“What about my fragile ego,” I grumble under my breath. But she’s right. I saidI had fun. Those are not the words of a woman who wants more from a man than just one night. Those are classic one-night stand words.
“Shit. I screwed up.”
“Now she’s catching on.” Allie climbs off the bed, goes to her side of the room, and begins tossing things into her suitcase.
“What should I do, Allie?”
“I can’t tell you that, girl. You need to decide if you have the guts to call him after you walked out on him again. But decide fast, we have to head to the ferry terminal soon.” She turns back to her packing and I lay back down on my bed.
She’s right. We have to go home to our boring, normal lives. And my second night with Nash Parker will go down in history like the first one— as inspiration for future ménage à moi sessions, and a cool story I pull out at girls night. Minus the filthy details, of course.
Eventually I get up and throw all of my own stuff into a bag, put it in the back of Allie’s car, and we go to the ferry terminal. She doesn’t say another word to me about Nash the entire journey home but I don’t miss the looks she gives me every time I check my phone.
My very silent phone.
Chapter six
Nash
“What the fuck is wrong with you, man?”
Archer, my drummer, drops his sticks down with a clatter and glares at me. He’s got good reason to be pissed; that’s the third time I’ve fucked up this song in rehearsals. And seeing as it’s one of my most popular singles, and I’ve sung it a thousand times, I shouldn’t be making these mistakes.
I sit down on an amp and look at my band. These guys have been the rock supporting me on this crazy journey since day one. We’ve traveled the world together, performed in front of millions, watched our star rise and rise until it could go no further. Two Grammy’s, another two nominations, one Super Bowl halftime show, countless interviews and award show performances. We’ve done it all, and now I’m acting like a fucking amateur who can’t carry a tune. All because I let Emma walk away from me four weeks ago. Yeah, I’ve been a grumpy asshole for a month now. Thank fuck we aren’t on tour anymore; at least my mistakes are only in front of the band. That’s embarrassing enough.
Eli, who plays bass, walks over and drops to the floor nearby. “You’ve been a mess for a month, dude. Ever since that show on Vancouver Island.”
Archer and Lennox, my guitarist, walk over to join us.
“Is this about that girl you hooked up with?” Archer asks, and I shrug, not really sure what to say, or how much to say. It’s not that I’m a guy who hates to talk about feelings, hell, the group of us have been through more breakups and makeups then I can count. We’ve talked about all kinds of shit. But this is different. Emma is different. And something makes me not want to share that just yet.
“Yeah, it’s about her. Sorry guys, I’ll pull my head outta my ass and get it together. We’re not here to talk shit about women. We’re here to practice. I’ll pull myself together. Let’s run it again.”
I stand up and walk back to my mic before I look back at the guys. None of them are buying it, but they know when to let me be. We launch back into the song, and this time I make it through without a mistake. The rest of rehearsal goes a lot better, mostly because I force all thoughts of Emma away into a vault. Can’t quite bring myself to lock it and throw away the key, however.
Later that night, at home in the penthouse I purchased a few weeks ago that looks out over the downtown Vancouver skyline, I sit in the dark and crack the door to the vault. I close my eyes and let memories of Emma wash over me. Her body moving over top of mine, the smell of her hair tickling my nostrils while we slept tangled together, her laugh sounding sweeter than my favourite melody.
She’s somewhere out there in the city, and knowing she’s close by is a special kind of torture. Our record label has studios in Nashville and in Vancouver, and when it came time to decide where to record our albums, we were unanimous that it had to be here. Something about coming home always brings out the best in us as musicians. Yet for some reason, I never bothered to get a place, content to just stay in hotels. That is, until I learned that Emma lives in the city. Buying this place was probably a rash decision, seeing as I haven’t talked to the woman who motivated the purchase in weeks. But I just needed to be close to her, even if I never see her again.
Maybe if I had asked her to stay, I wouldn’t be such a pathetic lovesick fool, but I didn’t. All because of what she said.It was fun.If that’s all it was to her, then I sure as fuck am not calling her after all this time. All I would be doing by reaching out is rubbing salt in the wound on my heart. My stupid fucking heart that wanted more. Instead, I’ll just keep tormenting myself every time I see a woman with long brown hair walking down the sidewalk.
The next morning, I pull on some clothes, grab a ball cap, and head down the street to a local coffee shop that I discovered the first week I moved in. The staff is cool and they don’t treat me any differently just because I’m famous. That’s honestly the best part about being back in Vancouver. It’s a lot easier to keep a lower profile up here.
Coffee in hand, I decide to go for a walk down by the beach. It’s early enough in the day that it isn’t too hot, and the sidewalk isn’t crowded with tourists. My phone rings, and when I look down, I see that it’s Roberto.
“What’s up?” I say as a greeting, tossing my empty coffee cup in a nearby trash can, turning to start walking back to my apartment building.
“Have you been online yet today?”
I stop walking. Nothing good ever comes from that question. “No, why?”
“Because Sierra Sloan decided to share some interesting photos of the two of you. Judging by what I can see in the background, it’s from the Rumble Records party last year, but she’s trying to make it seem like it was recent.”
“Shit.” I was a mess at the Rumble party last year. Our record label’s annual bash is always a crazy night, with booze overflowing. Last year I overindulged and ended up getting a little too close to one of the label’s other artists. Sierra loves the limelight and is known in the industry for doing whatever it takes to get the media to focus on her. If she’s sharing those photos where we are both far too drunk and way too handsy, it can only mean one thing. She’s craving attention. And with the Rolling Stone cover of me that came out six weeks ago, she clearly thinks she can get some by being associated with me.
“Can you get it pulled? Have her manager issue some sort of retraction statement? This is bullshit, Roberto.”
“I know, I know. I’m trying.” My manager sounds annoyed. I know this kind of crap causes a ton of work for him, but then again, that’s what he’s paid for. “If your drunk ass hadn’t decided to flirt with her last year, this wouldn’t be happening.”
