Driving Me Crazy: A Rock Star Rom Com

by Lisa Suzanne

  We might’ve said the words that this is meaningless, but it can’t be. Not when I’d already fallen for her before she broke my heart.

  And make no mistake...that’s exactly what this is. She broke my heart, and that’s where this feeling is coming from.

  I splash some water on my face and the stinging behind my eyes goes away.

  The last time I felt any emotion quite this strong was the day I found out my grandmother had died. I was fifteen years old. It hurt, and I was struck with grief, but it wasn’t so much my own pain that caused me to cry that day.

  It was seeing my mom break down when we heard the news together.

  That was the day I broke through my adolescent stupidity of fighting my parents on everything and realized that you only get one mom. From that day forward, both my parents and I have been inseparable, but I’m a mama’s boy down to my core.

  And today, here, now, after having meaningless, rough sex with someone I care so deeply about...

  That same sense of grief washes over me.

  CHAPTER 22: AMBER

  I lie in bed as I wait my turn for the bathroom, staring up at the ceiling. A tear leaks out the side of one eye and splashes down on the pillow under my head.

  I flick off the light. I don’t want him to see me cry. I agreed to the terms of what we just did...but I wish I hadn’t.

  It wasn’t meaningless. Sex with Will could never be meaningless even though that’s all I wanted out of this the night we first hooked up.

  The sex was good. It was great, actually. Incredible. He was a different man as he took me and made me his, and I was a different woman as I let him work my body however he wanted.

  It could have been the best if there was love between us, but he made it clear it was nothing more than just sex to him.

  Why did I have to be so stupid?

  That ten minutes just proved how good we are together. How right we could be if we could both just get past our stubborn anger and give into love.

  But I fucked it up, and now he’s doing everything he can to fuck it up, and we’re both these hot messes of people who probably deserve each other.

  I can’t see any way we’ll actually end up together, and even as I think it, another tear escapes and falls down onto the pillow.

  He emerges from the bathroom and I feel his side of the bed dip with his weight. I get up to have my turn, and by the time I return, he’s asleep.

  I lie awake most of the night, staring at the ceiling and trying to figure out some way to get him to forgive me and trust me again.

  If nothing else because I miss my friend.

  I must fall asleep at some point, because when I open my eyes, the cracks in the hotel room curtains show the sun is up outside. Will isn’t in bed beside me anymore. The clock tells me it’s a little before seven. Early morning for a rock star, I guess.

  It’s the third day of our road trip, and I don’t even know what his plan is today, where he thinks we’ll end up or whether he’s booked us another hotel room somewhere or if he’ll really make me stay at whatever shitty motel he lands at.

  I take a quick shower and get dressed, and I’m just zipping up my suitcase when the door opens and Will walks back in. He stops in the middle of the room and doesn’t look at me.

  “We can’t do that again,” he mutters.

  “Do what?”

  He clears his throat. “Sex. Like last night.”

  “It wasn’t good for you?” I have nothing to lose with the question.

  He shakes his head, and for a split second, I regret asking. He still avoids actually looking at me when he says, “It was incredible. You know it was. But I can’t have meaningless sex with you, so it can’t happen again.” He finally looks at me. “Because we can’t happen again.”

  A dart of anguish pierces my heart. When he said he can’t have meaningless sex with me, I thought it might be because he was thinking it would always be meaningful for us. But that definitely wasn’t where he went with it.

  “Oh.” It’s all I can think of to say. “Well, are we ready to take off?”

  “Yeah. I already tossed some shit in the car.”

  My brows come together. “Like what?”

  He lifts a shoulder and grabs his duffel bag, but he doesn’t answer.

  And when I get out to the parking lot, I see why.

  There’s a dog in the bed of the truck. A big, shaggy dog with dirty gray fur and a little bit of slobber crusted by his rather large jowls.

  I gasp when I see it. “Um, Will?” I ask tentatively, masking the fact that I’m fucking terrified of dogs.

  He glances at me.

  “Why is there a dog in the truck?”

  “He’s a stray. Found him at the gas station this morning. The attendant said the dog’s been hanging around for months begging for scraps. Thought I could take him and give him a brand new life.”

  “You can’t just take a dog,” I say, trying to hide the panic in my voice.

  “Watch me.” He presses his lips together in a fake smile, and I don’t know if I can hide the panic anymore. I stop in my tracks. “Come on,” he says when he unlocks the truck and sees I’m still standing twenty or so yards away.

  “I...I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m a little scared of dogs.”

  His brows draw down. “You are?” he asks, and I guess the question never came up during our Hot Seat game or any time before then because he seems genuinely surprised. “All dogs?” He scratches the dog behind its ears. “Or just the innocent looking ones who beg for food scraps with their big, brown eyes?” He says the last part to the dog in a cooing voice reserved for babies and animals, and my heart is racing while my eyes practically bug out of my head at seeing him be so gentle with that...that...beast.

  “All dogs,” I say.

  He moves away from the car and walks back to me, standing in front of me to block my view of the animal in the truck. “Why?”

  I clear my throat. “When I was five, I was basically rushed and knocked down by a big dog and when he was standing over me, he growled and his lip went up a little and I thought I was going to die. So I was scared of big dogs starting that day.”

  “Little dogs, too?” he asks, a bit of concern in those turquoise eyes.

  Does this mean he cares?

  I push the ridiculous thought away. Even if he did care, it wouldn’t matter because he hates me.

  I nod. “A few years after that, I was at a friend’s house and her dog just latched onto my ankle and wouldn’t let go. Her dad had to pry his jaw open and I still have a scar.” I point down to where the incident occurred, and then I lean down and roll up my jeans to show him the spot of the offense.

  He eyes the scar for a beat. “I’m sorry those things happened to you,” he says. “But Sir Shaggybottoms is taking a ride with us.”

  “It’s called cynophobia and it’s a real thing.” I want to put my hands on my hips and project confidence in my demeanor, but I can’t. Not with that dog in the car, and not knowing he’ll be mere feet away from me for the next...who knows? Is he keeping this dog forever? My confidence has been replaced by shaking hands and nausea and a little bit of sweating.

  He nods. “I understand. And the best way to get over your fear is to face it.”

  “I’ve been afraid of dogs for almost twenty years and you think I’m just magically going to get over it by facing one?” I ask, my voice shaky as I ward off tears.

  I know my fear of dogs is irrational, but many fears are. Don’t like spiders? Me either, but the one crawling on the ground outside your closed patio door isn’t going to hurt you. Don’t like snakes? Me either, but the one on television won’t pop out of the TV and into your living room.

  I had to take psychology classes for my degree. I know the difference between an irrational fear—when you avoid something even though it poses no threat to you—and a rational one—when there’s a real threat that we need to protect ourselve
s from.

  But sometimes knowledge is useless when it comes to anxiety. I can’t help but put that dog into the rational fear category in my own mind as that fear trips me up from actually walking to the car.

  “I don’t think you’re going to get over it, but I am going to protect you from that fear and show you that they’re not scary.” He grabs my hand, and I instantly calm a little at his touch. “Come on. It’ll be okay. There will be a window and a backseat protecting you from the big scary monster.” He chuckles a little as he says it.

  “It’s not funny. Don’t make fun of someone because of their fears.”

  “You’re right. I’m sorry.” He tugs my hand, but my feet are cement blocks. “Come on,” he says for the third time, and I finally drag those heavy blocks toward the car.

  Sir Shaggybottoms presses his neck over the top of the truck bed, his nose wiggling as he tries to sniff me. Will gently pushes him back with a hand on his chest and blocks me from the dog as he helps me into the car, pushing my door shut behind me once I’m safely in.

  I can’t help when my eyes dart back to get another look at the dog.

  When Will slides into the driver’s side, I ask, “Is it safe for the dog to ride in the bed of the truck like that?”

  He shakes his head. “No. The desk clerk told me there’s a pet store a few blocks away, so I’m gonna grab some food and I guess a cage for him. Unless you want him to ride in the backseat,” he says, jutting his thumb behind me.

  “No!” My voice is nearly a screech at his suggestion, and he laughs. “Screw you for enjoying this so much. I can’t believe you’re making me ride in a car with a dog when you know how terrified I am.” I cross my arms over my chest.

  “I’m not enjoying this,” he mutters, the mirth suddenly gone from his eyes. He starts the car and we drive the couple blocks to the pet store. He drives a few miles under the speed limit the whole way to ensure the dog’s safety back there, and my knees are knocking together in fear that there’s a dog right behind me.

  I keep checking back there, my eyes darting that way because what if he decides to just jump through the glass?

  Yeah, I know. Irrational.

  Will pulls into a spot in the parking lot, and I stay in the car. He takes the dog with him.

  He returns twenty minutes later, and I heave out a breath of relief that he’s alone.

  Shaggy McShags-a-lot or whatever his name is isn’t with him.

  “Where’d the dog go?” I demand as soon as he opens the door.

  He slides into the driver’s side and fires up the car, and then he punches in some address in St. Louis as the destination into his GPS. He clicks the route and shifts into reverse before peeling out of the lot. “He’s probably in the bathtub by now.” He smirks over at me.

  “What?”

  “I got him the works. That place has a groomer, so he’s getting a bath, nail clipping, even a bow. But a blue one. He is a boy dog, after all.” I stare at him like he has two heads, and when he glances over at me, he laughs. “You know, some university did a study and results showed that petting a dog can lower your stress levels. You should try it sometime. I feel fucking amazing this morning.”

  “You just...dropped the dog off for a bath?” I ask.

  “No.” He shakes his head. “Not just a bath. I also bought a year’s supply of food and treats, a bed, a cage, toys...basically everything someone would need to give that dog a good home, and I told them to text me when they have a family who wants that dog free of charge. They checked for a chip and didn’t find one, so he’s free to go to a good home. But I need to see a picture of the people first. I need to know Sir Shaggybottoms is going to a good family that’ll take care of him and won’t make him beg for scraps.”

  My heart swells a little.

  I may be scared of dogs, but that isn’t the point.

  Will took a stray dog and, just like he said, gave it a new life. And there’s something so heartwarmingly beautiful about that. It’s a new side to him I’ve never seen before...a guy who just gave something to someone else simply because he had the means to do so.

  “Was that your plan all along?” I ask.

  He lifts a shoulder. “I was actually planning to take him on this leg of our trip, but when I saw your face turn white, I knew I had to unload him a little sooner.”

  “Did you ever think of keeping him?”

  “From the moment I spotted him, I wanted him to be mine,” he admits softly. “But with my lifestyle...it never would’ve worked.”

  I can’t help but wonder whether that last sentence somehow mirrors what the future holds for the two of us.

  CHAPTER 23: AMBER

  Amarillo to St. Louis makes for one hell of a long day. The GPS estimates it’s an eleven-hour trip total, but that’s without any stops.

  Our stops have changed, though. They’re not the strange roadside attractions he chose for us before. This has become less of a fun road trip and more of a drive to get to a destination. It’s like he just wants this trip to be over, so he’s rushing through it.

  And I hate that he’s not taking the time to enjoy it since this was his bucket list trip.

  It’s because of me and the cameras and this whole idea of having to fake it.

  He continues to blare country music straight from his music app, and I fall into a pattern of thinking about last night while I listen to the words of the songs.

  Taylor Swift sings about how we’re never getting back together, and I find myself sympathizing with the guy in the song—as if Will is the one telling me we’re never getting back together.

  Miranda Lambert sings about how she’s never getting over you, and I find myself agreeing with her. If my heart could swoon like it did over seeing Will selflessly give a dog a new life, I can’t help but imagine what a whole life together could be like.

  When Sammy Kershaw sings about the queen of his double wide...well, I can’t really relate to that one, but Will sings along like it’s his damn job. Same for some song by Kenny Chesney about finding tractors sexy.

  And this is why I don’t do country music.

  We stop for gas and a bathroom break, and we each grab a large coffee before we get back on the road. There’s very little conversation but a whole lot of country music, and by the time we reach Springfield, Missouri, I’m ready to pull my hair out. I’ve listened to eight straight hours of Will singing country, and while he has a nice voice that MFB clearly doesn’t use to its full potential, I’m tired of hearing it. I’m tired of the loud music. I’m tired of being trapped in a car. I’m tired of Will hating me.

  I’m just tired.

  When we get back in the car after our stop in Springfield, I finally ask, “Can we listen to something else? Or just have a little quiet time?”

  He glances over at me. “No.”

  I roll my eyes. So that’s how it’s going to be.

  Then he chuckles. “Fine. You choose the playlist for the last leg of our trip to St. Louis.”

  “What about a podcast?” I ask. There’s a medical one I love listening to, and another one about nurses.

  “Good idea,” he says. “But something funny.”

  “Fine,” I mutter, like he could read my thoughts. I find some comedy show where the host interviews comedians, and we settle into a much better pattern of listening to something funny rather than country songs.

  Although, to be honest, some of those songs were pretty funny.

  The last three hours toward St. Louis pass much faster than the first eight did, and we pull into a parking garage a little before eleven.

  “The Four Seasons?” I ask as he drives around to find a spot.

  He smiles tightly. “I actually have two nights booked here along with a full spa day tomorrow.”

  My gaze falls to him. He planned this romantic stay for us at a nice hotel before everything went down between us, and I can’t help but wonder how different this trip would be if we hadn’t ended things.

  T
here’s no way of knowing, and regret fills me...but it doesn’t matter. I still can’t see a future with someone like him, although seeing him take care of that dog earlier pressed a button in me I didn’t know existed.

  I practically jump out of the truck after he finds a spot and cuts the ignition. I stretch, grateful to be out of the car for a bit, and wonder if tonight will hold the same thing last night did even though he said it wouldn’t this morning.

  Once we check in and get up to our room, Will’s the one who brings it up...just not in the way I’d hoped.

  He glances around the room and his eyes land on the bed. He blows out a breath. “Stop looking at me like that.”

  “Like what?” I ask, my voice innocent.

  “Like you want sex. It isn’t going to happen, Amber. What happened last night won’t happen again. It can’t.”

  “You sure about that? Because I know I want it to happen again.” My voice is low and full of promise. “We could have a friends with benefits kind of situation.”

  He raises a brow as his eyes zero in on mine. “We’re missing an important piece to that.”

  “What?”

  “We’re not friends.” He says the words with a finality that breaks off a piece of my heart. He averts his gaze from me. “I think we should skip our spa day and just continue on our way. The sooner this trip is over, the better.”

  And if his declaration that we aren’t friends didn’t break me, that final sentiment sure did.

  As promised, there’s no sexy business. There isn’t even any friendly business. In fact, there’s nothing at all except for the awkward silence that stretches between us. It’s only broken when he asks, “Do you have any laundry you want done?”

  I glance over at him, and I’m about to reply with something snide asking why he wants to know since he doesn’t know how to do laundry when I realize a Four Seasons probably doesn’t even have a laundry room for overnight guests.

  “Yeah, I have a few things,” I say. I rummage through my suitcase and put my dirty clothes into the bag he set on the table for me.

  “I learned.”