Page 43 of Rope Me In

I cringe at the tone in his deep voice, the voice I used to love. Now it only gives me goosebumps—and not the good kind. “Well, hello to you, too.”

“Cut the cute shit, P. Where have you been?”

“I left you a note,” I say. I knew that note would never be enough for him, but it was all I could do when I left. I wasn’t going to risk speaking to him and having him convince me to stay.

“Are you fucking kidding me with this shit? We have a record deal, and you don’t show up to sign the contracts? Do you know how bad that made us look?”

I feel like that viral sound:Well, if it isn’t the consequences of my own actions.I shouldn’t have picked up.

“It wasn’t my intention to make you look bad,” I say honestly, and it really wasn’t. I just wanted to get out of the city fast.

He mumbles a few curses under his breath then huffs loudly. “We’ve already been auditioning fiddle players. They’re better than you.”

Tears sting my eyes. I should expect nothing less than Derek taking a dig at me where he knows I’m most insecure. It’s his favorite thing to do. I blink and clear my throat as best I can, trying to hold myself together. “Then why are you calling me?”

“Because I wanted you to know.”

“You’ve been texting. And my mom, really? You didn’t have to call her.”

He chuckles snidely. “I couldn’t get a hold of you. I thought you may be dead. How was I supposed to know you were reading them?”

The chili in my stomach revolts, and acid burns my throat. “Please stop calling and texting me. If you’re replacing me with someone better, then it doesn’t matter.”

I hear him crack open what I’m guessing is a beer before he says, “I just wanted to tell you how disappointed I am in you, that I never should’ve gotten involved with a loser like you. You’ve ruined all our lives, and for what?”

I go still, processing his words. Derek used to be sweet—at least, he was when I first met him. He saw me play at a bar in Boston and seemed to be enamored with me. He was the first guy who ever approached me in a bar to hit on me, the first guy to pay attention to me instead of the hot women in the bands I played with. It felt nice, as if I was finally special to someone. And I fell for him and his pretty words hook, line, and sinker.

It wasn’t until we were dating for a year that he began to take digs at me. It started with little comments like how I should dress differently for gigs, that the food I ate wasn’t good for me. Then he would start on the quality of my fiddle playing. I don’t know why I stayed with him for as long as I did—five-plus years of my life—but I did. And I regret it.

And I regret that I picked up the phone after finally having the courage to walk away. Not just from him but from my toxic band.

“Did you hear me, P?”

“You know I hate it when you call me that.”

I hear him throw something that crashes against a wall. “You ruined everything! We’re never going to forgive you for this. You made me look like a fool. A fucking fool, Pres.”

“Please stop calling me. We’re done.”

“No, I get to say when we’re done. You fuckedme.”

“No,you fucked another woman,” I spit out, unable to contain my anger any longer.

“Is that what this tantrum is about, Presley? That I fucked someone hotter than you?”

“Screw you, Derek!”

“Don’t you dare hang up on me. You need—”

I end the call and throw my phone down on the table. Tears spill from my eyes, and I pull at the collar of my T-shirt, tryingto breathe, but the air just won’t seem to come. More acid burns my throat, and I force myself to breathe through my nose. “Don’t let him get to you, Presley,” I say under my breath. I reach into my back pocket and grab the calming inhaler. It’s almost gone, but there should be enough to help me through this anxiety attack.

I wrap my lips around the mouth and breathe in. The familiar taste of peppermint and chamomile coats my tastebuds, and my heart rate slows slightly. As I pull it from my lips and exhale, I stare at the little stick. Behind my eyelids, an image of Kade appears from yesterday when he’d wrapped his lips around the same opening. I take another drag of it and hold in the vapor before exhaling again.

“How did you end up here?” I ask myself, wishing I could answer, wishing I knew why I let someone like Derek screw up my life so badly. I wonder why I answered the phone. Even if Mom did think I was dead, would it be so bad? I could live my life how I want to, pretend my past doesn’t exist.

In a lot of ways, I’ve already gotten a head start by moving here. Nobody knows me in Randall, and they don’t know anything about me. I’m just an awkward city girl who’s a half-decent bartender and now a bad ranch hand.

My phone pings again, and I let out a frustrated sound, grabbing it off the table. Derek’s text lights up the screen:

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