Total pages in book: 200
Estimated words: 189898 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 949(@200wpm)___ 760(@250wpm)___ 633(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 189898 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 949(@200wpm)___ 760(@250wpm)___ 633(@300wpm)
I toyed with the possibility that she meant every word. What I didn’t expect was for it to piss me off more.
“Since I let myself cross too many lines with you,” Braxton said with too much passion to be faked. Her gaze slowly met each of ours. “All of you.”
Fuck.
She was serious.
“You don’t want to accept me,” she continued. “It was wrong to think I could make you. I’m temporary. It should never have mattered.”
Braxton turned to me, and I read the confusion in her expression when I didn’t immediately agree. Victory had always tasted sweet. At the moment, I had a hard time swallowing my nausea.
“Houston?”
I held her stare, but I didn’t respond. I was afraid of what might come out. I’d wanted this, and now that I had it, I—
Doesn’t matter.
Her mind was made up. Braxton wasn’t looking for me to change her mind. She wanted an ally, at least in this. Rich and Loren wouldn’t accept a strictly business relationship—not when it was three against one. And if I gave even an ounce of fight, my best friends would immediately pounce. Braxton could hold her own against one of us, maybe even two. She stood no chance if all three of us decided we wanted everything she had to give. Every. Single. Thing.
“Appreciate ya,” I finally spoke. I heard the words, but I didn’t feel them.
Braxton, however, did.
In the split second it took for her true feelings to show, she recovered, saving me from taking it back. Something inside of me shifted though at seeing her so crestfallen. The wheels in my mind were beginning to turn, and there was no stopping them. Braxton nodded, but before she could speak the gratitude I read on her lips, Rich exploded.
“Wait, so that’s it? The two of you get to decide for us?”
“I’m in charge,” I reminded him, “and it’s what she wants, so…yeah.”
Rich and Loren stared at each other, then Brax, and finally me. I’d never been one to wear my thoughts, and right now, it served me well. Betrayal, confusion, disappointment, anger—it was all there in their eyes. There was a time when I’d walk through fire just to bring them an ice cream cone. Back then, I never said no. I never left them behind, and I never left them wanting. It wasn’t until we signed with Savant that I failed them and have ever since.
I couldn’t dwell on the past anymore, though. It meant wasting the chance I had in the present to right my many wrongs.
Starting with Braxton.
Sometimes pissing off the people you love is how you do them the most good in the end.
All right, I’ll confess.
That bullshit Braxton was spitting had gone in one ear and out of the other.
It wasn’t until a week of getting the cold shoulder passed that she made a believer out of me. Tomorrow night was our show in New Orleans, and then we were finally getting some time off.
It’s been exactly three weeks since the tour started, and I was already beginning to feel the effects. The first leg of our tour wouldn’t even be over for another three months. It would have been less demanding had we used a private plane, but we always insisted on the open road because it kept us close to our roots.
A lot of good it did. Braxton claimed we had no humility.
New Orleans had the weirdest fucking food, but damn if wasn’t good as fuck. Doggy bag in tow, I rushed up the steps of our bus, hoping to catch a certain redhead before she could disappear.
After Dallas, she still went exploring when we touched down in Houston, but we hadn’t been invited. Braxton stayed gone most of the forty-eight hours we were there, and she always took security, leaving us no reason to object.
Even if I was a patient man, she’d be trying mine.
The sliding door separating our living quarters from the driver slid open, revealing Braxton dressed for the day and brushing her long hair. She was wearing shorts, a Bound & Bellicose tee cut to expose her navel, a plaid flannel three sizes too big, and combat boots.
“Good morning,” she said when she caught me staring. It was the most we could get out of her this past week if it weren’t about a show.
“Morning,” I returned, wanting to ask where the hell she was going. Obviously, I didn’t. Not only would she not tell me, but I’d ruin my plan to get her to talk to me. “I brought you something.”
Holding up the paper bag from Café Du Monde, I let her see the beignets I’d brought back. I remember her excitement over trying one when she learned a few months ago that New Orleans was one of our stops.
Looking at the bag and then at me, she smiled brightly. Just as I was about to celebrate, she turned away. “No, thanks.”