Page 51 of Big Boss
“You know that this song is for you, right?” Her words feel hot against my skin, but I pull away from her.
I shake my head because I’m almost certain that my throat aches too much for me to be attempting actual speech right now.
And I can’t cry. Not here, in front of him and her and that meanie Jackson. People don’t get to see me cry anymore. That’s how I’ve survived all this time.
We were making history.
While I was making promises.
But maybe we weren’t meant to be
Heartbreak a possibility.
Heartbreak? What ever became of the guy who was famous for his songs about oral sex? He doesn’t seem like he would ever be playing an acoustic guitar solo on a ballroom stage, lamenting having someone rip his heart to shreds in a way that feels approximately one million times more intimate than that song he wrote about oral sex.
I swear, as soon as possible, I’m going to drag this woman next to me outside and fight her for doing this to him. How could she be so vicious to tear him down at his weakest point? Doesn’t she know how awful he feels about the way the press comes after him?
Even if Donovan Tate ends up ruining the entire rest of my life, he deserves happiness. All of the happiness available in the entire world, with someone who is going to see his real value.
My eyes slide over to the beauty next to me but she doesn’t seem to be anywhere near as affected by the music as I am. Is this what happens when you end up spending all of your time with something that you love? She’s watching Tate play this deeply personal song that feels like something between a confession and a prayer, but nothing about her face or body seems like she feels bad at all about what’s happening on the stage.
No, she’s actually smiling. She doesn’t exactly look happy, but she doesn’t look like someone who is weighted down by guilt after trampling across a sexy, billionaire rock star’s heart and dragging his name through the mud.
I really hate her now. She’s lucky that I’m dubious about my capability to murder her with a butter knife. Like, if there were a grapefruit spoon on this table, she’d be maimed already.
Under the table, she nudges her foot against mine. Then she does it again, harder. I shove back against her, and now we’re having an actual scuffle under the cover of the heavy tablecloth.
The woman next to me grips my wrist and pulls me close to her perfect face again. “You listen to me because I am never going to admit this ever again. I kissed Tate because I knew there were photographers around, and he was very definitely not into it at all.”
She shakes her head, perfect blonde hair shining. “Do you know what he did? He apologized to me. He told me there was someone else in his life, and he never meant for me to get the wrong idea.”
She smiles, but it’s cold. “But here’s the real crummy part. I didn’t have the wrong idea. I thought I could get some mileage out of his bad reputation and help get some new listeners for my upcoming album. But then he had to go and apologize because he was worried that somehow he was the bad guy in that situation. Him.”
Her eyes narrow at the remembered rejection. “So you better pay attention, because the type of man singing a song he wrote for you could very well be the best thing that ever happens to you. It sure as hell would be for me.”
I yank my wrist out of her grip and scowl at her, but I can’t exactly storm away from the table after that intense confession. Not while Tate is making his first public performance in over two decades.
She gestures with her head, pointing her chin at the stage where Tate is destroying me. I lean slightly away from her and redirect my attention to the song.
I didn’t believe in forever
Until I failed at forgetting you.
The music wraps around the potent declaration then slides off into silence. All around me, the tables of guests have risen to their feet and are cheering at a deafening volume.
Now’s the time, when everyone is preoccupied with Tate and his music. I slide out of my seat and stand, applauding like everyone else around me.
And then I back away from the table, still staring at Tate, who hasn’t even noticed that I’m here.
It’s too much for me to bear. I don’t think any human being is meant to live through this level of simultaneous public humiliation and heartbreak.
I make my way toward the side of the room then head toward the swinging doors to the kitchen.
Unfortunately, the wait staff start coming out in droves with plates of food and more alcohol. I don’t want to get in the way, so the only other way is back out the main entrance.
I press against the wall line, willing myself to stay invisible as I slide past tables of wealthy guests. I can’t bring myself to spend even another moment in this ballroom. It was definitely a mistake to come here, and I might never recover.
Finally I reach the back of the hall, and I try to size up the heavy doors to figure out which one will make the least amount of noise when I open it.
