Right. He wasn’t talking about us, but about me and my role with Kill John. My period is definitely knocking on the door, because I’m on the verge of weeping for no particular reason. It occurs to me that the last time I had my period was the first time Rye kissed me. Has it been a month? Before I know it, our time will be over and done, and I have the feeling it will all seem like a strange dream.
I need to get off the phone with him. I’m maudlin and weak-willed right now.
“I’ve got to go,” I say. “The flight wore me out.”
“Take the bedroom on the second floor at the end of the hall. I called ahead and had the service make it up for you.”
Tears threaten again, damn it.
“Oh, and the house is stocked with food and drinks, so you don’t need to worry about that.”
I pull in a deep breath and let it out slowly. I’m the one who takes care of things for others. And I take care of myself. Always have. I don’t know how to handle this type of simple kindness. All I know is if I don’t get off the phone now, I’ll be begging him to join me.
My will is my strength. I can’t crumble.
“Thanks, Ryland.”
He huffs a laugh and then says the one thing he’d promised not to. “Good luck, Berry.”
I almost hate him for that. Almost.
Rye
I go to Chicago with Whip. Nothing left for me in New York, so why not? It’s a nice distraction from all this thinking I’ve been doing.
Only, and this is a damn annoying problem, I quickly find out that you cannot run away from thinking about certain things. I’ve spent a lifetime cramming down the bitter disappointment I felt when my dad cheated on Mom. I did a pretty good job of not dwelling on how, as a kid, when he left her, it felt as though he left me too.
Surely, I can spend a few days hanging out with Whip and not let myself think about a certain redhead. And if my chest feels a little too tight, my stomach a bit hollow, that’s easy enough to ignore.
“Why the hell did we decide to go to Chicago in November?” I ask, as we leave the warmth of our hired car and step into the frigid air. It’s got to be twenty degrees already—and that’s not counting the freaking wind that cuts to the bone, which I am most definitely counting.
Whip hunches into the collar of his coat. “Stop being a wimp. If you stayed in New York, you’d still be playing sad songs on the piano.”
“At least I wouldn’t be freezing.” We hustle our ass down an alleyway, flanked on each side by a security guard. “All I’m saying is that we could have gone somewhere warm like—”
“California?” Whip supplies dryly.
I don’t dignify that remark with a response. But given that Brenna told everyone she was headed out to LA on “business” and the fact that Whip is smirking, I’d say he’s on to us.
We’re almost halfway down the alley when a side door opens, releasing warm air that steams in the cold and a wall of thumping bass. A man steps out, his solid frame silhouetted in the light. He catches sight of us and smiles.
“You made it.” He clasps Whip’s hand and draws him in for a shoulder bump then turns and catches my hand next.
“Tariq, long time,” I say when we half hug. The world knows him as ShawnE, but I met him as Tariq and the name is stuck in my head.
“When was it?” he asks. “London, 2016?” There’s a gleam in his brown eyes that says he’s remembering our mischief.
“Think so.” We’d hung out at a private club we’re both members of. I have fuzzy memories of getting drunk, willing women on our laps, and doing something downright dirty with a bottle of Creme de Cacao—however, the details of that remain scant. Probably for the best.
With a chuckle, he leads us into the blessed warmth of the hall. Inside, the music surrounds me like a much-needed hug, pounding into my flesh and pumping my heart rate up. A surge of energy follows as Tariq heads down a narrow staircase.
The club is an underground lair, filled with dancers and flashing lights. I only get a glimpse of it through a two-way mirror before we enter a private room. Tariq gets us settled with a couple of beers, and we chat for a while. The club is Tariq’s baby, bought after his first album went platinum. He hosts a variety of artists and has made many an up-and-coming DJ famous.
“So,” he says to Whip, “you ready, man?”
Whip rolls his shoulders and then bobs his knee in an agitated rhythm. “Need to let off a little steam.”