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They grind against him, taking liberties I’ve never had, and as Jessica looks this way and grins, I want nothing more than to gouge her eyes out of her fake-tanned face. She might be able to dance all over him for the world to see, but she’ll never have him, not like I do.
There’s no denying she’s a fucking bitch.
At the start of the show, she stood next to me and declared that my undying desperation for Ezra was too obvious, and I was embarrassing myself, and while that might be true on some level, she wasn’t the one kissing him right before the show.
She insisted that he could do better, which again, I’m sure is true, but when she told me that he’ll never want me the way he wants her, it became startlingly obvious that she truly has no idea who the hell I am. One quick Google search and she’ll know all about our history, and I’m sure she’ll be left feeling like an idiot. But her bullshit isn’t something I’m interested in, and all I could do was scowl as she sashayed to the stage.
Fucking bitch.
I have always prided myself on being a woman who supports other women, but then people like Jessica come along, and there’s nothing I want more than to bitch-slap her right across her fake titties. All I know is that the song he’s singing perfectly lays out everything he’s wondered about me over the years. The way I’d feel. The way I’d taste. It’s just another part of our story—the part we never got to explore—and right now, he’s allowing some skank to rub herself all over him while he sings about me, and I am not okay with it.
Call me a jealous bitch if you must. Actually, I know damn well that I’m a jealous bitch. I’ve been one since the second it occurred to me as a kid that I was too young for him and that there were so many other beautiful women out there who could give him exactly what he wanted without it seeming like a terrible scandal.
Yep. Even knowing he would never choose her over me, every bone in my body is full of jealousy, through and through.
Fuck this.
What am I even doing standing here and watching this? I know I’m a sucker for punishment, but this is too much. It’s not just making me jealous, it’s infuriating me. How can he sit there and let this happen knowing I’m standing right here? How could he have known about this during rehearsals and not even mentioned it in passing? Why would he try to blindside me like this?
I get it’s just a show, and it doesn’t mean a damn thing, but fuck. I hate this.
Feeling someone’s stare upon me, I shift my gaze to Dylan to find a sadness in his eyes. “You okay?” he mouths as he plays for his adoring fans.
I shake my head and hook my thumb around toward the exit. “I’m gonna go.”
Dylan nods. “Sorry.”
I give him a tight smile, hoping to convey that I’m okay, but he knows I’m not. There’s no hiding from these guys. I’m just as close to them as I was with Axel. They’re the only real family I have, which is exactly how I know that his apology isn’t just a sorry for having to see this. It’s a sorry that I didn’t warn you, sorry this is happening, sorry you’re hurting, sorry there’s nothing I can do to take away the pain.
Not wanting to linger on it, I turn my gaze back to Ezra and watch Jessica look my way again, her tongue rolling over her bottom lip as she tilts her head back and gasps, all while Stacey slides her hand up his strong thigh.
I can’t do it. I can’t stand here and watch as they tag-team my man.
Without a second thought, I turn on my heel and disappear, not willing to hear the rest of the song. Hell, not wanting to hear the rest of the show.
I weave my way through the backstage area, and with everyone already so focused on the show and being where they need to be, not a single person questions where the hell I’m going.
Making my way out into the cool Paris night, I start walking. If I were smart, I’d order an Uber, but like I said, I’m a sucker for punishment. The air is refreshing and helps to somewhat clear my head, and by the time I walk twenty minutes back to the hotel, all I want to do is forget.
Making my way to the elevator, I get in and reach for the button for my floor, when my gaze settles on the word heated pool. My brow arches, and having nothing else to do with the rest of my night, I press the corresponding button.
The elevator arrives in no time, and as I step out, I find a luxurious heated pool that looks out over Paris. Parts of the pool are indoors while the rest is outside. The lights are out, and as I gaze over the signage on the wall, I realize the pool closed a few hours ago, but my access card gives me and the boys full, all-hours access to every facility available in the hotel at any time we desire. I guess it pays to be rolling with the VIPs.
Calling down to the lobby, I order a bottle of champagne and strip out of my clothes. It would have been nice if I’d brought a bikini with me, but apparently, girls who live out of the back of their car simply can’t afford the luxury of owning swimwear.
Leaving my jeans and top on the bench, I roll my hair up into a bun and step into the heated pool in nothing but my black bra and thong. The city lights illuminate the pool, and as I wade through the water and out into the open air, my gaze lingers on the steam rolling off the top of the water.
This is perfect. Just what I need.
I make my way right over to the edge and prop my arms on the side as I gaze out at the beautiful Paris views. It’s insane to think this is where I am right now. Only three days ago, I was locked in a shitty motel room with the TV stand barricading the door, just in case anyone decided to pay me an unexpected visit. And now, I’m in a heated pool overlooking the beautiful Parisian city views. I can barely wrap my head around it.
And yet, a piece of me feels more pathetic than ever.
I was the girl he walked away from. The girl he never crossed the line with. The loser who waited years for him to come back to her. And now I’m here as his marketing manager, chasing him around the world like a lost puppy desperate for affection.
He never kissed me, not in the way I wanted to be kissed. Never touched me how I needed to be touched, and then he was gone. Just being here is a slap in the face, and yet, not a single piece of me could ever be convinced to go back home.
I’d rather be Ezra’s emotional punching bag than go back to living out of my car or being my father’s pawn to use and abuse.
