Page 52 of When the Stars Rise
When the song ends, we’re facing each other with her hands in mine and a smile on her face that is so bright it lights up the entire arena.
“Here comes the sun,” I say, my voice low as I pull her up and into my arms and hold her close.
“Well played,” she says, but she’s still smiling, and that’s all that matters to me.
Fuck what I said in Baltimore. I’ve never played it safe, and I’m not about to start now. Love is a gamble but I’m throwing all my chips on the table.
Win or lose, I am all in.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Noah
Levi: A love triangle, bro?Sweet
Gracie: No wonder you got a C in Geometry. It’s a square bird brain. There are 4 players, not 3
Me: There are no triangles or squares. Stop Googling us
Gracie: I NEVER Google you. People message me. You really think I want to see any of this???!!! It’s cringe and gross
Gracie: Did you really punch Asher? He’s SO *three flame emojis*
Levi: Now who’s cringey and gross?
Me: I didn’t punch anyone
Levi: Why the hell not?
With a shake of my head, I pocket my phone and scrub my hands over my face. I can’t stop thinking about that incident in London. Everything about it is so fucking wrong. I don’t even know if Hayley is aware of how many night terrors she’s had since I came on this tour with her.
After Asher’s album launch, she had another bad night. She didn’t wake up. She just lashed out in her sleep and shouted, “Stay away from me!”
And who could blame her?
Maybe it’s hypocritical of me to think this, considering how I make a living, but I’m not a fan of celebrity culture, and I have zero respect for the people who make their lives a living hell.
People need to get lives of their own and stop preying on celebrities.
Hayley chose music because she loves it and performing is her passion. But on what planet does that give total strangers the right to pry into her personal life and try to dig up every ounce of dirt?
I look up from my seat on the balcony when Hayley appears on the threshold in my faded blue T-shirt that skims the middle of her thighs. I love it when she wears my T-shirts. It’s been a while since she’s done it, and it feels like a sign.
Take me. I’m yours.
Her hair is damp from the shower, and I watch her twist it into a knot on top of her head before stepping onto the balcony.
I can see the outline of her nipples through the cotton, and now I’m wondering if that T-shirt isallshe’s wearing.
Before she can sit in the chair across from me, I grab her hand and yank her toward me.
She looks down at our joined hands and then raises an eyebrow in question.
“I saved you a seat.” Without giving her a chance to protest, I tug her into my lap and drape her legs over my thighs, wrapping an arm around her to keep her close.
“How thoughtful of you.” Her voice drips with sarcasm, but she makes no move to leave, so I’ll take that as a win.
I rest my hand on her hip as she leans into me, and her scent washes over me. I know it will linger on my clothes and skin long after she leaves my lap.
