Page 107 of Crimson Desires

Either way, I scrambled out from behind the merch table and raced to the green room. I had to see Jack. I had to find out if he had truly paid my father’s medical bills—and if so, why. Why would he do something like that without telling me first? Why would he do something like that at all?

Questions swarmed my mind like locusts as I burst into the green room.

Wicked Crimson was nowhere to be found.

I cursed—remembering that Ava had pulled the guys away to do an emergency media hit with a local radio station.

I was about to leave the green room when I noticed Ava’s tablet on one of the tables. The screen had been lit up with a recent notification. Usually, I wouldn’t care to snoop through Ava’s messages.

But something about her tablet seemed to call to me.

I swiped up on the message. When I did, it opened an email chain between Ava and Jack’s father, James.

Ava: Hi, Mr. Maverick. Please catch me up on the discussion you had with Jack when you have a chance.

James: Gladly. Jack caught me up to speed on what happened between him and the guitarist from Killing Kiss. When we began to talk about the next steps that we could take in repairing his image, Jack mentioned that the girl he’s been seeing—Aster Jennings—has an ill father. I suggested paying Mr. Jennings’ medical bills. A bit of charity will throw a good light onto Jack’s image, and his relationship with a quote-on-quote “normal girl” will dispel the public’s perception of his elitism and privilege.

Ava: I see. And the logistics of that?

James: I’ve talked with my team. The charitable donation can be done quite simply. It’s just a matter of publicizing it properly. I assume you can create a media plan.

Ava: Yes, I can.

James: Terrific. In that case, let Jack know that I want to speak with him.

The email chain ended there.

For a moment, I just stared at it—frozen in shock.

Jack did pay my father’s medical bills. And he did it as charity. To make himself look better.

Humiliation seared my face. My vision blurred as hot, angry tears began to surface. I stood up, shaky-legged, and backed away from the tablet feeling as though I had just opened Pandora’s Box.

Emotions twisted my gut, strangling the life out of it.

I was grateful that my father’s bills had been paid. I was furious that they had been paid by Jack. I felt relieved that I no longer had to worry about how I’d make ends meet when I returned to Boston. I felt used—because I now had confirmation that I’d been right all along.

Jack never really wanted me. He just wanted good PR. Being seen with me, a lower-class nobody, made him seem like a better person. It made him seem kind. Caring.

And I’d fallen for it.

I felt so stupid.

I’d told myself dozens of times that this would happen. That love was inherently selfish, and that expecting it not to be would only break my heart. And yet, I’d stupidly fallen in love with Jack anyways. Despite all my rationality, Jack managed to trick me into believing that there was somebody out there who would love me for me.

He tricked me into believing that I was special.

When in all actuality, it had been my insignificance that he was after.

As I walked back to the merch table, my gait unsteady and my breathing ragged, I ran through my memories of Jack—trying to figure out what I’d missed. Where I’d gone wrong. How I’d been fooled.

But in every mental vision I conjured of him, the only things I could see were his ocean-blue eyes and his beautifully crooked smile. He’d told me that he loved me. He’d written a song about me. He’d held me in his arms. He’d made me feel safe.

And all of it—every last interaction—had been a big, fat, fucking lie.

I returned to the merch booth, collapsing on my chair. The thought of forcing a smile and hawking overpriced t-shirts to concertgoers for two more nights sounded like torture. And after everything that Jack had done, I never wanted to see his face again.

An idea formed in my head. An exit strategy.

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