Page 66 of Dear Rockstar (Dear Rockstar 1)

“Sara.” He focused again, turning to look at me, and then stopped, gaze moving over my body, nipples poking the t-shirt, hard as diamonds, my jean-clad thighs still invitingly open from having him between them. He licked his lips, shaking his head again, and raised his eyes to mine. “Maybe you could put something else on? Like… I don’t know… a robe or… a Burka… or something…”

I giggled, sitting up and reaching for a t-shirt, one of my over-size ones, pulling it over my head. “Better?”

He nodded grimly. “A little.”

Dale paced again, thinking. “Sara, I want to get you out of here.”

“I’m working on that,” I told him, grabbing a brush and running it through the mess of my hair. “I promise you. I don’t want…”

I stopped, seeing Dale standing in the middle of my room, and I think it was the first time he’d paused to look around, to really look. His eyes widened and I shrank back on my bed as I watched his gaze move over every image of Tyler Vincent papering my walls. Aimee hadn’t been kidding—it was truly wallpaper. I hadn’t left an inch of space, from floor to ceiling. Even those places you couldn’t see, behind my desk, my bookshelves, my dresser, everywhere, everything covered with Tyler Vincent’s image.

Then Dale’s eyes focused on something in the corner. I followed his gaze, my heart lurching in my chest. I’d forgotten about my painting. I’d finished it. It just needed to be packed up and sent.

“Chloe.” He said her name—Tyler Vincent’s daughter’s name—except it was me in the picture with him. I held my breath, watching as he advanced, reaching out to touch the surface of my painting, trying to read his expression, but I couldn’t.

“Dale?” I finally prompted.

He glanced over at me. “Self-portrait?”

I nodded miserably.

“It’s very good.” His voice was soft as he turned to look back at the painting again. “Looks just like him. And you…” He touched it again, and I saw a brief flash of pain in his eyes that broke my heart. Then his voice broke. “Him and you…”

“It’s for a contest,” I explained, wanting to make it better somehow. I reached under my alarm clock, pulling out the brochure and offering it to him as an explanation. It felt like pasting a Band-Aid over a bleeding artery.

Dale took it, sitting next to me on the bed as he read it through.

“The University of Maine?” He looked up at me. “First prize is a four-year scholarship?”

I nodded. It was difficult to look into his eyes in that moment but I forced myself. There was so much pain there he was trying very hard to hide. I didn’t want to see it. Worse. I didn’t want to know I was the cause.

“It’s perfect.” He gave me a small, sad smile. “If you win—and how could you not? Look at that!” He glanced at my painting. “Then you get out of here right?”

I nodded again, swallowing past the lump in my throat.

“And you’ll also just happen to be going to school about five minutes away from where Tyler Vincent’s lived for the past twenty years right?”

I didn’t nod this time.

“And me, well, I come along and I just happen to be from Maine and I can get you front row seats to see Tyler Vincent, and I even look a little like him, so…”

I could see where he was going with this, but I still didn’t answer him.

He stood, letting the brochure flutter to the floor. “Listen, I should go.”

He was all the way to the door before I bolted after him, grabbing his hand. He stopped, looking down at our hands and then at me.

“Dale, please.” My eyes stung with tears and I didn’t stop them. “I know what you’re thinking, but that’s not it. It’s not like that.”

“Not… like… what… exactly?” The words didn’t come easy for him, spaced out and confused, looking at me with such raw feeling I wanted to hide, knowing I’d caused him so much pain.

“I can explain.”

Sure you can.

I thought I could. Maybe I could.

I pulled him back toward my bed where, just minutes before, we’d been completely lost in each other. “Please. Just listen?”

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