Chapter 37
CRIMINAL
Actions have consequences.
I know that.
It doesn’t change the fact that I’m so terrified I can barely breathe at the thought of facing my own consequences.
Every wrong decision is pounding through my head. Kissing Devon in the parking lot, then punching him. Leaning on his best friend when I had no right. What happened in Chicago. The tour bus kiss. Sleeping with Devon.
However right those moments seemed at the time, I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve made a terrible mistake.
I steady myself, forcing slow breaths to calm the waves of panic.
My heart rattles in my chest, frantic and uneven, threatening to burst through.
Fuck, what have I done?
Slipping out from under Devon’s heavy arm, I slide on my pajama pants before tiptoeing out of the room and into the restroom. His cum is still leaking out of my ass, sticking to my inner thighs while remnants of my own release cover my stomach. My lips are puffy and swollen from our kisses.
Still in a fog, I start cleaning myself. A shower would be ideal, but someone might wonder why I’m in here so late. Kelly or Terry might ask the question I can’t answer—the same question I ask myself: Why didn’t I tell Devon about Michael?
I scrub the washcloth over my chest and stomach, rinse it, and then clean between my legs. My chin wobbles, so I bite my bottom lip.
How can I want Devon but kiss his best friend? How did I let that happen? Am I just a whore like those men said? A cockslut eager to be filled and discarded?
I know that’s not true. I want love. Sex is easy—a natural response. Instinct for most people. Bodies, hormones, brain chemistry, whatever drives the choice.
But love? That demands more.
Love means honesty and trust. It’s a blind fall. But I’ve been peeking, searching for a safety net, afraid of the rocks below. I can’t pretend nothing happened. I can’t ignore Devon after this. I told him I wanted this.
Him.
Us.
I wad up the soiled rag and toss it in the trash. Leaning over the counter, I glare at my own reflection—eyes bloodshot, lips swollen.
The right thing to do is to tell Devon how I'm feeling. That would be mature and responsible. But the nagging voice buzzes in my ear—You know how he feels about Michael. And I do. He’s said so, again and again.
If I admit Michael crept into my space, lay in bed beside me, kissed me—and that I wanted it—Devon will never forgive me. The jealousy I tasted was nothing compared to what he’ll feel. The ache of loving someone for years, only to learn they want someone else, will break him.
Does Michael want me, though? Or was that just…a fluke?
Up until a few days ago, I didn’t think he liked men.
Before I make any rash decisions, I should find out. I should sit him down and talk to him. Losing Devon is too high a price to pay without something concrete. Damn it. How the hell do I manage to put myself in these situations?
Professionally, I’m unstoppable.
Personally, I’m a disaster, burning out from my own choices.
Days pass, and I don’t get to talk to Michael.
On the bus, he’s hidden in his bunk or busy. At venues, he’s wrapped up in sound check and the show. He avoids me whenever I get a chance. I can’t chase him with six sets of eyes watching my every move.
After the shows, back on the road, Devon finds his way into my bed.
We haven’t had sex again since that first night, but we’ve come close.
I’m lost in the newness of his affection, and when I’m with him, my sense of moral obligation fades completely.
He can keep my focus locked in our bubble.
Even though I shouldn’t, I thrive under his attention.
I’m…happy.
Butterflies explode in my stomach whenever I hear the slide of the flimsy door open.
I float on air when he slips under the covers, holding me close and whispering sweet nothings—a lifeline I cling to.
It feels like Chicago was just an appetizer, and now I’m experiencing the five-star meal. With the tour fully underway, downtime is hard to find. Even small pit stops for breakfast or a quick shower pass too quickly.
Currently, we’re in Billings, having looped through Oregon, Washington, skipped Idaho, and entered Montana. From here, we’re headed south for Denver.
As if my sex and love life weren’t complicated enough, Nils has sent over a revised contract after the scuffle in Chicago.
I’m surprised it’s taken him this long to send it.
With my laptop perched on my knees, I scroll through the seemingly endless document while the band is at soundcheck.
Not much has changed from the original contract they signed back in summer.
Dreadful is still signed for the next three albums, pending sales and traction; then the contract will be up for renegotiation.
I skim through, seeing nothing unusual, until I reach the very end and my breath hitches.
My eyes flutter closed as I pinch the bridge of my nose.
I reread it six times, every muscle tight. Kingsport is replacing Devon after the tour with their own producers. Nils promised we’d talk, that nothing was final. Yet here it is, written down. I can almost feel the chill of betrayal.
Devon took the fight too far and was the sole person the producer named in his rant to Nils.
Fuck.
The band has to sign this. Last time, they didn’t reread the contract. If I weren’t trying to distract myself, I’d have missed it. I close my laptop, slip it in its carrier, and pull out my phone. I need to call Nils.
Right. Now.