Page 4 of Chasin’s Surrender

How the hell could he have been so wrong?

2

I heard the back door slam and barely stopped myself from running after Chasin and explaining. I eyed my phone and debated calling Bobby back and asking her if she’d catch a red-eye to Maryland. Better yet, I’d send a plane and she’d be here in six hours to hold my hand through another colossal screw-up.

But I didn’t do either of those things.

Why’d I get out of bed? I should’ve stayed where I was, tucked close to Chasin in my big warm bed. Then I would’ve woken up in the morning warm and snug. Well, it wasn’t exactly mine, it was my uncle’s, considering he owned this monster of a house. I couldn’t say it was horrible, just huge, cold, and extravagant. It’d been in our family for generations, passed down to the first-born son.

Besides, it was better I’d found out Chasin wasn’t the man I’d thought he was. So no, I wasn’t chasing after some asshole, even if I’d been stupid and thought we’d had a connection. Thought that he wanted to get to know me, the real me—Genevieve.

I should’ve known better.

He was just like everyone else jumping to conclusions about me, thinking they knew who I was because they saw me in the news rags, caught an interview, or listened to my music.

Everyone thought they knew Vivi Rush.

Everyone thought they knew, but really, they didn’t know shit. They had no idea that after all the years being in the spotlight, I still cried when people said nasty things about me. I still flinched when some uppity bitch called me fat because I wasn’t a size four. Hell, I wasn’t even a size six, and that was okay.

Likewise, I still got a thrill when someone told me they liked my music, and I was touched beyond measure when someone told me my music had sparked some sort of emotion. I still appreciated every fan, even the ones who bashed me, because it meant they were still listening.

What I didn’t appreciate was people making assumptions about me. Calling me rich girl, privileged, or spouting shit like my big break was about luck rather than the eighteen-hour days I’d put in for years, writing, recording, open mic nights, working two jobs to afford studio time.

I’d never been lucky in my whole damn life.

But people will think what they think. They’ll say mean, nasty shit, not caring that there’s a real person on the other end of the venom.

So fuck Chasin Murray and his good looks, charm, and sense of humor. Fuck his stupid dick, his magical mouth, strong hands, and nimble fingers. But mostly, fuck him for making me believe that there were still good people in the world and that I’d been lucky for once in my life and I’d found someone who fit me so perfectly that I had to fight the urge to grab my guitar and notepad and write a song.

And he did all of that in one weekend.

No, he didn’t, he’d done all of that in a matter of minutes.

Minutes. That was all it had taken for me to fall head over heels in love.

Fuck him. Fuck my life. And triple-fuck the asshole that had sent my life into a state of panic and alarm, scaring Bobby, my assistant, and my record label so badly I was forced to go into hiding at my uncle’s house in Kent County, Maryland. Population—nothing, middle of nowhere.

Okay, if I was being honest, I was a little scared, too. But I wasn’t admitting it because my best friend was overprotective, and if she knew how freaked out I really was, we’d be on a jet to Siberia. I didn’t want to live in Siberia so I was keeping the nightmares to myself.

Though with Chasin in my bed, I hadn’t had a single bad dream.

God!

Why were people such assholes?

I trudged up the stairs thinking I should be thankful I’d gone downstairs to get a drink of water, saw I had two missed texts from Bobby and called her back, because now I knew I was wrong about Chasin.

But what if I’d ignored Bobby and gone back to Chasin?

God, I was stupid.

Once I hit the landing, instead of going left to the master I went right into one of the smaller bedrooms where I’d set up my guitars. Just because I was in hiding didn’t mean I wouldn’t be working. My publicist was a genius—she’d spun the story that I’d disappeared to write my next album. To make that true, I needed to work.

I may be a coward, hiding out in this big, huge, cold mansion, but I wasn’t the liar Chasin had accused me of being.

I walked to the stand and picked up my favorite PRS guitar. Everything about this instrument was pure beauty, from the sound, to the Macassar ebony headstock, ebony fretboard, the vine and flower abalone inlays, all the way down to the curly maple body and pauna purfling.

I owned more expensive guitars but this one was my favorite. I’d bought it from the man who’d commissioned it from Paul Reed Smith. It wasn’t just a guitar, it was a work of art.