But I don’t fucking want him. I’m not devoted to him. I’m not obsessed with him.
I never fuckingwillbe.
The shame is like a separate entity, slithering into my body one inch at a time, suffocating every shred of my integrity as my hands clench on his waist to push him away. Ihaveto push him away. Ineedto push him away.
But my hands freeze.
All that’s running through my mind is my friends, my bandmates,ourcareer. Because if this was just about me? I’d punch him in the fucking face without hesitation and be done with it.
But the audience… The label… Our music… Our future…
Myfuture. Tyler.
This is all wrong. So fucking wrong.
Tyler means more thanany-fucking-thing.
So Ipush.
But he pulls back at the same time, smoothly, likely having anticipated my response so it doesn’t appear like I pushed him. Those dark-green, lust-filled eyes narrow in satisfaction, and he gives me a filthy smirk like he just won.
And I almost vomit. Right then and there.
But I smile back for the sake of the crowd while I’m silently screaming.
I step back to get away from himwhile I’m slowly crumbling.
The cheering is deafening. Overwhelming.
People are fucking buying this shit.
When Mick finally lets me go and steps back, I almost collapse from the sheer fucking relief—but I have to tolerate this all-encompassing sense of wrongness just a bit longer, have to smile and fucking wave to the crowd, thank them for this wonderful show and the amazingnight.
I don’t know how I do it. How I finally get off the damn stage and flee to the wings, bursting past a wide-eyed Ava, Asher, and Missy and run to what I hope is the empty dressing room.
But I do. Somehow, I do.
Ev is there. Sitting on a bench like a statue, staring at me like he knows how much this costs me. Like he somehow feltmy despair. The sorrow and anger rolling off him, of this man of steel, nearly fucking levels me.
“Take me to the airport,” I croak, not wanting to wait on my friends, I just can’t… can’t face them. Not yet.
I need to get out of here, stat.
He nods and gets up. No questions. No hesitation.
The only things I grab on our way out are my jacket, phone, and wallet, and before I know it, I’m in a sedan Ev somehow conjured up—sitting beside him as he drives us to the airport.
I’m done. I’m going home. I’m going to Tyler.
Oh god,Tyler.
The footage about this should be over the whole fucking internet right now like a viral fucking nightmare.
I press my fist to my mouth and hunch forward, rocking slightly, trying to stay fucking calm as Ev speeds through the city like he’s auditioning for a live-action remake ofCars.
I have to call him. Ihaveto.
I need to explain. I need to tell him I love him. That it wasn’t real. That it meant nothing. That it wasn’tme. That Ipushed.
