"Please, Wendy. I was an ass last night. I know it. I swear this won’t happen again."
I hesitate, my heart thumping against my ribs. The scent of the roses wafts toward me, sweet and heady, and for a second, I allow myself to hope. Maybe this time will be different.
"I didn't mean to hurt you. I'm so sorry," Jett says, his words tumbling out in a rush as he takes two wide strides to close the distance between us. "Please, let me make it up to you. Let's go get some breakfast and talk this out."
He reaches for my hand, his fingers brushing against my skin. I feel the old familiar spark, the pull toward him that I've never been able to resist. I know I shouldn't be doing this. My pride cringes at the way my heart sways. My mother's words arewhispering that stupid nonsense again in the back of my mind—about a man and about his place and money and how women need all that to survive.
Against my better judgment, I nod. "Okay." I accept the flowers from him. "Just let me grab my stuff and then I need to get changed."
Thirty minutes later, after I’ve brushed my teeth and fixed my hair and makeup, Jett and I are sitting at a small café table in the VIP area.
He’s surprisingly calm. Usually, he’s the worst when he’s hungover.
The distant thrum of a bass and the screech of guitars drift over from one of the smaller stages across the field where the bands have been sound-checking all morning. The festival is coming to life around us with artists, vendors, and attendees arriving. It’s noisy and chaotic, but my focus is solely on the man across from me.
I wonder if I'm making a mistake by giving in so easily.
Jett leans forward, his elbows on the table, his bleached hair falling into his eyes. "I know I've been a dick lately, babe," he says. "It’s the stress of the tour, the pressure to write the new album...it's been getting to me. But that's no excuse for how I've treated you. For real."
I nod, my fingers absently tracing the patterns of the plastic tabletop. I want to believe him. I truly do.
"I need you, Wendy," Jett continues, reaching across the table to take my hand. "I can't do this without you."
"What?" I ask absentmindedly. "Write the new album?"
"Come on. I’m serious." He pulls my wrist to his mouth and kisses my knuckles. "I’m talking about the vodka deal. It’s an investment in our future. For you and me."
My dumb heart starts melting a little. I’m forgetting all about last night’s humiliation. Because that’s Jett. He can make youfeel like shit one minute and like his most prized possession the next. And I’m positive I’m a masochist, because I think I enjoy this back and forth a little. The low is crap, but the high that comes after the low is better than any drug. Not that I’m a pro, but I have a pretty wild imagination and have seen enough in the past couple of years.
"The band, everything...it's all going to be huge, baby," Jett coos, squeezing my hand. "And I want you by my side through it all and after. You’re my ride or die. Remember?"
His words are sweet and seductive at the same time. Looking back at when I was broke, couch-surfing, and cheated on by my previous boyfriend, I wasn’t a nice person. It must be the same for him. Things are taking longer than he expected and he’s irritated. That’s why he’s like this.
At least, that’s how my brain rationalizes his behavior from last night, especially in front of Cruz.
Ah, now I get where the tall, dark, and handsome term came from.
I don’t have any other way to describe The Deviant’s bassist.
Hold up, bitch!
Why are you thinking about another man when your perfectly acceptable boyfriend is trying to earn forgiveness for being an ass?
"Jett—" I start, but he interrupts me, kissing my knuckles again.
"I know, I know. I'll cut back on the booze. I promise, babe."
His eyes are pleading. If my resolve was wavering minutes ago, it’s completely gone now.
While my heart yearns to believe him, the rational part of my brain screams at me to walk away, to remember all the times he's made promises before and broken them. Still, there’s a fraction of me that can’t forget the good times, the laughter, the passion... He came into my life when I was at a very low point, and he madeit interesting. And currently, he’s the only safety net I have. Would it be so bad to give him an opportunity to get better?
"Okay," I whisper, my voice barely audible over the distant thrum of music. "One more chance, Jett."
His face breaks into a grin, and he raises my hand to his cheek, pressing it against his face. "You won't regret this, baby. I swear, things are going to be different from now on."
As he signals the waiter for the check, I try to ignore the nagging voice in the back of my mind, the one that whispers that I've heard those words before. Instead, I focus on the warmth of Jett's hand in mine, the glimmer of hope in his eyes. But unfortunately, I can’t unsee him taking a long swig from the beer bottle in his other hand. Doubt stirs in my gut.
Who drinks at noon?
