My gaze slides down his chest, taking in his muscular arms on display in his Maroon 5 tank top. “Why Maroon 5?”
He glances down. “Oh. Sort of an inside joke with the band. We want to follow in Maroon 5’s footsteps.”
“Good goal.”
“Yeah. But don’t try to distract me here. What brought on all the tears?”
At his mention of my crying using the past tense, I realize I’ve stopped. Wow. I guess I do owe him some sort of an explanation. “He broke up with me, actually. Came home one day and kicked me out of his bed, his business, and his apartment. Said he was done with me.”
“Oh, that sucks.” He reels me in for a hug, and I inhale his scent, which reminds me of the beach.
I let him hold me while I share the rest of my sorry tale. This way, I can’t see his face. The pity. Or worse, the mocking. “I had to move back home with my mother. And that’s not the worst of it, by a long shot, and it’s pretty shitty. Before he kicked me out, he ran up my credit cards, and now creditors are calling me all the time. Plus, my mother gambled away my sister’s tuition money.” I fall silent.
He skims my back again. The touch is strangely—soothing. “This all happened four months ago?”
I nod, my forehead banging against his pecs. “Well, not the tuition money. That just dropped. The creditor calls started like two months ago.”
“Ah. It’s the tuition money that triggered all this.”
I wish. Tears threaten again. “No,” I whisper.
His arms contract around me. Why am I being so pathetic with Trent, of all people? Inevershare my feelings. Ever. Yet I can’t muzzle myself, and I’m spilling my guts to him. “He just got engaged.”
“Oh, Cordelia.” He pulls me even tighter to his hot bod and I clamp down a sob, relishing his warmth. “He’s a total prick, you know, right? He’s not worthy of one of your sideways glances, let alone your tears.”
My what glances? I lean back. “My what?”
His left lip curls upward into a half-smirk. “You got them down pat. When you think we’re doing something stupid, you make a face but you hide it by looking in a different direction.”
I know exactly what he’s talking about but didn’t think anyone else picked up on it. “Well, you all bet on everything. Like how many bras will be thrown onto the stage during your performance. It’s sort of ridiculous.”
He chuckles, and it lodges directly in my pussy. What the hell?
“Yeah, I always win that one by betting zero. Now this guy.” He scrunches up his nose. “What’s his name anyway?”
“Big Rolls.”
His nose scrunches double-time. Adorable. Adorable? “His name sounds like a wannabe rapper, and I don’t want to insult good musicians.”
I glance at the ugly couch. “It’s Roland García. He chose the nickname when he got the car dealership. He wanted to sound important.”
“More like a douchecanoe to me.”
I giggle at his apt description. Then I remember the photo, and all mirth ceases. As I’ve already shared most everything with Trent, might as well complete the package. I fumble with my phone and pull up the back cover of the magazine, and turn it over to him.
He takes my phone and peers at the screen for a minute. With a disgusted noise, he tosses it onto the couch.
Instead of picking my phone back up, I get lost in Trent’s amber eyes. Such a complement to his warm, light brown skin color. I become attuned to my surroundings for the first time. We’re tucked behind a low wall, more-or-less out of sight from the rest of the room. Over his shoulder, I notice a couple of doors. The carpet is a utilitarian beige, not showing any wear and tear. The walls are ivory. Such a bland setting for a concert venue hosting bands such as Hunte. Maybe TLR will be a headliner here one day?
My thoughts return to the man in front of me when he says, “I am sorry you’re so broken up over him. Reminds me of my mom when—”
He doesn’t complete his sentence. His eyes glaze over.
In pain?
The need to wipe the emotion off his face surfaces. Hard. I have no idea where it came from, but Trent was nice to me. He got me to laugh when my life was totally falling apart. I have to do the same for him.
The only way I know how.