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Ineluctable (adj.) inescapable; irresistible
___________
I never stop thinking about her.
Not when I’m working. Not when I’m with the band or visiting Flynn. Not when I’m picking up the pieces of my father’s life. Not even when I’m asleep, because every fucking time I close my eyes, I dream about her.
It’s been over a month, and I can’t let her go and there is obviously something wrong with me.
I knew when I was with her, when she was fucking laying in my arms, sleeping in my bed, and leaving me eating out of the palm of her hand with the way her body moved on top of mine... I knew she was trouble. Not because she is anything less than a goddamn angel on Earth, but because I would risk it all for her. Every fucking piece of my soul. I would give everything up for her in a heartbeat and never look back because the way I feel with Isla is a way I’ve never, in my entire life, felt with anyone. And I fucked it all up just like I knew I would.
This is why I don’t fucking fall in love.
I run my fingers through my hair, the top growing out too long for my liking but apparently not long enough to take the time to go to the barber I like in the city.
I have called her every single day for over thirty days and not once has she picked up. I get it. I know I fucked-up with her; I probably ruined any chance I ever had to begin with by saying what I said to her. She’s too good for me and I know this, but I can’t live the rest of my life without her knowing just how sorry I am.
I open my email to check and see if there’s any updates about Hellfire and the legal battle we’re currently fighting—and winning—against them. There isn’t and since I don’t have much to do these days aside from help Frankie at the record shop and bare my soul to my notebook, I decide to scroll through social media.
The only upside to any of the shit that’s gone down is the fact that I’m writing. And the shit I’m writing is good. I’m the most critical person when it comes to my own work, and I can say that the words I’ve been penning are fucking good.
I just wish it didn’t take me fucking my life up in order to get back into writing decent songs.
Isla’s story is one of the first few circles on my Instagram homepage. I debate whether or I should click it or not. I know the best thing to do is to keep on scrolling, but I want to know what she’s doing, if she’s painting or singing or studying. I want to know how her parents are and if Veronica hates me—which I’m sure she does.
I just want to know she’s okay.
Against my better judgment, I click on it because fuck not being an emotional mess today, right? I’m better when I’m fucking distraught. My best songs are written when I feel like I can’t get any lower.
The first picture on her story is a mirror selfie. The phone is in her hand, pointed at the mirror, snapping a photo of the most drop-dead gorgeous woman on the entire planet. Her free hand is tangled in her hair, brushing her long, dark locks out of her face. It’s a pose you’d see in Maxim Magazine, head tilted to the side, hand in her hair, big brown doe eyes giving the camera a ‘come fuck me’ look.
Yeah, I don’t want any other man looking at this photo, let alone touching her. Ever. My skin heats.
She’s not wearing anything super revealing; just a tight white crop top that forms to her breasts and fans out at the bottom, paired with black jeans that ride low on her waist, but it doesn’t matter. She would look sexy as hell wearing a goddamn hot dog suit. I tear my eyes away from the perfection on the screen and the second slide that pops up is a quote with music in the background. The song is Little Bit of Love by Tom Grennan. I’ve never heard it before, and the lyrics stagger about on the screen as what I assume is the chorus plays in the background. It’s upbeat and catchy, and I suddenly feel myself swaying to the beat as I’m reading the words.
A dude with a raspy voice sings about trying to make his way back to the love of his life, and it’s eerily reminiscent on the thoughts I have every fucking day about Isla. She knows me too well. Scary for the amount of time we’ve known each other. A miniscule glimmer of hope flashes through my mind that maybe she feels this way about me. That tiny spark of hope is quickly burnt out when the next picture flashes on my phone screen.
She’s with fucking Jax Demond.
No.
She’s not. She is not with Jax fucking Demond.
But she is.
I peer at the picture through rage-filled eyes and my heart beats so fast I can feel the thumping pulsating in my neck.
She’s in one of the studios Jax works out of, the one the band worked with him in. She’s fucking tagged him in a photo of the mixing board and wrote, Hanging with @jdemond_pro.
My eyebrows pull together as I look and see she just uploaded that twenty minutes ago. I told her he was bad news. My anger boils over and the only thing I can think clearly about right now is getting her away from that rat bastard. He isn’t going to try shit with her. My mind flashes to when he got Declan alone in the studio after we all had gone home one night. How none of us thought anything of leaving her there with him since he was a professional and we were lucky to be in his presence.
Fucking worthless piece of shit.
I grab my car keys off the hook and leave my penthouse, letting the door slam behind me. I need to get to Isla.
Forty-Seven
Isla
