Rock & Release

by Riley Edgewood

  His words knock the wind from me. "Could you be any more insensitive?"

  "Could you?" His mouth twists into a cruel expression.

  "What?"

  "Pretending to be asleep last night. Lying about that guy in the lobby. I know he's not from North Carolina. I recognize him from BackBar…" He pauses, but again I can't find the words to respond and now he's sneering. "You're leaving. It's obvious. And you haven't even had the courtesy to tell me. And you call me an asshole on top of it?"

  "I'm sorry I hadn't told you yet about leaving. I should have, but I only just decided. And I… I wanted one more night." There. I've apologized. "But you… God. You are a sellout."

  "Oh, what? Because I got rich from performing with my band? I'm doing what I love. That's not selling out. If I hated it but did it just to make money, that'd be selling out. There's a difference. And if you—"

  "No." I cut off his clearly rehearsed little speech. "I don't give the first shit about your music. Luca…" My lips are trembling and I think I'm about to cry. Not because I'm sad, though. Because I'm pissed. "You're the poster boy for anti-drug America. What the hell are you doing?"

  "Nothing that concerns you anymore." He crosses his arms. Uncrosses them. Runs a hand through his hair. I think he's having a hard time focusing. I bet it's from, you know, snorting fucking drugs up his nose.

  My instincts were right about this guy from the start, before I even met him. How the hell did I let myself get so swept away by someone like this?

  I was blinded by that stupid desperation to escape my own life. That's how.

  And…fine. I was blinded by the fact that a freaking rock star wanted me.

  Damn it.

  "What about your girlfriend?" I ask.

  "What girlfriend?"

  "The one who had the drug problem?" The one who made me feel a connection to him, that he'd had someone so important in his life get messed up with drugs the way my brother did.

  His eyes widen and he freezes, just for a split second, like he's caught in a trap—and then he shrugs.

  "Oh my God—you made her up." I am fuming. I'm not sure I've ever been so mad. And then I realize something else and my anger skyrockets even higher. "That bottle of wine Polly was looking for? It wasn't really that, was it?"

  "No." At least this time he has the grace to look a little guilty.

  I'm just…completely shocked. And remembering… All the times he was so jittery. Bouncing on his toes. Wanting to work out. Unable to sit still. "I'm an idiot."

  He steps toward me. "Cass—"

  "No." I glare at him. "Don't you dare come any closer."

  "I told you the truth at first. I told you it was good money." He says it so nonchalantly, like it's no big thing, and I want to freaking murder him.

  I think back to our conversation—when he joked about it being for the money—and I feel completely sick to my stomach. "No," I say. "That wasn't telling me the truth. You tried to slide it past me."

  "I guess we see it from different perspectives."

  "Do you know how many kids look up to you? And your face is on all those posters… It's all a lie."

  "So what?" He shrugs again, this time completely unconcerned. "They think I'm clean so they stay clean. Who cares if reality's a little bit different?"

  "You're unbelievable." There's nothing else I can say to make him understand if he doesn't already. "I'm getting my own room tonight. I'll talk to you in the morning. When you're sober."

  "Cassie—wait." He yanks me against his chest and for the first time, I'm completely grossed out by it. I push his shoulders so hard he falls back a few steps. But it doesn't deter him. "Let's do it. One more night. Let me have you one more time. You already said you wanted it."

  "It's Cassidy," I say. "And you've got to be fucking kidding me."

  I leave him there, in the hallway. He doesn't bother following me, thank God.

  Let him go back into the party. Back to the girl. Back to the drugs. I'm done. I'm so, so done.

  I'd go home right now if I could. But it's the middle of the night. So I throw my things together and beg a new room out of the front desk, the cheapest one they have. It still eats the rest of my savings. So that's just fucking awesome. Now I'll have to ask Luca to set me up with a ride home.

  Great.

  But screw it. I'm angry enough to let him. All this time, he's been a lying, drug-using asshole. He can buy my way home.

  Except when I wake up the next morning, that lying, drug-using asshole is gone. The entire tour is. They left me here.

  He left me here.

  No goodbye. No apology. Nothing.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  "You've got to be fucking kidding me."

  It's pretty much the only sentence I've used so far today.

  First, when I discovered the tour was gone, that Luca left me without even saying goodbye.

  And now, when I try to rent a car online, using the hotel's only available slow-as-shit computer, and discover my dad finally cut off his credit card.

  I'm stranded. I drop into a seat in the middle of the hotel lobby, running a hand through the tangles of my hair.

  I have no money.

  I have no Luca—not that I want him. Ugh.

  I have nothing to get me through the day.

  And of course now my stomach's rumbling.

  Shit.

  I call Teagan, but she doesn't answer.

  I almost call Vera, but then I remember she left last night for the beach with Jared.

  Shit. Shit.

  I think longingly of my car, still parked at Vera's. Even if I couldn't afford the gas to get home, if I had it here, at least I'd have a solution of my own. Some way to maybe fix this stupid situation, even if I'd have to sell everything in my suitcase—and probably the suitcase itself—for gas money.

  I wait an hour and call Teag again. She doesn't answer, but texts back right away. Stuck at auto shop. Stupid car broke down and it's loud in here. Call you later. Probably tomorrow.

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  Maybe there's a classmate still around. Durham is only half an hour from Raleigh. But as I scroll through the contacts in my phone, I don't see one person who might actually come to get me. And even if I did, what then? I still have nothing to get by on, and I'm not about to beg for charity from someone I don't really know.

  The next phone call is up there with the hardest I've ever had to make. And when he answers, it takes me almost a full minute to speak.

  "Dad." Deep breath. "I need you."

  "I'm at work, Cassidy."

  Oh, wow. "I forgot it's Monday."

  "That must be nice," he says. "Not having to be responsible enough to remember the days of the week."

  It stings, the contention in his voice. Also, that his words are true. "I'm sorry to bother you."

  "What is it that you need?"

  "A ride. I'm stuck—" I choke out the words. "In North Carolina."

  There's a long pause and my heart is in my throat, squeezing off my air supply. And then he sighs. "You spent all summer trying to prove you didn't need us. You'll have to figure this out on your own."

  My phone beeps when he disconnects the call.

  And now I'm stuck, high and dry, in a hotel lobby, crying.

  "Um, ma'am?"

  I look up into the green eyes of a blond-haired bellboy, not even seventeen, from the looks of it. And he's calling me ma'am. I feel fucking ancient all the sudden.

  "Do you need a tissue?" He holds one out.

  Oh my God, I am such a cliché. Jilted ex-lover of a rock star, left in the dust to feel sorry for herself. And now being pitied by a teenage boy.

  Fuck. This.

  I got myself into this mess. I don't get to cry over it.

  I get to fix it.

  I stand, waving the tissue away and wiping my fingers under my eyes instead. "No, thanks for offering though."

  I walk with as much purpose as I can muster through the lobby and out the revo
lving doors.

  Then I sit on a bench in front of the hotel to think because, at the moment, there's nothing else to do.

  Eventually, I shake my head. There's no reason to feel shocked that Luca left me here. Well, other than the fact that it's a nasty thing to do. But he's a freaking liar, which changes my entire perspective of him—so maybe he is the kind of guy that would just ditch someone like this.

  And…he never asked me anything personal.

  Well, one time he asked for a secret, but he laughed at what I shared. Still, he never asked what I was leaving behind to tour with him—and I never even noticed because I was trying so hard not to think about the life I ran from. It's why I went with him—he was a true escape. But it's also exactly why I shouldn't be surprised to find myself stranded now. What a wake-up call.

  There is one person who will never leave me stranded. Though realizing it now is much, much too late.

  I perch on the edge of the bench, trying—and failing—to get my emotions in check, and then I make a call even harder than the last.

  He picks it up on the second ring and the smallest bubble of hope inflates between my ribs.

  "Gage. Hey." I take another deep breath. And then I ask him for far, far more than I deserve.

  Five hours later, he arrives to bring me home.

  By the time Gage gets here, I've finished the thriller I purchased yesterday—although I couldn't tell you anything that happens in it. While my eyes have trailed the words, I've been too busy going over a million different conversation starters in my head. Nothing comes close to being good enough.

  It ends up not mattering anyway, because he's on his cell phone when he pulls up, his car not as shiny as the first time I saw it. It's dirty, like it's had a lot of traction recently. It has. Back and forth to North Carolina once already this week and now a second time. He walks around to open the passenger door. I slide in, my smile an awkward punctuation mark across my face, and he closes the door again, barely acknowledging me.

  "Don't do it," he growls into the phone. "I'll be back," he pauses, his eyes seeking the time on his dashboard, "in five hours. Around eight thirty. Maybe sooner. Katy—I'm serious. Katy? Hello?"

  He spikes his phone on the dashboard so hard it bounces right back over his shoulder and into the back of the car. Thank God it misses his face because it flies hard enough to break his nose, easily. "Goddamn it!"

  I wait for some sign he's aware I'm still in the car, but he watches the road, not even blinking.

  "Is everything okay?" God. Stupidest question ever. "Scratch that. Sorry. I mean… Do you want to talk about it?"

  "With you, sweetheart? No."

  Ouch.

  He's never called me sweetheart without tenderness beneath the word. The lack now is painful. Not nearly as much, though, as the fact that he doesn't want to talk to me.

  But I understand. I deserve it.

  "Thank you, Gage, for coming to get me. I swear I wouldn't have asked if I wasn't desperate."

  "No shit." Anger rolls off of him in electric waves, the sizzle crashing into my skin, burning me again and again.

  "I'm sorry."

  He doesn't respond. A muscle twists in his jaw, and occasionally he turns the steering wheel and glances in his rearview mirror, but otherwise he's a statue.

  "Do you want your phone?" I ask when I can't stand it anymore. "I can grab it from the back."

  "I'll get it when I stop for gas."

  "So…" I scramble for something to say. "How was your drive down?"

  He gives a short jerk of his head that could mean pretty much anything—and that's all the response I get.

  A minute passes.

  Another minute.

  Another.

  The silence stretches out until it smothers me and I swear to God there's an ulcer forming in my stomach. I reach for anything, anything to start a conversation. "How come you never listen to music?"

  He points to the dash, but still won't look at me. "Turn it on if you want."

  "That's okay." My voice is small. Sheepish. I turn my face toward the window and watch the cars we pass along the way.

  Half an hour later, I'm biting my tongue so hard it's about to bleed. But the silence is freaking killing me.

  "I didn't sleep with him—" I cut myself off. Why would this be what comes out of my mouth? Am I trying to sabotage everything worse than I already have?

  But it's too late. Gage's cheeks flush red with anger. "Don't lie to me on top of everything else."

  "No, I mean after I saw you." God. Stop talking. Stop. "Everything changed after I saw you. I realized… When I watched you walk away, I got it. I get it. How stupid I was. Am."

  "Two whole nights without jumping into bed with Luca James. Good for you, Cassidy."

  This isn't going well at all.

  No shit, Cassidy.

  God.

  I forgave her, he said to me about Zoey once. But I won't ever forget what she did. She crossed a line there's no coming back from.

  I don't know what she did, but I know I've crossed a bad line, too. So I bite my lips together to keep from speaking again.

  Until we stop for gas. "I'm sorry I can't help pay for this. As soon as I find another job I'll—"

  "I don't want your money." He shoves himself out of the car to pump. And keeps his body turned from me the entire time, except on his way back from the mini-mart when it's not really an option, but even now his eyes are directed over my head, hell, they're over the entire car, so he doesn't have to look at me. When he climbs into his seat, he tosses me a water and a bag of chips and takes his phone, which I've reached around his seat to grab and placed on the dashboard, without a word.

  "Thank you," I say, grateful for the water. And the chips, too, though my stomach's too much of a mess to actually eat anything right now.

  "Yep."

  Well, that's something, I guess.

  As he pulls us back onto I-95, I try one more time, swearing, swearing to myself that if he doesn't respond, I won't speak again.

  "I know you're mad at me."

  "You know I'm mad at you?" His tone is full of disbelief and finally he looks at me, though with the fury across his features I kind of take back wishing he would. "Are you serious right now?"

  "Yes. You were here literally two days ago, and now you look like you want to murder me. Clearly, you're mad."

  He's shaking his head before I'm finished. "No shit, I'm mad at you. I'm here though, aren't I? You got what you wanted. Again." His fingers are wrapped so tightly around the steering wheel his knuckles are turning bright white. His gaze is back on the road, but even without seeing the anger in his eyes, a rope of regret tangles around my throat. His jaw clenches, unclenches. "My life isn't just about you. There are a million other things going on. You might try being a little less self-involved."

  "Talk to me, then," I plead. "Let me help."

  "You want to help? Really?"

  "Yes, please. Anything."

  "Stop talking."

  So, this time, I do.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  I'm an idiot.

  A complete moron.

  The silent tension in the car gives way to perfect clarity. I've done everything wrong. I slide a glance toward Gage, who's staring straight ahead, and it really sinks in that I've made a mess of more than just my life.

  Or maybe I'm being self-absorbed again. Maybe I shouldn't assume I've made enough of an impact on Gage's life to cause any sort of mess in it. But I shake my head before that thought's even finished. I made an impact on his life.

  A bad one.

  I hate myself more and more with each mile that passes.

  We're less than half an hour to Vera's and I can't think of anything to say. Every time I open my mouth I make things even worse. I should do as he asks and keep quiet.

  So I do. I promise myself the next time I open my mouth it will be to thank him for the ride.

  Except his phone rings and after he answers it, his
breath lurches, as though he can't get enough air, as though he's about to drown. "What? No—where? I'll be there in five."

  His voice cuts through the air with a severe edge; something about it brings goose bumps to my skin. He doesn't spike his phone this time. Just lays it in his lap, slowly, as if in a haze. But he's not in a haze because his foot's pressing the gas pedal all the way to the ground and we're flying, flying down the road.

  "Gage."

  No answer. I don't think he hears me. Streetlights zoom by, blurring outside my window. We're going so fast my stomach plummets—and it dives even farther when he blows through the start of a red light.

  "Gage. Slow down!"

  Finally, he turns to me. I wait for an eruption, but his eyes are round, the whites bright against the darkness. He's not mad right now, he's terrified.

  "What's going on?"

  "There was an accident. Katy." His voice cracks in two over her name and he drags his gaze back to the road, not saying anything else. Not needing to.

  "Don't slow down," I whisper, my insides nothing but ice water. "Just go."

  And so we continue to fly.

  I put my hand on his leg. This is not me trying to make amends for anything. I only want Gage to know he isn't alone. Maybe he understands because a moment later he covers my hand with his own, curling his fingers through mine when I turn my palm toward his.

  His grip tightens painfully when we pull onto the parkway, and my heart leaps into my throat. The road is closed off, two cop cars idle across three lanes, and a line of flares blocks the space before them. All other cars must have been diverted already, but the fact barely registers because down the way an ambulance's lights are flashing bright and haunting against the backdrop of the night, and behind that I can just make out a mangled mesh of silver metal. The remnants of an SUV, hanging over the guardrail at the edge of the road.

  Gage slams on the breaks and the car skids to a halt about a hundred yards away from the blockade and then he's out the door, running toward the scene. I'm right on his heels.

  Please not again, please, please, I don't know who I'm begging. God, maybe. Or fate. But I can't stop the word from running through my mind. Please, please, please.

  I can't stop reliving the phone call from my father to tell me Jason died. His gruff words. His choked-back tears. The sharpened blade of the corkscrew spiral slicing endlessly through my stomach. Through my heart.