Risky Rockstar: A Hero Club Novel, стр. 77
I close my eyes, wishing I could blame the wind for the stirring emotions in me—for the blinding pain and the hollow nothingness that pierces me like cancer—and will myself back to the car.
One step.
Two steps.
Three steps.
Don’t look back. Don’t look back.
The driver opens my door. I brush his hand away and get in the car, slamming the door behind me.
You will not cry. You will not cry.
I won’t have Benji’s goon see me break apart. I won’t be fodder for another headline, and I won’t give in to the pain. I’m bitter. I recognize this and wonder briefly if this is a good or a bad thing, but the bottom line is it doesn’t matter.
Nothing matters.
My phone digs into me as I sit, and I remove it from my back pocket. Staring at the screen, I see I have four missed calls. Two are from Sam, one is from Amy, and the other is from Bridget. I know what they all called for: to congratulate me for the great interview. They don’t know about Kade and me—they’re calling to say they’re thrilled.
The driver gets back in the car and pulls out of the 7-Eleven, leaving Kade behind, leaving my life behind. A lump forms in my throat, and I know if I speak to anyone right now, I’ll cry. I pocket my phone again and lean against the back headrest.
Closing my eyes, I take controlled breaths, in and out, until I can get home and let this all out.
♫♫♫
I close the door the minute my driveway gate shuts and sink to the floor. Wrapping my arms around my legs, I rest my head on my knees and let the sobs tear free. My stomach hollows out as I think about how Kade looked right through me when he told me he was done. How empty I feel knowing he’ll never quirk his crooked grin at me again or tug me into his arms to hold me like I’m treasured.
I pull my knees in tighter, trying to hold myself in because it feels like I’m ripping apart. I don’t know how long I cry, but when I’m done, I feel no better than when I started, and all I’m left with is an emptiness I can’t bear.
How are we going to carry out the last few dates? How will I stand having him touch me onstage when I know he’s only doing it because he has to? God, why was I stupid enough to start something like that?
The answer is simple: because I thought Kade was the one, and I was sure I’d never lose him.
I swipe at the fresh tears and stand, heading to the kitchen to make myself some tea. Remembering that I need to return Sam’s calls, I take out my phone and stare at the screen. God, I can’t deal with this right now. Feeling more exhausted than I’ve ever felt in my whole life, I put down my phone, switch off the kettle, and head to my room.
Maybe I’ll be lucky enough to pass out from exhaustion and get a few hours of respite from the pain.
Chapter 40
Kade
I throw the ball against the wall and catch it when it bounces back, then repeat the process. Throw and catch, throw and catch. I’ve been doing this ever since I got back from the 7-Eleven. I don’t even know how long it’s been or where the ball came from—it was just lying next to the wooden patio chair I decided to occupy when I got up here. I needed an escape, a place to think about everything that went down today, and the studio is my happy place. Especially the roof.
Well, usually. Tonight, I’m too messed up to appreciate anything.
I look around the space Jeff spent months creating for us to chill in. We razz him relentlessly about it, but if truth be told, we do most of our best work up here. The rooftop is decorated with Asian-style furniture. There’s a seating area with a bench, two chairs, and a table that has the mini-fridge. Straight ahead is a matching planter box with a dwarf Japanese maple and a glass water wall, which is doing shit to chill me out right now, and to the right is a six-piece patio set. The edges of the rooftop walls are lined with white pebbles and at least a dozen potted ornamental bamboo plants set in stainless steel containers.
The only thing missing is space heaters. It’s cold up here, and vapor puffs out my mouth with every exhalation. There’s not a cloud in the sky tonight, and for once, the city is clear of smog, so it looks like I can bounce the ball off the blanket of stars.
A bottle of Jack sits on the table alongside my beat-up mug Maddie keeps getting on my ass about throwing away. Its once-white ceramic is stained from coffee, and there’s a chip right next to the handle, but I’m sentimental about it. It’s the first thing I bought when we hit it big, and they’re gonna have to bury me with it. I don’t pour the drink. I know if I do, I’ll end up on the same slippery slope I went down after Emily left, and I can’t afford to do that. So it remains on the table, cap sealed, proving to me that I still have some control, even if it’s only in one avenue of my life.
I continue to play catch with the ball. I still can’t believe the shit Hayley pulled today. I’d almost fucking convinced myself that she had a good reason for doing the interview. Like maybe Benji strong-armed her with talks of publicity and sales, and she just wanted to get it out the way so we could have a conversation? But then she goes and pulls the intimacy bullshit that has me counting each fucking thwack against the wall so I don’t