Page 16 of A Tragic Melody

The conversation gave me some much-needed insight into the person he is and what makes him tick.

Death is a sensitive subject for him. I could work with that. Skimming my bags, I look for whatever clothing I have that could cover my wrists. I don’t like working the pity angle, but whatever works.

He can be mean, that much is clear. He has no problem saying the harsh stuff out loud. Not that much of what he says can hurt me. I’ve heard worse from my mother, Hendricks, and myself, so he will need to try harder if he wants to break me.

Though what he doesn’t know will only help me. I’ll let him think he has broken me. Let him believe his words got to me. Clearly, he has no problem going after me when I’m confident, but what happens when I look like a sad little girl?

I have no doubt he will want to nurse my broken wing.

My plan was to fuck him, use sex as a weapon, have it look like Derrick was the cause of his downfall, but Wyatt isn’t stupid. Neither am I, so I’m more than okay changing my plans.

I will get him to fall in love with me. Lust works for most men, but Wyatt James is different. So I will use human connection to win him over. Rope him in by using pity. Make him feel bad for what he said to me. Nothing some tears and light cutting can’t help with. Then when he falls for me, not from lust but from pure, deep love, I will rip the rug out from under his feet.

I can’t wait to see his face. He will desire nothing and no one else besides me. Worship me. Offer me the world on a silver platter, and then just like that, I will destroy him. Not just his career, but his fucking heart and soul, too. He will remember me for the rest of his fucking life.

Because how dare he think he is better than me? Mr. Rehab doesn’t get to look down on me when he’s done worse. I don’t care how talented he is. Nor do I care that he is the only person on this tour who could command a stage like me. He doesn’t get to pass judgement on me and live to tell the tale.

Wyatt will never make it to the top, not if I have anything to say about it. That dream of his went out the window when he refused to join my team. I could’ve gotten over that with some light torture, but he couldn’t settle for second best. I see it in his eyes. He wants to get me out of the way. Because just like me, he knows who his real competition is.

He is going to regret going head-to-head with me. When he is working at some shitty store in his stupid small town, married to a boring woman who could never compare to me, raising two kids and never getting to touch the stage again, he will regret it. He will remember how he lost it all because of me.

Wyatt-fucking-James wanted a war, and now he’s got one. I will be his reckoning. All without an ounce of pity.

My heart is pounding by the time I walk off stage. The adrenaline from dancing around, mixed with the drugs and rush of having a crowd of people sing along with me, has me feeling too fucking high.

I can hear my heartbeat in my ears. Feel each thud in my stomach. It’s so distracting I almost miss the shadow tucked away in the corner.

He watched my set.

His arms are folded over his chest, face blank, but I can see it in his eyes. He is impressed with me. I bet he is wishing he joined me now.

And just like that, round one goes to me. I smile as I skip past him, beelining to the bottle of vodka that sits on the drink table. It’s time to celebrate.

I unscrew the top, taking a big gulp.

Quinn slides into my view as I lower the bottle to swallow the burn, his blue eyes zeroing in on me. I can sense his concern radiating from his tall, towering body. He pushes his long, reddish hair behind his ears as he peers down at me.

“What?” I question.

“Is that a good idea, Tuesday?”

I smile, lifting my shoulders. “Is anything I do ever a good idea?” I take another gulp from the bottle as he studies me.

An arm slips around my waist from behind. The smell of weed covered up with some horrible body spray hits my nose, giving away who the arm belongs to.

Derrick’s body presses into my back, and I cringe, rolling my eyes. Quinn sighs. He shakes his head before taking a step back.

“We should get on the bus,” Quinn says like a stern, older brother.

“You should,” I counter. “I’m going to have some fucking fun. If that’s okay with you, of course.”

“It’s fine by me, but Mr. Hendricks might not like waiting any longer.”

My whole body tenses. It feels like all the light in the room vanishes. All my excitement gets zapped away at the mention of his name.

Derrick’s arm is still around me. I know I need to pull away, get to the bus before Hendricks has a chance to see. It’s not like I’m not aware who Derrick’s bandmate’s uncle is, but I didn’t think it would upset him this much. I’ve fooled around with bigger names before. Touring is supposed to mean freedom.

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I step out of Derrick’s grip.