64
“You have no reason to be nervous, babe. I know you hate the cameras, but you are stunning. Easily the most gorgeous woman in the room and on the planet,” Reeve says, leaning in to kiss my cheek. I’ve been a basket case since arriving at the Dolby Theatre three hours ago, but it’s not for the reasons my husband thinks.
My best friend guilt joins my other friend panic, and they take turns punching me in the face.
I know the members of Collateral Damage are about seven or eight rows behind us as I spotted the top of Dillon’s bleach-blond head when we were walking to our seats in the front row. It’s a miracle I didn’t throw up on the spot. I about died when Reeve stopped at the row in front of them to say hello to a few actor friends. Prickles of awareness danced across the bare nape of my neck, and I just knew he was looking at me. The urge to turn around and lock eyes with him was almost insurmountable, but I managed to resist, and thankfully, Reeve didn’t linger too long.
Nerves fire at me from every angle as Collateral Damage takes to the stage. I have no choice but to look at them because we’re in the front row and the camera regularly sweeps our way. Trying to keep a fake smile plastered across my face while my heart feels like it’s being ripped out of my chest is monumentally hard.
Dillon owns the stage like he always does, and it’s hard not to get swept up in the song. They are so good live. Incredibly talented, and I’m very proud of them. I wish I could tell people I knew them when they were a talented local band in Ireland, but to do that would be risky when Reeve doesn’t know. Volunteering that information now, after all this time, would hurt my husband, so I won’t go there.
Dillon’s laser-focused gaze slides to mine, and I stop breathing. He’s got one leg elevated, resting on a speaker, as he makes love to the mic, belting out the lyrics in his unique style.
He hasn’t changed much at all. His blond hair is a bit longer, tucked behind his ears, the length resting at his nape, and he has more ink, judging by the designs peeking out from the top of his T-shirt, but that’s it. He’s still wearing all black. Still wearing his piercings. Still ripped in all the best ways.
He looks hot as fuck and every bit the tormented soul I fell in love with.
I feel Reeve glance at me, as Dillon continues staring at me, but I pretend I don’t notice anything strange, smiling and dancing in my seat along with the other guests. Inside, I’m screaming at Dillon to knock it off before he outs us to the entire freaking world. Ro glances my way from behind his drums, quickly averting his gaze when our eyes meet. Conor is in his own little world, as usual, and Jamie sends daggers my direction a couple of times.
I’m sweating bullets under my gorgeous red Christian Dior dress and squirming in my seat like I’m sitting on poison ivy.
“Are you okay?” Reeve whispers in my ear, noticing I’m hella distracted.
I whip my head around to my husband. “I need to go to the bathroom,” I lie. “Do you think it would be okay to slip away now?” We’re supposed to wait for breaks to leave our seats, but I’ll play the pregnancy card if I need to.
“Go. If anyone gives you grief, you let me deal with it. Do you want me to come with?”
“You can’t leave, and I’m a big girl. I can make it to the bathroom by myself.”
I don’t look at the band as I creep out of the auditorium, releasing the breath I was holding when I hit the hallway leading to the bathrooms.
I’m trembling as I sit on the toilet seat after I’ve attended to business. Seeing Dillon again has rattled me. It’s dredging memories to the surface. Memories I’ve worked hard to bury, and my heart is splitting open again. I dab at the tears spilling silently down my cheeks, praying I can do a good enough repair job with my makeup to disguise my anguish from my husband.
Tonight is special for Reeve, and he deserves my full attention and devotion. I’ve got to pull myself together and get back out there to support him.
Why did I have to fall in love with two men, and why isn’t it getting any easier? Hurt lances me on all sides and I grip the sides of the stall, begging someone to take the pain away. Needing help, I call Audrey, and she talks me off a ledge like only my bestie can.
Hurrying to the sink, I patch up my makeup, hiding all evidence of my heartache. I don’t know how long I’ve been gone, but I’m sure Reeve is worrying, and I need to get back to him. Smoothing my hair back into its chignon, I admire my gorgeous red gown in the mirror, reminding myself I look composed on the outside even if I’m falling to pieces on the inside.
Stepping outside, I almost take a tumble when I find Dillon waiting for me. One part of me half-expected this. The pain I felt inside the theater watching him up on that stage is minuscule compared to the pain I feel looking at him up close and personal. He drills me with an intense look that takes me back in time. My skin prickles with awareness as he slowly rakes his eyes up and down my body. His gaze is as intimate as it’s always been, and my heart pounds wildly behind my rib cage.
Memories flash through my mind.
Rough touches.
Demanding kisses.
Animalistic fucking that never quite sated my thirst for him.
His wicked smile as I screamed when he pulled a risky maneuver on his motorcycle.
His boyish grin as we lay on our bellies peering over the side of the Cliffs of Moher.
His adoring eyes as he serenaded me on my roof the last night we were together.
A sob travels up my throat before I can stop it. Clutching my purse to my chest, I will my hormones to simmer down, telling my wayward tears to fuck the hell off. Heartache plus pregnancy hormones is clearly not a good combination.
“Hey, Hollywood,” he says, his raspy voice sounding as choked as I feel inside.