Chapter 33
“Had to Leave” - Babytakeoff + SouthSideAce
Rhett
God, I hate social media. Before the tour, I loved connecting with my fans, but since the comments started getting nastier, I’ve stopped monitoring them as much. Of course, that’s because someone else was doing it for me, but I refuse to think about her.
She hasn’t replied to any of my messages, not that I can blame her. What hurts the most, though, is seeing that she’s read them and still chose not to respond. Before, I could convince myself that her phone was turned off. Now there’s no denying that she’s ignoring me. We’re officially over.
The number of comments on my posts has only increased in the past few days, thanks to those stupid videos that went viral, talking about the scandal that was mine and Saylor’s relationship. It seems everyone and their grandma has an opinion about it that they think we should hear.
They’re calling me an asshole rock star who took advantage of a married woman. (That one might be half-true.) They’re saying I hate the military, and that I set out to hurt a soldier who was protecting me. (Definitely not true.) The worst ones, though, are the ones directed at Saylor.
They accuse her of everything under the sun, including seducing me for the fame, swindling me out of millions of dollars, and using me as some kind of ladder to further her career goals. All of that is absolutely preposterous, and anyone who knows Saylor will know how far it is from the truth.
But that doesn’t stop the blood from rising to my face every time I read another comment.
I nearly respond to some of them, telling them to fuck off with their stupidity, but Saylor’s words come back to haunt me, reminding me it never does any good.
It will only add fuel to the fire if they see me interacting with them.
I pressured her into this situation. She told me no so many times I lost count, but I couldn’t stand the fact that she turned me down. I could have had any girl I wanted, so when she didn’t fall at my feet in gratitude at my invitation, it frustrated me. I was determined to add her to my fan club.
I ended up doing a whole lot more than that.
I should have seen it coming, I guess. From the beginning, she fascinated me.
Even at summer camp, she stood out among the hundreds of other kids there.
And it wasn’t just her looks either, although those are fucking incredible.
It was the way she carried herself, like she didn’t need anyone else’s approval.
I fell hard back then, and I fell hard again this time. Who knows—maybe I never really got over her in the first place. It’s fucked up in so many ways, but I would literally give anything right now to be able to hold her one more time.
We’re on the bus, driving to some city in the southern United States, but honestly, I’ve stopped keeping track at this point. After the disaster in New Orleans, the end of this tour can’t come fast enough.
The record label hasn’t made a final decision yet. I can’t blame them if they cut me, although all of this buzz does seem to be increasing my downloads. Either way, I don’t give a shit what they end up doing. None of it’s worth it if she’s not beside me.
Damn it, I wasn’t going to think about her, and now I can’t stop.
Last night, I ended up sprawled across the other side of the bed and on her pillow.
When I woke up, I caught a faint hint of her scent on the fabric.
It made me angry that I hadn’t realized it was there before, that I’d gone nights without inhaling it, that it was nearly faded and I hadn’t clung to it while I could.
What is she doing right now? Did she patch things up with that bastard who doesn’t deserve her?
Or are they actually over, like she said?
I clench my fists until I can feel my nails pressing into my palms at the thought of him having her, touching her body, his hands in her hair, on her hips.
Their mouths pressing together, her moaning when he tips her back—
I toss my phone across the bus, and it hits a kitchen cupboard before falling to the floor. The guys look up from their card game.
“What the fuck, mate?” Jamal asks.
I ignore him and go to retrieve it. Not because I particularly want it, but because if Eddie tries calling, I’m contractually obligated to be available to him. And if Saylor decides to call—
What a fucking idiot. She’s not going to call. That much became evident the second I realized she wasn’t going to text me back. Why the fuck am I always chasing her? I finally went too far and chased her away from me for good.
I’m dreading the show tonight. I apologized to the band for the way I handled New Orleans, but it’s only a matter of time before I screw things up again. Who knew a feisty girl with black curls, brown skin, and a smart mouth would be the key to me performing well?
There was just something about knowing she was close by that allowed me to relax and play my fucking heart out.
The night I saw her in the pit, I thought I was going to explode.
She looked so fucking beautiful, and seeing her was so unexpected, I forgot what the hell I was doing for half a second.
I think that was the night I officially fell.
I pull up her contact card in my phone and stare at the photo of us she snapped one day when we were goofing around on the bus. I have my arm slung around her neck, pulling her in close. Her brown eyes are wide and sparkling with laughter, that beautiful mouth pulled into a dazzling smile.
God, I miss her so much it physically hurts. There’s this ache in my chest that won’t go away. Is that why they call it heartbreak? Because it literally feels like your heart is breaking into a thousand tiny pieces?
I never thought I’d say this, but I’m actually looking forward to going home. I miss my friends, I miss not being stuck on a bus for hours at a time, I miss being able to hop into my car and drive anywhere I want without a bodyguard hovering beside me.
Will I get the chance to see her when I get home? It’s a question that’s been playing on a loop in my head. With the end of the tour in sight, it’s only a matter of time until we’re both back in the same city.
The question is, does she want to see me?
Judging by her silence, I’m guessing the answer is no.
After the way I reacted, the way I fucking doubted her, it would take a miracle for her to ever trust me again.
I don’t deserve her trust, and I definitely don’t deserve her.
More than the douchebag she married, maybe, but not by much.
Still, I ran into her once. What’s to stop it from happening again? Would pulling a dick move like that just push her further away? Or does she miss me just enough that she wouldn’t run?
I rub a hand over my face and lean back against the sofa.
It’s all stupid anyway. It doesn’t matter if I see her again or not.
Things are fucked up between us, and there’s no going back.
She’s married, and I’m not the kind of guy she wants anyway.
I have enough fucked-up problems of my own that she doesn’t need in her life.
I’d be doing her a favor by staying away.
So then why the fuck do I keep imagining bumping into her somewhere, watching the look of surprise widen her eyes, her mouth pulling into a small O, a faint blush creeping into her cheeks? I need to scrub her from my memory, but it looks like that won’t be happening anytime soon.
I grab my guitar from where it’s propped against the seat beside me. There’s a melody that’s been haunting me for days, and so far I haven’t managed to capture it properly, which pisses me off. What kind of musician am I if I can’t compose the song in my own head?
Opening the notes app on my phone, I strum the chords I typed out: G-flat, B-flat minor, E-flat minor, D-flat. I run through the progression several times, switching up the order.
Chase looks up from the table. “Something new?”
I glance at him and nod. “Can’t quite capture it.”
He tosses his cards onto the table and moves to sit opposite me. “Try adding an A-flat to the end of each stanza.”
I do as he suggests, and he’s right. It sounds much better. “Thanks, mate,” I say, giving him a look that I hope appears appreciative. I am—I’m just having a hard time smiling these days.
“What do you have for lyrics?” he asks.
I clench my jaw and strum a few more times, suddenly wishing he would fuck off and leave me alone.
He can even have his A-flat back. It’s not that I don’t have lyrics, but I’ll jump off a building before I share them with anyone besides the person they were written about.
“It’s just a melody at this point,” I say.
He nods, because he really is a cool guy. “I could help you put something together if you want.”
I bite back the less-than-friendly retort on my tongue. “I appreciate it. I’ll let you know if I have trouble.”
“Sure thing.” He slaps his hands on his thighs and stands, then moves into the kitchenette to grab something from the fridge.
I slump back after he walks away. The words are composed, but I haven’t had the courage to write them down yet, maybe because doing so would only make it real.
If I keep them in my head, I can pretend that this whole thing was a fluke, a dream, a fucking nightmare that I’ll wake up from.
I’ll wake up, and she’ll be beside me, that sleep-drunk grin on her face as she watches me watching her.
There won’t be another guy out there with a claim on her. It will just be the two of us, in love and on the brink of a future I never knew could look so bright. The label can have their contract—I don’t give a damn. Because without Saylor beside me in those beat-up combat boots, nothing matters.