Page 37 of Cherry Beats

“I’m so sorry.” Janey stepped forward, while I brought my foot up to my hand and hopped around.

“Leave now, right this second, before I call the police. Or I punch you in the… goddammit. Ouch.”

When she didn’t say anything else in response, I looked up through squinting eyes and saw Janey taking a good look around my apartment. The victory smirk that appeared on her face had my head snapping in every direction, wondering if Presley had popped out and she’d somehow gotten a look at him, but he was nowhere in sight.

Then, I was just pissed off completely.

“Get the fuck out of here!”

With a bow of her head like she was bloody Gandhi, Janey Dominic turned to leave, sashaying all the way down the corridor like shehadn’tjust been given the cold shoulder.

I slammed the apartment door shut and flinched when it smacked into the frame. My foot throbbed, so did my head, and I pinched the bridge of my nose as I stood there taking a moment to myself. Presley appeared sometime after. I felt him before I saw him. When I looked up, all I could do was let my shoulders sag, and exhale.

“So, Janey Dominic is...?”

“A giant cactus-like pain in my arse.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means she’s a reporter—probably the most brutal in the business right now. A real bitch.”

“Of course, she is.”

“Cherry…”

“Don’t,” I said, holding up my hand. “I fucked it up. I know. I can’t lie for shit, and I got angry too quickly, which made me look guilty from the minute I opened the door.”

“No, it’s not that. You did good. Better than good. Even I almost believed you.”

I studied his face. “What aren’t you saying?”

His shoulders sagged, and his face looked defeated as he held my gaze. Then, just like that, he pointed to the sofa.

The one Janey Dominic had seen only moments before.

The one littered with empty Peroni bottles.

The very sofa that had Presley West’s famous leather jacket hanging over the back of it, resting there like it was the only place it belonged.

Chapter Twelve

“Where the hell are you?” the man yelled down the phone at Presley, who was currently holding it an inch away from his ear, his eyes closed. “We’re in the middle of a media shitstorm here, and you just take off like this doesn’t concern you!”

“Dicky,” Presley sighed quietly.

“Like this wasn’t your fault.”

“Dicky.”

“I mean, of all the rotten tricks to pull, I never expected this. You’ve been spiralling, sure, but this isn’t you, West. Have you forgotten why you started? Have you forgotten about the fans? The music?”

Presley sighed, offering no answers.

“I’ve got the record label on my arse every ten minutes demanding to see you. I’ve got the media ringing the office every minute—my assistants can’t keep up. Speculation is rife. Someone’s making out like you’ve quit the band. Rhett and the guys are going out of their minds.”

It went on and on and on. I sat on the chair opposite the couch, chewing my thumbnail and jiggling my leg as I watched Presley’s serene face take it all in.

I wished to live life as calmly as he did.

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