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Could he?
“Cedar,” Rex says firmly with those caring, yet deadly, eyes that have my stomach twisting at the idea that Rex would know the truth.
“Don’t, Rex.”
“Someone better fucking tell me something,” he growls out, “before I get pissed.”
When the tent remains silent and Ian distracts himself with whatever he’s doing to check my phone, I swallow the lump that builds in the back of my throat and fight off the tears that prick the backs of my eyes.
“Fine,” Rex growls and pulls his phone from his pocket. “My wife will know.”
“Stillnot married yet, Rex.”
“Shut up, Ian.”
The longer his thumbs work over the device, the more my eyes itch and my hands shake.
“Stop.” Shaking my head when he looks up at me with a lifted brow. “You can’t.”
Sighing, Rex slips the phone back into his pocket and crosses his arms over his thick chest. “Can’t what, C?”
I drag in a shaky breath, my eyes misting over and my jaw working to form the words.
Which ones?
How much do I tell him when even my best friend doesn’t know?
None. The answer is tell him nothing.
“I, um …” I clear the emotion that builds in my throat and stare at the ground. “That was …”
“Cedar.” Rex’s heavy hand lands on my shoulder and makes my skin crawl—not because the rockstar repulses me, but because it takes me a minute of preparation to be okay with physical touch from the people I give a shit about. “Sit down, sis. Jesus, you’re making my chest hurt.”
I snicker, but it comes out watery and weak when Rex leads me to my chair. With my hands limp in my lap and tears building on my lashes, I eye my tattoo gun, the one thing that has always brought me peace, and reach for it.
“Here,” Rex says as he pulls my stool over and sits with wide knees over the cushion, his arm outstretched in my direction. Pointing directly beneath the lyrics that area already scripted into his skin, he continues. “Wipe away the decay and sing me your songs of praise.”
“What’s that from?” My voice sounds too small, too weak, and it makes me mad at myself.
“The new song we’ve been working on.” He nods to the thin strip with minimal shading already present on his forearm that he props across my thighs. “Go ahead.”
I draw in a deep breath and snag the cleaning solution on the tray next to us. Wiping away at his skin, I kick the pedal around to reach from where I sit and begin to freehand the letters into his arm—not so different from the last time I inked the lead singer.
This time definitely is different, though.
This time, I’m not trying to get the man to cave and admit he’s no good for my best friend.
With teeth sunk into the inside of my lip to force the concentration on the ink instead of the ache in my chest, the tears begin to build for another reason as realization settles in.
Fin.
“He wrote these, didn’t he?” I ask.
“Yes.”
My stomach flips.
He deserves so much better than me.
