Page 126 of Down Beat
“I hate today,” I mutter as I sink further into the sofa.
“You know he’s got my spending on a tight leash, right?”
I nod, corners of my mouth turned down while I hear him out.
“So…” He looks to the balcony, hand brushing his pocket. “Can we do this out there?”
“Sure.” I slide off the seat and make a quick detour by the bedroom to get my sweater.
By the time I return, all that’s visible of Rey is the flash of his lighter and resulting glow of his cigarette as he stares out over the city.
I step out onto the balcony with him, a little at a loss with what to do with myself when he leans both elbows on the railing and looks over the edge at the road below.
A flash of panic surges through me leaving my stomach churning as it sinks to my toes. Would he think of doing that again if he felt low enough? With me here?
Pays not to think about what hasn’t happened, Tabby.
I rest my hip against the glass barrier as he turns his head to look at me. Whatever he’s about to say, it’s not good. I can see that much in the way his fingers repeatedly flick ash that isn’t there off the smoke.
“He’s given you until the end of this week. Seven days.”
“Until what.”
Rey sighs, free hand scrubbing his face. “Until you either have to pay your own way or go home.”
Oh. I hug myself, opting to peer over the rail, too, rather than meet the regret written across his face.
“I’ll pay, kitty. You’re not going anywhere, I just thought you should know in case you hear anyone say anything about it.”
“You don’t have to pay for me, Rey.”
“I want to.”
The reality of the fucking situation hits me right there on the twelfth floor balcony of a swanky hotel at 1:00 A.M. “I don’t want you to.” I shift my gaze to Rey, my hands shaking against my sides. “If you pay for me to be here, for no other reason than to keep you company between shows, then you know what that makes me feel like?”
He sucks the last of his cigarette and then tosses it over the side as he shakes his head.
“A high-priced hooker,” I level. “This isn’t fucking Pretty Woman, Rey, and I’m not goddamn Julia Roberts. Unlike her character, I actually like my career, and I’m not looking to escape from it.”
He laughs bitterly, standing tall. “You think that’s what this is?”
“I don’t know what it is.” I look to the building opposite us, not the slightest bit interested in the glow of the fucking light behind the resident’s blinds, but it’s better than looking at the utter repulsion on his fucking gorgeous face.
Why? Why when he does nothing but pull me into his spin, do I still want him so badly?
Because there’s more to him than this. Yeah, there is, and he’s still yet to give me one hundred percent, unadulterated Rey.
That man standing there, hurling insults at me as he snatches his smokes off the glass table? That’s Rey the fucking prima donna rock star.
Not the man who begged me to come on tour with him.
Not the man who listened to me spill my guts on an airport floor and reassured me that I’m somebody worth more than what I currently have in life.
And he’s definitely not the man who let down every fucking wall he had to show me how bad things are when he admitted he wasn’t afraid to die.
I leave my back to him and use the reflection in the glass barrier to watch as he strides around the suite, seemingly done with trying to cut me down. His long legs take him to what is essentially our room in a few quick strides, and he disappears from view. Is it always going to be like this? I feel as though I negotiate with a tantrum-throwing toddler half the time. The clang of his belt as it hits furniture tells me how pissed he is, the rumble of him muttering to himself following soon after.
I stand leaning on that goddamn rail, unable and—more so—unwilling to go after him.