Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 129207 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 646(@200wpm)___ 517(@250wpm)___ 431(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129207 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 646(@200wpm)___ 517(@250wpm)___ 431(@300wpm)
Fuck this.
What am I even doing standing here and watching this? I know I’m a sucker for punishment, but this is too much. It’s not just making me jealous, it’s infuriating me. How can he sit there and let this happen knowing I’m standing right here? How could he have known about this during rehearsals and not even mentioned it in passing? Why would he try to blindside me like this?
I get it’s just a show, and it doesn’t mean a damn thing, but fuck. I hate this.
Feeling someone’s stare upon me, I shift my gaze to Dylan to find a sadness in his eyes. “You okay?” he mouths as he plays for his adoring fans.
I shake my head and hook my thumb around toward the exit. “I’m gonna go.”
Dylan nods. “Sorry.”
I give him a tight smile, hoping to convey that I’m okay, but he knows I’m not. There’s no hiding from these guys. I’m just as close to them as I was with Axel. They’re the only real family I have, which is exactly how I know that his apology isn’t just a sorry for having to see this. It’s a sorry that I didn’t warn you, sorry this is happening, sorry you’re hurting, sorry there’s nothing I can do to take away the pain.
Not wanting to linger on it, I turn my gaze back to Ezra and watch Jessica look my way again, her tongue rolling over her bottom lip as she tilts her head back and gasps, all while Stacey slides her hand up his strong thigh.
I can’t do it. I can’t stand here and watch as they tag-team my man.
Without a second thought, I turn on my heel and disappear, not willing to hear the rest of the song. Hell, not wanting to hear the rest of the show.
I weave my way through the backstage area, and with everyone already so focused on the show and being where they need to be, not a single person questions where the hell I’m going.
Making my way out into the cool Paris night, I start walking. If I were smart, I’d order an Uber, but like I said, I’m a sucker for punishment. The air is refreshing and helps to somewhat clear my head, and by the time I walk twenty minutes back to the hotel, all I want to do is forget.
Making my way to the elevator, I get in and reach for the button for my floor, when my gaze settles on the word heated pool. My brow arches, and having nothing else to do with the rest of my night, I press the corresponding button.
The elevator arrives in no time, and as I step out, I find a luxurious heated pool that looks out over Paris. Parts of the pool are indoors while the rest is outside. The lights are out, and as I gaze over the signage on the wall, I realize the pool closed a few hours ago, but my access card gives me and the boys full, all-hours access to every facility available in the hotel at any time we desire. I guess it pays to be rolling with the VIPs.
Calling down to the lobby, I order a bottle of champagne and strip out of my clothes. It would have been nice if I’d brought a bikini with me, but apparently, girls who live out of the back of their car simply can’t afford the luxury of owning swimwear.
Leaving my jeans and top on the bench, I roll my hair up into a bun and step into the heated pool in nothing but my black bra and thong. The city lights illuminate the pool, and as I wade through the water and out into the open air, my gaze lingers on the steam rolling off the top of the water.
This is perfect. Just what I need.
I make my way right over to the edge and prop my arms on the side as I gaze out at the beautiful Paris views. It’s insane to think this is where I am right now. Only three days ago, I was locked in a shitty motel room with the TV stand barricading the door, just in case anyone decided to pay me an unexpected visit. And now, I’m in a heated pool overlooking the beautiful Parisian city views. I can barely wrap my head around it.
And yet, a piece of me feels more pathetic than ever.
I was the girl he walked away from. The girl he never crossed the line with. The loser who waited years for him to come back to her. And now I’m here as his marketing manager, chasing him around the world like a lost puppy desperate for affection.
He never kissed me, not in the way I wanted to be kissed. Never touched me how I needed to be touched, and then he was gone. Just being here is a slap in the face, and yet, not a single piece of me could ever be convinced to go back home.