Tryst

It’s been 9 months, 3 weeks, and 5 days since I saw her last.

9 months, 3 weeks, and 5 days since I hit rock bottom.

The police and press labeled it an accident—an unintended devastating tragedy—but I know the truth. Shit, pretty hard to ignore when it’s all I can fucking think about when I’m not on stage or in rehearsals.

I’ve worn the guilt every day since, cloaked in shame and anger and pain. I fucked up . . . fucked up so bad that I ended up almost killing her. And while I’m still learning how to forgive myself for that day, I’m not ever sure I can forgive myself for falling in love with her. Sordid shit aside, I love Heidi—loved Heidi. And that was my biggest mistake of all.

So here I am, nursing a beer in a damn near deserted hotel bar in the most romantic city in the world. The band just killed it at one of our most incredible venues to date, and while they’re all out wreaking havoc on the streets of Paris, I’m pathetically alone, licking old, scabbed-over wounds. For one, it’s better for my recovery, and healthier for me both physically and mentally.

See, the booze and the drugs weren’t my issue. I don’t even know if sex was either. It’s just . . . me. I have what people would say is an addictive personality. I chase highs of all varieties. I drank because it masked my pain and got me outta my head. I drugged because it made me forget the bad shit and elevated my state of mind to another plane. And I fucked because, plain and simple, it felt fucking good. Sex was my biggest issue, by far. So much so, that it was threatening the future of the band. Let’s be honest, pussy is easy to come by when you’re an international rock star. But the more I indulged, the more I wanted. And the more I had, the emptier I felt. So I tried to bury it with more, desperately searching to fill that fucking canyon inside me. When it started affecting the music, I tried to self-medicate. And when that didn’t help, I was instructed to seek “professional” help. For a minute, I thought that shit was even helping.

Until Heidi.

Heidi was an addiction all on her own. Fu

Loving her wasn’t part of the plan. Shit, neither was losing her. But I knew that if I didn’t let her go cold turkey, neither one of us would recover.

So here I am. Exactly where I was before. Hollow. Hurting. But this time, I’m surviving. I owe it to the guys too. I owe it to myself. And I owe it to Heidi. If she could overcome the horror of that day, I could learn to control my dick.

The television over the bar is broadcasting some news cha

“No wonder they all hate us,” she mutters without so much as a hint of a European accent before sipping her wine. The shock must be written all over my face because she casts a quick glance in my direction and apologizes.

“No, it’s cool, it’s just . . . you’re American,” I reply with a little too much awe in my voice. Hell, she even has the nerve to have a little southern twang.

“I am. As are you.” She smiles, shaking her head. “Of course they see just a tiny glimpse into our culture and think we’re all like that. I just wish that glimpse had nothing to do with sex tapes or selfies or publicity stunts.”

I simply smile back and nod, merely grateful for a little taste of home.

“After the year I just had, I’m pretty much done with all things attention-seeking,” she continues. “Again, sorry. I’m just rambling now. Please, let me buy you another beer for disrupting your evening. It’s just nice to be able to speak English without feeling like an ignorant moron.”

“Not necessary,” I assure her. “I know how you feel. It’s been months since I was on U.S. soil.”

“Months? Extended vacation?”

I shrug, not really knowing what to say. Of course, I have an alias with a whole backstory when I want anonymity, but I don’t get the vibe that this girl is a crazy. For one, she’s alone in an empty bar like me, watching news she can’t understand. Plus she’s dressed modestly in something a Sunday school teacher would wear.

“I’m a musician,” I offer. “We’re on tour.”

“Oh, that’s interesting. What do you play?” she asks, seeming genuinely interested without coming off as overly eager. She doesn’t know who I am, which honestly is pretty fucking great. In her eyes, that I now see are a glimmering emerald green, I’m not some self-destructive rocker.

“Just about everything. And I sing lead.”

She nods appreciatively, and smiles, those green eyes sparkling with admiration. “Wow. That’s exciting. Anything I may have heard? You’ll have to forgive me . . . I’m not really up-to-date on current musicians. Honestly, my last rock and roll purchase was Soundgarden in high school, and the reverend, aka my father, was furious about it.”

I stifle a laugh, because she’s sorta fucking adorable. I find her cluelessness endearing . . . refreshing even. I’m surrounded with people that only really put up with my bullshit because they think my name means something or they want to carry out some stupid rock star fantasy. And to be in the presence of someone that could give a fuck less about any of that, yet wants to talk to me anyway, almost makes me feel . . . I don’t know . . . normal? Like an actual fucking person for a change, instead of an icon or a conquest to brag to her girlfriends about.

She blushes scarlet and shakes her head before shielding her face with her hands. “Oh God, I must sound pathetic, huh? And I’ve offended you. Forgive me. Please . . . just ignore me. I promise to shut up now.”

I don’t know what prompts me to abandon my bar stool in exchange for one closer to hers, but I do. And soon I’m smiling at her . . . like seriously fucking smiling with teeth and shit.

“You’re not pathetic, and you didn’t offend me. Not at all.”

When she lifts her face from her palms, those bright green eyes widen with shock at my proximity. Shit. I didn’t mean to scare her, but it felt stupid to keep hollering across the bar.

“I didn’t?” she asks, her voice timid.

“No. Not at all. I know what it’s like to grow up in a deeply religious family. Preacher’s kid here too. Baptist.” I nod.

“Yikes.” She grins, loosening up a bit. “So you know all about the evils of secular music. Apparently, the devil was a guitar player.”

“Really? I thought he was a drummer.”

We share an easy laugh. The kinda laugh that you have when you’re genuinely having a good time. When Green-eyes lifts her champagne flute to her rose-painted lips and polishes off the bubbly, I offer to buy her another.

“I shouldn’t. That’s probably enough celebrating for me.”

“Celebrating?” I look around the empty bar, wondering if I missed something.

She nods, mindlessly tracing the lip of the glass with a blush-painted fingertip. “As of this afternoon, my divorce is final. I never thought I’d have the guts to do it. My ex-husband . . . his family . . . they’ve got money and clout and power. And I endured a lot just to live in that shadow. But not anymore. Not ever again. So in the spirit of independence, I decided to hop on a plane to Paris by myself. Which honestly . . . ?”

“Yeah?” I urge, captivated by every word that falls from her lips. They’re fuller than I expected. Shit, her mouth is almost X-rated.