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She nipped at my chin. “I’ve always wanted one.” Her eyes filled with trepidation. “You think they’ll take me?”
I knew they would, if for no other reason than because I’d give them enough money to buy all the STEM equipment their nerdy hearts could dream up—a fucking Tony Stark playground. “We’ll figure it out.”
“Nash—”
I kissed her, making slow, languorous sweeps of my tongue. She shuffled closer until her feet were between mine and our bodies pressed together. I pulled back as I heard the car pull up.
“Send in your stuff. See what they say.” I tucked a thick strand of her hair back behind her ear. I walked over and opened the car door, holding her hand while she settled onto the buttery soft seat. “You’re brilliant. I guarantee this is going to go better than you think.”
I hated that she second-guessed herself now; she’d never done that before. This week, I’d scoured the internet and picked up every book I could on losing a parent and public shaming—anything I could think of to help me better understand Aya’s mental state.
So far, I knew her anxiety stemmed from a deep-seated worry of a repeat—either of another person she loved dying, or, since she didn’t have many people in her circle, probably more likely she feared a repeat of Lindsay’s vicious attack on her self-esteem and identity. I hadn’t come up with a good strategy yet, but Aya had started seeing the therapist Jordan recommended, so I figured it was progress.
“Will you let me kiss you as you walk off the stage with your diploma?”
She shook her head, but she smiled. “You drive a hard bargain.”
My lips hovered over hers. “I do.”
“I accept.”
I kissed her and tugged her tighter against me. I loved the feel of her in my arms. I loved the small catch in the back of her throat as she attempted to get us even closer.
Mainly, I loved her.
Which meant I was definitely going to do something about her sack-of-shit father. I’d deal with her anger afterward. But no one was going to hurt Aya. She’d been hurt enough.
The next couple of weeks passed in a blur of songwriting sessions, rehearsals with my band, photo opportunities, and as many quiet moments as possible with Aya.
Tatum, that first day back, had thrown a tantrum the moment she saw me, saying I’d led her on.
I’d crossed my arms over my chest and stared at a spot above her head until she ran out of steam.
“Are you done?” I’d asked.
“I can’t believe you would—”
“Are you done?” I snapped.
She huffed but shut her mouth, glancing at Jax and Bridger for support. Jax turned away, and Bridger became interested in his cymbals.
“Let’s go over this one more time. Did I ever once encourage your crush?”
“No, but—”
“Did you kiss me?”
“Yes, but—”
“Did I not tell you that shit wouldn’t fly and never to do it again?”
“Yes, but—”
“Did you think I was lying?”
“No, but—”
“Here’s the thing, Tatum. You’re talented. You’re also pretty. That helps us sell albums. But I do not like you. Not sexually and not much as a person. So, if you want to stay in this band, you’ll play your instrument and keep your thoughts and feelings to yourself—especially about the woman I’m in love with. If you can’t do that, you’re gone.”
