The phone buzzes again. Alison. Come on.
My heart picks up its pace. So it’s not a wrong number. And, as far as I know, there’s no one else who should be apologizing to me.
No one other than Jace.
I reach for the phone, but Avery grabs the arms of the desk chair and spins it so I’m facing her. “No,” she says. “You are so not going to waste your time giving that douchebag a response.”
I nod in agreement, but I can’t form any words. How in the hell did he get my number? My heart keeps pounding, and I close my eyes, just wanting the whole situation to go away.
Avery grabs the phone and starts typing, but I snatch it away before she sends some insulting message. I hug the phone close to me and wag my finger at her. “We’re not going to get in a pissing war with him.” I say it out loud, so she can’t pretend to misunderstand me. “Like you said, he’s not worth our time.”
She throws her hands up and glares at me. I’m used to exasperating Avery, but I’ve rarely seen her like this; she looks genuinely upset with me. “Let me talk to him.”
“No.” This is something I need to deal with myself. He insulted me, he flipped me off, and so it should be me who deals with him.
Before Avery can protest, I jog into the hallway, clutching the phone close to me. I turn into the bathroom right outside her room and lock the door. Taking a deep breath, I sit on the edge of the bathtub.
Vibrations run through the tile, and I know Avery is outside banging on the door, trying to get me to come out. I pull out the phone and erase the part of the message Avery already typed. Once the last swear is cleared from the screen, I start my own message.
How did you get my number?
The response comes almost instantly. Ticket sale records.
I groan. Avery was the one who saved up for the tickets, but she’d had me make the actual purchase, since I’m better at scrounging up online deals. I’d been certain the info I gave the ticket site was private, but Jace probably isn’t the type to care about confidentiality. He’s got the money to get past any kind of barrier. Lucky bastard.
Another text pops up on my screen: I’m really sorry.
No you’re not.
But my manager thinks I should be.
I squeeze my eyes closed just as my phone vibrates again. I clench it tight, resisting the urge to chuck it across the room. After a long minute, I stare back down at the screen. I’m not about to drop the conversation now and let Jace think he got the better of me.
You need money?
I’m slightly surprised at how articulate his texts are. Most guys use as many abbreviations as possible when they text, which drives me nuts. But not Jace. Well, that’s one thing about this conversation that’s not infuriating.
How is that any of your business? I text back.
I’ll give you 3k if you let me make up for being a jerk.
I rub my temples. This is so not how this conversation was supposed to go. I was supposed to tell him off, say he was an asshole and that he can’t just go around treating people the way he does. Money was never supposed to be a factor in this.
How does he even know how broke I am? How desperately I need cash? For every second Avery has spent daydreaming about Tone Deaf, I’ve spent a minute dreaming about escape. To get away from this city, away from the air that’s strangely hot and dusty. To run back to NYC, where beautiful chaos rules and no one notices you unless you want them to.
To escape to a place where my dad could never find me.
“Damn you,” I mutter, clenching the phone tighter in my hand. I hesitantly type back, What do you want from me?
Just finish the tour. Take a couple pictures with me. I promise I won’t even talk to you.
I laugh as I read his reply. Jackass. Like ignoring me is some type of gift? Seriously, what’s his issue? Sure, he’s made his living off music, but that’s no reason to hate anyone who can’t hear his work. I think of all the people I’ve seen posting on the DeafClan forums about his music, and suddenly wish I had my own account, just so I could warn them that Jace doesn’t deserve his fans.
And why is he even offering this to me? Probably to keep me from going to the media, like Avery suggested. After all, Jace doesn’t know for sure that I don’t have any evidence of what he did. I’m sure some girls would have tried to discreetly film their encounter with a celebrity, which is probably what he’s worried about. But if Jace gets a couple of pictures with me, both of us smiling, then no one can claim he’s done anything wrong.
My breath catches in my throat as I realize these texts would probably give me enough evidence to convince a news outlet of what an ass he was to me. But . . . damn it. The number he’s using has a local area code, probably from a phone he borrowed. There’s nothing to prove it’s actually him. Which leads me back to the impossible issue of getting the media to believe me over a celebrity.