Page 98 of Filthy Rock Stars

I laugh. His confidence makes the truth sink in, a little more real.

I’m in love with Shadow.

But the second I get my brain around that, reality clouds over everything again. The anger comes back, even stronger than before.

“Damn it.” I press my head to my friend’s shoulder. “I realize that I’m in love with him just in time to lose him. Typical.”

He gives me a hug. “Is losing him really a foregone conclusion?”

“I don’t know. How am I supposed to fight for him if he’s lying and avoiding me? I need to trust Shadow right now, but I can’t,” I admit.

Could I have been so wrong about him? I don’t want to believe that, but he does make my brain short-circuit.

I sigh. “Maybe it’s pathetic, but I’m not worried about a tabloid scandal or Adrian attacking me or anything. Even the legal rights to my music, I’m reasonably confident that they’re secured. All these risks are hanging over my head, and the only thing my miserable butt can think about is if Shadow really loves me. It makes my stomach hurt and my lungs tight, and as soon I start to miss him, I run smack into another wall of anger.” I groan. “I can’t even concentrate on reading a pulp novel without devolving into an emotional, needy mess.”

“Sounds like love to me,” Damian says.

“Yeah,” I admit with a deep sigh. “I just didn’t realize love could feel so sore.”

CHAPTERTHIRTY-ONE

SHADOW

Most years,I enjoy the Video Music Awards. The afterparties are killer, the vibe is chill, and there are usually a couple celebrity scandals to keep it entertaining.

This year, though, I’m fucking miserable.

It doesn’t help that I’m trapped right back where I started, like a trained dog at the label’s heel. Walking down the red carpet and posing for the press, no one would know that things have changed, but I feel humiliated.

I tried to leave, but I can’t.

A million times worse, I tried to do right by Nico, and I fucking failed.

What is wrong with me that I didn’t immediately tell him the truth? It’s what he would have done for me.

Cameras flash from every direction. I’m in the same old tux I’ve been wearing to every one of these things, still torn from a couple of rowdy celebrations after our first albums won all the major awards. I usually don’t give a shit about the attention, but this year, every shouted question makes me wince.

I paid off the photographer from New York, but that doesn’t mean the rumors have died. If some reporter yells a question at me about Nico, breaks the story open right here, Adrian and Elle might slaughter me in front of the cameras, murder on the red carpet.

Nico. Pain steals my breath as I think of him, my eyes searching the crowd of celebrities for the man I love.

I’m such a fuck-up. We still text constantly, call every night. But the talks are short, and there’s a chasm between us. We haven’t talked about anything serious, haven’t planned our future like usual.

We both know something changed. He’s mad at me. He has every reason to be.

“Shadow!”

Elle yanks me from my thoughts. We’re arriving backstage to check our instruments before our set later, and the place is packed.

I frown. “What?”

“You’re scowling,” Adrian says beside her.

“And your collar is strangling you,” I tell him.

He tugs at it. “Is not.”

“It’s literally pinching in your skin,” I squeeze my neck to demonstrate and turn to Cutter. “Right? You see it? His neck got too big.”

---