Page 47 of Filthy Rock Stars

“I get back to Seattle tonight,” he says. “I ditched the band in LA. Let me see you. Please. Just let me try to explain, okay?”

I’m not used to the need in his voice. It’s different than when he’s flirting with me, strung tight.

I hesitate. “I don’t know. I’m confused, Sol—” I catch myself. “Shadow. I feel like I don’t know you. Like I never knew you.”

“I’m not asking you to know me. I’m just asking you to let me apologize in person.”

I hear the band laugh outside the door, a reminder that even now, they’re still happy together, close in a way I truly admire.

“I love Kissing Dirt,” I tell him, strengthening my voice. “If I’m going to see you, you need to understand that. Mare, Case, and Star are amazing people, and I’m proud that I’m playing with the band. For you and your band to treat us like you have, it’s not right.”

“I agree,” he says quickly. “You’re a great fucking band, and we’re crud on a popsicle stick with tired chords.”

I laugh, but immediately collect myself again.

He’s probably just saying that. He’ll say whatever he thinks I want to hear. I can’t afford to let my guard down now and believe him.

He sighs. “Whatever you decide, I understand. But I’m sorry, okay? I’m not like the rest of my band, and I’m… I’m sorry.”

I end the call and sit back against the sink. Alone, everything finally catches up with me. I feel like I just found myself again, and now my life is crashing, falling apart.

I fight back anxiety, but when my breath catches in my throat, I break. I gasp, the stress of playing on live television, the shock of the ambush, the reality-distorting sight of Shadow standing there—all of it hits me at once.

I’m walking on a razor’s edge, and the world is spinning fast.

CHAPTERFIFTEEN

SHADOW

Back in Seattle,I check myself immediately into a hotel. Our stunt has summoned a tsunami of media attention, and I know my building will be surrounded.

Forbidden Destiny is making headlines, but unlike our glory days, we’re now the band everyone loves to argue about. Radio stations around the world are playing our singles against Kissing Dirt, social media is swamped with fans taking sides, and much to the label’s glee, our old albums are rocketing back to the top of the charts.

But I don’t give a shit about any of that. All I can think about is Nico.

I taste his name on my lips, his real name, savoring it. Learning that he’s a musician only makes me want him more. After watching the video of the talk show debacle and witnessing Nico at the keyboard, I’m desperate to hear more of his talent.

He’s not going to forgive me because why would he? But I’m praying to the rock gods that he at least shows up to the hotel.

He didn’t trust me on the phone. I could hear it in his voice. It makes me not trust myself, either, and I shouldn’t.

I hurt him. I hurt him because I was too scared to be honest about myself, too selfish to end this thing before he got tangled in the shitstorm of my life. And I hurt him by being cowardly, not standing up to the band like I should have, convincing myself the rivalry was just more of the same boring bullshit.

I ignore Elle’s phone calls and all the texts from Adrian. I let my phone die, and before I go to sleep, I use the burner to send the address of the hotel to Nico.

It’s not until the next night that I finally hear a knock. I’m lying on the bed in jeans and a T-shirt, an old Evanescence album on the stereo, comfort songs to match my mood while I’m beating myself up.

I throw back the last of my whiskey, kill the music, and open the door.

It’s him. Thank fucking god.

“Nico.”

He hesitates. He’s wearing a button-up white shirt, as usual, tucked into his trousers with a black belt.

I want to pull him into my arms, embrace him and smell him and stroke his face, but I’m not sure whether I’m allowed that anymore.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he says.

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