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I want…
I want to be fucking good for her. That’s all.
Except I just watched her run out nearly in tears, too hurt to talk to me, and that is all wrong. It’s backward. Unnatural.
London is mine and she can tell me anything, even when I’m the problem; even when my head’s lodged three feet up my ass.
Even when I’m being a goddamn Chicken Little.
“If you go now you can catch up to her,” Tudor murmurs, flicking over a page. “And I can get some peace.”
I flip him off and charge through the doorway.
“Rock stars,” the songwriter mutters, a low curse floating after me.
* * *
This building is a warren of corridors with dark blue carpets and white walls; framed album artwork and signed posters from famous musicians. Most doors lead to some kind of recording booth or music library, and we’ve been getting lost on our breaks all day.
Coffee. That’s what London said.
There’s a coffee shop three buildings down, so I need to find my way out onto the street. What floor are we on again?
God. I can’t believe I read that so wrong. Can’t believe I lodged my whole damn boot in my mouth. The carpet muffles my strides, my legs eating up the miles and miles of blue, and with every step, my gut sinks a bit further.
How badly have I messed up here?
Will she let me make this right?
I’m so snarled up in the tangle of my thoughts, I nearly charge past the small redhead curled up in an armchair, her face buried in her arms.
“London?”
She sniffs and looks up, blinking.
Her green eyes are wet. Fucking hell.
“Baby.” I fall to my knees, the thud dulled by the carpet, and grab the arms of her chair. There’s a white electric guitar mounted on the wall behind her, a name scrawled in sharpie on the enamel. “I messed up back there, I know I did. I was just worried for you, okay?”
“Worried what people will think,” London corrects, her voice hoarse.
“On your behalf, baby. It’s for you. Always for you. Do you really think I give a shit what people think of me otherwise? Do you think I’m tripping over myself trying to make a good impression?”
There’s a soft exhale, and London talks to her knees. “They’ll call you a cradle-snatcher, Dex. They’ll call you a dirty old rocker.”
“Let ‘em.” I crowd closer, my heart thumping. “I don’t give a shit about any of that if you don’t, London. I just want to be with you. Only you. Every minute of every damn day.”
There’s a long stretch of silence, and all I can hear is the stuttering thump of my heart. The rush of blood in my ears.
…There.
A wobbly smile curls her pink lips.
I rock back onto my heels, so relieved.
“I was gonna get a copy of that photo.” London’s voice is small. “Did you really hate it?”
“No.” As if I could hate any record of the two of us together. I could look like death warmed up in a photo with London, could look like something that crawled out of the sewers, but as long as my girl was in it too, I’d treasure the hell out of that image. “Get me one too, okay? I’m gonna frame it. Gonna take it from hotel to hotel and keep it on my nightstand.”
