Page 57 of Her Filthy Mistake

What’s wrong with you? You can’t feel something for him when he was the one using you.

“I’m sorry, Mom.” I blink hard to keep my emotions in check. “I know how much you and Landon want him to have his act together, but he doesn’t. He’s a liar and a schemer. And I’m glad Dad found out before it was too late.” Too late for what? I swallow over the dryness in my throat. The damage was already done. My childhood obsession had turned to love…. And now what?

Get yourself together. The doors slide open. You’re at work. I slap a smile on my face and wave at the receptionist. Rachelle returns my greeting as she speaks into the microphone in front of her mouth. Her blonde hair is pulled high on her head as she talks with whoever’s on the other side of the line. Rachelle is a jewel. She can charm the pants off anyone while keeping people at bay with the severity of a drill sergeant.

“I don’t believe it.”

My shoulders tense as I stop in the middle of the room. Rachelle’s head snaps toward me, so I spin on my heel and face the wall. The outer office is black, sleek, and modern. My dad does classy well.

“I saw it with my own eyes and heard it with my own ears. He admitted he had….” I trail off the rest of the words in my head. I’m not ready to admit all my filthy mistakes at once. I clear my throat. “I was there.”

“Baby…. Honey….” My mom’s voice is soft and reassuring. “I believe you. I know you saw and heard what you witnessed but I believe there’s more to the story than you know. And I’m going to get to the bottom of it.”

There’s nothing more at the bottom. I’m already there. “I love you, Mom.” I click off and trudge to my office. I would’ve felt the same way until Jace looked me in the eye and stabbed me in the heart. I never meant anything to him. I was a hole to fuck. A means to an end.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Three Weeks Later

Jace

While the floor is littered with balled-up wads of rejected paper, the words continue to pour out of me. In front of me, on the table, I’m surrounded by the pieces of paper that have so far made the grade.

As I strum the guitar, I repeat the same line two, then three, then four times until each verse and the chorus are perfect. Every waking hour when I’m not at work has been spent pouring my heart out until my eyes are so full of grit, I can barely close them.

But it feels great. Even when I was writing full-time, I never completed an album in less than six months. At this rate, I’ll have enough for two albums by this time next week.

The best thing is that it keeps my energy focused and off the spiraling depression that sucked me in the first couple of weeks back from the island. I still wake up drenched in sweat with a piercing pain in my chest after dreaming about Zoe. But there’s no point in dwelling over the past. If I could change things, I would. But I can’t. At this point, it would come out like a lie. Especially since I’ve taken back to writing.

I lean back into the kitchen chair, causing the wood to shift under my weight. This time, I’m not sending anything to Fletcher. I’m going to his top competitor. I might not make it, but I’m going to go down swinging. One way or the other.

My new cell phone buzzes. Somehow, in my haste to leave the island, I left my old phone behind and changed numbers when I returned home. Landon. I swipe the screen off. By now, I’m sure Zoe has told them about my drug and alcohol-induced insanity, and I don’t want to hear about how much of a disappointment I am to them. Fuck that.

I arch my eyebrows. Yeah, there’s another song I can pen.

After hitting the live button on my social media account, I sing the newest lines of the song I just completed. The notes pierce the soul, but when I add the words, the crying and broken heart emojis flood the screen.

It’s fascinating to have that immediate reaction from my fans. It’s something that didn’t exist when I was first recording, but I’m determined to use it to my advantage. I’ve already had two lives go semi-viral and gained 200k followers. It’s just me and my guitar.

When I finish, I rest the guitar on my lap and thank those who listened. The stream of roses, hearts, and I love you’s shoot up the comments, reinvigorating my belief that I’m not the schmuck Fletcher claims I am.

Country meets pop.

I love you.

This song is fire.

Will you marry me?

You on stage. Alone. No band. Priceless.

I thank them again and lean back into the chair as I ponder the comments before signing off.

When I thought about performing in the past, it was always with a band. Rock music. But the vibe of these songs fits the storytelling of country or a crossover between country and pop. I envision a sped-up version with electric guitars, drums, and backup singers.

But what if it’s just me. Alone on the stage. With my guitar. Or even a cappella.

A cappella. My heart skips a beat as adrenaline takes over. I jump out of my chair and pace the floor. When I step on a balled-up piece of paper, it crunches under my bare feet. But I’m too excited to register the discomfort.

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