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“You wouldn’t.” I challenge on a growl, my position unwavering, my eyes narrowing to slits.
Until he pulls out his phone, that is. He punches at the screen and I sit up, throwing my twisted-up lower half over the side of the couch.
“Fuck you, Mac!” I snap an arm out, trying to steal the phone from him, but I’m too slow.
“Get in the fucking shower. You reek.” He pockets the device but stands guard over me like he doesn’t trust I’m not a four-year-old refusing bath time.
He’s not wrong … I have no intention of getting up.
“Fuck you, bro.” I scoff, my skin slicked with sweat from our tussle, unlocking all the raunchy grime I’ve built up and making me scrunch my nose.
“Love you, bro. Now go.” He nods in the direction of the bathroom, arms crossing over his torso.
“I hate you right now.” Defeated at my own game, I struggle from the covers and leave them in a heap on the floor as I defiantly pad down the hall with a growl and into the tiled room.
Steam billows from the shower when I turn on the tap, fogging up the glass door and the mirror, and I swipe away the moisture to get a look at myself for the first time in weeks.
Jesus, I look as hungover as I feel.
My throat and my liver hurts from drinking nothing more than alcohol over the last few days, maybe even weeks, my eyes are dry and bloodshot from too much focus on the tiny screen of my phone and my voice still hasn’t entirely recovered from my scream session that landed us a hit album.
My eyes are sunk in and highlighted by dark circles. I can feel my collarbones and hipbones more pronounced than before thanks to completely giving up on my workout regimen. In fact, all routines I once held have gone out the window, along with the motivation to give a shit.
Shaking my head, I reach up to scratch at the scruff that’s grown in and darkened my jaw.
I’m done selling my soul for the benefit of others.
My beliefs have been shaken down to the very foundation I laid them on, leaving behind a messed-up head. I should probably see a shrink about that, and maybe I will one day, but for right now, all I care about is sinking into the tile ofthe shower and hoping that the water melts me away down the drain.
Leaning over the sink, I snag the toothbrush there and begin scrubbing away the hair from my mouth.
What else do you do when your dream has become a nightmare?
I can’t even be in a car accident—which wasn’t a damn accident by the way—without the public accusing me of evading police.
Running from the cops.
Yeah, that’s right. I saw the articles the day after Aria left for home. I went searching, trying to make sure she was still safe, that her name or face hadn’t tipped the public, and found the tabloids exploiting my being chased down and ending up in the hospital.
Those same magazines and news outlets that commend me for building animal shelters and rescuing tornado victims.
She was fucking there with me. I was too close to destroying her anonymity, to ruining her life. To thieving the one thing I fucking wish I had right now.
Privacy.
So instead, I’ve taken to sending one of the Sentry guys to look out for her, and the sisters, and admiring the one picture I took of her, hoping that she’ll text me anyways.
She hasn’t.
She won’t.
The way I left it with her ensured that. It was a forever kind of goodbye.
I take one last look at my reflection before stripping and walking into the spray of lava coming from the showerhead. The pressure beats against my back as I slide down to the cold tile underneath, and I let it weld my skin and burn me until I’m a prune of a man.
Even my tattoos threaten to seep out of my skin if I don’t get my shit together.
Still, I ignore the knock on the door.
