The lust in her eyes switches to anger. “Oh, that’s right! You don’t want me, but nobody else can have me either!”
When she jerks away from me, she trips over her jeans left lying on the floor. I grimace when she lands on her knees with a thud. When I assist her off the ground, her tear-filled eyes lock with mine. “Why don’t you want me?”
“I did want you, remember? It was you who didn’t wantme.”
She shakes her head, sending tears flinging off her cheeks. “I wanted you. I loved you.” She scrambles to her feet so her glazed-over eyes can dance between mine. “I still love you.”
“Then why did you leave?” My roar startles her, but I’m done reining in my anger. “Why were you a fucking coward who left without saying goodbye?”
When Kylie’s eyes dart away, no longer able to maintain my eye contact, I return them to my face via her chin, wanting to ensure she hears the words I should have spoken years ago. “I loved you,” I growl in an angry whisper. “And you fucking destroyed me.”
I storm out of the room, down the long hallway of the bus, and out into a parking lot that’s as empty as my heart felt when she left me two years ago today.
Chapter Twelve
Kylie
Someone please kill me. My brain is attempting to escape my skull through my eye sockets. My throat is dry and raw, and my stomach is swirling like a washing machine has been inserted in its place.
My eyes sluggishly open when something cool is placed against my forearm. Turning my gaze, I find Slater sitting on the bed next to me. His bloodshot brown eyes are staring down at me, full to brim with concern. I gingerly scoot up in the bed, lean my back against the black leather headboard, then accept the glass of water and tablets he’s offering.
“Drink it all,” he requests, his voice rough like he’s just woken up.
I finish the glass of water before handing it back to him. As my dry eyes scan the room, I rack my brain as to where I am. The room is done in black wooden cabinets and drawers. A glass frosted door is at one side and another black door in the middle. I’m fairly sure I’m not at a hotel because this room is smaller than any I’ve stayed in previously, and I’ve stayed in some tiny hotel rooms. Although this room is fancy in detailing, it’s the size of most walk-in closets.
“You’re on the tour bus.” When Slater pulls open a small section of blacked-out curtains, the sun shining through the crack adds to the thump of my skull. We must be moving, or I’m still drunk, because the trees lining the road’s edge are flicking past us.
“Where are we going?” My throat burns with every syllable I speak. It feels like I haven’t had a drink in a month.
“San Francisco.” My pounding head gets instant relief when he closes the curtain. “I arranged for someone to pack your stuff at the hotel. It should arrive in San Francisco not long after us.”
The next several minutes pass in silence. I don’t mind. It gives me time to study all the details of his face I’ve missed so much the past two years. He’s still very much the man I fell in love with. His dreads are a little bit longer, and the scruff on his chin could only be more devastating if it were tickling the sticky mess between my thighs.
When I scissor my legs together to dampen the buzz roaring through my veins, I realize I’m not wearing any pants. I’m wearing nothing but Slater’s shirt.
Holy shit! Does that mean…? Did we…?
My eyes rocket to Slater’s as my excitement turns catastrophic. I search his face for answers to the questions my mouth is failing to ask. He watches me just as intently, seemingly confused. I try to ease it by nudging my head to my bare legs.
He catches on to my silent grilling rather quickly. “Fuck me, Kylie! Is that what you think I’ve become? A man who takes home drunk women to fuck them?!”
His angry voice vibrates through to my stomach, curdling the mess to a point I can no longer ignore. With my hand clamped over my mouth, I dart out of bed, praying the vomit surging up my throat waits until I reach a bathroom.
Slater curses under his breath before he assists me into the bathroom, which, for future reference, is the black frosted glass door. While I vomit the glass of water I just drank into the porcelain toilet, Slater holds my hair out of my face. I’d die a thousand deaths of embarrassment if I didn’t already have one foot in the grave. This is horrific. I’ve never felt more ill—except those other times.
Once my stomach is void of liquid, Slater scoops me into his arms before returning me to bed. I crawl toward him, wanting to rest my head on his chest.
When he balks, I beg, “Just for a minute, please.” My head is thumping so much, the beat of his heart will make it more bearable. “You can go back to hating me tomorrow. I just need…” I try to think of a better word than “you,” but when I fail to find one, I go with it. “You. I need you, Slater.Please.”
When he nods, I rest my ear over his heart. His familiar scent floods my eyes with moisture, but it also helps me fall back into peaceful, uninterrupted sleep.
* * *
The next time I wake up, I’m the only person in the room. My head isn’t thumping as badly, and my stomach’s growls are more from hunger than being hungover. As I cautiously slide on my jeans from last night, a hum of laughter sounds through the wooden door. I make my way to the bathroom to run my fingers through my hair, trying to settle down the frazzled pieces before wetting some toilet paper to remove the make-up smeared on my face. When I locate a tube of toothpaste in the top drawer, I use my index finger as if it’s a toothbrush.
Although I look like shit, I feel better than I did ten minutes ago.
Once I’m half-presentable, I hesitantly open the wooden door and enter the hub of the tour bus, embarrassed I made a fool out of myself in front of my employer. The first person I spot while gliding down the aisle flanked by bunks is Slater. He’s sitting on a reclining swivel chair, perusing a biker magazine. When he smiles at me, Jenni follows the direction of his gaze. Also smiling, she bridges the gap between us.
