I know I have an addictive personality. It’s something everyone has probably learned about me by now. And I’m scared I could easily trade in my current addictions—booze, sex—for her. An addiction to love is something that has scarred me in the past.
Now I’m left wondering what happens to me when I trade my current vices in for Nora. Or when this thing, whatever the hell it is, blows up in both of our faces.
Two days later, I’m attempting to take advantage of the late start to my day by sleeping in. However, it isn’t my lucky day because apparently Monica has other plans for me. After fielding three calls from her, I finally answer the fourth time.
“Hello?” Clearing the frog in my throat, I pull the phone away from my ear to see that it’s only seven AM. I inwardly groan. So much for sleeping in.
“Were you asleep?” Monica asks, and if I’m not mistaken there’s a judgmental tone to it.
“I have the day off,” I whisper, trying not to wake up the five other dancers in the bunks nearby. Propping myself up on one elbow, I shift the phone against my ear. These bunks aren’t the most spacious quarters. The ceiling above me is too low to allow me to fully sit up without bumping my head.
“No, you don’t. I want to meet with you. I’ll be outside your bus in fifteen minutes. Be ready.” The phone line goes dead before I can even string together a response.
Groaning, I throw my phone on the mattress next to me. I rub the heels of my hands over my eyes as dread settles in my stomach. I was naïve to think Monica wouldn’t say anything about the leaked photos of me and Nash. The pictures of us at the festival were apparently the most interesting thing in the tabloids for the last two days. My follower count on Instagram has been skyrocketing. Anytime I check my tagged photos, I find photos of me and Nash at the festival all throughout my feed.
It turns out people were taking photos of us far before we left the venue. I woke up yesterday morning to a million texts from Riley, all of them screenshots of me and Nash throughout the day. She sent at least twenty different angles of the two of us making out before I threatened to block her.
If I never saw pictures of me kissing again it’d be too soon. I’ve found myself over-analyzing my hand placement and the angle of my head. If someone would’ve told me a year ago that my tongue in Nash Pierce’s mouth would be front page on every gossip site, I would’ve checked them for a concussion. But in a wild twist of events, this is my life now.
Unfortunately, my life now also involves Monica Masters, and I’ve wasted three minutes dissecting the paparazzi photos from the other night for the thousandth time. If I don’t get my ass out of this bed as soon as possible, I’m going to be talking to the ever so chic Monica in my fraying flannel pajama bottoms.
Pulling on the bunk curtain as quietly as possible, I climb out, trying my best not to disturb the curtain of the bed below mine. Once my bare feet land safely on the carpeted floor, I search for my suitcase and pull out the first outfit I find. Then, I tiptoe my way to the bathroom.
Once I’m inside, after grabbing my toiletry bag from the shelf to my left, I quickly brush my teeth. Now that I have about ten minutes until Monica gets here, I decide to get ballsy and pull out my mascara. I do a few coats on each side before throwing the tube back in my bag. I do a quick job of brushing my hair, and after realizing I don’t have time to use an excessive amount of dry shampoo, I decide on putting it up in a messy bun. My fingers slide the ponytail holder off my wrist, quickly maneuvering my hair into a large mass on top of my head.
As fast as I can, I strip out of what I slept in and pull on the outfit I grabbed from my bag. I pull the leggings on, seeing then that I’d snagged a pair of my black moto tights, so the kneecaps and up the sides of my thighs are now covered in faux leather. Making sure my nipples aren’t greeting Monica this morning as well, I throw on a strappy black sports bra.
Last on my body is a light pink long-sleeve T-shirt, the back of it completely open from my shoulders to the middle of my back.
I give myself one last once-over in the small bathroom mirror before deciding this is as good as it’s going to get in the time Monica gave me. Opening the door, I flip the light switch off and then quietly pad down the narrow hallway. No one has left their bunks in the time it took me to get ready, which makes me let out a sigh of relief. The last thing I wanted to do this morning was explain to one of my peers why I was meeting with Nash’s manager.
Taking a seat on the soft leather couch of our makeshift living room, I hastily pull on my socks and sneakers. My phone is in my hand as I leave the bus and head outside.
I find Monica standing a few feet away from the door with a look of annoyance on her face. A quick glance at my phone alerts me to the fact that I still had four minutes before I would’ve been categorized as late.
“Took you long enough.” Monica sighs, her eyes slipping from my face and down my body. It dawns on me that she doesn’t have her cell phone glued to her hand for once.
“I wasn’t aware we had a meeting this morning,” I tell her, adding under my breath, “let alone a meeting before the sun has barely risen…”
She lets out a puff of air, which is the most of a laugh I’ve ever heard her give. “Oh, Nora, didn’t you know the most productive people are up before the sun rises?” The bottom of her heel taps on the asphalt below her, her eyebrows raised as she waits for me to answer.
“I wasn’t informed of that tidbit of information,” I respond, taking in her immaculate appearance. She’s got a full face of makeup on; and her hair is in perfectly straight pieces, landing just above her shoulders. She’s dressed as if she could pop into a meeting at any second. All before 7:15AM.
“I read it in a book somewhere,” she deadpans, starting to walk toward the epicenter of our parked buses.
“Guess I’ll have to put it on my reading list,” I say, seeing no choice other than scurrying after her. “Where are we going?”
She looks over her shoulder briefly, her steps not faltering to allow me to catch up. “We’ve got to talk. The team is very impressed with those paparazzi photos. Give me an update on where you are with Nash.”
I have no idea where she is leading me right now, but I follow along, wanting to be done with this conversation as soon as humanly possible. “Uh, we’re friends?” I try, desperately wanting to change the subject.
“How do you think he feels about you?” she pesters, actually gracing me with eye contact for a whole five seconds.
“We’ve been on one date. That’s the same sort of timespan he gives every girl he hooks up with. Can’t say I think he’s feeling anything too deep.”
“Yeah, well, he usually isn’t caught on secret dates with girls—especially sober. By the way, next time Nash decides to take you somewhere, you tell me right away. I almost didn’t have the paparazzi there in time to get those million-dollar shots of you two.”
Please tell me those photos aren’t actually worth a freaking million bucks…
“It’s a good thing we know we have to keep tabs on Nash at all times,” Monica continues. “We’ve learned the hard way that he can disappear or wind up drunk in a random woman’s bed one too many times. Usually both.”
Stopping at a food service truck, she asks the man in the window for a latte. He looks to me, asking what I would like. I tell him my order, still processing all the information Monica has thrown at me in the last few minutes.
“You told the paparazzi where we were?” Chewing on my lip, I can’t fathom why Nash’s team would possibly put him through the circus of dealing with those people on purpose.
Monica smiles, and I don’t know if it’s in response to my question or to the man handing her the coffee she ordered. “Oh, sweetie,” she begins condescendingly, “of course we did. Nash needs all the good publicity he can get. And you, my dear, are the exact kind of publicity he needs.”
I thank the man for handing me my coffee. Then, popping the straw into the lid of the cup, I follow Monica to the sma
ll table seated a few feet away from the truck. We both take a seat followed by a sip, each of us taking a moment to let the caffeine run through us.
“Does Nash know this?” I finally question, already suspecting the answer but hoping I’m wrong.
She rolls her eyes as if that’s ridiculous. “No, and he won’t know. Just add it to the list of secrets you and everyone else are keeping from him.”
The coffee I’m slurping on feels like a lead brick in my stomach at her words. The more I’m immersed in his world, the more I learn how manipulated he is by the people around him. Me included. The thought makes me feel uneasy. I signed up to be one of those people.
I don’t want to do it anymore. I don’t want to break his heart just so he can write a good song or two. I’m just scared I’m in too deep at this point to get out.
“What if I don’t want to keep secrets from him?” I ask quietly, looking at anything but Monica. I’m too afraid to see the look on her face.
“What kind of question is that, Nora?”
Sighing, I shift my position, still not looking her in the eye. “I mean, the more I get to know him, the more I don’t want to hurt him. I think he’s a good guy underneath the persona he shows the world.”
“I never told you he was a bad guy when you signed up for this.” She emphasizes the last few words, just furthering the upset feeling in my stomach.
“Yeah, well…” I try to think of what I’m even trying to say here. Staring at the light brown color of my coffee, I finally spit something out. “I didn’t think he’d be who I’ve learned he is, okay? I don’t want to be the person to hurt him.”
It’s silent. And after the silence bleeds on for way too long, I finally get the nerve to look at Monica. The look on her face can only be described as unamused.
Finally, her perfectly lined lips open. “It’s a little late to decide that, don’t you think? The only reason you’re on this tour is because you said you would do this. If you need to, frame it in your head as…not hurting him, but helping him.”
A sarcastic laugh falls from my lips before I can stop it. “How would I be helping him?”
She takes the time to take another sip of her drink before answering me. “Because if he writes another album like his first, he’ll solidify himself as a songwriter with staying power—not someone who occasionally pushes out mediocre albums every few years. He’ll prove he has the kind of talent we all know he has deep down but haven’t been seeing lately. If you can pull this off, one day down the road, he’ll thank you. Trust me.”
It’s my turn to roll my eyes now, because I think her words are such bullshit. For starters, we’ve only been on one date. I know I’m not even near the position to break his heart. But I do know he’s started to trust me. He’s let his guard down for me, and if he found out today about what really got me on this tour, I know it wouldn’t break his heart. But, it would break his trust in me, and that’s something I know I don’t want.
Long story short: I’m screwed.
Monica spends the next ten minutes droning on about what I’ve promised. I’ve spent the whole time already thinking up an apology to Nash when he finds out I began our friendship with ulterior motives. Those motives are out the window now, though. I want to get to know him just because I enjoy spending time with him. Not like it matters.
The fact is, I started this tour with him because I wanted to follow my dream of dancing in front of crowds—at all costs. And I got that chance. I’ve been living my dream night after night. I thought it would be the best ticket to achieving my dreams. It seemed like an easy decision at the time, because I thought he’d be a dick and not even give me a second glance. I didn’t think he’d be a decent human after reading what the media says about him. I really didn’t think I’d ever have so much as an actual conversation with him.
No matter what I thought in the beginning, the truth now is that I’ve become friends with Nash. I know he’s started to trust me—a trust I do not deserve at all.
I leave the meeting with Monica, only feeling shittier about myself as a human. I even make it as far as rushing to Nash’s trailer, where I anxiously beat on the door of it for a few minutes until it hits me that he isn’t in there.
I go back to my own bus feeling defeated, losing my nerve to come clean to him, the fear of losing him starting to overtake me.
I find myself in an empty dance studio hours later, still trying to rid myself of the memory of the conversation with Monica this morning. There’s a pit in my stomach the size of Texas when I think of how giddy she seemed about me and Nash getting close in the way that we have.
I felt physically ill all morning, the donuts Ziggy pilfered from food service not helping the anxiety coursing through my veins. Thankfully, we have access to a gym with a studio a block away from the stadium we’re performing at tonight. I was able to call the gym ahead of time and book the room for myself.
Getting back to my roots, I film a few freestyles for my Instagram account while I’m here. I realize most the people who follow me now may not be here for my dancing videos, but I want to stay true to my OG followers. Plus, it feels good to let my body take the lead for the first time in a while. I’m so used to the same routines for tour that letting loose is just what I need to take my mind away from the stress of my personal life.
I lose complete track of time. My body stays moving freely to the songs on shuffle through the speakers. It’s well into the afternoon, the evening creeping in when I finally stop for the day. My legs feel like jelly, and while I begin to stretch out my muscles, all I can think about is how I wish I had access to a warm bathtub.
My leg is propped up on the ballet barre when a squeak on the floor has me looking toward the door. Much to my surprise, I find a smirking Nash walking toward me.
“Don’t stop on my account,” he says with a smartass tone. He doesn’t bother to hide it when he clearly checks out my ass.
I roll my eyes, going deeper into the stretch so I can feel the tension all the way up my calf. “How’d you find me here?”
We make eye contact through the large mirror in front of me. He stops a few paces behind me, his eyes unabashedly running down my body.
Pulling out his phone, he pulls up the Instagram app and shows it still open to my profile. The video I posted an hour or so ago starts, the studio in view behind me. “I saw this,” he says. “It wasn’t hard to find out where you were after that, I just had to ask a few different people.”
Trying to hide the growing smile on my face, I switch legs. “I wasn’t aware that you followed me. Or that you were invested in my whereabouts.”
Stepping closer, his large hands find the small of my waist. He slides his fingers through the open part of my shirt, grazing the bare skin there until it feels like it’s burning. The feel of his fingers digging into my skin has my stomach muscles tight, anticipation building with his touch.
We spent nearly all of yesterday stealing small moments together, but somehow, I’d still forgotten what it felt like to have his hands on me. I continue to stretch my legs, my eyes carefully watching him in the mirror.
Nuzzling against my neck, I can feel every one of his words against my skin when he says, “I followed you the night of the festival. If I gave a shit about social media, I might be offended you didn’t notice.”
He applies pressure through his fingertips, sending tingles all the way to my core.
Once he realizes I’m not going to humor him about the follow, he presses on—literally, as his pinky drifts into the waistband of my leggings.
I watch him touch me in the mirror, trying my best to ignore it. “I need to make sure I finish stretching,” I tell him.
He hums, his other hand slowly drifting down the leg that is placed on the barre. His long fingers glide against the fabric. At the touch, a shiver goes down my body, making my toes curl. “I didn’t say you had to stop,” he counters.
My head falls back, hitting his hard warm chest. I can feel
the denim of his jacket scratch against the bare skin of my neck. “You’re distracting me,” I point out, no longer feeling the deep stretch in the back of my calf, but not wanting to put my leg down in fear of losing his touch.
“Am I?” he teases, his teeth nipping at my ear.
I’m just about to answer him when another finger slips into the fabric of my leggings. Part of me is screaming to stop him, knowing exactly where this could lead. However, the larger part of me is melting against him, anxious to see what his next move will be.
“I missed you today,” he states, his whole hand now in my pants. So achingly slow, his hand is nearing the point where he’ll find out I have nothing on underneath these leggings.
“That’s good,” I answer breathlessly, barely registering his admission. I’m too caught up in the way his hand is getting closer and closer to—
A long breath leaves his lips when he’s met with bare skin. “No, it isn’t good,” he breathes, his voice scratching. A narrow digit hits my folds and the movement has us both breathing hard. “I don’t like missing people, Rose.” His finger goes all the way in, causing my body to start to go limp. Luckily, he supports the extra weight, the finger inside me overtaking my senses.
“You don’t?” I ask, finding his eyes through the mirror in front of us. I find his blue gazed pinned on me. His tongue comes out to lick his lips and it’s one of the hottest things I’ve ever seen.
“No,” he says. “To miss someone means to care. And to care means to let someone in. I’m done letting people in, Rose.”
His finger hooks inside me, making me arch my back against him. The new position pushes the hardness of him against my ass. Letting out a moan, I balance myself by grabbing onto him.
“Why?” I question.
A low rumble leaves his chest moments before his lips start traveling down the hollow of my neck. Teeth scratch against my skin, the leg on the floor slowly turning into jelly. “That’s a story for never.”
Founded on Goodbye: A Rockstar Romance Page 15
