Page 36 of Dirty Rock

Julia and her quirky little blazers.

Julia and her sharp cheekbones.

Julia and those beautiful pools of perfect brown eyes.

Julia and that mouth that felt so good.

Julia and all the dirty, dirty things I could have done with her.

“Shit,” Tessa eventually whispered.

Goosebumps rose on the back of my neck, and the whole fucking mess of it all made me angry.

“You can go now, Tess,” I growled.

“You want Ju—”

“I saidgo!”

Tessa flinched, and I saw Presley turn instantly, his frown and protective glare aimed right at me from the other end of the plane.

Tessa looked at me like she pitied me, and it made my heart beat faster in my chest.

I hated pity.

“If you ever want to talk about it, Rhett, I’m willing to listen. I won’t tell a soul,” she whispered. “If anyone understands, I do.”

Before I could respond, she’d walked away and was in Presley’s arms, her head resting against his chest as he pulled her to him and glared at me over her shoulder.

I closed my eyes on all of them.

But when I did… I saw Julia again.

Maybe I should have scratched that itch, after all.

Chapter Eleven

When you’ve seen the bright lights of every city, flown over every piece of barren land, and visited places you hadn’t even known existed, everything about home feels incredibly small.

The world I’d grown up in was now too narrow. Too straight.

The streets I drove through to get back to my parents’ home were bleak, filled with dark brick, miserable concrete, and cloudy skies. I arrogantly felt too big for this place now.

As picturesque as Cookham could be, it wasn’t the stage. This wasn’t a tour bus or a private jet. It wasn’t London at its worst. It was the British countryside at its best.

I just had no idea if that’s where I belonged anymore.

My feet had barely crossed the threshold of my parents’ home when my mother threw her arms around me and squealed in my ear, “My baby!”

“Hey, Ma,” I pushed out, a small smile breaking free.

“Oh, you sound dreadful.” She pulled back, held my cheeks in her hands and studied my face. Patty Ryan, to me, was beautiful, with her already greying hair, her little gold-glasses, and her perfect complexion. She didn’t look her age. She sure as hell acted it, though, and I was about three seconds away from her giving me a full diagnosis, which would no doubt include exhaustion, malnutrition, and me being in need of a good…

“God, you need a haircut.”

There it was. She tugged at the ends of it, which were, admittedly, a little overgrown.

“And a shave.”

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