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Marisol swallowed hard and wished she’d brought her drink with her to the karaoke table to wash the acid back down into her stomach. She could just tell Cole that she wasn’t a porn star, had been STD free when she and Shane broke up, and, until last night, hadn’t had sex with anyone in two years, but she didn’t want to give him any more of her than what he’d taken already.
Her body wasn’t his to pass judgment on. It didn’t matter if he’d seen that tape. She was more than that tape. She was a person who had made a dumb judgment call and been betrayed by a man who had said he loved her, but she wasn’t trash.
Hell, even if she were a porn star, didn’t everyone deserve to fall in love? Didn’t people who have been sucked into a career that exploited them and used up their youth and innocence need love even more than a girl who grew up sheltered in a small town and married her high school sweetheart? Marisol didn’t know when society decided only virgins and “good” girls were worthy of happily ever after, but she was sick of it, and she refused to let Cole ruin the best thing that had happened to her in years.
“I would never hurt Robert,” Marisol said, biting the words out swiftly. “I have his best interests at heart in every single aspect of our relationship—professionally and personally—but that relationship is between him and me. What we do, or don’t do, and what we decide to tell each other, is our business, not yours. And that’s the end of this conversation.”
Cole frowned. “Now listen, I’m not trying to be a dick, but I can’t—”
“And if you ever put your hands on me again, you’re going to regret it,” Marisol said, fighting to keep her volume controlled as a wave of rage washed through her body, making her tremble. “Just because you watched me have sex, doesn’t mean you have the right to touch me. The only men who have that right are the ones who have earned my trust, and who treat me with respect.”
Cole started to speak, but Marisol was already walking away, her pulse racing and her hands shaking as she crossed the room. She felt torn between the urge to vomit and the urge to punch something—hard.
How dare this come back to haunt her now, when she was finally happy and moving on? Was she never going to be free of it? She kept thinking enough time had passed for the footage to have become lost in the vast cache of internet pornography, but she was repeatedly proved wrong. Wrong, again and again, and now she had to deal with the very real possibility that Cole would ignore her warning and tell Robert about the tapes.
There was only one way to protect herself and their new relationship. She had to make sure Robert heard the truth from her lips before he heard lies from someone else’s. He’d said himself that when people care about you, they don’t give up on you because you make mistakes. And he was a kind and understanding person. Surely he would see that her mistakes with Shane were her past, and the good thing they’d found together was her future.
But what if he doesn’t? What if he goes looking for the footage, sees all the things you let Shane do to you, and decides he doesn’t want you anymore? What if he starts looking at you the way Cole just did, like you’re something dirty he wouldn’t want to touch without a full body condom?
Panicked by the thought, Marisol bypassed the table where Sawyer and Ugly Ross sat, chatting over a fresh basket of chips, and headed for the bar, where she asked the bartender for a double shot of whiskey. The moment he set the tumbler down, she tipped it back, letting the amber liquid burn a trail down to her belly, taking some of the acid and fear with it.
She set the heavy glass down with a ragged breath, and was debating ordering another, just to make sure she was good and numb when she went outside to find Robert and tell him all the gory details, when his arms wrapped around her from behind.
She knew they were his arms immediately, because he touched her like she was precious, not something dirty to be used and discarded, or judged and found lacking.
She closed her eyes and prayed he would still touch her like this when he knew, prayed for it harder than she’d prayed since the night Shane called to tell her he was sending their sex tape to her parents if she didn’t let him out of their contract before he signed his lucrative record deal.
“Hey sexy, they’re calling our names, didn’t you hear?” Robert asked, kissing her neck. He stilled the moment his lips touched her skin and pulled away, obviously sensing her distress. “What’s wrong? Did something happen while I was outside?”
Marisol turned to face him, forcing a smile. “Nothing that can’t wait for later. Let’s go sing.”
“Are you sure?” he asked, watching her carefully. “We don’t have to if you don’t feel like it.”
“No, I do,” she said, speaking the truth as she took Robert’s hand and led him toward the distressed planks of the stage, flanked by two neon iguanas flickering against the brick walls.
Right now, there was nothing she would rather do than get up on stage and wail out a power ballad with Robert by her side. Since the moment Cole had held that phone up between them, she’d wanted to scream, but singing was an even better release. For her, singing had always been the way she poured out the emotions bottled up inside her.
As a little girl, it had been a safe way to express her longing to fit in. As a young woman, it had been the place where she funneled all her desire to be something more than another pretty girl from a poverty-stricken town who ended up pregnant before she was old enough to vote. She hadn’t wanted to fall in love, only to see all the passion and excitement in her relationship drained away by years of working too hard for too little. She’d wanted excitement, adventure, and the run-over-by-a-freight-train kind of romance her country idols sang about.
The kind of love that left you breathless, shameless, and helpless to resist being swept away.
Later tonight, when Robert learned the truth about her past, there was a chance she would come crashing back to earth, but right now she was going to climb onto that stage beside him and get swept away.
CHAPTERFIFTEEN
Something was wrong.Code red wrong. In the ten minutes he’d been outside, Marisol’s energy had gone from upbeat and sunny to doom and gloom with a chance of attacking zombies.
Bubba tried to tell himself she was just nervous about getting up to sing in front of a room full of strangers, but this was more than nerves. Sure, she laughed when they turned to face the crowd and the regulars who knew him broke into applause, but her eyes looked haunted, and for the first time in longer than he could remember, Bubba didn’t want to sing.
He wanted to bundle Marisol offstage and far away from whatever had upset her. He wanted to get her alone, hold her close, and promise her that together they would get through whatever had her scared. No matter how quickly they’d gone from friends to lovers, when Bubba said “I love you” he meant it. When he said “I love you” it meant: I’m there for you, anytime, anyplace, any way you need me. He would call off his tour if that’s what it took to keep Marisol, let alone back out of a stupid karaoke performance.
But before he could signal for Dwight to cut the music, the first low, lilting piano chords of a familiar country song filled the air. Bubba had enough time to recognize “Don’t You Wanna Stay,” and realize Marisol had chosen a duet with a challenging woman’s harmony line and even more challenging high notes, and it was time for him to sing the first verse.
His lips parted and the notes emerged with smooth, easy confidence, even though all he could think about was how hard this song was going to be for Marisol, and how much he wished he’d helped her choose something simpler. The fact that he didn’t sound anxious made him pretty sure he was going to transition from playing bars to performing in sold out arenas without too many growing pains, but he also knew this wasn’t going to be the fun, lighthearted experience he’d hoped it would be.
Marisol had a good sense of humor, but she was sensitive when it came to her singing voice. She’d accompanied him endless times while helping him write songs, but she always plucked out notes on the guitar when suggesting alternative melodies, she never opened her mouth and sang along.
To say he wasn’t expecting much as they neared the jumping off place for the duet, would be putting it mildly. The truth was he was fighting the urge to drop the microphone, throw Marisol over his shoulder, and make a run for it. By the time he finished his verse and pink words had begun to scroll across the bottom of the television screen, signaling it was time for Marisol to join in, his heart was thudding uncomfortably in his chest, making it hard to draw in a deep breath.
