I shove those feelings down deep. If I want this relationship to work, I can’t hide myself from him. It doesn’t stop my stomach from cramping, though.
“Those are really freaking good lyrics, baby,” he says, and I catch Darius give a knowing smirk. “Do you have a melody in mind already?”
His question draws both Blake’s and Keaton’s attention, the latter bringing the pan with him and holding it out to the side so it wouldn’t burn on the cooktop. He gives a grunt of agreement as Blake says, “It’s gritty, more rock than pop. I’d love to see what you do with it.”
“I’m not sure.” I let out a sigh, trying to relieve the tightness in my chest. “It might be a little too personal to share with anyone.”
Darius lowers his phone and focuses on me. “Isn’t that what makes the best music? When it’s too personal and comes from the depths of the soul?”
“He has a point, roomie.” Nash bumps his shoulder into mine. “We could work on it with you if you’d like.”
“Umm… Yeah, maybe. I’ll think about it.” My pen makes scratching noises against the paper as I doodle on the side, not really able to concentrate on anything.
I’m not sure how long we sit in the quiet, but it’s well past Keaton serving breakfast before Darius bursts out laughing.
“What’s so funny?” Nash asks, always a busybody. He perks his head up like he’s looking forward to the distraction. Sometimes off days seem to drag on too slowly when you’re used to the hustle and bustle of a grueling schedule.
Darius glances from his phone and takes his headphone off one ear. “What’s that?”
“You laughed?”
“Oh, yeah. Sorry, noise canceling,” Darius says, gesturing to the headset. “A video came up on my feed of fan reactions to last night’s show. They seem to think I’m the guy you’re dating, even though I joined after thatrumorstarted.”
“You’re fucking kidding,” Nash growls with a snarl.
The snap of Keaton’s drumstick shows his equal displeasure and Blake gestures gimme for the phone. Darius surprisingly hands it over and I stare in surprise at the hook at the top of the video.
#TeamDarius
What the hell does that even mean? Blake must wonder the same thing, because he taps on the icon to expand the comments. It quickly becomes clear that the Storm Chasers have been trying to puzzle out the rumors. In a lot of ways, my personal life has been somewhat private for the first time since I stepped into the limelight. I’ve become a mystery since I tried to kill myself—or rather rehab, because they don’t know that little tidbit.
Now, after the dance we shared, paired with it happening on Valentine’s Day, they’re assuming it’s him. Even those who point out he wasn’t here when the rumor broke are still shipping us.
Fuck. My. Life.
It’s already been rough battling the tension as it was between all the guys. This will make it so much worse…
We’ve made it through two more shows, Pittsburgh and Philly, bringing us to the big apple. Once we finish our New York City performance, we’ll have five days off and I can’t freaking wait. Alyssa has been up my ass trying to insert herself in every little thing she can. And if it wasn’t for Gill, I’m sure things would’ve derailed a thousand times over.
Now that I’m sober this time around, it’s so easy to see all the toxicity surrounding me. I’m not sure if the entire industry is like this—I really hope it isn’t—but it seems everything the owner of the label touches gets tainted.
Drugs are everywhere. Women who come in with backstage passes are either high, drunk, or both, leaving consent non-existent for the copious amounts of intercourse. Pills litter tables along with lines of coke, tempting me toward the numbness that became my home for so long. The only thing keeping me from falling into that trap is knowing it means he won.
I won’t lose myself again. I’ll fight to climb out of this snake pit until I’m free.
Then there’s Carmen who’s been spending so much time with Dickless getting groomed that she’s impossible to be around. Not that she was that great to be around from the moment we met. Her ego has been stroked so much, she acts like she’s queen of the tour, making outlandish demands and, to my horror, getting most of them.
Six shows down.
Tristan has been missing for just over a week with no sign of him.
Fuck.
“There she is!” The voice sends a chill down my spine, and my stomach flips before cramping. “My sweet angel, here to sing again.”
I should’ve been more careful about checking the rooms before I walk into them, but I grew complacent without seeing him the last several shows. We’re in the great NYC though, I should’ve assumed he’d be here.
“Uncle,” I greet, barely voicing the word without gritting my teeth. I fucking hate him, and that hate only grows each and every time I have to be around him. I can’t stop the memories from coming back of how he tricked me into it being okay to touch me, until it escalated to where he’d held me down, shoving my face into the bed as he ripped my clothes from my body and—
