So I’d gone to him to apologize, to give our relationship a real shot and . . . and I’d found him fucking a groupie in his hotel room.
He’d been punishing me with cheap flings ever since, and for a while, I’d punished him right back. It only made me miserable and lonely. Trying to find something real with someone else had proven difficult.
Until Max.
How could I still love Micah after that? I hated him but I was pretty sure I hated him because I still loved him too.
He kissed my cheek, a soft brush of his lips on a path to my mine. His arm tightened around me. “I love you so much,” he groaned as if in pain.
I jerked away, shoving his arm off me. “No, you don’t. The only person you love is yourself.”
Micah straightened, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “Not true.” Hurt blazed in his eyes.
That was the problem with my best frenemy. Sometimes he was vicious in an argument and other times he had the ability to make me feel like I’d kicked a puppy. I huffed in exasperation. “You just had sex with a groupie and then came in here to tell me you love me. Do you not see anything wrong with that?”
“One thing hasn’t got anything to do with the other. She was a faceless fuck. You’re the heartless bitch that torments my goddamned soul.”
And there he was. Vicious. I winced, looking away.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I don’t know why I said that.”
Because we were a mess. We were the kind of mess there was no fixing.
I pushed the dressing room stool back from the table and stood up, pulling the hem of my skirt down. “We’re on soon.”
“I’m sorry about Max,” he said. “I fucked up. I’ve tried to tell him the truth.”
Max was the lead singer of Talking Trees. We began dating eight months ago and I got his band on this tour with us. He was sweet and artistic and quiet. Being around him was soothing and safe and he had this ability to calm my mind to all the crazy stuff that came with fame. He was the kind of guy who I knew with certainty would never let the fame part compromise the art. I didn’t know if I’d been in love with him, but I was happier with him than I had been in a while.
Until Micah started his drama, filling Max’s head with insecurities about us. The final nail in the coffin was Micah kissing me and making out to Max that it was mutual. Even believing me, that I’d pushed Micah off, Max still broke up with me, sick and tired of the drama. And who could blame him?
So now I was stuck on tour with my ex-boyfriend because Micah was a giant man-child.
“It’s not about Max anymore.” I brushed past him, heading for the door when his next words drew me to a stop.
“You think I don’t see how sad you are, but I do. I know you better than anyone, Sky.”
I knew he knew . . . and that was why I really hated him. Angry tears flooded my eyes as I glanced back at him. “Do you even care?”
He sighed, expression regretful but resolute. “Honestly, I’m afraid of what it means for the band, so I try not to.”
My chest ached at his selfishness.
I turned to leave when my cell suddenly blared to life. Planning on ignoring it, I opened the door to leave when I was abruptly halted by two men in suits blocking the way.
They wore resigned expressions that made my stomach plummet. “Skylar Finch?” the tallest of the two said, flashing me his police badge. “I’m Detective Rawlings, this is Detective Brant. May we come in?”
Wondering what the hell had happened, I stumbled back, silently gesturing for them to come into the room. They frowned at the sight of Micah, who’d positioned himself protectively at my side.
“Perhaps we should speak alone, Miss Finch,” Detective Rawlings suggested softly.
The way they were looking at me . . . like they had news they weren’t looking forward to imparting.
“You can say what you have to in front of Micah.”
“Then . . . Miss Finch, I’m afraid we have some bad news . . .”
The detective spoke but in retrospect, I can’t remember his exact words, something about “your mother,” “stepfather,” “armed robbery,” “shot,” “too late.” “Gone.” “I’m sorry.” “Come with us.”
Perspective.
For some strange reason, it was the only thing I could think of in that moment.
I was being punished for not having perspective.
* * *
Present day
Glasgow, Scotland
O’DEA STARED AT ME, HOLDING the fruit cup and Danish pastry he’d brought with him hostage.
It was only pure physical exhaustion that caused me to find sleep the night before. After O’Dea had left, my brain felt like a hive of bees had been let loose inside it. I kept going over and over my options. Memories I’d worked so hard to bury were coming back to the surface. It was his fault.
I glared at the Scot. He was pushing me to move on, no matter what. That was a difficult concept for me to grasp because up until a couple of days ago, I’d completely given up on my old life. I didn’t care at the time how that made me seem because it meant I didn’t have to make difficult decisions anymore. That was freeing.
However, as much as I hated to admit it, O’Dea had held a mirror up to my behavior. It was clear he did not approve of the fact that I hadn’t stayed in the US to face my grief. And for some reason I couldn’t understand, that bothered me. I didn’t want to think of myself as a coward. I’d never thought of myself as a coward before.
I just . . . I was trying to survive. Sometimes pain was just too much, you know.
Weren’t we all just trying to survive?
“Well?” He stared at me impatiently.
As much as I feared fame, as unhappy as it had made me in the past, it was my only option at this point. After six months of no new leads in finding the armed robbers who had broken into my mom’s house and shot her and Bryan, I decided I was done with that life.
I hadn’t seen Micah, Austin, or Brandon since, and that was eighteen months ago. Facing them was a worse prospect than losing respect for myself at this point.
They were too much a reminder of my selfishness, of my stupidity and regret.
If I signed this contract with O’Dea, if I released an album with him, Gayle would definitely reach out. The guys would too. I wasn’t sure about Micah. There was a possibility he would never forgive me for disappearing. Or the letter and voicemail I’d left with Gayle so they wouldn’t report me as missing.
“I want creative control over the album,” I demanded. O’Dea’s eyes warmed and were far too appealing in that moment, so I continued before he could respond. “I also want it in the contract that I don’t have to talk to the media about my family. And that I get to choose which media outlets I talk to at all. Also, if my manager or band members try to get in touch, I will need you to field that interaction, as in make sure that they aren’t allowed to interact with me at all.”
He sighed, sounding exasperated by the notion. “The world is going to come buzzing back around as soon as we announce this solo return. I can make sure the topic of your family is strictly prohibited by interviewers, but I can’t guarantee they won’t try to broach the subject with you anyway. Also, there is no way I’m putting it in a contract that you get to pick and choose media outlets. That would be legally allowing you the choice not to pick any. Furthermore, keeping closemouthed about your family and your disappearance from Tellurian and the public eye will only incite the media’s interest.”
I opened my mouth to argue and he held up a hand to stop me. “But . . . I can keep your old management, your record label, and your band at bay.” O’Dea scratched his chin in thought. “Don’t you have an aunt?”
“Pen?” I shook my head, surprised he knew about my mom’s little sister since I had a nonexistent relationship with the last living member of my family. “Pen won’t be a problem. She didn’t even come home for the funeral. I doubt she cares about my disappearance. She’s not really all that big into facing reality.”
“Family trait, it seems.”
I grimaced. “Well, I walked into that one.”