"We weren't married a few months ago."
"She didn't even know you were famous."
"You fucking knew about this at our wedding?"
Her brow furrows. Her eyes turn down. "I wasn't sure what I was going to do."
My stomach drops like a stone. I can't think. Can't move.
I stare back at Willow. Her expression is remorseful. Loving, even.
But...
She's kept this from me for months.
"That part in our vows about us not having secrets. Was that bullshit?" I've got a lot of practice keeping my voice even. It's taking every bit of control to do it here.
"No, Tom... I didn't want to put this on you. I thought I'd tell her to go away, but she's... she misses you. She loves you. She's sorry, Tom. I wanted you to hear it. Hear that it was all a mistake."
Of course it was a fucking mistake.
According to Liberty Wright, my entire fucking existence was a mistake. I was the worthless shit that got in the way of her meth paradise with her drug dealer boyfriend.
I was the thing in the way.
So what if she's wearing a suit and her hair is clean and her teeth are fixed?
Now she can look respectable while she calls me a piece of shit.
Now that I'm the one with the tattoos and the wild hair, everybody else can judge me as the piece of shit too.
Willow is talking. She's saying something with a soft voice and apologetic eyes, but I can't hear a fucking word.
Everything I've told her... how the fuck could she do this to me?
I...
I have to think, but I fucking can't. I step backward. Then I do it again. Again.
There's the bathroom around the corner. I push inside. It's a small room with two stalls and old ceramic sink and mirror.
It's empty.
I take a deep breath, but that doesn't do shit to calm my heartbeat or bring my stomach back to its rightful place.
How... why...
What the fuck?
My hands are on the paper towel dispenser. I hurl the thing at the wall. It bounces off. I throw it again. Throw it until the top falls off and paper covers the floor.
The mess doesn't help put my thoughts in order.
It doesn't make this clear.
Willow is my wife. Willow is my everything. How could she fucking do this to me?
I'm shaking my head but nobody can fucking see me here. Nobody but me. I need to smash the mirror so my green eyes look less crazy. Or so they stop mocking me at least.
I need to break something.
Gotta get out of here before I break the only thing that matters.
Only two places the world makes sense. Now that it doesn't make sense with her, I'm down to one.
I need to be there.
Now.
Chapter Thirty-One
Willow
Something is wrong.
Scratch that. Everything is wrong. I'm sitting across from Liberty, saying nothing. What is there to say? Sorry, my husband still thinks you're the devil. Guess this was ill advised.
He's still in the bathroom. It's been too long.
This is wrong.
Liberty stares at her phone. She has nothing to say either. What could she say? Sorry I ruined your husband's childhood with my drug addiction. Couldn't find the motivation to get clean, so it didn't happen until the state of California forced me into rehab. And I chose dodging jail time over custody of Tommy.
She still calls him Tommy. Like he's ten. Because he was barely north of ten when he was beaten so badly a teacher called Child Protective Services.
God, this was a mistake.
I should have asked him.
Yes, Liberty deserves a second chance, but that was Tom's decision to make. Not mine.
Fuck. I pull out my phone and send him a text.
Willow: You okay?
Thirty seconds pass and he doesn't respond. So I call. It rings all the way to voicemail.
I call again.
Again.
Ten times, and every time, I get voicemail.
Finally, Liberty speaks. Her voice is dull, defeated. "He's not ready to forgive me. I understand that."
No wonder she lost her son so easily. The woman gives in like it's nothing.
"Why don't you go talk to him?" She suggests. "If he wants to leave without ever seeing me again, I understand."
"I'm sorry," I say, but I'm not really apologizing to her. It's to Tom.
Where the hell is he?
"Sure. I'll... let you know." I push off the table and make my way to the bathrooms by the entrance. I knock on the men's room door. There's no answer.
Here goes nothing.
I step inside the bathroom. The paper towel dispenser is broken on the floor. Like it was thrown. Like someone wanted to break something.
Shit.
He's not here.
I do another scan of the restaurant but he's nowhere to be found. He's not outside it.
The car isn't here either.
I stare at my phone. Still nothing from Tom. It hasn't been long enough for him to get to any of our friends. Even to his brother or his mom to tell them what an awful mistake he made marrying me so the three of them can decide to excommunicate me from the Steele family as a unit.
Fuck.
I call a rideshare, cross my fingers, and wish for Tom to be in our hotel room.
***
No fucking luck.
He's not here. There's no sign he was here. The room is exactly as it was when we left an hour ago.
I plant on the bed. Tears well up in my eyes. There's no sense in blinking them back.
How did I get this so wrong? It's obvious now. I wasn't thinking beyond myself, beyond what I saw of Liberty—a woman broken by an abusive relationship, who turned to drugs to cope and forgot everything else.
That wasn't what Tom saw. It certainly wasn't what he experienced.
God, I hope this isn't as fucked as it feels.
I call Tom again.
Nothing.
I call five more times.
Still nothing.
I can't sit here feeling sorry for myself. I need to find him and make sure he's okay. Bad things happen when people run off like that.
If he got himself into trouble because of me...
If he did something he can't take back...
There are two other people who know Tom well enough to know where he might be. Only one of them is staying in our hotel. His room is down the hall... somewhere. I check my phone for the info.
Room 2113.
No problem. I grab a tissue and do as much as I can to wipe off my smudged makeup then I make my way to Pete and Jess's room.
Deep breath. I shouldn't be nervous to talk to Pete. He's practically my brother. So what if he's intimidating with the dark hair and the dark eyes and the perfect eyeliner—he really wears it well—and the way he always knows exactly what to do?
He would have told me this was a terrible idea if I asked.
I should have asked.
I should have listened when Ophelia tried to talk some sense into me.
I knock. There's no answer, so I grab my cell and call. It rings to voicemail.
I knock again. I call again. I do both fucking things at the same time.
The door pulls open. Pete is standing in front of it with only a towel wrapped around his hips.
The towel isn't doing anything to hide the fact he's hard.
I interrupted my brother-in-law and his fiancée having sex. That makes this better.
"Fuck, Willow. What happened?" He motions for me to come in and takes a step backward.
"I... uh... I don't want to interrupt." I press my phone to my chest.
"It's fine. Just give me a minute." He nods to the couch in the corner.
Their room is the same suite we have. Pete goes into the bedroom. I can hear him saying something but I can't make out the words.
It's probably best I can't make out the w
ords. I'm embarrassed enough without adding his filthy mouth to the equation.
Probably best I spend this moment figuring out how I'm going to explain rather than speculating on his sex life.
He returns to the room wearing jeans—only jeans—and he takes a seat on the other side of the sectional couch.
His dark eyes fix on me. Instead of speaking, he gets up, pours a glass of water, grabs a box of tissues, and brings both to me.
His voice is steady, even. "I'm guessing you're looking for Tom and not trying to invite yourself to a threesome."
I can't bring myself to laugh at his joke. Nothing feels funny right now. I nod and take a long drink of water. It helps soothe my throat.
My breath slows. Only by one percent, but I'll take a percent right now. By the time I'm finished with my water, I'm up to three percent, give or take.
"Where's Jess?" I ask.
He smiles. "Jess is a little tied up right now."
Oh God.
Pete chuckles, that same chuckle Ophelia has. "Probably shouldn't tease, given how much you look like you're gonna cry." His expression softens. "What happened?"
"I fucked up."
"Can't be that bad. You'd have to try to lose Tom."
I shake my head.
"You'd have to try hard."
"So you... she's in there and she's..." I clear my throat. If I'm going to dodge admitting this, I should do so with clear words. "You've got her tied up in there?"
Pete chuckles. "That's what concerns you right now?"
I shake my head.
"Would it make you feel better if we talk about everything I'm gonna do to Jess when you leave? Don't mind as long as I can do it loud enough she hears."
I shake my head.
"Didn't think so."
"So those restraints that were in Tom's room... you used them too?"
"Have my own." He raises a brow. "If you want to talk about bondage, I'm game, but I'm gonna use more descriptive language."
"No... I... I fucked up, Pete. I fucked up so badly."
"Tell me what happened."
"I... I brought Tom to meet his mother."
Pete's brow furrows. Frustration spreads over his face. Usually, it's hard to read him, but not right now.
He might as well scream, yeah, you did fuck up.
He gets up to grab his cellphone. "Haven't heard from him. You two get into a fight or—"
"He just left. He looked like he'd seen a ghost."
"Well, you—"
"I know. I shouldn't have. I just thought maybe if he met her and he realized she was sorry about everything... that maybe he'd realize he's loved."
"Tom knows he's loved. He has you."
"But he still—"
"You don't have to apologize to me. I'm not the one who flipped and ran off. And we both know Tom would have done the same thing you did." Pete's dark eyes light up with revelation. "Only one place Tom would go to figure shit out."
"Where?"
"I'll text you the directions." He taps a few things on his phone then looks back to me. "Tell him what you said to me. He might be mad, but he'll forgive you."
I shake my head. I don't know that.
"Go make up with your husband." He motions to the door. "I can come if you want, but it's gonna be awkward when I stand there watching you two have makeup sex."
"That wouldn't be awkward for you."
He smiles. "Course not. But it would be awkward for you. And I'd hate to wait any longer to get my mouth on—"
"That's enough."
He motions to the door. "Call me if you need backup."
"Okay. But, um, you can finish before you come—ahem—before you leave."
He nods. "Good luck, Willow."
"Thanks."
God knows I need it.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Tom
I'm not aware of much beyond the sticks in my hands, the way they tap the drums or smash the cymbals. Beyond my foot pounding the pedal of the bass drum until the entire fucking amphitheater is shaking.
The music—if I can be so generous as to call my thrashing music— bounces off the walls and echoes back into my ears. This is shit playing. I'll feel better if I focus, if I play our entire set list all the way through, but I can't focus on shit.
Don't want focus. I want loud. I want noise. I want my drum kit screaming.
Eventually, I'm gonna get tired. That's what logic suggests. But I've been going for a while, and I still have a head full of steam.
I better smack these fucking things harder. Hard enough I could break the kit.
Even in my pissed off state, this sounds too much like noise. I can't stand the shitty noise.
I start to focus. First, the loudest song we have. As loud as I can play it.
There. Better. I don't sound like a drunk fifteen-year-old who's never held a pair of sticks before. More like a tipsy twenty-year-old who's only been playing for a few months.
I bring it all the way up to sober twenty-something who knows his way around a drum kit.
Then all the way to Tom Steele, bad ass God of a drummer.
The music bounces off the walls and back into my ears. But there's another sound too. The door opening. And footsteps. They're fast.
I can't bring myself to look up. Can't bring myself to stop playing. Even as the footsteps move closer, as a sob breaks up the music.
It must be a fucking loud sob if I can hear it over the music.
"Tom."
That's Willow.
I drop my sticks instantly. Then I'm on my feet.
She's standing in front of the stage. Even with the stage lights on, I can make out the redness in her eyes.
She's been crying.
She's been crying a hell of a lot.
"Oh my God, Tom." She looks up at me. "You're okay."
I don't like that she's crying. Don't like that she's hurting. I'm still pissed about all this, but I need her not hurting. Now.
I move away from the drum kit. She's already climbing the steps to the stage. She practically throws herself into my arms.
"I was scared. I thought... I don't know." She presses her hands into my t-shirt. Then her cheek. "That something bad happened."
She's been crying so hard her tears wet my t-shirt. I wrap my arms around her and pull her closer. She smells good. Like Willow. Like home.
But what she did...
Fuck, I don't know what to do here.
"I'm sorry." She looks up at me, her eyes still dotted with tears. "I'm sorry I sprang that on you. Liberty seemed sincere and I thought... I thought you'd feel better once you heard from her about how much she regrets what happened. That maybe you'd feel more wanted, more loved."
I stare back at her. The words aren't making sense yet. I'm still foggy from the haze of playing.
Her voice is soft, a whisper. "I'm sorry." She buries her face in my chest for a long moment then she's looking into my eyes. Her voice gets louder, stronger. "But you can't do this to me, Tom. You can't run off. Bad things happen when people run."
There's fear in her hazel eyes. A lifetime of fear.
Dammit. I hurt her. It fucking aches that I hurt her. It doesn't erase everything else I'm feeling, but it's a hell of a lot stronger.
I hate when she hurts.
I nod.
She nods back. "You don't have to talk to me now. You don't have to talk to me for a month if that's what you want. If you ask me to leave now, I will." She swallows hard. "But you have to tell me you're okay. You have to tell me where you're going. Okay?"
"I'm sorry, kid." I run my fingers through her short hair. Already, I'm melting. It's hard to stay mad at Willow.
I don't think I've ever been mad at her before.
It feels right having her in my arms. Only other thing that feels this right is sitting behind my drum kit.
I pull her closer. Closer. Until her breath is steady.
"Your heart is beating slower," she says. "It was racing before."
/>
I nod to the drum kit.
"You're sweaty too." She slides her palm over my bicep. "Not that I'm complaining."
"Yeah."
"Usually, you take your shirt off when you're drumming. Or is that for the benefit of the crowd?"
"Half for me, half for them." I look down at her. I would feel better to hold her without my shirt in the way of skin to skin contact. Without any of her clothes in the way.
But we have to discuss this. It's a big fucking deal.
I'm out of my haze. I'm calm enough. I make eye contact. "Start from the top again."
She takes a deep breath. "You sure?"
"Yeah."
"About three months ago, Liberty contacted me. Through my photography site. A friend of hers was looking at boudoir pics and she thought you looked a lot like the boy she had when they were younger. Liberty has your picture everywhere. She shows it to everybody. She thought it might be her son, and she wanted me to pass her contact information along."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"At first, I thought I'd tell her to go away."
"Don't do that, kid. Don't make decisions for me."
Her expression softens. Her eyes brighten. "You called me kid."
I raise a brow.
"When you're really upset, you don't."
I let out a low laugh. "Guess that's true."
"I thought I could spare you from that pain. But then she said a little more about you, about what had happened." Her eyes fill with empathy—she's too fucking kind—then they're back on mine. "I guess I thought of what happened to me. That maybe she had been trying to leave her abusive boyfriend but she'd never figured out how. That she had just made a lot of mistakes that kept snowballing."
It's hard to think of Liberty as anything but the woman who didn't give a shit about me. Hard to use the word mom or mother to describe her.
I don't know whether I should melt over Willow seeing the best in people or shake my head over her getting taken for a ride. I don't like anyone fucking with her. I'll destroy anybody who fucks with her.
But I can't deny that her version of events could be true.
"I was waiting for things to slow down," she says. "But they never really do."
I nod.
"I knew she lived in Vegas. So I thought while we were here... I knew you'd say no. That doesn't excuse it, but you still walk around with a chip on your shoulder, like you're still sure everyone is going to think you're worthless." She reaches up to run her fingers through my hair. "I thought maybe if you met Liberty and saw that it was all mistakes, that she always wanted you and thought you were valuable... I thought maybe you'd stop feeling that way."
Sinful Ever After (Sinful Serenade #5) Page 19
