Page 6 of Oops Baby for the Rockstar
Gingerly, I sniff my armpit and wrinkle my nose.
God, I need a shower. A shower, clean clothes, and a breakfast burrito the size of my arm. But before that, I need to sneak out of this room without waking Jett Santana.
Misery pangs through me again.
Not fair.I don’t want to go.
Jett lies sprawled on his front, head turned against the pillow, one arm tossed overhead. The bed sheet is pulled way down, barely covering those dimples at the base of his spine, and his muscled back flexes as he sighs and shifts in his sleep.
Lips pressed together, I wait until he’s breathing deeply again. Staring at him. Wishing. Wanting.
But this whole night was a stolen experience, and one that could never last. My lies saw to that, didn’t they?
Besides, we’re from different worlds. And maybe Jett likes the fake Tamsin, the one who buys VIP passes to gigs and who travels around taking photos for magazines, but therealTamsin is so much less impressive. A broke runaway with no family worth speaking of, and no time or money for anything much in her life except work shifts unloading trucks. Even my makeup is borrowed.
Yeah, I’m nobody’s muse. And it’s time to get the hell out of dodge.
My heart hammers as I peel the sheets down and swing my legs out of bed. The carpet is soft and thick, muffling my footsteps as I stand and pick my way across the room, bending down to snatch up my bra, my panties, my dress, my belt. I dress silently, eyes fixed on the sleeping rock star—partly because I don’t want him to wake, and partly because I can’t bear to look away.
The way he touched me last night…
The things he murmured against my skin…
A lump forms in my throat, lodging there. For a long moment, I’m not sure I can do it. I’m not sure if I’m strong enough to walk away without saying goodbye. Especially after everything we shared together, after everything Igavehim, can I really just walk away without a word? What if he thinks I don’t care?
Chest aching, I step toward the bed. Maybe it doesn’t have to be weird. Maybe I can wake him up, play it off as a casual thing, steal one last kiss before I go.
And maybe he won’t let me leave so easily. Maybe he’ll sweep me into his arms and bury me in the pillows for one last time. Would that be so wrong?
I take another step toward the bed, and something crinkles beneath my boot. Glancing down, I grimace.
My VIP pass. The very first lie I told.
Gut churning, I step back toward the door instead.
I mean, Jett Santana is famous. He probably screws a different woman every night. When he wakes up, I doubt he’ll even remember my name.
Mind made up, I turn and hurry for the hotel room door.
It’s the right thing to do. I’m sure it is.
Three
Jett
Present day
“He’s moping again.”
Danny flicks the back of my head as he walks past my chair, leading the others into our dressing room. This venue is fancier than the others we’ve been to lately—a big old theater instead of the usual sports stadiums—and in front of each little personal area is a mirror surrounded by lit up bulbs.
I avoid my own reflection, chair turned away and tipped back on two legs, my boots propped on the dressing table. A guitar is nestled in my lap, not plugged in but humming away as I pick at it.
“Who’s moping? I’m not moping.”
It’s a lie and we all know it.
Rocco and Zeke trail inside after Danny, kicking the door shut behind them, blocking out the roar of the crowd waiting for us out there. Baying for our sweat. It may be a fancy old theater, but our fans are still the same—wild and wanting a good time.
