I flexed my hands. “It’s on your damn playing. That shit was awful.”
“Whatever, you fucking asshole! Stop trying to blame me! You know it's on you, and you're just not willing to admit that it was your fault!”
“The hell it was. Shit, maybe I should just bring in the drummer from the opening band to take your place. At least he can keep a beat.”
Anger flickered through Talon's eyes.
“Back off, Owen. You're full of shit right now and you know it. Quit fucking blaming me for your fucked up issues. We both know this has nothing to do with the music.”
“Fuck you, Talon. You're dragging this band down.”
Talon’s jaw clenched, and suddenly his hands were shoved against my chest, causing me to stumble across the stage.
“Go to hell, Owen!”
I caught my step and charged toward him, taking him down to the stage floor with a diving tackle.
“You asshole!” he shouted as I clocked him once, my fist landing against his chest.
With every punch, I felt myself get madder, wanting to deck him again and again to release the tension that was so tightly wound up inside. I was pissed about Nalia and her cold shoulder routine, pissed that nothing I could do or say could fix it, that I couldn’t figure out how to fix it. My seemingly perfect existence was falling down around me, and I didn’t know how to deal with it. So, naturally, I did the mature thing and exploded in a rant of pure rage.
“Get the hell off of me!” Talon shouted.
I felt the jerk of someone on my shoulders, and moments later, we were pulled apart, allowing Talon time to get to his feet. I snarled and wrenched my way out of the person's grasp, charging at Talon once more, determined to finish what I had started. We tumbled into the equipment, the clanging of drums and cymbals sounding loudly in my ears as we crashed against them. Two seconds later, Talon’s fist collided with my jaw, and I felt a shudder rock my head from the outside in. I sure as hell was going to feel that tomorrow.
It didn't matter though; I still had plenty of fight left in me. I stumbled back, and Talon charged in to try to press home while he still had the upper hand.
He hadn't done a damn thing wrong, and in spite of that, I was using him as a punching bag to take out all of my frustration on. It was a downright shitty thing to do, really. For a brief moment, a flicker of guilt about what I was doing shot through me.
But then, Talon's fist crunched against my ribs, sending a shock of pain crashing up my left side. My mental focus kicked straight back into fight mode, and any sense of guilt about my behavior quickly vanished. He tried to land another punch on my ribs, but I was expecting the second one, and I blocked it before countering with a right cross that caught him square on the jaw. As he stumbled just a bit, I tackled him again and we both crashed to the floor.
“What the hell,” I heard from somewhere else in the room just as Talon managed to grab my head and pull me into a headlock. As we wrestled, I punched at his sides, a movement that was rewarded with the sound of grunts in response. As messed up as it sounded, a good fight was just what I needed.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Nalia
“No, that light goes over there. They like it for photos.”
I put my hands on my hips and watched as the stage hand moved the light for the fourth time, judging it with a critical eye. I had been doing a great deal of that lately, second guessing myself, and I knew exactly why. It was because I couldn’t concentrate, and I hadn’t been able to truly stay focused over the last month.
After the night in Owen’s penthouse, when I had seen those photos of him and the other woman, I had kept my distance, bidding a silent—and permanent—farewell to anything we had once had together...if you could even say we’d actually had anything together. I was probably just fooling myself all along.
I’d gone over it and over it in my head a thousand times. The conclusion I had finally come to grips with was that I had latched onto Owen at the completely wrong point in both of our lives, and since it was quite clear that he had never had a single thought in relation to possibly having something with me, I had decided to do the same.
After all, I was with the band, right? Wasn’t it all supposed to be free love? Wasn’t is all supposed to be attachment-free, guilt-free? Everyone always says that you're only young once. They say you have to go out and live while you’re young. They say to have a wild and crazy time while you still can.
But it seemed that maybe that was all just an illusion. Maybe people were always going to hurt each other even if there was never intention of more than having a good time—just like Owen had hurt me. Maybe I had hurt him, too. I doubted that was the case, but I supposed it was possible. After all, I hadn’t told Owen the reason I was avoiding him.
Part of me didn’t feel as though I owed him a reason. Part of me just didn’t want to face him. Instead, I had simply been choosing to leave the room whenever I could if he was present. Not once had I given myself any opportunity to be alone in case he decided that he wanted answers.
And considering all the phone calls, I was guessing he did. I knew if I found myself alone with him, he would demand an explanation for what had been going on, and I would probably cave and give it to him.
What I was most concerned about was saying too much, giving more than just a reason. My feelings had become too involved, too raw, and too painful to be able to explain. And while some would call me a coward—and maybe they would be right for doing so—the fact was that I simply couldn’t do it. I couldn’t find the words without revealing my true feelings for him.
So, with this in mind, I had done the only thing that I knew to do: I cut off all direct contact with him and then avoided him as best I could. I admit, I harbored a slight sense of shame for my behavior, but it was outweighed by anger and disappointment when I thought back over it all. Of course, what could I really do?
“They’re fighting!” a voice called from the side of the stage, pulling me out of my mental turmoil of thoughts and emotions.