Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 114223 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114223 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
“Your check.”
“I’ve already gotten paid.” I scrunched my nose. Fully, actually. Even though I bailed on them three weeks before the tour was over. Though no one could blame me, for obvious reasons.
“Yeah. That’s a bonus for suffering through the madness.” He smirked.
“You mean, it’s silence money so I won’t talk to the press about Alex’s connection in the case.” I smiled sweetly back. Somewhere along the way during this tour, I’d become a bit of a cynic. Craig said it was a good thing. He said I’d needed that in order to grow.
Blake tilted his head, furrowing his brows. “Not at all. He never spoke a word to me about it, and he talks about you all the time. You should know one thing, Blue. He loves you. In his own, fucked-up, dysfunctional way. He does. This tour changed him. He looked more present than he did the entire seven years since he got big. And I’m not here to make you change your mind—hell, I’m not even sure you should. He is a drug addict and a screwed-up soul beneath it all. But don’t regret a moment of what happened there. It was the real deal, Indie. It was what great albums are made of.”
I told him I couldn’t accept the check.
Then I told him I thought he was going to make a great dad, and he blushed—Blake actually blushed—and told me quietly that he’d bought a ring. I smiled. They were going to make one beautiful, highly functional, extremely put-together family.
I hugged everyone—especially Hudson, time and time again—before they left.
When Lucas squeezed me, he whispered into my ear, “I know I can’t have him, so I don’t mind if you do. But if you ever take him back, please make him happy.”
I told him I would never take Alex back, and Lucas dragged his index finger from his eye to his mouth, like he was sad about it. I was, too.
After they left I picked up my phone—my new phone, not the cracked one, I couldn’t look at anything broken anymore without thinking about Alex—and called Craig. I’d been meaning to do it for a long time, but the visit from the guys made me resolute.
“Hello?” Craig coughed into the phone.
“Alex is back in Los Angeles.” I drew in a shaky breath. Craig had been asleep when Alex had come to see me three days ago, and I’d asked Nat not to tell him, but her loyalty was with him. Always with him.
“I know. The air already stinks of self-indulgent cockiness.”
“Don’t do anything stupid,” I warned.
“Too late. Did you really think I wasn’t going to seek him out? He hurt me just as much as he hurt you, and Nat knew I deserved to know.”
He was wrong, but arguing this point was futile.
“Jesus, Craig. What did you do?”
“Messed him up a little. Don’t worry, your lover boy will still survive. Why are you calling me, Indie?” He sounded cold. All business. I blinked away my tears, looking up, at the patio, at the shrubs, at the beauty in the world. I am doing this for you, Craig. And you just made my decision a whole lot easier. “Pack a bag. You’re going to rehab first thing Monday morning.”
“Says who?” He snorted, but didn’t argue. I knew he was toying with the idea. Nat told me. But I also knew Craig needed me to make him. Needed to rebel against me, just for the sake of it.
“Says the girl who’s going to kick you out of the apartment she will stop paying for if you don’t get cleaned up. Me.”
I did wake up that morning.
I woke up, and instead of hating the world, and my life, and the Suits, and even Indie for not being with me, I forced myself to say a little thank you—inwardly. In-fucking-wardly, of course—and called a cab to get me to the airport on my way to Bloomington, Indiana.
I was waiting by the locked iron gates of the fancy-schmancy condo with my Wayfarers and scowl intact when I saw him. Simply Steven: blogger, fashion-icon, and the bane of my existence. He loitered outside, hands shoved deep in his pockets, looking worried, anxious, and guilty.
I didn’t know why he’d be the latter. Last I checked, I was the one who’d planted a fist in his face. In my defense, his face looked better that way, and not because he was ugly, but because he was smug.
You know, the kind of smug that warranted a punch in the face. Really, I was doing some kind of public service. I didn’t ask for a thank you, but the arrest was a stretch.
Contrary to general belief and Us Weekly, what had prompted me to lose my shite on Simply Steven wasn’t, in fact, because he’d asked me how it felt to have my fiancée shagged by my best friend. No. It was afterward, when he yelled at me that my last album was depressing and that ‘music is supposed to be fun.’