Kyrie

Separate Ways

" I s that what you think—that my life was handed to me on a silver platter?"

I blink back the tears, not wanting him to know how close to home his words really are. All my life, everything has been handed to me. What person in their right mind would offer a five-year-old a singing contract? Or have so many songs written about them? Someone who can call one of the greatest artists ever Aunt Stevie?

Me, that's who. I didn't ask for this life—it was thrust upon me before I was even out of the womb, and I'm not going to let some hack of an artist make me feel back for something I had no control over.

"For your information, Mr. I want to be a Rock Star. Yes, I call Stevie Nicks Aunt Stevie. And when my dad has his friends over for poker night, it's Brett Michaels, Jon Bon Jovi, Vince Neil, and Sebastian Bach, all of whom I call my uncles. Because to me, that's who they have always been, not the Rock Stars that everyone else knows them as."

"But, …"

"No, you don't get to talk." I interrupt, jabbing my finger into his chest. "All my life I've been made to think it was my fault I led such a charmed life. I thought you were different. I thought you cared for me, , not Pop Princess Presley and Rock God Bon Vince's daughter, but the real ." God, it feels good to finally get all of this off my chest. "Knowing that the only reason you wanted to be with me is so you could have leverage to get my dad's permission to re-record his song is worse than someone who takes their privileged life for granted—as unintentional as it was."

Walking to the door, I grip the handle, yank it open, and jerk my head in the universal sign to get out.

", if you'll just let me explain."

"I think you've done enough talking. It's time you leave." The door handle feels like ice as I cling to it, using it as a crutch to keep me from crumpling to the ground in a heap of loneliness.

All my life, I've been treated differently because of who my parents are or who they know—always feeling like a pawn. I thought Crue was different. But evidently, I was wrong.

To think I believed he actually had feelings for me. What a fool I was to think he cared enough about me to want me to start singing again after sharing my embarrassing tale with him.

My grip tightens on the door handle, and I raise my chin, fighting back the tears that want to burst free from my eyes in an attempt to show Crue how little he means to me. But my bravo is short-lived when I do the one thing I swore I would never do—beg him for something, "Please, leave me alone, Crue."

He takes a step closer to me, opening his mouth like he wants to say something and then closing it just as quickly. Before I know what's happening, one of his arms is around my waist, and one is behind my head, pulling me to him as his lips press against mine in a kiss that is over before it even begins.

He leans his forehead against mine, but I don't have the strength to push him away. "Goodbye, ."

And just like that, he's gone strolling through the parking lot like he's in no hurry while my heart breaks and shatters into a million little pieces.