7. Distraction
Distraction
I’m half-asleep, tangled in sheets, the adrenaline of the night finally starting to drain from my body, although Broderick’s touch still lingers on my skin.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand, its screen illuminating the silence of the dark.
Ugh. I roll over, stuffing my face into the pillow, trying desperately to ignore it.
Maybe I’m imagining things. But the buzzing only grows louder, more persistent.
Curiosity peaks, fine. I roll back over, reaching for my phone.
It’s 3 a.m., who could be calling me at this hour?
Unknown number.
My heart kicks up, I hesitate, thumb hovering over the screen, but something in me needs to know. I swipe to answer, pressing it to my ear.
“Hello?”
There’s a pause, heavy with static and breathing.
“Elena…”
His voice is rough, low, I recognize it immediately, blinking against the dark as all the hairs on my body come to life.
“Alex.”
“I miss you,” he slurs. “I—God, I miss you so much.”
Is he drunk?
I shut my eyes, my chest aching, caught somewhere between wanting to cry and wanting to throw the phone across the room.
He does miss me, but why does his confirmation hurt so much.
“I saw you…saw you…up there. Singing. Looking so fucking beautiful.”
My throat tightens, hope flickering in my heart. Was he there? Did he come to my show?
A mess of incoherent words tumble out of his mouth. “You were ours, you know?” he trails off muttering in Swedish.
Ours.
“Alex, are you okay?”
“Okay, okay. It’s…okay.” His voice sounds so defeated.
I clench my chest, fighting back the tears that threaten to form.
“I shouldn’t be talking to you…not allowed,” he says helplessly.
His words hit me like a sucker-punch.
I sit up.
“What do you mean, Alex? Not allowed? Who said you couldn’t talk to me?” I ask, desperate for answers, was this the reason he ended things?
Why wasn’t he allowed to speak to me?
“Don’t tell anyone,” Alex hiccups. “You were…magnificent. Online…” he adds, skating right past my question.
Online?
Why would he show up tonight when he didn’t bother to show up for my birthday?
My frustration simmers.
He groans and his breath becomes erratic. “All those songs…You wrote them for me, didn’t you?”
This was a complete U-turn down the wrong lane.
I grit my teeth. “I wrote them for me.”
He lets out a bitter little laugh. “Sure you did…darling.”
And it feels like a knife twisting into my heart.
He misses me but breaks up with me?
Every unanswered question he leaves—feels like poison in my mind.
His claim over my songs, my story, my feelings that he trampled on.
There’s a pause, and I can hear the clink of glass and the sound of him swallowing. He’s drinking. One thing I’ve realized—Alex is a sloppy drunk.
“Elena… I fucked up. I know I did. But...but we were good, weren’t we? You and me? It wasn’t all bad...”
The pieces of my broken heart rattle in my chest, because, for a second, I’m brought back to—us. Every memory, every first, every touch.
We were good, for a time, but then there were the lies. The omission of the truth. The betrayal. The way he broke my heart without so much as a reasonable explanation.
And now whatever this is.
“Alex…” I start, but my voice cracks, I try to swallow the lump in my throat, but it clings on tightly.
“Please,” he murmurs. “Just...tell me you miss me too, darling. Tell me it wasn’t all in my head.”
I close my eyes, my temper surging.
“You don’t get to call me like this,” I hiss, my words dripping with distain.
“You liked my photo, you miss me, I know it, please ?lskling, I need to hear it.”
The thought of the photo, the one I accidentally liked, him posing by her side.
She warned me, and I was stupid enough to get caught up in their twisted game.
It was a mistake.
I was the mistake.
I chose Alex because I thought he was the safe option, the right one. How stupid was I?
“No,” I cut him off, my pulse pounding in my ears. “You don’t get to miss me now. Not when you chose her. Not when you humiliated me and left me alone without so much as a why?” My voice shakes. “Why Alex?”
He goes quiet on the other end, only the sound of his breathing lets me know he’s still there.
My eyes sting—not from tears, I’ve shed enough of those for him—but from sheer exhaustion. His half-truths twist inside my mind, nothing adding up, and I’m too drained from tonight to keep chasing the honesty he continues to deny me.
“I need to go,” I say, my hands trembling.
“Darling, please…”
But I hang up before he can say anything else.
The phone slips from my hand onto the bed, and I sit there in the dark, chest heaving, pulse pounding in my ears.
How dare he?
After everything, he thinks he can call me up like this. After what he did.
What’s worse is a small, broken part of me wants to believe him.
Wants to pick up the phone, call him back, and say the words I’m too proud to admit out loud: Yes, I miss you too.
But I can’t. He might miss me. But he’s with her.
We were good, weren’t we?
I miss you.
I lay there for what feels like an eternity, reeling and replaying the events of the last few months, watching the sky shift outside my window from inky black to deep blue to shades of purple and pink bleeding into the city’s skyline.
His words echo over and over, clawing around in my chest.
You wrote them for me.
The quickest way to get over one man...is to get under another.
Riley’s words creep into my head as the sun peeks up over the adjoining building.
El, you could never be a burden, not to me.
Broderick’s voice soft and teasing, as the light of the morning blinds me. I shut my eyes for a moment, feeling its warmth radiate through me. Just like his touch.
What if Broderick could make me forget?
I roll over, burying my face in the pillow again, but sleep won’t come. It feels like I’m suffocating under the weight of it all.
Before long, I’m pacing my room—sleep evading me, casting glances at my phone. Eventually, I settle on a shower—anything to shake this restless, crawling feeling under my skin.
But even the water can’t wash it away.
Pulling on jeans and a loose sweater, my hair still damp as I sit on the edge of the bed, staring at my phone in my hand.
The idea taking root—tightening around my wavering resolve.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I hit his name, my fingers trembling as I press Call.
This is a bad idea.
It rings three times.
“Elena? Is everything okay?” His deep morning voice sends a ripple of shivers through me.
Hmm, I like the sound of it.
I close my eyes, swallowing hard. “I need to talk to you.”
There’s a pause, and when he speaks again, he sounds more awake—his voice heavy with concern.
“What’s going on, are you okay?”
“I…” I hesitate, my voice cracking. “I can’t do this over the phone. Can I come over?”
He’s quiet for a second, but then: “Yeah. Sure.”
I hang up before I can say anything else. The nerves getting the better of me.
A second later, a text pops up:
Broderick
Here’s my address.
Another text follows a moment later:
Broderick
Elevator and door code: 31374. Let yourself in.
I stare at my screen, heart pounding.
It’s not even 6 a.m. The city never sleeps, just like me tonight. I’m running on adrenaline, hormones and questionable choices.
I grab my bag and head for the door, my hands shaking as I slip on my jacket.
With no traffic this early in the morning, I arrive at Broderick’s place in no time. The doorman lets me in with little fuss, my heart pounding as I ride the elevator up.
This is a bad idea.
I punch in the code he texted me and let myself in.
His penthouse isn’t what I expected; open-plan with exposed beams, industrial but warm. Rustic. Lived in. Exposed brick walls, deep leather sofas, and eclectic rugs layered across dark wood floors. Somehow both masculine and cozy.
The kitchen, just off the main living space, looks like something out of a magazine—the kind of place any chef would weep over.
Clearly, the kitchen of someone who knows how to cook—and loves to.
I remember the grilled cheese sandwiches and breakfast he made me.
Though with how much Broderick travels, I wonder if he even has time to use it.
My eyes sweep over to the glass wall overlooking a rooftop patio, and even in the pale morning light, I can see it’s lined with lush greenery, hanging plants, and a hot tub glistening on the far side.
“Brody?” I call out, my voice a little unsure.
No answer.
I hear the hum of a TV somewhere down the hall.
“Broderick?” I call again, louder this time, my heartbeat starting to slow as the stillness of his place settles around me.
Until I round a corner.
And stop dead.
There he is.
In his home gym.
Shirtless. Sweaty.
Muscles flexing as he lifts weights in front of a mirrored wall, the smooth pull and strain of him focused on every motion.
Good Lord. His back.
Those arms. Corded and bulging.
My mouth drops before I can stop it.
What. A. Specimen.
A sharp jolt fires straight to my core, hot and undeniable.
This is a bad idea.
I’m still standing there like an idiot, eyes wide, mouth slightly open, when Broderick finally notices me.
He pauses mid-set, dropping the weights on the rack with a soft clunk.
Turning, chest glistening with sweat, he drags a towel over his face and neck before tossing it over his shoulder—and when his gaze lands on me, those sharp green eyes glint with amusement.
Oh God, I’m in trouble.
“Well,” Broderick drawls, as he leans back casually against an exercise contraption of some sort, arms crossed over his very bare, very sweaty chest. “Enjoying the view?”
I blink, cheeks burning, and immediately snap my eyes up to meet his—far too late, judging by the dimples and slow grin spread across his face.
“Sorry, I…” I stammer, clearing my throat and looking away like that’s going to erase the fact I’ve just undressed him twice over with my eyes. “I didn’t think you’d be, uh…working out.”
He raises a brow, still watching me, clearly loving every second of my discomfort.
“Well, it is six in the morning,” he teases, that smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Gotta start the day somehow.”