Just For Now, page 21
No matter how much I crave Blaire, I won’t make the same mistake again.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Blaire
Despite the fact that he didn’t stay long, some part of me hoped that Beckett coming to me the night after he and Cataclysm recorded their single meant that we’d get back to normal. Or at least our normal.
But it’s over a week later, and I’ve barely seen him. We talk about the tour, but just the bare minimum. I sometimes catch him staring at me, but he turns away as soon as he notices me looking. He even told me to talk to Kelsey about something, which left me open-mouthed and confused, because he’s never done that. In fact, the one time I tried to do that, he got upset.
He’s avoiding me. And I don’t know why.
Marcus is calling me and asking when I’m coming back. And something about his tone and the looks he gave me when he was here means he thinks maybe I’m not coming back. I’ve been putting him off, wanting to talk to Beckett first, but I’ll need to give him an answer soon.
The problem is, I don’t know what the right answer is.
Do I want to go back?
Maybe?
I don’t know.
A month ago I might’ve said no. That I want to stay with Beckett. But that was before Beckett started ignoring me.
Yes, I know, his daughter is here, and I’m not asking him to give up time with her, but the fact that he barely speaks to me anymore makes me feel dumped.
Was that night a goodbye, and I missed the memo?
If so, then I should definitely go back to Cataclysm. If I’m not really wanted here, then what’s the point of staying?
Any news on your return date?
It’s another text from Marcus. Like he can read my thoughts.
Sighing, I pull on my big girl panties—and I mean that literally, because I just got out of the shower—and decide to take control of the situation. I don’t wait around for men to tell me what to do. I go after what I want, and if it doesn’t work out, I regroup and find a new target.
Right now what I want is this job and Beckett. And the only way to find out is to seek out Beckett and make him talk to me. At this time of night after a show, he’ll be in his room. And if his daughter’s with him, well … I’ll wait until she leaves, whether Beckett likes it or not.
Once I’m dressed, I send him a text telling him I’m on my way to his room because we need to talk.
I know it’s a terrible phrase—we need to talk—loaded with so much dread. But we do need to talk. About my contract. Us. What he wants from me.
With a deep breath, I head for his room, pull my shoulders back and knock on his door. He answers a minute later with his phone pressed to his ear and motions me inside, his eyes skating up and down my body.
Holding up a finger in the universal signal to wait a minute, he turns his back to me and moves a few steps away. “Hey, Chet? I gotta go. My tour manager’s here and needs to discuss something with me. No, that’s not code. Shut up. Okay. Talk soon. Bye.”
He hangs up the phone and stuffs it in his pocket before turning back to me, his eyes again traveling down and up my body. But it’s not with the usual warmth and affection I’m used to seeing. His gaze is detached, almost clinical as he looks me over. “That isn’t code, right? ‘We need to talk’ isn’t a request for a booty call?”
“No.” I manage to keep my voice calm, close to my attempt at soothing, but my nerves are ratcheted up. His comment almost makes me laugh, partly from nerves, partly because that must be some kind of joke, right? Who doesn’t know the universal relationship code of what we need to talk really means?
But he’s tense, the muscle in his jaw ticking, his arms crossed and his shoulders hunched, like he’s prepared to ward off an attack. His question is clearly not a joke. So maybe he is expecting me to break up with him.
That’s not my intention, though. Hell, I’ve been wondering if he’s already broken up with me. And now I don’t know what to think.
I gesture at one of the chairs. “Can we sit?”
With a stiff nod, he moves to sit down, and I take a seat across from him. “What did you want to talk about?”
“Um …” Somehow his directness catches me off guard. Also, the fact that he seems to be clueless. And Tawni wasn’t here when I arrived, which makes me wonder how much time he’s actually been spending with her after shows like he claims. Is that just an excuse to not see me as much? Is he done with me?
With a deep breath, I spit out what I came to say. “I miss you. I miss spending time with you and talking to you and … everything.” I make a looping gesture with my hand that I hope encompasses our relationship, or at least what I’ve thought of as our relationship. “I feel like I’ve barely seen you the last few weeks since your daughter joined the tour. And I get that you need to spend time with her, and I want you to do that for both your sakes, but …” I trail off, biting my lip, hoping I don’t sound like a desperate loser or a crazy woman who’s jealous of a twelve-year-old. It’s not that at all. I just … “I miss you.”
He sits, impassive, that muscle still ticking in his jaw, staring at me like he’s making extra special sure I’m done before he responds. “You miss me.”
I nod, unable to quell the hope trying to rise in my chest. Nothing about his demeanor is hope inducing. And yet, I’m still hoping he’ll tell me he misses me too or that he’ll make more of an effort or that I matter to him or something.
Instead he says, “You miss fucking me, you mean?” It’s a question, but his voice is flat, like it’s a declaration of objective fact.
I flinch. “No. I mean, well, of course, but not just that,” I stammer. Taking a deep breath, I force my thoughts to get in line. “I miss you,” I insist. “I miss seeing you every night. I miss talking about your songs. I miss feeling like …” like I matter to you. But I can’t force those words out. I can’t lay myself that bare. Not when he looks so forbidding. So distant. So … mean.
His lip twists in an ugly snarl. “Am I not paying enough attention to you, Blaire? Well, get in line with everyone else who wants a piece of me. You need some money too?”
Blinking back the tears that try to spring to my eyes, I stand. “No. No, Beckett. And if you think your money is the only part of you I’m interested in, then I obviously never mattered to you …” as much as you matter to me … “as much as I thought.” I swallow hard and lift my chin, calling upon all my reserves to keep my tone void of emotion. “My contract was on a trial basis and either of us could end it at any time. Consider this my notice. Marcus has been pressing for a firm return date, needing to know if they should hire a temporary replacement to start the next leg of their tour with them. I’ll let him know I’ll be back as soon as possible.”
I turn for the door, the blond wood blurring in front of my eyes, but I just keep walking in a straight line, my back stiff, head held high. I won’t let him see me falling apart. Not now. Not ever.
“Blaire,” he calls after me, his voice suddenly entreating. “Blaire, wait. No. That’s not what—” The door cuts off whatever he was going to say.
I don’t care anymore.
What we had is obviously not what I thought it was. And I can’t stay here to be treated like a convenient hole. I’ve come too far from the kid I was—a burden, an afterthought—and I won’t allow myself to be treated like that as an adult.
I might be lonely with Cataclysm, but at least I know where I stand with them. And they want me around, regardless of anything else, just like a family. Now more than ever, I’m glad I have them to go home to.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Beckett
“Blaire, please.” The door closes before I can catch her. With my hand on the door, I consider wrenching it open and going after her. But I know she heard me. She knows I wanted to say something. And she doesn’t want to hear it.
I knew—as soon as the words left my mouth I knew I’d made a terrible mistake. I knew it as I was saying them. That what she was telling me—that she misses me—wasn’t a ploy to get something from me. She misses me. So maybe she does want more of my time, but is that really so ridiculous? Especially since I fucking miss her and want to spend time with her too. Being apart from her has been killing me by degrees.
But Malea’s poison wormed its way into my heart, into my head. Her voice whispering, You’re only good for a fuck and a paycheck, the whole time Blaire was talking. Who could love you? She doesn’t love you. No one loves you.
And now I’ve let Malea ruin my life even more.
My head makes a dull thunk when I let it fall and hit the door. The only woman I’ve cared about in a long time, and I’ve just driven her away. Maybe Malea’s right about one thing. I’m an asshole. That’s an undeniable fact, and any hope I had of proving her wrong just vanished along with Blaire.
She’s leaving.
But it’s the middle of the night, so it’s not like she’s heading for the airport right now, right?
Right.
I’ll talk to her tomorrow. Give her the night to cool off and straighten everything out in the morning. Tell her how I really feel about her. That I love her. That I need her. That she’s the best thing to ever happen to me.
My stomach turns when I see that look on her face again when I asked if she needed money … she looked like I’d gutted her. Literally taken a knife and sliced into her belly.
The shit cherry on top of the turd sundae today has been.
First Malea’s phone call, which was painful enough.
I never recovered. No amount of meditation or mindfulness or mental rehearsals could draw Malea’s toxin from my veins.
I gave maybe the worst concert of my career. The audience’s response was as lackluster as my performance. For the first time in months, they didn’t demand an encore.
My daughter talked to me for maybe five minutes before claiming she was tired and wanted to go to bed.
Then Chet called with more bad news. The label isn’t interested in offering me another contract. “It’s good news, though,” he said, “because now you can really pursue this collaboration idea full force. You’re not tied into a contract to do something else. I’ll find you a buyer for this, no problem. And if not, you release it yourself. That’s all the rage these days. We’ll make it happen, okay?”
And then Blaire comes in and tells me she misses me. Like I mean something to her. Like she didn’t tell a crew of roadies that we weren’t that serious and she’d be leaving soon.
Like maybe …
Maybe we were on the same page all along.
But instead of believing her, I spewed out the contamination taking root inside me onto her. Like patient zero in a new epidemic. I ruined everything. All but called her a whore and accused her of using me for money.
What the fuck is wrong with me? Why is it that I manage to ruin everything I touch?
When I was younger I thought everything would always work out for me.
But now I’m an aging rock star with a tanking career and the only woman I’ve ever wanted this bad walked out on me. Because I’m the worst kind of asshole.
How am I going to fix this?
Banging on the door wakes me up the next morning. Blearily, I drag myself out of bed, checking my phone for any notifications that will alert me to the emergency wake up call.
But there’s nothing, so I have no idea what’s going on when I open the door, and Hurricane Kelsey comes raging into my room.
“What did you do?” she shouts, shoving the door closed behind her. She brandishes a finger in my face, and I reflexively take a step backwards, feeling entirely underdressed in the boxers I slept in.
“What are you talking about?” I say around a yawn. I should be more upset about the obvious crisis that has her barging in here before five o’clock in the morning, but I’m too tired to do more than scan the room for clothes. I need to be dressed if I’m going to face whatever this is.
“She’s gone,” Kelsey hisses, and I stop in the middle of grabbing my jeans, all my hair standing on end as I stare at her. “Blaire’s gone,” she repeats.
All I can do is blink as my overtired, overstressed brain tries to process her words. “What do you mean she’s gone? She can’t be gone. She’s my … tour manager.” What I really wanted to say was She’s my girlfriend. But I guess she’s not, is she? Not after the way I treated her last night. Not after the way she left.
“What did you do?” Kelsey repeats.
Lips pressed together, I shake my head and focus on pulling on my clothes. I can’t talk about this in only my underwear. Also, I need to buy some time. I’m not sure how we went from Blaire saying she would leave to her actually being gone in only a few hours. I thought I’d have time to make things right. Convince her to change her mind.
But I’m a dumbass as well as an asshole. If that hadn’t been obvious before, it sure as hell is now. Because this whole time I’ve been thinking I need to convince her to stay, I’ve also been pushing her away. Of course she’d leave. What reason have I given her not to?
Sighing, I rub my eyes. “I … we had a fight last night.”
“You had a fight? You had a fight. Well that’s just fan-fucking-tastic.” Kelsey rants about men and dicks and egos and I lose track of her arguments because I’m tired and I need coffee and Blaire is gone.
“When did she leave?”
Kelsey throws up her hands. “The time stamp on the message she left was two twenty-one this morning. So about then, I’d guess. What the fuck, Beckett? I told you not to fuck things up. I told you that we need her. That you needed to be careful getting involved with her, because she’d leave if you screwed her over. And what did you do? You fucked everything up. And now you don’t have a tour manager or a sane girlfriend. What the fuck, man? What. The. Fuck.”
“I didn’t … she was mad, and she left my room, and I thought we’d be able to talk in the morning. That letting her cool down was a good idea, and then I’d apologize and work on convincing her to stay. I didn’t think she’d be gone before I woke up.”
“Well, she is.” Kelsey stares at me like she expects me to do something about it.
I throw my hands in the air. “What do you want me to say? I’m sorry? Because I am. I’m sorry. I’m fucking sorry, okay? I’m really fucking sorry.” My voice raises, my ability to control my temper fraying by the second.
But Kelsey is unfazed. Lips pursed, she just shakes her head slowly. “No. It’s not okay. And I’m not the one you need to apologize to.”
She turns on her heel and leaves, a variation on the theme that is my life. Women getting angry with me and leaving. Malea. Tawni. Blaire. Kelsey. My mom …
Only she wasn’t angry. And she didn’t just leave. But I’m as helpless to do anything about Blaire as I was with my mom.
Deflated and defeated, I collapse on the bed, my head in my hands. I don’t have the energy to do anything else right now.
I need coffee. And sleep. And the right words to bring Blaire back.
But right now, I’ve got nothing.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Blaire
Emotionally drained and gritty eyed, I drag my suitcase into my LA condo. I slept poorly on the flight back, having managed to get a standby seat on the first flight out early this morning. Pro tip: packing up and heading to the nearest airport at two thirty in the morning isn’t the best idea. At least not if you’re exhausted and need to sleep.
I hadn’t intended to bail that fast. But when I got back to my hotel room, I couldn’t stand the sight of it. Couldn’t stand another night in a nondescript hotel room with a nondescript bed that matched countless others I’d slept in over the years. Countless others I’d spent time with Beckett in over the last few months.
And something inside me broke.
I cried as I threw everything that wasn’t still in my suitcase back in, then I pulled out my phone and requested an Uber before heading downstairs.
On the drive to the airport, I emailed Kelsey with all the details for the next few hotels and told her I’d be happy to help her interview my replacement over the phone, but that it was time for me to go back to my real life.
I’ve never actually ached for home before.
I used to ache for a home when I was little. Something I didn’t have. A family, a sense of belonging. Parents who wanted me. A house that we lived in for years and years.
But as I got older, I gave up on those dreams. Accepted that my life wasn’t that way.
Until Cataclysm. Until I got us all places in the same building. Until they became my chosen family.
Yes, I’d decided it was time to move on. But maybe all I really needed was a break.
Because the feeling that swamps me when I get back isn’t loneliness or emptiness or a sense of being let down.
It’s relief.
Belonging.
Home.
There may not be much here, but it’s mine. Furniture and pictures and fabrics that I picked out. And my people are here.
Which is what I need right now—a nap in my comfy bed and friends.
It doesn’t take Kendra long to come knocking on my door as soon as I text her that I’m back.
After sleeping most of the afternoon, my eyes still feel dry and gritty, and I’m grumpy and out of sorts. But my friend is here for me with pizza and wine.
She may have grown up as some kind of East Coast debutante, but this girl knows how to have the sloppiest kind of girls’ night. Except her wine is a lot nicer than the boxed variety I’d normally grab.
“Alright,” she says as she fills our wine glasses almost to the brim, “tell me what happened. I know you said you’d be back soon, but I assumed the transition would be a little more … planned out.”
I let out a soft, humorless chuckle. “Yeah. Me too.”
Glasses filled, she sets the bottle down and picks up hers, watching me over the rim. “So? This is surprising and unlike you by your own admission. I may be asking politely, but I’m dying of curiosity.” She holds up a hand and closes her eyes. “If you tell me you don’t want to talk about it right now, I’ll respect it, because you’re my friend and I care about you. But know that I might scream a little. Fair warning.”
