hair over their shoulders? I wonder which one of them—or rather, how many of them—will be “lucky” enough to go back to Randy’s room with him.
It’s disgusting, but it’s also par for the course in this world.
Maybe that’s where Rhett is right now, banging some eager groupie in a hotel room while I search for him. The thought fills me with dread, but I can’t be mad, can I? We’re not a real couple—definitely not in that way—so if he wants to sleep with someone else, he has every right.
The only way to lessen the chances of that would be to sleep with him myself. He’s got to be missing sex by now. God knows I am, but when your spouse is in the military, you learn to get really good at using a vibrator.
Moral of the story? I’m not sleeping with Rhett, no matter how badly either of us may want it.
And the queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach at the thought of him fucking some other girl against a hotel room door needs to get the hell out of town.
Because Rhett and I are nothing more than platonic friends.
It’s more probable that he’s fallen into trouble, snuck off to do a line of coke—or god forbid, insidion—in a room where I won’t see him.
As soon as the thought registers, the likelihood of it slams into me. His father’s a jackass, there’s no denying that. And as much as Rhett might want to defend him to me, I know that he knows it’s the truth.
What do you do when you’ve waited five years to see your dad again, only for him to ignore you in favor of a bunch of girls who barely look old enough to drink?
If you’re Rhett Cole, you probably try to drown out the noise.
Leo is standing outside in the corridor, doing something on his phone. He snaps to attention when I approach. His brows furrow at what must be a stricken look on my face. “What’s wrong?” he says.
“I can’t find Rhett. I’m afraid—” I stop. I’m the only one here who knows about his addiction. “I just need to know where he is.”
If he ends up being strung out in a back alley somewhere, he can claw his own way out of the shitstorm that will bring. Finding him before he does something even more stupid is more important than keeping his security team from discovering the truth.
Leo touches his earpiece and murmurs something quietly. Then he looks at me. “He’s on the bus.”
Relief courses through me before I realize he could be defiling the bus with his debauchery just as easily as anywhere else. Maybe more easily. There’s only one way to find out.
“Take me there?” I say. We’re leaving tonight anyway, and I’ve had enough of the Randy Cole after-party.
Bear is standing outside the luxury tour bus, and he opens the door so I can climb on. The lounge lights are dim, and the sound of soft music floats in the air. Shit. What if he does have a girl here? Do I play the part of betrayed woman or flippant girlfriend who’s only here for the perks?
I’m still trying to decide as I quietly walk through the lounge. A startled scream gets caught in my throat when I spy Rhett sitting on one of the sofas, guitar propped on his legs.
“Fuck, you scared me,” I say, clutching my heart.
He doesn’t look up, just keeps strumming. “Where’d you think I was?”
“Uh, the bedroom?”
Strum, strum, strum. “Doing what?”
“I don’t know.” I sink onto the sofa opposite him. “Maybe not what, but whom?”
His eyes flick up, catching me in his gaze. “You thought I was fucking someone? In our bed?”
I frown. “It’s not our bed. It’s . . .” I trail off because I don’t know what it is. Technically, we both sleep there, but that’s a far cry from labeling it “our bed.”
His fingers halt on the strings. “Until this arrangement is over, it’s our bed.”
I swallow the lump in my throat, which is now the size of my fist. “Okay. Our bed.” I nod, even though my heart is racing a million miles an hour around a racetrack I have no idea how to get off of or if I even want to, because this is what he does to me.
He drops his gaze back to his guitar. “And for the record, I will never fuck someone else while we’re together.”
My throat and mouth go dry. I try swallowing again, but it doesn’t do much good. “But we’re not really together,” I squeak out.
“Let me tell you something, Saylor.” His eyes flash like lightning. “I don’t cheat. Not on my real girlfriends, and not on my fake ones.”
This settles into my heart like a dog searching for the perfect spot to curl up for a nap. My guilt buzzes, a fly preventing full relaxation.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I shouldn’t have assumed. To be honest, I was more worried I’d find you passed out in an alley somewhere.”
Rhett snorts but starts playing again. “I don’t need a babysitter.”
“Then why did you hire one?”
He gives one final downstroke, then moves the guitar off his lap with such speed, I sit back in my chair and blink at him. “What do you want, Saylor?”
What are words again? “I just want to make sure you’re okay.”
“I’m fine,” he bites out.
“You don’t sound fine.”
He stands up abruptly and stalks to the small fridge, yanking it open. He grabs a can of grapefruit water and pops the tab before taking a long drink. Then he wipes his mouth with his wrist. “I was fine. I was fucking great until you invited him here.”
I’m speechless. It doesn’t happen often, and the feeling is crippling.
Ever since Rhett took me to the dentist to get my toothache taken care of, I’ve wanted to do something for him.
It took me a dozen tries and multiple gatekeepers to finally get ahold of Randy Cole.
Convincing him to attend his son’s concert was easier.
I had no idea what a prick he was, but even if I’d known, I probably would’ve invited him anyway, knowing how much it would mean to Rhett.
“Excuse me,” I say, getting to my feet as I discover language again. “You’re the one who wouldn’t shut up about wanting to see your dad. I was trying to do something nice.”
I heard something once, probably in a TikTok video.
“When a woman does something for a man, he doesn’t think she’s great.
He thinks he is.” Rhett will always have that perspective of me.
I uprooted my entire life to help him out, and what do I get out of it?
Several hundred thousand and the heartbreak of the century.
My words seem to suck the energy out of him. He sets his drink down and sags against the counter. “I know. I’m sorry.” He rubs a hand over his haggard face. “God, I shouldn’t have blamed you. None of this is your fault.”
I take a step closer, fighting the urge to comfort him. “I honestly thought you would appreciate it.” I wrap my arms around my middle, since I can’t wrap them around him.
“I did. I do,” he says. “It’s not your fault my dad’s a world-class jackass.”
“Has he always been like that?”
Rhett nods and sips his soda. “For as long as I can remember. He’d come around sometimes, but only when he stood to gain something from it. Publicity, a stroke to his ego, a quick fuck with my mum.” He shakes his head in disgust. “He only wanted us for what we could do for him.”
I roll his words around in my head, trying to decide if I should say what I’m thinking or stay quiet. Finally, I can’t hold it back any longer. “Sometimes that’s how I feel,” I say softly.
His brow pinches. “What do you mean?”
I close my eyes, already regretting mentioning anything. “Nothing.”
“Saylor.” Rhett’s voice holds a warning tone that makes my thighs clench together. The rest is unspoken, but it hangs in the air all the same. Tell me, or I’ll flip you over the sofa and fuck you senseless.
When did the tension in the room change? With every pulse of blood through my veins, my body becomes increasingly aware of his, mere feet away. I pinch the bridge of my nose. “That you only want me around for what I can do for you?” I say to the beige carpet.
His hands on my arms surprise me, but they feel right, like they belong there, like they’re the missing puzzle piece I’ve been searching for for days. He doesn’t move them, just holds on until I finally lift my gaze from the floor.
“I’m sorry. That’s not at all how I feel.” His face is earnest, his eyes wider than usual. “Forgive me?”
“Of course.” I nod quickly, ready to get this weird confrontation over with. I thought he’d get mad and we’d keep arguing. I definitely didn’t expect an apology and his touch searing my skin.
“You have my full attention the rest of the night. What do you want to do?”
I blink at him, my mouth hanging open. What do I want to do? What a loaded question. I glance around the room, searching for something to put distance between us, something to keep me from voicing what we both want.
My eyes land on the guitar propped against the sofa. “Teach me to play?”
His hands slide further down my arms, coming to rest at my elbows as he turns to look at it. “You really want to learn?”
It’s never crossed my mind before, not in any serious way, but suddenly the idea holds a strange appeal. “Yeah,” I say, “but I doubt I’ll be any good.”
He tsks and moves to sit back down. “Come here,” he says, and pats his legs.
I bite my lip and take a step closer. Before I can protest, he grabs my arm and pulls me into his lap. Technically, I’m sitting between his legs, his chest pressing into my back, his breath warm in my ear, his strong arms wrapped around mine, but the idea is the same.
He settles the guitar on my lap, then lifts my hands into the right position. “You’re going to put this finger here”—he presses it down on a string—“and this one here, and this one here.” After my left hand is in place, he hands me the pick. “Now strum.”
I do, and it sounds terrible. “You make it look so easy.”
His chuckle rumbles, sending tremors through my back. “I’ve been playing since I was four.”
He teaches me a few more chords, and by the time we’re done, I’ve made something that sounds halfway like music come out of the instrument.
“See?” he says, his mouth only inches away from my skin. “A natural talent.” He sets the guitar aside but doesn’t move me from between his legs.
“I’m not sure I’d call that natural,” I say, my voice sounding breathless.
“Oh yeah?” His fingers trail up my arm, causing goosebumps to break out. He seems to enjoy that, because he keeps doing it until I’m on the verge of shivering.
“Yeah,” I breathe out. I’m not even sure what we’re talking about anymore.
He brushes his warm lips against my shoulder, and I nearly combust. It feels a million times more intimate than any of the kisses we’ve shared, and those have been hot enough to earn a spot of their own in the galaxy.
“You’re wearing my shirt,” he murmurs, his mouth still pressed against my skin, branding me with his warmth, his scent, his intoxicating presence. “That’s so fucking hot.”
He lifts my hair and nuzzles the nape of my neck, sending a thousand sensations through my body that I most definitely should not be feeling for this man, who is nothing more than one bad idea away from breaking me forever.