Page 70 of You Rock My World
*smiley devil emoji*
Dorian
Don’t tell me you also have a red version of this because I can’t take it
Josie
Now I know what to buy for Halloween
I toss the phone onto the pillow beside me and stare at the ceiling.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow, I’ll be normal again.
Or something close enough to fake it.
* * *
The next day, I bury myself in rehearsals. Josie already checked the VMAs setting, so she doesn’t have a plausible reason to be here. And just as well. I don’t think I would’ve been able to function if she were.
I plow through soundchecks. Wardrobe fits. And production meetings.
I should stay focused. I try to be.
But my phone is never far away.
Josie texts between whatever she’s doing, keeping the conversation light, teasing, as we always are. But every time her name pops up, all I can think about is yesterday morning. The weight of her on top of me. How she moved against me.
That I could’ve kissed her right then if I’d let myself. She would’ve let me.
I roll a bottle of water between my palms to shove that thought into some deep, unreachable part of my mind. It doesn’t work.
By the time I get back to my place, my body is exhausted, but my brain is wide awake. I scroll through emails, skim a few VMAs-related articles, open the Notes app to add a last-minute idea for my acceptance speech in case I win, then delete it.
Then I call her.
Not because I have anything specific to say. Just because it’s become second nature, and I want to hear her voice before going to bed.
She picks up on the first ring. “I was about to sleep.”
I smirk. “Liar. You were waiting for me to call.”
She huffs out a laugh. “You have a high opinion of yourself, rockstar.”
“And yet, here you are, still singing along.”
She doesn’t argue.
We talk about the VMAs and how excited Josie is she’ll see the event live. I only got her a backstage pass. I could have gotten her a front-row ticket next to me. But we discussed the risks. The VMAs are a televised event, and we didn’t want to attract attention to her. Not yet.
“Are you sure you don’t mind being backstage?”
“No, I’d rather be where the free alcohol is,” she jokes, making light of a situation that we can’t change for now.
There’s a pause where neither of us speaks. The silence is not uncomfortable, but long enough for me to be aware of it. And in that moment of suspension, I want to tell her things I shouldn’t.
How much I feel for her. That what happened yesterday wasn’t just sexual tension—it was more. Something bigger that I’m struggling to contain. Instead, I only wish her goodnight and read to her until she falls asleep.
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