There’s Wild, Then There’s You (The Wild Ones #3)(55)
Author: M. Leighton

I make a pass by the kitchen for some hot cocoa before I swipe three of my favorite heartbreaking romance movies from the closet. Might as well wallow in it while I have the chance. Most of the time, I have to hide what I’m feeling and put on a strong, happy face. But not tonight. Tonight, I can let it flow—the misery and the pain, the disillusionment and the grief.

I’m less than twenty minutes into movie number one and I’m already crying like a baby. Not because anything sad has happened yet, but because I know it will. I know it’s coming. And I feel the pain of it more than ever. Before Jet, I’d always sympathized with these characters in a detached, clinical sort of way. I had never felt such intense emotion, nor did I really want to. I saw it as something that made a person weak. And, sure enough, it does. Finally experiencing it feels like it’s killing me in slow degrees.

I’m sniffling and wiping streaks of mascara off my cheeks when the doorbell rings. I look around for my phone, finding it wedged between the cushions of my couch. The screen shows no missed calls or texts, which confuses more than reassures me. I hope nothing is wrong . . .

Without so much as checking my reflection, I rush to the door and fling it open.

To find Jet on the stoop.

My heart slams to a stop before it starts back up at runaway train speed.

A kaleidoscope of emotions melt and swirl and shift inside me. Pleasure at seeing him. Anger that it took him so long. Disgust over what he did to me. Humiliation that I let him.

Those are the biggest ones, but there are more. Smaller, underlying feelings. A desire for him that never ceases, and regret that things ended the way they did.

Once my inner turbulence settles down, I react. I start to slam the door right in his face, but Jet’s arm shoots out too fast, stopping me before I can physically shut him out.

“Wait! Violet, please. Just give me five minutes.”

“I gave you five minutes. I gave you more than that, and you wasted it.”

“I know I did, and I’m sorrier about that than you’ll ever know.”

His eyes, gorgeous and sparkling blue, are pleading with me. And for a second, I feel a softening. But I steel myself against it and push on the door again.

But, again, he stops me.

“You don’t owe me even five more seconds, but I’m hoping that what I did hasn’t affected the amazing, understanding person that you were before I came into your life. And that she will give me a few minutes.”

I reach deep for my anger, pulling it to the surface to wear like protective chain mail. It’s not as bulletproof as what it should be, though. I feel the chinks in it, the holes of uncertainty and the gaps of hope. Whether it’s that I wanted him to call so badly, or that I want to believe him so badly, whether it’s that I’ve been wallowing in misery for so long that the anger has taken a backseat to every other emotion, I don’t know. Whatever the reason, and against my better judgment, I open the door a little farther and lean against it, crossing my arms over my chest.

“Five minutes.”

“Thank you,” he says sincerely. Jet clears his throat, reaching into the pocket of his leather jacket for a small flash drive. “Before I forget, I want you to have this.”

I take the tiny rectangle from him. “What is it?”

“Some songs. Some new material I’ve been working on. Kick has even bought a few of them.”

I straighten. Despite my determination to hold on to anger and to keep a canyon of distance between us, I’m immediately interested. “What? They decided to buy them?”

Jet smiles, but it’s not as bright as it should be, considering that his dreams are coming true. “Yeah. I didn’t think they were going to.”

“Why? You’re very talented.”

His expression softens even more. “Thank you. But while we were in the shower on Sunday afternoon, Rand had called and left a message saying that they were going to pass. That’s why I was a little . . . distant on the ride back. I had hoped I wouldn’t have to play with the band anymore, that I’d finally be able to take my career in the direction that I want it to go, but . . .”

His words, his unwitting explanation, wash over me, run through me. An overwhelming sense of relief floods me, and I actually let out a deep breath, a breath that I think I’ve been holding all week.

I close my eyes against pleasure, pleasure that there was a rational explanation for the way he acted on the trip home, one that had nothing to do with me. But then, before I can take a step toward forgiving him, I remind myself that his actions that afternoon aren’t the only reason we are where we are tonight. In fact, now, they have nothing to do with it.

Jet being a deceitful, heartless bastard does.

“Someone must’ve called back then,” I say mildly, settling back against the door. “Good for you.”

“Yeah. I got the call from Paul on Monday morning. Rand had made the decision unilaterally. Evidently, he has a problem with me personally. But he was wrong, and they do want me. I spent most of the day in talks with them, and then they flew me out to California to sign the paperwork and go over all the particulars. It was so nuts, I really didn’t get back and settled in until Wednesday afternoon. I slept for a couple hours, met with my lawyer, and then had that gig Wednesday night. I didn’t want to call and tell you all of this until I knew it was concrete. By Wednesday night, I knew. That’s why it was my last night with the band. I’d made reservations at La Petite Maison that night. I was going to surprise you. I wanted to take you out so we could celebrate, and I could tell you everything.”

It feels like my heart is flopping around inside my chest like a fish out of water. He’s saying all the things that I wanted to hear, all the things that I needed to hear.

But that was before. Before I found out that I was part of a bet.

“That’s great, Jet. I’m really happy for you. Now if that’s all . . .” I say, curling my fingers around the cool doorknob.

“Will you at least listen to them?” he asks, nodding toward the flash drive in my hand.

With my eyes on his, I give his request genuine consideration before I answer. “Yes, I’ll listen.”

“Good. Because they’re all for you. I wrote every one of the songs on there for you. With you in mind. Since you came into my life.”

Jet might as well have handed me a knife and then asked me to drive it into my own chest. That’s how the songs will feel now—like finding the most amazing life and love in the world, and then watching it drift away. Destroyed. By Jet.