“Not until you promise me you’re coming with me.”
He scrubs a hand roughly over his face. “Get in the cab and go back to the hotel before I call your brother to come get you.”
My eyes begin to sting. I told him how I felt, ripped back my carefully crafted exterior and bared my soul, and his grand response is to get me the hell away from him?
“Threatening me, Gav? You can’t handle what I have to say so you’re going to run and tell on me? I’m a big girl now. A simple ‘thanks, but no thanks’ would’ve sufficed.” A choked sob reaches my throat and somehow finds its escape.
“Bluebi—”
“No. You know what? I’m going.” I step forward, into where his arm is holding the cab door open. Turning, I tilt my face so it’s only a hair’s breadth from his. “But tonight, when you’re with your random waitress, another one that you won’t feel anything with, won’t remember, and won’t ever care if you ever see again, deep down we both know you’ll be thinking of me. Good night, Gavin.”
With that, I lower myself into the cab. I flinch when he slams the door shut. I don’t miss that he does it much harder than necessary. It takes every single ounce of my self-control not to turn and look back at him as the cab pulls away.
Dallas isn’t in the room when I get back, but just walking through the door strings me tight enough to snap. Gavin is everywhere I look. One of his vintage T-shirts is slung over a chair and his drum sticks are on the table. Dallas’s cot is blocking the path to my suitcase. I stub my toe on it and it becomes the stupid fucking cot and all I can see is Gavin looking at that damn waitress.
Even blinking is infuriating me because every time I do, a flash of him flirting with her, his hands on her, that damn grin, every heart-battering touch—appears behind my eyes in a torturous montage.
My brother is going to have to get over the whole starving artists thing. We aren’t rolling in cash by any means, and there have been times we’ve had to survive on week-old pizza, but enough is enough. From now on, I need my own room if we stay in a hotel overnight. I’ll happily risk starvation for the sake of my sanity. But living in close quarters with Gavin is not going to work for me. I yank my suitcase up onto the bed and begin throwing my things into it. Once I’ve packed all my belongings, I grab the nearest pen and flip past Dallas’s scribbled lyrics to an unused page of hotel stationery.
I scrawl out a quick note telling them, well, mostly telling Dallas because I’m pretty sure Gavin couldn’t care less and won’t be back to the room tonight, that I needed my own space and am getting a separate room. On my way down to the lobby, I take out my phone and text my brother in case he doesn’t see my note.
Don’t freak. I’m getting my own room. Need some space from all the testosterone.
By the time I’ve spoken with the front desk clerk and explained that I need a room as far from my previous one as possible, my phone chimes with a text notification. After I’ve been given the credit-card-style key to my sixty-five-dollar-a-night sanctuary, I read my brother’s message.
What’s going on? Just got back to the room. Where are you?
I’m so not in the mood to explain. Not that I could even if I wanted to. After I’ve settled into a room on the fifth floor on the opposite end of the hotel, I text him back.
Just need my own space, D. Female reasons. I had some extra cash put back. I’m in room 549. See y’all in the morning.
There. Female reasons is usually a surefire way to ensure my brother doesn’t ask any more questions.
He texts back a single word. Okay.