Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 92749 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92749 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
My laptop screen glows under the dim overhead light, and the cracked vinyl seat pinches my bare legs. Spreadsheets and booking forms spread across the table like I’m conducting important business. But my fingers hover motionless above the keyboard, and my eyes drift absently to the coffee in my cup which has grown cold while I stare.
Staring at nothing is better than reliving the past two hours. The way Darian’s hands felt on my skin. The sound he made when I touched him. How he looked at me like I was something precious right before I came undone beneath him.
I should be at the venue. Friday afternoons are for inventory and sound checks, for making sure everything’s ready for the weekend rush. Instead, I’m avoiding my own business like it might bite me, sitting in a diner that smells like bacon grease and disappointment. I look around at the others in here, heads bent, earphones on. To someone on the outside, these people look like anyone else you’d see at a twenty-four-hour diner. To me, they’re musicians, all waiting for the next call, their next moment to shine.
My phone buzzes. Jovie’s name flashes on the screen along with a text that makes my stomach clench.
Where the hell are you? Gus is asking about tonight’s setup and I don’t have answers.
I type three different responses and delete them all. What am I supposed to say? That I can’t face him after what we just did? That I can still feel him between my legs and it terrifies me? That the way he whispered my name against my throat made me want things I’ve spent years convincing myself I don’t need, so I fucking bailed when he got up to use the bathroom?
The bell above the diner door chimes, and I look up to see Jovie striding toward my table with the kind of purposeful walk that means trouble. Her purple hair catches fluorescent light as she slides into the seat across from me, fixing me with a stare that could melt steel.
“Really?” She gestures at my laptop setup. “You’re running The Songbird from a diner booth now?”
“At least I’m working.” I give her a pointed look since she’s technically the one not working.
“You’re playing hooky from your own business.” She flags down our waitress and orders coffee without breaking eye contact. “The question is, why?”
I close my laptop with more force than necessary. “There’s no question,” I say. “I needed a change of scenery.”
“Bullshit. In three years I’ve worked with you, you’ve never missed a Friday prep session. Not when you had the flu, not when your mama was in the hospital, not even when that water pipe burst and flooded the storage room.” Jovie leans back as the waitress sets down her coffee. “So what’s different about today?”
The honest answer sits in my throat like swallowed glass. Everything’s different because I let him inside me. Because this afternoon, I forgot every lesson I’ve learned about keeping people at arm’s length.
“Nothing’s different.”
Jovie’s laugh lacks any humor. “Try again.”
“I don’t owe you an explanation for how I run my business.”
“No, but you owe me honesty about why you’re acting like someone who’s afraid of her own shadow.” She adds sugar to her coffee with deliberate movements. “This about the musician? Darian?”
Heat climbs my neck because of course she knows. Jovie reads people like sheet music, catching every subtle change in key.
“Everything isn’t about men.”
“No, but this is.” She takes a sip and watches me over the rim of her cup. “What happened?”
I could lie. Should lie. Keep this mess contained instead of spreading it around like some kind of emotional infection. But Jovie’s been watching me self-destruct for two days, covering for my absence, probably fielding questions I should be answering myself.
“We slept together,” I mumble, incoherently.
Jovie blinks. “That’s it?”
“That’s enough.”
“Rye, you’re a grown woman. You’re allowed to have sex.”
“Not like this.” The admission comes out sharper, louder than intended. I glance at the other patrons, looking to see who’s watching us. “This was different,” I say through gritted teeth.
“Different how?”
I stare at the table, tracing the pattern in the laminate with my finger. How do I explain that being with Darian felt like coming home to a place I’ve never been? That the way he touched me, looked at me, made me feel like I was worth worshipping instead of just using?
“It just was.”
Jovie sets down her cup hard enough to make the table shake. “You know what? I’m tired of this.”
“Tired of what?”
“Tired of watching you punish yourself for wanting things. Tired of pretending like you don’t deserve good things in your life. Tired of you acting like being happy is some kind of betrayal.”
Her words sting. “That’s not what I’m doing.”
“Isn’t it?” She leans forward, voice dropping to the tone she uses when she’s done being patient. “From the moment he walked into The Songbird, you’ve been captivated by him. Maybe it’s the way he smiles, or the brooding rocker look that has you all giddy. Either way, if you got yours, who cares.”