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My brows lift entirely of their own accord. “Say again.”
“I’m in a rock band, Sunshine. Might know us as Devils Heartbreak.”
“Devils Heartbreak?” I blink at him. “You’re shitting me. You guys are all over the place.”
“We’re climbing.”
“Climbing what? You’re already at the top.” I scowl at him again, deciding he’s messing with me again. “I don’t believe you. If you were in Devils Heartbreak, I’d know.”
Lifting my phone, I tap into theGoogleapp and typeDevils Heartbreakinto the search bar. Instantly, I get image after image of the band. Most are of the lead singer, Cash Jagger—the one I associate with the band—but there are pics of Kane, too. In most, his tatted hands are strumming a guitar, his face sexy as sin as he focuses on playing.
No. Freaking. Way.
“Oh my God.” I peek up at him to find him watching me closely. “How didn’t I know this?”
He shrugs. “You recognized Cash.”
I feel guilty for that now. “I—um—I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
“I’ve heard you play—I won’t lie, I’m not usually focused on the band on stage when I’m working. I’m usually mingling with others, taking orders, you know.” Argh, this is just sounding worse and worse.
“I get it, Sunshine. Don’t need to explain.”
I look back down to my phone, searching Kane specifically. Image after image of him with woman after woman appears. Candace’s comment about an STI moves to the front of my mind, and I feel something ugly swell in my chest.
He’s a player. A serious one if the internet is to be trusted.
I’ve already been played in the worst way.
I don’t think I’d survive finding that Kane had been unfaithful—even knowing that this thing we’ve agreed to be to each other is fake.
I feel nauseous.
Insecure.
Unsure.
Hurt. Why am I hurt?
Why does seeing him with these other women—women before me—hurt so much?
This isn’t real, Nevaeh. You have no real claim on the man. He’s rescuing you from a terrible future, and you’re serving a purpose for him, as well, by getting his mom off his back for the next year.
Jealousy has no place between us.
I back out of the app and tuck my phone up the sleeve of my sweater. I tell myself I’m going to ask him what he wants for dinner when something else entirely slips out. “You’re a player.”
I want to bury my head in a pile of sand and never come back up.
“I was a player.”
My eyes lift to his at the darkness in his tone. A shiver skates down my spine, because that same darkness is in his eyes now, too. “What does that mean?”
“We do this, we do it.”
I shake my head. “I don’t understand.”
