Badass In My Bed 3 (Badass #3) (2 page)

I deserve this—his hatred, his condemnation. If it’ll make him feel better, I suffer through his questions, his accusations, but the words burn into me, leaving me scarred.

“That douchebag with the ponytail at my concert. Him? Did you suck him off in his car after I got you off?” His lips twitch into a hard line. “Maybe you let him fuck you before he dropped you off at my hotel. Did you let him come inside you? Was I getting his sloppy seconds that night?”

I close my eyes against the way he’s trying to make what we did into something ugly and crass now that he knows I was engaged to another man while we did them. Letting him hate me hurts too much. I care too much and can’t take it. “Please, I’m sorry. This is already so hard for me. I can’t—”

“Hard for you? Right.” He scoffs. “Tell me something. Did you and I mean nothing?”

You and I mean everything.
Saying that will only make the situation worse. All I’m left with is the part of the truth I can share. I’ve said it already, can never say it enough, but he’ll never believe it. “I’m sorry, Dylan.”

He releases my arms and takes a step back. “Yeah. I am too. Congratufuckinglations. You two deserve each other.”

This time, I can’t look away from his back, getting smaller and smaller as he leaves. Dylan might not know it, but he takes a huge chunk of my heart with him. Not all of it though, because I can still feel the ragged edges of the piece he left behind, aching in my chest, every throb raw agony.

The door swishes shut, separating us through glass. He turns left and disappears from sight.

The elevator doors roll open and closed with an expensive sliding sound.

A phone rings at the front desk.

Safely hidden in my little alcove, my knees hit the lobby floor and tears flood my cheeks. My sobs are so deep they make no sound.

I’ve forgotten how to breathe.

Alex forces a fresh tissue into my clawed fingers after removing the soggy, used one without flinching. I’ve gone through a box and a half since she got here an hour ago and moved my breakdown from the couch to the bedroom where I can wallow in comfort and we can both stretch our legs.

“Thanks for coming,” I snivel, scrubbing at my bloodshot eyes.

“Shut up. This is what friends do,” she admonishes. Me? I’m the worst friend. I’ve kept so many secrets from her. Maybe Dylan was right—my good-girl persona just covers up all the bad things inside.

I can only imagine how terrible I look, last night’s elegant up-do sagging like a ruined soufflé, still wearing my fancy dress. My eyes feel swollen and dry from crying. Makeup disaster or not, they’re crimson and puffy, I’m sure of it. “Looks like I’m the one who should have taken the red eye.”

Alex smiles at my pathetic attempt at a joke. She stands, digs in my closet, and tosses a pair of sweats and a snuggly, chenille sweater at me. “Put these on. I’m going to go change.”

I undress slowly. Somehow my body is sore too, to match my insides. I notice two bruises on my knees—probably from when I fell in the lobby. No one saw me; I said no goodbyes. I had my breakdown and escaped outside where I caught a cab home.

So many secrets jangling together inside me seeking escape.

Just taking off my bra helps me feel a bit better, freer, and I shrug the soft sweater on, glad for the gentle texture against my skin, grateful Alex is here to help.

She reenters my room in a tank top and yoga pants and perches on the bed. “Comfy?”

I nod and slip under the covers.

“Good. Are you ready to tell me what the 911 was about?” As usual, she cuts through the bullshit right away.

I bite my lip. After the hotel, I’d found my way to a cab and called Alex. It took a few minutes—I was crying so hard she initially thought I was being murdered but eventually she made out that I was begging her to come—and she jumped on the next flight out to be with me without even knowing why, only that I needed her.

The time between then and her knocking on my door is a dark abyss filled with bitter tears and sending emails and texts, all unanswered. I glare at my silent phone, willing it to ring. It stays silent. Of course it does. No matter what I want to say, I can’t explain myself. I can’t fix this.

“It’s a long story, one I should have started telling you a long time ago. I’ll understand if you hate me.”

“Start talking, then. No matter what it is, I’m here and we’ll get through this. Even if I want to kill you afterward.” She takes my hand and squeezes. “Are you pregnant?”

I bark out a laugh. I’d be happy if my problem was that prosaic. My heart throbs, and I blow my nose. “No. It’s—I didn’t get the job with the symphony purely because of my playing.” I squeeze her hand back before letting go. “I know I should have told you.”

She frowns. “Did your dad meddle and use some contacts to get you in? Because even if he did that, if you weren’t incredibly talented on your own merit, it wouldn’t have mattered. You can’t let that make you doubt how good you are because—”

“No, he had nothing to do with it. I got the position because I agreed to marry the Maestro—the new director, Blaine.” I blow my nose again, wincing at the rub of tissue against the raw flesh, laughing when I look up at Alex. She’s been stunned silent. I’ve never seen her speechless before.

My laugh turns almost hysterical, but I force myself together. Somewhat.

“Your face looks about the same as mine felt when Blaine asked me during my audition. He was so casual about it, like I’d already agreed. He’s gay but wants the family man persona. He believes it will give him more power and flexibility with the symphony board.”

“That’s stupid. Almost as stupid as you agreeing to it!”

I shrug. “Not really. They’d been dragging their feet hiring a new director for ages, and Blaine thought his age was already a big strike against him. In that world, conservative is the norm. Families and legacies are all that counts. Appearances. Because of my family, and my education, my appearance, and of course, my skill, I was the perfect candidate to be Mrs. Sanderson.”

“He just came right out and asked you to marry him?” Alex’s voice is flat with disbelief. She’s taking this so much better than I would have if she’d been the one to accept a secret proposal and keep it from me.

I nod. “He let me audition, said I was good, but if I wanted to guarantee a position, he had a proposal for me. Of course, at first I thought it was a… you know… a sex thing. That I’d have to get on my knees and open wide for a place on the symphony.”

“Instead, he wanted to put a ring on it.” She looks horrified. I can’t blame her.

I smile weakly. “Unexpected, huh?”

“It’s bullshit, Rachel. It’s extortion, or blackmail, or…something I can’t remember the name for right now. It’s just wrong!” She’s mad at him, not me. That isn’t right. I did this, and I kept it from her.

“I made the choice freely, and it really does make sense.”

Alex shifts her legs into a cross-legged position and faces me head on. “No, and I don’t know why you felt like you had to trap yourself like that. I can’t imagine anyone more driven to succeed than you. You’re talented and would have gotten a seat sometime on your own merit, even if it was with another symphony. This decision feels nothing like you. It’s so impulsive, so final. If you’d have called me—”

“
Someday
wasn’t good enough for me. I couldn’t stand being a disgrace any longer.” I don’t answer the part about the phone call, because she’s right. I’m such a bad friend. A terrible person. A horrible excuse of a—

“A disgrace? The only person who thinks that way is your asshole father. You have nothing to prove to him.”

I shred the edges of a tissue with my fingertips. “He’s finally proud of me. He sent me an email last night. One of his Floridian golf buddies was at the event. His wife is a patron.”

My phone had dinged with an email alert, and I’d jumped, heart lifting, hoping it was Dylan, irrationally furious when it was a glowing email from Father instead.

“She sponsors a chair already that’s potentially worth hundreds of thousands of dollars. She wants to sponsor
my
chair too, and I don’t even remember her! I just walked around schmoozing patrons and hoping for the best. He’s finally said he’s proud of me. You should have seen the email, Alex. I can show you.” I fumble with my phone, suddenly desperate to prove to her—to myself—that all this was worth it.

“That’s not a reason to marry someone, and no, I don’t want to see the email. He should be proud of who you
are
, not who he wants you to be.”

I’ve heard her say this a hundred times, but today it feels more poignant. Because this time, I’ve known what it is to be loved for who I am.

“It’s what I want to do.” Even to myself, I’m unconvincing.

She cocks an eyebrow. “Is it?”

I can’t answer, because it isn’t. Not anymore.

“That’s what I thought. Rachel, you’ve got to get out of this; it’s insane. You’re worth more than a fake marriage. You’re more than a goddamned beard.”

I pull the pins out of my now sloppy bun, relishing the tiny tugs that skitter across my scalp when they snag on locks of hair, stalling for time. Through her eyes, this
does
look insane.

“Maybe, but I already said yes. After he announced our engagement, the board made a little announcement of their own. He’s been named Director now, which validates that he was right.”

“It was a fucking coincidence. It isn’t like they’d just had a meeting in the bathroom. The decision had been made before you. You need to get out of this. It’s not too late to change your mind.”

“I signed a contract.”

She bites her lip and smacks the bed but I think from frustration, not anger. “I can’t believe you never told me about this.”

There’s the reaction I was waiting for.

“I wanted to a hundred times, but the contract sort of forbade that as well. A non-disclosure clause. I could get sued for telling you this.”

She shakes her head. “I can’t believe you. I’m sure that kind of contract can’t be held up in a court of law. He doesn’t own you, no matter what you signed. I didn’t even know arranged marriages
happen
in this country. There’s got to be a way out of it.”

“Even if I wanted to, then what? What would my future be? Moving again, spending every penny of savings I have running around the country auditioning for chairs, hoping for the best until I find a situation that would never be as good as this—marriage notwithstanding. I’d be giving up so much.” My head rings. I already gave up the best thing, when I let Dylan walk away over a
contractual obligation
.

I deserve my misery. I chose my bed. Now I have to lie in it, even if it means crying into my pillow every night.

Trying to hold back tears, I swallow hard. “If I broke the contract now, the embarrassment would be crippling to my family socially. Maybe it won’t be so bad. The contract is only for five years. I’ll still be young when this finishes.”

“Five years? That’s not a small chunk of your life to give away. What the hell is in this for him if it’s not about sex? And don’t say it’s about his image. He’s in the arts; he can’t care that people think he’s gay. Being married isn’t going to change what everyone can see about him the second they meet him. It was the first thing I said when you showed me his picture in Bostonian Magazine, remember?”

I slide down and pull the covers up to my chin. “It’s not just about the image. You’re right.”

I can literally see the second the light goes off for Alex. Her nostrils flare, and her eyes widen dramatically. “Oh, no. You didn’t agree to… You’re going to have a baby for the man?”

The look on my face must say it all. A fake marriage is one thing. A real baby is another. It’s the one thing that makes me spend most of my time not thinking about it.

Alex sits ramrod straight, cheeks darkening. “How the fuck is that supposed to happen? I mean, you’re a gorgeous woman, but if he’s gay, how does sex even work?”

“Artificial insemination.” It’s the first time I’ve said the words out loud. They’re alien and don’t sit well with me. At all. “I don’t have to sleep with him.”

Or, more likely, it’s the other way around.

Alex’s expression softens as she puts something else together. “This meltdown isn’t about Blaine or his baby. What’s his name, sweetie?”

“Dylan St. John.” The four syllables take a herculean effort to get past my tongue. My dirty, badass little secret.

“Dylan…” Her jaw drops. “The rock star?”

I nod. My heart wobbles, and I lean in, laying my head on her lap, fresh sobs overtaking me again. If I’d been able to articulate things better, if I just said he—we—meant everything to me… but it is for the best he left. Really it is.

How long is it going to take for my heart to buy that?

Alex makes soothing noises, stroking my hair and shoulder until I can breathe again, handing me a new tissue when my sniffles get really bad. She pulls an errant pin from my hair and sets it on the nightstand. “Where the hell did you meet a rocker like him? He’s next level famous, and you don’t exactly run in the same circles. Is he into classical music? You are so full of secrets, my little dark horse.”

The admiration in her voice sends a little zing of pride through me. I can’t believe she isn’t furious. “Remember that guy at the bar in Chicago?”

“That was…” Her hand stills before she flicks my ear. “Oh my God, yes! This is fabulous.”

“No, it isn’t.” I sit up. “It changes nothing.”

“You can ride off into the sunset with your rock star. He’ll keep you safe from the evil Blaine and his evil plans and fuck you senseless while serenading you.”

I close my eyes, imagining Dylan sweeping me away, taking me to his mansion in the Hills. He said he had a pool. We could make love by his pool, in it. No one would bother us. We could be ourselves and relax. The sun would shine down on our private little world where there were no expectations or regrets.

We could make music together too, like we did that day before our bodies crashed into each other, caught up in the magic we created, a link so irresistible it was nearly tangible in the air.

But even if he’d felt something for me that was more than a spark of chemistry—more than what he’s found with anyone else—I thoroughly doused it last night. He still hasn’t returned my calls. Or texts. Or emails. “I’m not breaking the contract.”

She frowns. “Why can’t you have both? He’s not going to want a relationship either. Musicians are total manwhores. Everyone knows that. You can see him secretly, have amazing sex, and be married to Blaine, keeping the contract intact. Win-win. Except for the kid, but maybe you can renegotiate that, because it can’t be binding.” Alex scowls at my head shaking. “If you refuse to get the fuck out of the agreement, why can’t you still have an affair with Dylan? He was good in bed, right?”

A thousand sexy memories claim my body and stab me in the heart at once. “I can’t even begin to form words about the things we’ve done together. That man switched off every inhibition I had.”