“Yes. Fuck. The locked door. It’s a habit. Do it without even thinking.” I smile through my lie at Xavier who is still standing in the doorway. “I had to install those keycode locks at my house because I kept locking myself outside.”
“Good. Great,” Xavier says, walking past me and into the booth. “The writing is going—Matthews? You’re here.”
Thank God for the dim light or Bristol’s flushed cheeks, mussed hair, and nervous smile just might give us away.
“Of course, I’m here. Isn’t that what you wanted? For me to report back with an update?” she asks.
He studies her for a beat. I can see her pulse pounding in the vein on her neck.
“And yet last I checked I haven’t gotten one.”
This fucking guy and his ego. Such a blowhard. “Yeah. Cell service in here sucks, soundproof walls and all. Besides, I needed her help,” I explain before she can speak.
Be good. Don’t bait the fucker. It’s not your job at stake. Color inside the fucking lines.
Try to, at least.
“I have a text typed up to send to you,” she says, holding her cell up with what looks like a lengthy text from our distance, “but I haven’t been able to get it to send. I figured helping Vince was what was most important.”
All she needs is a bat of lashes and a curtsy to help with his god complex.
“Help? How so?” Xavier asks, eyes narrowed and arms crossed.
“Recording the session for me. Stopping and starting with each take. You know, just in case something good happens so I don’t forget what it is. It might not work for the current song, but that doesn’t mean it won’t be for the next one.”
Noah busies himself, his smirk hidden from everyone but me. He knows I’m full of shit but plays along.
Xavier looks her way again. “And here I was afraid Matthews was dropping the ball and not fulfilling your needs.”
I have a lot of fucking needs, Xav, and right now every single one of them has to do with that woman over there.
“No complaints here.” I chuckle. “Studio time’s precious, after all.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Bristol
Seven Years Ago
I’ve never felt more na?ve in my life than I do in this moment.
Women mill around me. Most are half-dressed in sky-high heels. Some are drunk or obnoxiously loud or both. All are standing near the backstage exit waiting for a brief glimpse of any of the Bent band members in the hopes they’ll burst out of those doors and make the trek to their tour bus.
And in that glimpse, I have no doubt they are hoping to be seen, noticed, and then picked out of the crowd to join them for the evening.
I’m not sheltered by any means, but to say I’m not surprised by the comments being said around me is an understatement.
Getting an autograph is the last thing on these ladies’ minds.
I’ve heard he’s incredible in the sack. I plan on finding out.
If I flash them as they walk by, do you think it would help?
Panties are a no-go. I want him to see how wet I am for him through my pants.
I thought getting the concert ticket and driving the four hours to the venue was going to be the hardest part of tonight. Sure, it cost me some of my savings, but seeing Vince again was all I could think about.
The concert alone was definitely worth it. Bent was more than electric, but truth be told, I wasn’t exactly paying attention. My eyes were one hundred percent fixed on Vince.
He was . . . incredible. Fantastic. Mesmerizing. All of that and then some considering I knew the boy who’d fiddle on his guitar and blush when he messed up a chord. To see him so confident and playing up the crowd was everything I’d hoped it would be.
But now I’m here. Outside the back door. One of what seems like a hundred women vying to be seen and not exactly sure how to do it.
I’ve tried talking to the security guards at the door. The only thing I do know is that he changed his number somewhere during the past few years. Was it his way of making a clean break from his past?
I’m under no pretenses how this reunion will go other than the strong urge I had telling me that I needed to be here. That I needed to see him if for no other reason than to sate my curiosity and to find a bit of closure in a wound that has long since scarred over.
The question is . . . how exactly do I do that?
The confidence I had in how I looked—my new outfit, my freshly cut and colored hair, my perfectly colored spray tan—fades as I take in all these women and their knockout bodies. I could only wish to have the confidence to wear the skimpy outfits they are wearing.
Is this what Vince likes now? Is this who he is? Does that really matter, Bristol? This isn’t about sex. Right?
“Trying to get in his pants now that he’s made it, huh? Don’t let the lights fool you. He’s still the same fucked-up loser he was back then. Maybe even more so now. Don’t waste your time. He’s not fucking worth it.”
The slight slur to his words, the innate lethargy, the disdain for his son . . . it was horrible. The fact that I had to plead with that man . . . For whatever reason, he gave me Vince’s number, and until now, I wasn’t sure I’d ever use it. But I need to try. I can’t let this moment pass me by.
I dial the number Deegan Jennings gave me and wait as it rings and rings until an electronic voice picks up. Shit. Then I stare at my phone wondering what to text. It takes me way too long to figure it out. There is a lot of typing and deleting, but in the end, I figure simpler is better.
Me: It’s Bristol. I’m here at the arena. The backstage door. The concert was great. I know you’re busy but was hoping maybe to see you for a few minutes. – Shug.
I hit send and then silently freak out. I just played the only hand I have, and it might not be enough. Vince holds all the cards now.
The minutes drag on as my hope of seeing him fades.
The door opens and everyone clambers back to the ropes as a tall man in a white shirt, ripped jeans and a hat that sits low over his brow walks out toward us. He starts pointing at different women and then hooking his thumb toward the door he just came from. “You. And you.” He stands on his tiptoes and looks past the front row where I stand as those first two women squeal and all but jog in their heels toward the door. “You, you, and you,” he continues, looking over me. “That’s it.”
Every part of me deflates as I try to get his attention. “Hey. I need to see Vince.”
“So does everyone, sweetheart. Let me guess, you know him personally.”
“I do. I promise. Tell him Shug is here.”
A round of laughter goes off from the women blocking the view in front of me, and then there is an awed silence I can’t comprehend.
“Shug? Is that you?”
Vince’s voice rings out followed by gasps from the women around me as he comes into view.
“Vince. I’m here. It’s me.” My words are frantic. My heart is racing. And the next few seconds are an absolute blur as the man I later find out to be the road manager, Mick, grabs my hand and pulls me out of the crowd. I don’t even have time to see or talk to Vince as the crowd squeezes in around us. Mick pushes us through the door before slamming it behind us.
“Christ, Jennings. You trying to get me fucking killed?” Mick asks as he shoves him from behind.
Vince laughs. “Too bad it didn’t work.”
“Fucker,” Mick mumbles about the same time that Vince turns to face me.
The area we are standing in is brightly lit, has concrete floors, white walls, and Vince stands before me dressed in head-to-toe black.
He’s gorgeous.
I mean, he always has been, but his boyish face has matured. His jaw is stronger, covered in more stubble, and his eyes, though lit up with surprise, are more reserved. His left arm is peppered with a few tattoos that give him more of an edge than the guy I once knew. And then there’s his body. That wiry teenage boy I once loved is most definitely a man with a broad chest, square shoulders, strong thighs, and sexy as hell hands.
And in that one look, a million feelings come rushing back to me as if no time has passed.
But it has.