Page 100 of Opening Strain

She continues as if I hadn’t spoken. “He even has a nickname for you. ‘B.’ Again, friends.”

“Nope. He doesn’t know me beyond being the lead singer of UC. He knows what I tell him to handle media fallout. But not the real me.” I point to my heart. “Not what’s inside.” Truth is, I’ve shared more with Jenna over less than two weeks than with Luke or all of UC in over a decade. I keep this factoid to myself as well.

“You have to let him in.”

I shut her down, “No. I don’t. The last time I did something as foolish as that was when I was back in high school and look how that turned out.”

She swings her foot. “I’d like to be your friend.”

She’s said something like this to me before, and I distracted her. This time? I want her friendship more than a private jet taking us to UC concerts all over the world. I find my voice. “I’d like that.”

We ride in silence until the helicopter lands. After unbuckling and depositing our headsets onto the seats, Jenna gets out. I take my time, holding onto the grab bars like an old guy, but without betraying my injury.

We walk through the waiting room and step out onto thesidewalk, looking for the car service to take us back to Secluded Rest. I have some decisions to make. So does Jenna.

A crowd rushes us, screaming unintelligible questions. I hear, “Are you getting back together with Lissa?” and “Have you been pining for her all this time?” and “Why are you with the Black Widow?”

It’s the last one that draws my ire. I spin on my heel and would come crashing down on the pavement if not for Jenna’s being at my side. She wraps her arm around my waist. “Ignore them. Let’s get in the car.”

Chapter Thirty-One

The ride back to the mansion is tense. My fucking leg throbs, but my heart hurts more. Howdarethey continue to call Jenna a “Black Widow”?

For her part, Jenna keeps her head down, deep in her own thoughts. Maybe she’d be better off without me. At least the paparazzi wouldn’t follow her around like stink on trash. My heart twists at the possibility of her not being with me.

“Here you go. Safely back to your house,” the driver announces.

“Thanks. Appreciate the ride.” I pass him a hundred-dollar bill. “Have a good one.” Don’t want to give him any ammo to tell the circling vultures that I’m a cheap bastard.

Jenna’s already inside the mansion by the time I get out of the car. I watch the car drive away, then limp up the stairs. Fuck, this hurts. How will I be able to perform on stage tomorrow night?

Going through the open door, I’m greeted by Jenna holding an ice pack.

Always an ice pack.

“Have a seat,” she points to the chair in a nearby sitting room.When I move in the direction, she says, “On second thought, take off your sweats.”

Despite all the pain, despite all the crappy things reporters screamed at us, I smirk. “I didn’t know you cared.”

“Seriously? You reinjured yourself hours before you’re set to take the stage.” She pushes down on my shoulders. “Stop being a prima donna and sit.”

The shock of her description, plus physically moving me, causes me to cave. My leg is put on a footstool and ice is on my thigh within seconds.

“What were you thinking back there? You’ve been making great progress.”

“I was thinking the reporters were fucking out of line.”

“You know they want to get a rise out of you. Why did you give them one?” Her fingers worm under the ice pack and massage my pulled muscle.

My head leans on the back of the tall chair. “God, that feels so damn good.”

She huffs a laugh. “It’s what you’re paying me for.”

I grab her wrist. “That’s not true. You mean so much more to me than therapy.” I stare into her eyes. “You have to believe me.”

Her lips tighten. “I think the pull is relaxing. How’s your pain level?”

I query my body. “About a six,” I lie.

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