“Rush probably won’t need a choreographer again. ‘Not Only’ was a one-time thing.”
“I didn’t mean as a choreographer. He didn’t go into details, but you two had some sort of fight after you finished the video, didn’t you? He seemed devastated.”
I remember his car following mine as I fled his house, and the panic I felt when he pulled away and disappeared. He was devasted, too.
I’m saved from answering by Cassie declaring we all need to start heading back to the main stage. Saint Cyprian isn’t performing for another ninety minutes, but it takes such a long time to move through these crowds.
When we get to the side of the stage, Palatine are on stage performing one of the hits off their last album. The crowd is going nuts for them. I stare at Striker Jones. He’s twenty yards from me, the closest since that night at Baroque. My mouth goes dry at the sight of him and my stomach churns.
I hate that I’m afraid of him.
I hate that he stole a piece of my power and made it nearly impossible for me to hand it willingly over to Rush, the man who actually deserves it.
Arms wrap around me from behind. A face buries itself in my hair as lips seek my neck. I feel a strong chest against my back and a thick guitar strap. I sink back against Rush and close my eyes. He feels my body relax into his, and he groans, his arms tightening.
I’ve missed you, his body says. I’ve fucking missed you.
I turn around and gaze into Rush’s dazzling eyes. He’s wearing a loose tank top and his tanned, muscled biceps are burning hot beneath my fingers. He’s pushed his guitar over his shoulder onto his back and his silver hair is tousled and falling around his face.
“I thought you might run, baby.” He swallows, our heads close, two people in the midst of mayhem. “The way I feel about you isn’t going to change. I just want to know if there’s any hope for my stupid heart.”
I open my mouth, but my throat is frozen and my insides are in turmoil. The seconds are drawn out and out until they snap, and the flare of hope dies in his eyes.
I clutch his shoulders. “No!”
He winces. “No?”
Shit, I’m really screwing this up. I don’t know what to say, but I can’t say nothing. I can’t lie. So what can I say?
The truth. Even if my voice shakes and my knees want to give out. “Rush. You scare the hell out of me.”
Rush’s eyes widen and he freezes, as if he’s trying to figure out whether this is a good or bad thing.
It’s both.
“I’m terrified by how much I want you, and I couldn’t walk away if I tried.” I go up on my toes and wrap my arms around his neck and I kiss him. Open-mouthed, hungry kisses. He groans and slides his arms around my waist, pulling me flush against his hard body.
“Baby,” he whispers, over and over. “Baby. Baby. Don’t you dare try. If you do, I’ll just come find you.”
“Always come find me,” I say desperately, clinging to his shoulders. “Please. Always come find me.”
Rush smiles, pressing his forehead to mine and taking my face in his hands. Right now, he’s all mine. Soon, he’s going to go out there onto that stage and belong to a hundred thousand other people.
“I don’t want to let you go,” I whisper. “Out there, you’ll belong to all those people, not to me.”
“Even when I’m out there, I’m still yours.”
A sneering voice cuts through the moment we were sharing, and it shatters into a million tiny pieces. “Fucking hell, Rush. You always did like my sloppy seconds.”
18
Rush
I look up. Right into Striker’s sweaty, post-set face. He shoots me a poisonous look, and then his gaze sweeps over Dree. Sneering. Malicious. How dare he imply that Dree ever had anything the fuck to do with him in that way.
Beneath my hands, her body trembles. I can feel her fear. That she wants to run far, far away. He’s the reason she ran from me in the first place. Pure rage fills me from head to toe.
I warned him what would happen if he ever even looked at Dree again.
I don’t think. I grab the front of Striker’s leather jacket and push him away from Dree. I keep pushing, Striker’s feet stumbling beneath him and his eyes wide and scared. Finally, I shove him. Before he can regain his balance, I pull my fist back and slam it into his face.
It hurts. My knuckles slice against his teeth.
But not as much as it hurts him. Striker crumples to the ground, his hand clamped over his mouth.
The gasps of tens of thousands of people crash over us, and I finally look up. A sea of people are watching, open-mouthed.