They threw an engagement party at their condo, and Courteney invited me.
I went.
Cary didn’t.
He didn’t even show up to celebrate and support his own sister’s engagement to his best friend. I wasn’t sure who I felt more sorry for that night. For Courteney, for Xander, or for myself.
I wondered why we did this to ourselves.
For him.
I couldn’t not love him if I tried. I knew that much. And I knew Courteney and Xander felt the same.
And so, we waited.
I deliberated.
I stalled out.
I texted him. I waited, long and hard and breathless, for him to text me back.
I really wasn’t sure what to do with the money he’d paid me. I’d worked for it; for some of it, anyway. But I didn’t need it. I kept wondering if I should give it back. If he’d ever ask for it back.
I kind of wanted him to, just so he’d say more than one word to me.
An actual sentence. Was that too much to ask for?
I kept dreaming of Liam showing up in a dark car to drive me over to Cary’s house, where he asked me for his money back. And held me down while he fucked me again.
Yeah. Those dreams.
I had a lot of those dreams.
I just kept thinking that this nightmare would end, that it would have to end. That he’d reach out to me when the album was done, and we’d work things out.
And in the meantime, I waited.
I waited for him.
It was like there were two Taylors: the one who worked her ass off at her job so maybe no one would notice how bad the other Taylor was suffering… and the one who zoned out while jogging, while driving, while lying on the couch, spiraling endlessly over a puzzle that could never be solved. The why and the how that could never be explained, because the one person who had the answers wouldn’t tell me what they were.
I wondered if this was anything like what it was like for him after Gabe died.
After his heart was broken.
Did it ever mend?
In all those days, those months and years, alone in his home?
And sometimes I wondered… was this anything like what dying was like?
I felt like a ghost.
It was like the world went on without me in it.
How much could you keep talking to yourself, asking yourself questions, and getting nowhere, before you feared that your sanity might be slipping?
Before you told someone how bad it was?
Before you sought help?
How would I know when I’d reached the end of my rope, if no one was there to catch me?
October
One of Brody Mason’s staff, a girl named Talia, was promoted to assistant manager of the Players.
And all I could think was: why didn’t I think of asking Brody for that job?
I would have, if I knew it existed.
But I already had a job. After Cary had kicked me to the curb, off Ash’s suggestion, I’d called up Brody myself and asked him if he might have any work for me. I told him I’d do anything, and I meant it. I’d tear wax strips of the asses of rock stars if I had to. Better than purse dog lady; at least I’d get to go to free concerts. I told him there was only one thing I wouldn’t do.
Work with Cary.
Because Cary had made it clear he didn’t want to work with me. And I didn’t want to interfere with the Players’ album.
I just wanted it to be done.
Brody had taken me up on the offer, and put me to work with his assistant, Maggie, on Dirty’s team. She had me filling in the holes wherever she needed them filled. And I threw myself into the work with a fervor.
Dirty, as usual, seemed to be on fire; they were deep into writing their next album. I went down to their rehearsal space a bunch of times with Maggie, the old church where they wrote and practiced. And later, to Left Coast Studios, where they were recording.
It was incredibly cool being a part of all that, working with such a big band. And the part of Taylor that showed up for her job in a big way was both aware of it and grateful for it.
I tried to fit in, do my job as well as I could, and save my lying-flat-on-the-couch-and-pondering-the-black-hole-inside-me moments for my days off. Even if I was just fetching coffees and running errands and taking notes for people to remind them of what they’d said later, I was loving every minute of my job.
I couldn’t believe how much stuff they had to do, and all the stuff people were constantly demanding of them.
No wonder they had a whole team of people to just get them through the day when they were writing and recording.
No wonder Cary had broken under the pressure of his grief. I couldn’t imagine having so many eyes on me on a good day, let alone at a time like that.
I couldn’t even imagine how crazy it would be on tour.
Good crazy, hopefully.
I told myself I was up for the challenge, if the offer came my way. If I’d managed to prove myself to Maggie and Brody by the time Dirty went on their next tour.
Why not? I was single. I rented. I didn’t even own a pet.
I had nothing keeping me here in Vancouver.
Or so I told myself on my bravest days. My angriest days. My saddest days.
But the truth was, I was still waiting for Cary.
And there was a downside to being around Dirty, too. Because it just reminded me, day after day, of Cary and the work he was doing—without me.
Plus… I had to see Maggie with her husband, Zane Traynor, Dirty’s lead singer, and the way they looked at each other. The way he looked at her.
And Katie and Jesse Mayes.
And Elle Delacroix with her man, Seth Brothers.
And Dylan Cope, Dirty’s drummer, with his girlfriend, Amber.
And on and on.
Season of love.
November
I went to a toddler’s birthday party at my boss’s house, and I cried in the bathroom.
Brody’s little boy, Nick, was turning two, and he and his wife, Jessa, announced at the party that she was pregnant with baby number two. Elle and Seth’s baby, Emma, who’d turned one this summer, and Katie and Jesse’s baby, Madsen, who would turn one next month, were there, too. Amber, who was a photographer, took photos of the future generation of rock stars—or whatever they were going to grow up to be—for posterity.
I wasn’t ready for kids and marriage and a mortgage. After what happened with Cary and the deep well of secret sadness it sent me into, I wasn’t even sure I knew what the hell I wanted anymore, so forget making babies and committing my life to another human in holy matrimony.
Hard to want anything when the one thing you knew you wanted you couldn’t have.
But I was jealous. It was visceral. I couldn’t help it.
When those babies played together, my whole stomach tied in a knot. My ovaries throbbed. My heart ached.
But babies weren’t the only reason for my envy.
Elle and Seth had gotten engaged; I’d gone to their engagement party, too.
Then Dirty’s head of security, Jude, and his girlfriend, Roni, bought a house together in North Vancouver, not far from Brody and Jessa’s. They threw an epic housewarming party, and I went to that, too. The party was filled with bikers, Jude’s brothers in the West Coast Kings MC, and of course, rock stars.
Cary didn’t come.
I actually thought he might when I saw the crowd. All the VIPs and industry people.
When we were together, I’d fantasized about going to parties like that with him. And that night, I definitely fantasized, once again, that he’d walk through the door. I knew he was almost done producing the Players’ album. Ash had told me it was almost done.
It killed me a little that Cary was doing so well in that area of his life—even though I was so glad to hear it—because he didn’t want me to be a part of it anymore, or even see him. I knew he’d continued working down at Little Black Hole with the P
layers after he fired me. Ash even said they’d put their search for a guitarist on hold while Cary played for them in-studio; that they were all hoping he’d stick around.
I let myself feed off that hope, too. That he’d get himself strong and get his head straight enough that he could walk into the Players’ album release party. Even if he just showed up for a few minutes. Put in an appearance.
That would’ve been something.
But he didn’t show up at Jude and Roni’s housewarming, and with every party he missed, my hope faded just a little bit more.
That night, I’d ended up hanging out with another blond rock star instead—Johnny O’Reilly—and making out with him.
I only did it because I was so drunk and feeling so sorry for myself. He’d started talking to me first, and he seemed nice. (Though I’d heard from his ex-wife, Amber, that he was not.) He also kissed me first.
So, yeah. That happened.
He was hot. And he kissed good, too. Really good. It just felt so damn wrong having another man’s tongue in my mouth. The idea of another man’s… you know… in my…
Wasn’t happening.
I definitely regretted the whole thing afterward, once I’d sobered up. Even though it was just some kissing.
Other than that, I’d been an absolute nun. Just sitting on the sidelines of everyone else’s love story.
Don’t mind me. I’ll be just fine.
Last Night
Summer and Ronan had a giant, storybook wedding at a fancy country club her parents belonged to, just outside of Victoria, on Vancouver Island. They booked the whole place out and the party was filled with VIPs, family, friends.
It was nothing short of utterly magical. I’d never seen so many white roses and little twinkly lights in one place. It was like being inside a fairy’s magic wand.
Summer wore an amazing dress, and she wore custom jewelry made by my best friend.
And when Summer’s best friend, Elle, gave her toast to the bride, she also raised a toast to the Players. To celebrate their album coming to completion.
While everyone drank to that, I drank to the black hole inside me, trying to drown it.
The album was done.
That was what Danica and Ash had told me. Brody told me. Maggie told me.
Everyone told me.
Except Cary.
I’d waited, fucking glued to my phone.
I’d wanted to text him to ask him about it.
I didn’t.
He told me we’d talk when the album was done. But I hadn’t heard a word from him about it.
At the end of the night, Summer had insisted that we all go home with an armload of roses, because her parents had filled the place with so many. Must’ve been nice to have parents who cared about you so damn much that they made that much of a fuss over you when you got married.
Seemed like a small miracle that I’d gotten through the whole event without crying. But maybe by then I was kind of numb.
Plus… tequila.
I’d tried to have fun. Just keep it light. Keep dancing. Mingling.
Drinking.
I’d stuck with Danica most of the night, but we couldn’t even turn around without running into some famous musician one of us now knew. Like Johnny O.
I definitely got the feeling that he wanted to make out with me again. But then I attached myself to Amber and Dylan by the bar. I did shots with them, and I managed to shake Johnny’s attention. Pretty sure it probably just landed on someone else, and just as well. I wasn’t interested in getting involved with him on any level.
I wasn’t interested in getting involved with anyone.
That party was like a fairytale, it was filled with eligible men, and none of them interested me.
The only man I actually wanted to see wasn’t there. I was sure he was invited. But as always… Cary didn’t come.
Now
I lay on my best friend’s couch, staring at the ceiling.
Ash, Danica and I had come back to their house on Isabella Island, with Xander and Courteney and all the usual suspects, after the wedding.
Danica and Ash had gone next door to Dylan’s place a little while ago to get beer or something and hadn’t come back. Along with various wedding guests who’d crashed at Dylan’s place last night, a bunch of his family was over for the big barbecue tonight. Kids, teens, adults, babies. Apparently, one of Dylan’s sisters had some new boyfriend, and that was an event worthy of throwing a barbecue and inviting everyone they knew to come over and celebrate the beautiful miracle that was young love.
I was tired of feeling jealous of everyone around me.
I was too numb to cry.
And I was still waiting. Waiting for the nightmare to end.
I had music on. The coffee table next to me was smothered in white roses from yesterday’s wedding. And I was hanging on by a sad thread.
It was my last one. I was sure of it.
Dirty and frayed, it twisted idly, back and forth, as I dangled over the crevasse that was gradually cracking open underneath me.
I was hungover, too, which wasn’t helping anything. Thanks to an open bar and the fact that last night’s wedding was the most epic party of the year so far, I’d drowned my sorrows a little too thoroughly.
I wasn’t gonna just lay here all night, though. I had a barbecue to go to. I could hear people next door, at Dylan’s place, spilling out onto the back deck and into the yard. I’d be partying with them soon enough. Putting my game face on.
But I just needed a fucking minute.
Stop the ride. I need to get off.
Right about now, I was supposed to be helping my best friend and her husband make skewers for the barbecue. According to Danica, I was also supposed to be helping her plan my birthday party. At the end of the month, I was turning thirty.
I just couldn’t seem to muster a fuck to give about it.
Not. One. Fuck.
Three-and-a-half months had passed since Cary left that letter for me and I moved out of his poolhouse.
Ten weeks.
Seventy-two days.
And now I was decimated by the truth: that the album was done and Cary hadn’t reached out. That he wasn’t counting down the seconds until it was done, like I was.
That he wasn’t dying to talk to me. To see me.
He’d officially left me.
Obviously, he’d left me months ago. But only now, I knew it was true.
He wasn’t coming back.
Early in the New Year, less than two months from now, the Players would go on tour.
Danica would go with them.
And sometime after that, once their new album was also released, Dirty would go on tour. Maybe Brody and Maggie would ask me to go with them.
Maybe I would.
All I’d wanted was the Players’ album to be done. And now that I’d reached that precipice, and there was nothing beyond, I gazed out into the abyss, lost.
I was counting down the hours until I had to get my shit together and go back to work. I was supposed to be back in the city tomorrow to do some work for Maggie.
But right now… I just needed one more minute. Maybe three. Four and-a-half?
Maybe just one more song, and I’d feel better.
How long would it take me to get over this?
To get over him?
Could take a week.
Could take the rest of my life.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Taylor
Things Ain’t Like They Used to Be
“I can’t believe you forgot the Strongbow,” I heard Danica say, as she and Ash came crashing noisily through the back door. “You know it makes me happy when I cook.”
“Sorry, babe. Forgot. I’m a beer guy.”
I glanced over to see him setting a box of Strongbow, which they’d obviously foraged from next door, on the kitchen island.
“Taylor would’ve remembered,” she teased, as he broke open the box.
“You think so?�
�� He handed her a Strongbow—and backed her up against the island, dick-first.
“Uh-huh.” She cracked open the cider, as Ash started grinding against her. I looked away. “She knows the way to my heart. You just know the way between my legs.”
“Yeah, and then I try to blow my load all the way up to your heart…”
That romantic statement was followed by making out noises.
“Do you guys have to be so grossly in love all the time?” I called out so they knew I was right here, I could hear them, and they could spare me the twisted foreplay.
Danica hopped up on her tiptoes to see over the bajillion white roses next to me and saw me sprawled on the couch. “There you are!” As if I was ever anywhere else? “Tay, come drink with me.”
I grumbled something that wasn’t really anything and turned the music up. I had “Gimme Shelter” on repeat, but who knew how many times it had already played.
“Are you kidding me with that?” Ash said, cracking open a beer. “It’s worse than waking up to your blaring ‘Master of Puppets’ alarm every goddamn morning. You’re gonna trance yourself into a coma.” He took a swig of beer, and when I didn’t respond, he told Danica, “Get her off the couch.”
“Hey.” I pointed at him. “When she met you, I told her you’re a keeper. Don’t you dare ever forget it.”
“And I love you for it,” he said. “Now get the fuck up off my couch.”
I sat up, unenthusiastically, and put my feet on the floor. But I didn’t get off the couch.
My best friend’s husband shook his head like I’d disappointed him. “What’s up with her, anyway?” he asked her.
Danica looked me over empathetically. Then she started washing vegetables in the sink. “Can we just tell him already?” she asked me.
Ash frowned. “Tell me what?”
I gave her a warning look, which she returned with a sad face.
Then we exchanged a silent but vehement back-and-forth, while Ash said, “What? Tell me what? Tell me tell me tell me.”
Lovely Madness: A Players Rockstar Romance (Players, Book 4) Page 36
