Finn stood up from the couch and walked over to me. He placed his hands on my shoulders, and I could feel the rage setting in. “You’re allowed to have feelings for another woman. You know that, right?”
I felt my spine coil like a spring, locked and loaded. “I don’t fucking have feelings for Brooklyn. Jesus Christ.”
I don’t. I don’t have feelings for her. I can’t.
Fucking no.
But why did I have a slight fear that Brooklyn could get hurt again during this show? Why did it affect me so much that the men last night at Jami’s party were staring at her like she was their own personal eye candy? Why couldn’t I keep my eyes off her swaying hips as she danced with her best friend? Why couldn’t I keep my gaze from lingering on her bare legs the entire night? Why couldn’t I stop the image of her naked from assaulting my brain every five seconds?
“Then why are you so butt-hurt right now?” Finn intoned, looking into the mirror to perfect his hair before we took stage.
“This is not the conversation I want to be having before performing,” I said, feeling more agitated with each word that passed his lips.
“I’m just saying, the whole thing with Angelina is not your fault, Reid. There’s no reason to starve yourself of women.” I glared at him through the mirror but looked away as he turned around. “Whatever…say you don’t have feelings for Brooklyn; you can still be attracted to her. I know that if I were back in that bedroom with her, working on music, songwriting, whatever it is you two are doing, I’d have a raging hard boner the entire time ‘cause she is bangi—”
My head snapped up, and I was three seconds from slamming his head into the glass, but that was when I saw the cocky smile on his face. His eyebrows were raised so high they were almost touching his hairline. “Point proven, my dear friend.”
“There is no fucking point proven. Now stop fucking w
ith me.”
“Don’t you see how you’re acting when I talk about her? Your fists are clenched at your side, that adorable little vein is popping out in your forehead, and your face is beet red. You. Care.”
I shook my head no after glancing at myself in the mirror. No, Reid fucking King… just no. I hated that I knew deep down there was something stirring for Brooklyn. I hated even more what Angelina did to me—or better yet, what I did to her. I didn’t even know who to blame anymore. Part of me believed that I destroyed her and that was what caused this entire shit show. But the other part, the one that almost made me ill, was starting to believe that she destroyed me, and that it was intentional.
The negative thoughts swirled around the longer I stared at myself in the mirror. Goosebumps covered my skin, and every muscle in my body clenched tightly at the mere thought of Angelina intentionally fucking with me so she could get back at me for breaking up with her. The guilt I carried around grew heavy, but maybe it wasn’t my fault. Maybe Finn was right. Maybe Angelina was fucked up to begin with. Maybe it was her plan all along to fuck me up, too.
The one thing I did know was that I wanted the truth. Or closure. Something. And it wasn’t so that Angelina and I could be us again; it was simply so that I could be me again. So I could rid myself of the guilt and buried rage. That way, I might stop feeling so fucking wrong for thinking about Brooklyn.
???
“And that’s a wrap!” Rod exclaimed after we all piled onto the bus, Brooklyn included.
I kept my gaze away from hers, annoyed with myself that I couldn’t quite do that during the show. I was too worried that she was going to get hurt again, that my two trusted bodyguards were going to somehow let me down—which they didn’t—but I still couldn’t peel my eyes away from her.
She was wearing tight jeans that accentuated her curvy hips and a loose, black tank top that showed a delicate, lacy bra underneath. Her auburn hair was straight again, just like last night at Jami’s party, and it had this natural shine to it that most women—in LA, at least—would pay huge bucks for. I knew that much from Angelina always getting some strange treatments done on her hair.
I knew that Brooklyn saw me watching her as I played up onstage; I just hoped she didn’t read too much into it. I needed to dig this pit out of my stomach and write a fucking song so I could dismiss her like a child being dismissed for recess. The more time I spent with her alone, working on music, the more my hold on my attraction—and whatever else it was that was stirring inside of me—was lessening.
I tried my hardest to keep a scowl on my face when she was around; I tried to keep my walls up. But something about Brooklyn made them crumble just a little bit each time. And if we continued to take things slow with the real task at hand—the songwriting—my walls would turn into dust, and they’d crush both Brooklyn and me.
After Jackson popped a bottle of champagne, spraying most of the contents on Finn, we all had a swig, celebrating yet another tour down. I knew I should have been more excited, but that just meant that I was expected to get my shit together for an upcoming single soon, and I had nothing.
That wasn’t true.
I guess we had what Brooklyn wrote the other day, but that wasn’t the deal. She wasn’t supposed to write the songs… I was. Only, I fucking sucked and couldn’t. I told her I’d write a song if she went to Jami’s party with me, and so far, I had nothing.
“Brooklyn, swig?” Jackson held out the bottle for Brooklyn to drink, but she shook her head.
“You really don’t drink much, huh?” he asked, taking it back.
She gave a soft smile. “No. I really don’t.” Then her hand subtly moved to her side where she rubbed her torso. Her face barely cringed, but I noticed it. I noticed everything about her. Alarms sounded in my head.
“I thought you said you weren’t hurt from the other night,” I growled, giving her a stern look.
Her face blanched. “I’m not hurt.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Then why do I keep seeing you pulling at your side?”