It isn’t easy. Stupid, annoying Rye makes it nearly impossible to ignore him. He’s always there, taunting, teasing, all but daring me to try and forget about him. My face flames with familiar irritation. It’s my damn birthday party, and here I am thinking yet again about Rye Freaking Peterson. No more! That ship is sunk, landed at the bottom of the ocean, and rusted over. His opinion of me means nothing. Nothing.
I move past well-wishers, people dancing, couples hooking up. I turn a blind eye to the drugs spread out on one table. Jax is chugging a bottle of vodka as a brunette goes down on—fuck, I did not need to see that. I turn from the party and head down a narrow hallway that’s been roped off for all but the band. Kill John has rented the entire top floor party space of the hotel for this stop on the tour, knowing they’d have multiple afterparties and my birthday celebration. Scottie insisted on having a quiet place to unwind and several rooms are ours alone.
Frankly, I think he’s the only one to take advantage of that, though. The guys have been partying hard and fast. It worries me, sometimes, how they act as if they’re invincible. I’ve already seen enough of the underbelly of this business to know that it will suck you down and spit you out if you’re not careful.
“You’re beautiful.”
I stop in my tracks, my heart leaping wildly in my chest. Rye’s voice is unmistakable. And I’m utterly ashamed to admit that, for a hot second, I thought it was directed at me. But no, it came from the open doorway of a small lounge a few feet away. I hear a woman’s pleased laugh, and my stomach sours. Ugh. I don’t want to witness yet another one of his conquests.
“You are too kind to me, dear boy.”
My blood runs ice cold. Because I know that voice too. It’s my Aunt Isabella. Alone with Rye the Wonderfuck. What the hell is she doing back here with Rye? I knew she was at the party. Isa is a world-famous supermodel; anytime she enters a room, people notice. We’re in Manhattan where she lives, and she came to say hello. But I had lost track of her hours ago.
Her laughter, soft with undeniable flirtation, ripples over the silence, and my insides flip.
With a queasy sense of dread, I edge toward the door, even though my sensible voice is screaming at me to walk away. I’m quiet and slow, and neither of them sees me. But I see far too much. Rye sits in a lazy sprawl against the end of a black leather sofa, his profile to me. There’s a flush of red on the back of his neck and a certain tilt to his head that tells me he’s been drinking too much. No surprise there; all of the guys have been drinking far too much lately.
The surprise is the way Isa is curled into him, her lithe, toned body practically leaning on his. Oh, God, she’s touching his hair, gently teasing the tips as he smiles at her with a stupid, fucking hazy-eyed grin. “Do you really think I’m beautiful?” she asks in soft wonder. “I’m so old.”
“You’re not old,” he murmurs. “Any man would be thankful to have you.”
I don’t hear the rest of what he says, my ears are ringing too hard. My fingers have turned to ice. Jealousy, disgust, rage, disappointment…it’s an oily stew in my gut. I swallow thickly, feeling sick. I watch in mute horror as Rye’s words are cut off by my aunt’s mouth. He makes a noise of what I can only guess as lust as she wraps herself around him and kisses him like he’s…
With a muffled sob, I wrench myself away and rush back down the corridor. I hate him. He has no shame. No honor. He’s kissing my aunt, his best friend and bandmate’s mom.
The memory tears away like a bandage ripped off too fast. I take a deep breath to clear my head. But the feeling of that day lingers with sticky fingers.
Eventually, I let go of what I saw. The health of the band depended on maintaining the status quo. But it broke my trust in Rye. From that day on, I never let him see my deeper emotions. I never let him in the way I let the others. Now he wants in, deep in. Moreover, he wants my trust. I don’t know if I can give him that, no matter how tempted I am.
I grab the milk and hot water bottle and head for my room. I no longer feel empty and sad. But I still feel alone. And unnerved.
Chapter Five
Brenna
Killian’s loft is filled to capacity, the air humid with the warmth of too many humans and the mingling scents of dozens of perfumes. Usually, these parties are exhausting. But these are our closest friends, fellow musicians, people we’ve met along the way. No one here is worried about being seen or who they should see. They’re just having fun. Sophie, Jax, Libby, and I worked hard to make it that way, only inviting people we knew would get along.