Page 35 of Before You Fell

This is Willow. Wills. The girl who used to sit cross-legged beneath a tree, chewing the end of a pen as her hair fell across her eyes. She knew me before the screaming crowds and the money, before strangers started moaning my name as though it belonged between their lips.

She still watches me sing as if she knows every part of me the world worships written in words I stole from her.

I could have any woman in this room. A redhead already slipped her number into my palm with a smile that promised bad choices and no morning-after expectations. The brunette near the minibar has been staring at me for the past few minutes as though she is mentally undressing me in front of everyone.

One crooked finger and she would be on her knees. Instead, I’m standing here with a hard cock, staring at Willow’s fucking thigh.

That should piss me off more than it does. What really gets under my skin is how exhausted she looks.

Exhaustion sits beneath her eyes, even though her makeup hides most of it. Her shoulders are relaxed, but not because she is comfortable. She looks drained, as though the studio has taken everything she had this week and the rest of us stood around demanding more.

I hate that I notice. Her body is right there, wrapped in black silk and enough bare skin to keep my cock painfully hard, but the first thing I notice is the exhaustion beneath her eyes.

I fucking hate it.

Noticing leads to caring, and caring is a door I keep locked unless a naked woman or a sold-out stadium is waiting on the other side.

Before the thought gets any more honest, I grab my drink and head to the couch.

A woman catches my wrist as I pass. Dark hair, red nails, and tits shoved high enough to be a public safety issue.

“Where are you going?” she asks.

“Somewhere else.”

Her fingers slide away. By tomorrow, I won’t remember her face. Fuck, Mickey started fading before I’d even pulled the condom off my cock. She was a willing body in a studio bathroom stall with a broken lock. Somewhere easy to bury my cock and forget everything Willow’s song made me feel. Once I was done, I sent her home and went back to work.

Mickey was simple. They all are.

But Willow has never been simple.

I drop onto the couch beside her, close enough that the cushion dips beneath my weight and draws her body an inch closer to mine.

Willow turns her head and her dark-brown eyes sweep across my face before lingering on my mouth.

“What?” she asks.

“Nothing.”

“You’re staring.”

“I’m Phoenix Stone. People usually pay for the privilege of it.”

She looks past me toward Cruz’s table, her gaze snagging on the drugs for half a second before she looks away. Willow has spent too many years around us to pretend innocence. She knows exactly what happens after midnight in hotel suites full of musicians with blown-out egos, black credit cards, and women who throw themselves at rockstars as if bad decisions come with backstage passes.

“You know you’re a miserable pain in my ass that I tolerate,” I say.

“I’m not miserable.”

“Wills, you’re sitting alone at a party full of free drugs, expensive alcohol, and people with extremely flexible morals.”

“That’s because I have standards.”

“Those sound exhausting.”

“They are when I’m around you.”

I stretch one arm across the back of the couch, letting my fingers settle close to her hair without touching it. “You need to get out of your head for one night, Wills.”