Page 63 of Rebooting Conor Flynn

“You didn’t do anything wrong.” I covered his hands with one of my own, my fingers curled around his fists. “You trusted management to look after you. They betrayed you. They betrayed all of you.”

“I want you to know...” he brushed the tip of his finger across my cheek “...it’s not just about me. When you told me how our breakup affected you, how it destroyed your faith in me—even today—it breaks me.”

I swallowed the lump of tears in my throat. “And you think finding out how and why it happened will fix it? Fix you?”

“There’s only one person who can fix me.” He trailed his finger down my throat, circled the divot there, and pressed it against my breastbone. “But I can’t pick up where we left off if I don’t know the truth about how it ended.”

My pulse stumbled. He wanted to pick up where we left off. Eleven years disappeared in an instant. All I could see were his lips, close enough to kiss, close enough to ruin every sensible thought I'd clung to since this tour began.

Before I knew the truth.

A bang on my door, for the third time that day, made me blink and made Conor draw back. A second kiss snatched away from us faster than we could reclaim our past.

Jermaine’s voice rang out behind the door. “Noelle, if you’re in there, group meeting at the pool in fifteen.”

Conor stood up so abruptly, I listed to the side.

We cocked our heads as Jermaine yelled down the hallway, banging on doors, and then Conor strode to my door. When he reached it, he turned and said, “I’m not giving up, Noelle—not this time.”

When the door closed behind him, I sat and stared at it.

If Conor believed we couldn’t move forward until we knew the truth about what happened, I’d do my part. I still had contact with a few of the admin people at Baker Street. They might be more willing to spill the tea today on standard operating procedure years ago.

With fifteen minutes to spare before the meeting, I grabbed my phone and skimmed through my contacts. I scribbled a few names from my past on the hotel pad of paper and launched Instagram to see who had accounts. Might just be easier to DM people.

I tapped on the search icon, and my For You grid popped up, including a couple of photos of Ashley on stage. I viewed the first one and shoved my glasses into my hair to peer at the caption.

Ashley deserves better

Better than what? I scrolled down to the comments.

Free Ashley

#NotAgainAshley

She’s so strong

Sings thru her pain

We love you Ash

I chewed the inside of my cheek. Why all this online sympathy for Ashley? Had she broken a nail on stage?

I navigated to her profile went to her most recent post—a pensive selfie, Ashley in a messy ponytail, a little smeared mascara. I read the caption aloud.

“Some days are just harder than others.”

What was Ashley complaining about, riding the tour bus? It was just this sort of thing her manager, Orlando warned her about. She shouldn’t be so out of touch. Her average fan would kill to be on that tour bus.

Then I shifted to the comments under the post.

We have your back, girl

Stay strong, Ash

Who does that washed up boybander think he is?

The disrespect is actually wild