Chapter 37 Ellie
THIRTY-SEVEN
Ellie
After my parents left, I told myself I’d clean up the kitchen table, sort through the stack of half-finished lyrics, maybe answer some emails or revise set lists.
Instead, I drifted from room to room, like a stranger in a house that didn’t quite feel like mine anymore.
We were on a short break before the last leg of the tour, and for once, I had a few days at home.
My real home, the one I'd fought for, decorated, poured pieces of myself into over the years. I’d always loved San Francisco, but now, the silence here echoed.
I was curled up on the couch in leggings and an oversized hoodie, halfway through a true crime doc I’d already seen twice, when my phone dinged.
Rachel
What are you doing tonight?
Couch. Blanket. Possibly a murder show. You?
Change of plans. You’re going out with me.
No, I’m not.
Yes, you are. You need a night out. You’re starting to sound like a grandma.
I’ve got us into a new bar downtown. It’s supposed to be hot. Like, rooftop views and tattooed bartenders hot.
Girl, my social battery is in the negative
Pretty please? For me?
Ugh, fine.
Hehe, good. I’m on the way to your house.
I’ll be there in ten.
I stared at the phone for a second, then tossed it onto the cushion beside me and sighed.
When I wasn’t traveling or performing, I spent the last couple of weeks in my own head—spinning circles around my career, my feelings, and that damn journal I couldn’t stop researching, even when I came up empty every time.
When I wasn’t obsessing over the journal, I was obsessing over the man who owned the house it came from, with his stupid big muscles and that stupid, annoyingly handsome face.
Shit.
Maybe I needed a night out away from my thoughts.
I texted my security team and made my way to the closet. If I was going out, I might as well commit.
The rooftop bar was alive with bougie lighting, strings of lights that blended into the city skyline, and too many people to count.
Everyone around us looked like they either owned a yacht or wanted you to think they did.
This should have been my scene, but I wasn’t one for going out.
Usually, I preferred quieter corners and nights that didn’t feel like a performance.
With three drinks in me and a fourth on the way, I didn’t give a fuck anymore.
Ben and a few members of my security team lingered nearby, keeping watch.
Rachel shoved a pink cocktail in my hand. Something was floating in it—maybe fruit, maybe potpourri. Who was to say?
“It’s called...something French. I don’t remember,” she said, squinting. “The hot bartender told me it was good. I trusted his biceps.”
“You’re drunk.”
“I’m hydrated,” she slurred, raising her glass like a toast.
“That’s not water, babe.”
She held up her cucumber garnish like a trophy. “It has produce. It counts.”
We stumbled toward a half-lounge, half-dance-floor situation and collapsed onto a velvet bench. I immediately kicked off my heels. Feet, dead. Brain, soup. Dignity, gone.
Rachel curled her legs under her and gave me the look, the one that meant she was about to dig into something I definitely didn’t want to talk about.
“So…” she said, drawing the word out, “how’s the sexy football player?”
I stared into my drink like it might save me.
“Oh, there’s a story there,” she sang. “Tell me, tell me! Are we entering not-so-fake territory now?”
“I’m not talking about him. This is a Sawyer-free zone. Tonight is about being unbothered and relaxed.”
“Relaxed, huh? So…did he not help you relax?”
I groaned and dropped my head back against the booth. “He’s fine. It’s fine. Everything’s fine.”
Rachel sipped her drink and smirked. “You know you say that a lot, right?”
I glared at her. “Don’t make me throw your cucumber at you.”
She grinned. “Okay, but spill. Have you just been window shopping, or did you buy the whole damn place?”
I rolled my eyes. “What in the world is wrong with you?”
“Daddy issues.” She shrugged like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “But hey, that’s beside the point.”
“Nothing happened,” I slurred, heat rushing to my cheeks.
Rachel’s grin was wicked. “Liar! You definitely took that guy for a spin.”
I groaned.
“Oh, you so did.” She wagged a finger. “I see that post-orgasm glow.”
I covered my face with both hands, trying to disappear. “We didn’t have sex, okay?”
She gasped as if I’d told her I ran off to join a fucking circus. “Wait, wait—so you had full access and didn’t even go for a joyride? Not even a little test drive?”
“We didn’t…” I tried to protest, but it was a lost cause. The words came out halfhearted.
“Enough about what you didn’t do. What did you do? Tell me everything. Is he big? You take one look at that man and know he’s good in bed. Tell me.”
I took a huge sip of my drink to avoid speaking.
Rachel’s jaw dropped. “Oh my fucking God. He’s dirty, isn’t he?”
“I’m not talking about this.”
“You have to. I need to know if he does that thing with his hands. I know he does that thing with his hands.”
“He does a lot of things with his hands,” I muttered before realizing it had escaped aloud.
Rachel shrieked. “Ellie! You’re in love with the football player.”
“I am not.”
“Holy fuck,” she breathed, eyes wide. “You’re going to marry him. I can feel it.”
“Please stop. I’m already having an identity crisis.”
“Bitch, you’re spiraling in a sparkly dress. This is exactly what your twenties are for.”
“Why did I agree to come out again?”
“Because you love me, duh! You should text him.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Why the fuck not?” she asked.
“Because we…did stuff. And then I was like, ‘Hey, let’s maybe not do stuff anymore?’ And now it’s—ugh, weird and awkward and I hate everything.”
“Jesus,” she groaned. “Just text him. Say hi. You don’t have to propose.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Do I have to?”
“I’ll leave you alone about publicist things for a whole month.”
“A full month?”
“Well, like...three weeks. Ish. I’ll try really hard.”
“Fine.”
I pulled out my phone and sent him a quick message.
Hi
I turned the screen so she could see it then chucked it back in my bag.
“Hi? Hi! That’s it?” Rachel gaped. “You had full creative freedom, and you went with ‘hi’? Not even a ‘hey, big man, can’t stop thinking about your cock’?”
“You told me to say hi. And I didn’t even see his dick this time!”
Her jaw dropped. “What? This time? There was another?”
“No.”
“Ellie, when did you see his dick the first time?”
“Well, back at Christmas…”
“Oh my God.” She gasped. “What did you do?”
“I kinda walked in on him…” I winced, “doing some self-care.”
“So why didn’t you see his dick the second time? What the fuck did you do then?”
I shrugged. “We made out. He, um…went down on me then came in his pants, and we passed out.”
Rachel slapped her leg. “No fucking way.”
“It wasn’t, like, bad,” I rushed out, letting out a little whine. “It was so hot, Rach. He was just—into it. Like, dangerously into it.”
Her eyes were huge. “So, you’re telling me he got off just from—”
“Yeah.” I nodded.
She leaned back, shaking her head like I’d told her I met Jesus. “Girl. I hate you, and I love you, and I’m living vicariously through you. Say more words immediately.”
“What did you expect me to do? He’s over there all,” I mimicked his voice, “‘Ellie baby, use me. Take what you want from me.’ How the fuck could I resist that?”
Her jaw fell open. “He calls you Ellie baby? He said that?”
I whined. “I know, right?”
She grabbed my bag and pulled out my phone. “Oh, look, he texted back!”
I glanced at the screen.
SAWYER
Hey, what’s up?
“Oh! Text him where we’re at!”
“Why the hell would I do that?” I shot back.
She narrowed her eyes at me. “So he can come rescue you, obviously.”
“Last I checked, you wanted me out with you, not to ghost you.”
“Yeah, but honestly? I’m way more invested in hearing the play-by-play later.” She grinned, nodding at my phone. “Mind if I…?”
I rolled my eyes but handed it over. “Fine.”
She typed out a message, then showed it to me.
Oh nothing. Just getting a little tipsy with Rach. We’re at that new nightclub. Was thinking of you
“You sent him a fucking winky face?” I shouted.
“The winky face is elite. It’s flirty, mysterious, and says, ‘I might blow you later, but I also might not.’ Perfectly balanced.”
“I can’t with you.”
Just as Rachel opened her mouth to make it worse, a male voice cut through the music.
“Ellie Miles?”
We both turned. A guy stood there, probably in his late twenties, cute-ish, in a very LA way. Designer sneakers. Sculpted facial hair. Eyes just drunk enough to be brave.
“Uh, yeah,” I slurred, trying to sound cooler than I felt. “That’s me.”
He grinned. “I’m Jake. Big fan. I know, random. But hey, figured I’d shoot my shot. I mean, how often do you run into Ellie Miles?”
“Often, really,” Rachel said.
He laughed. “So what’s a superstar like you doing in a dive like this?”
“You know I have a boyfriend, right?”
“Doesn’t bother me,” Jake said, his eyes twinkling.
Rachel narrowed her eyes and typed on my phone again. “Well, it should, Jake.”
“What are you doing?” I asked her.
“Oh, just texting your boyfriend about how this Jake dude is hitting on you.”
I snatched my phone from her.
Oh yeah? :)
Mhm, now some guy named Jake is trying to hit on me and you aren’t here to save me :(
“Are you fucking insane?” I asked.
Rachel kicked her feet up, triumphant. “God, I hope he shows up. I want to witness that man’s jealousy in real time.”
Jake was still standing there, just…watching.
“You’re dismissed,” Rachel told him sweetly. “Thanks for playing.”
He blinked. “Seriously?”
“She’s in love, Jake,” Rachel said with faux sadness. “You never stood a chance.”
He muttered something and walked away. I slumped back into the booth, half-drunk, half-dead inside.
Rachel raised her glass with a grin. “To bad decisions, unresolved sexual tension, and your future as Mrs. Sawyer James.”
I clinked mine against hers. “To blackout-level mistakes!”
“Cheers, bitch.”