21

To say I wake up the following morning would imply that I slept.

I didn't.

Connor spent five agonizing minutes outside my door, and it took every bit of my self-control not to break my resolve and invite him in. Instead, I sat on the floor, fixated on the ebb and flow of his shadows under the door as he talked to me in hushed, too-gentle tones.

With a tired sigh, I climb into the shower and let my head thud against the side as water sluices over my body.

My throat threatens to close, and I slap the wall in frustration, droplets spraying from under my palm. I stare at the floor, counting the holes in the drain, and the tiles, until it releases me from its grip, and I can force a shaky inhale.

How am I supposed to do this?

How am I supposed to exist when he's here… actually here, flesh and bones and muscle and goddamned dimples. No longer a figment of my imagination, but a tangible reality? I push the heel of my hands against my temples and shake my head, then force myself to go through the motions.

Shampoo and conditioner.

Body wash.

Razor.

Towel.

Toothbrush.

I go through the steps like I've trained myself to do, ticking them off the checklist inside my head. As I'm pulling on a t-shirt, there's a quiet knock at my door.

I tiptoe to the peephole and peek through, catching Connor's broad back as he makes his way into his room. Once his door is closed and a solid minute goes by, I crack the door. A cold brew and brown paper bag wait on the ground, and despite my petty desire to ignore them, curiosity wins.

Two donuts are inside the bag, and a spark of anger rages into a wildfire in mere seconds.

Paper crunches in my fist as I storm over to his door, pounding on the wood. His expression is wary as he answers, and he swallows nervously before he shifts his gaze to the bag and cup in my hand.

"What the fuck is this?" I demand, and his eyes fly back to mine. He opens his mouth, hesitates, then shuts it, and my anger is doused in another wave of accelerant. "Cat got your fucking tongue, Jugs ?"

"That is not who I am to you." He takes a step forward into my space.

"You're right… you aren't anything to me," I retort, and I hate the hurt that flashes through his eyes. It cuts all the way to my bones, and it only pisses me off more. "Do you think you can come over here, after everything you did to me, and expect me to forgive you because you remembered what I like for breakfast? What, do you… do you think I'm so fucking easy that I'll jump back into your bed? That I'll forget ?!"

"Of course not," he argues. "That's not my intention."

"Then what is your intention, Connor? What are you playing at?" He takes another half step forward, and I curse my body as it betrays me. My heart roars inside my chest, tears threaten to spill from my eyes, and a tightness grips my throat as I meet his gaze, refusing to look away.

"I don't want you to forget… I want you to remember ," he whispers.

"Remember what?" I spit the words at him, blinking as I fight the tears trying to fall.

"What we had," he whispers, quieter still, and my chin quivers as a rogue tear finally breaks free. His mouth drops open with a noise that's somewhere between a whimper and a soft sob as he reaches for me, brushing it away. "Oh, sweetheart…"

"No," I snarl, jerking back, and he gasps as I hurl the cup at him. Coffee drips off his hair and down his cheeks, soaking his shirt and creating streams that flow onto the carpet, and his eyes are wide as he gapes at me. "What we had is over."

His face twists in frustration, but there's hurt there, too. "If you would stop and give me a chance to explain…"

"There is nothing to explain!" I shout, not caring who hears. "You're a bigger fucking idiot than I thought if you believe I could ever forget any of it. I wish I could forget. I wish it didn't run through my mind on goddamned repeat day after day." Moving closer, I fling the bag of donuts at him to drive my point home. "I wish I'd never fucking met you."

The pain on his face is almost enough to make me double over. "You don't mean that."

"Well then, we're even, because you never meant a word you said to me, either."

"Oh, bullshit!" he roars, finally losing a grip on his temper. He closes his eyes and shoves his hand through his hair, shaking his head, and a mean smirk pulls onto my lips as a fresh wave of coffee rolls down his forehead. "We both know that isn't true."

"Do we, Connor? Do we know that? Because from where I'm standing, I don't know a damn thing other than you lied… and then you fucking left."

"I did," he whispers, deflating. "I fucked up, Tai. But don't think for one second I haven't regretted it every day since." He steps closer, and I jut my chin up to face him head on. "We can't walk away from each other again, sweetheart."

"Watch me." I turn to storm into my room, ignoring how he calls for me as I slam the door and slide the bolt into place. I'm uncertain if it's an extra safeguard to keep him out or another useless way to keep me inside.

The crowd in D.C. is wild as we count down the minutes until we go out on stage. Eric's spidey senses have kicked in, picking up on my spike in stress. He won't leave my side, hovering over my shoulder so close that he's almost breathing on my neck. Normally, it would annoy me, and I'd give him a piece of my mind, but tonight I'm thankful because it's keeping Connor at a distance.

He's fucking immaculate, wearing jeans that hug his thighs and a dark t-shirt that highlights his bulging muscles. Longer than it was at the resort, his stubble has grown from a shadow to a scruffy growth. It doesn't look intentional, more like he forgot to shave for a few days, and it grew a mind of its own.

Somehow, the man does nothing and looks delicious. Un-fucking-fair.

I kick the wall out of spite, swearing when my big toe protests.

"You ready to be on a plane for twelve hours tomorrow?" Eric asks, and I shake my head.

"I hate flying, and you know that, so no, I'm not excited about an entire day in the air. Stop asking stupid questions." His smile doesn't fade, and my annoyance flares.

"Some of the security guys are pretty hot, aren't they?"

"I didn't notice." My fists clench, my fingernails digging into my skin.

Eric slings his arm around me and guides me to face Connor and Aaron, who are deep in conversation a few yards away. "You didn't notice? Really? A blind man would notice the muscles they are packing."

"Don't you have a husband to bother?" I snap, and he chuckles, which irritates me further.

"Dante's been boxing with those guys for years. I always kind of assumed he was bluffing when he said he could kick my ass, but with Jugs as a trainer… well, that guy could pick me up and mop the floor with my hair and never break a sweat."

I grunt, and I can sense his snarky smile without even looking. "My gaydar is pinging on Aaron. Have you picked up on the way he looks at Jugs?"

"What?" I snap, twisting my head to stare at Connor and Aaron huddled together. They're at a respectable distance and Connor's arms are crossed, but his head is tilted towards Aaron, nodding at whatever is being said to him. Connor responds and Aaron throws his head back in a laugh.

Jealousy thrashes inside my chest at their proximity.

Laugh it up, buddy.

He's not that fucking funny.

"I can't get a read on Jugs," Eric says, "but he'd definitely top."

My mouth stays shut, remembering how he begged me to fuck him. The needy way he took me, bent over that bathroom counter until he came in his suit pants.

Top, my ass.

He's the neediest bottom in existence, and fuck, I miss how he looked at me like I hung the damn moon.

His eyes suddenly swivel to mine, and I curse under my breath as I turn the other direction. "Shouldn't you be worrying about the show?" I finally say to Eric, closing my eyes and listening to the roar of the crowd.

"Eh, what's there to worry about? We've rehearsed this set so much that we could play it half-asleep and blindfolded."

"Yeah, well, maybe I want to be left alone," I snap, but there's an immediate pang of guilt.

His hand lands on my shoulder and squeezes. "I know you do, brother, but I also know that you need me right now. Whenever you're ready to share what's happening, remember that I'm here."

"I told you what happened," I argue.

"But in the past few days, there's been a change, and the only difference is the addition of a few muscle-bound men on our team."

I say nothing.

Thankfully, Dante comes over for a last-minute check, and then it's time to go on stage. The roar crests into a tidal wave of sound as we walk into the spotlights. Eric takes charge, leading the group with his hands held high, pumping up the crowd as the rest of us fall into formation. Dmitri counts us in, and music blasts through the amplifiers, so loud that it demands to take over, and I willingly submit to its rule.

It vanquishes the quiet, and I can breathe again.

I don't think, don't remember.

I just play.

Every time I open my eyes, hazel ones watch me from the side stage, not even attempting to filter his thoughts as he stares. But right now, with the music in my blood and the lights searing on my face, I can pretend.

That I'm not broken.

That everything is okay.

That one day, I'll wake up and move on.

Pretend, pretend, pretend.