Oh, man. I really shouldn’t have, but I climbed into the SUV, sliding across the black leather seat to the far side. The interior was pristine with that new-car smell. In days gone by, he’d borrowed my crappy old hatchback to get places. Wedging guitar cases and amps into the small vehicle with amazing skill. Now this. How far the boy had come.
The large handsome dark-skinned man sitting in the driver’s seat gave me a smile in the rearview mirror. “Miss.”
“Hello.” My smile wobbled, the most likely cause being my lack of confidence. Which was crazy. Adam Dillon had never intimidated me a day in his life. As beautiful and talented as he might be, it was hard to be unsettled by someone who constantly forgot to put the toilet seat down. It had to be this situation—the concert, the limousine, the security. I’d be fine in a minute. Give me a chance to catch my breath and I’d be…
And there he was, a towel perched hoodlike on his head, and a bottle of Gatorade attached to his lips. One bodyguard in front, and another bringing up the rear. Martha marched beside him, her mouth moving with what I assumed was an endless stream of information. Occasionally, Adam nodded in reply. He wore sneakers, jeans, and a tee. The shirt was bathed in sweat, clinging to his skin. Guess it got hot under those spotlights. And he had more room to strut around than on the tiny stages at the little gigs he’d done when he was with me.
But that wasn’t all. While he’d looked like a quintessential rock god on the stage, as he drew nearer, I could see that his face was pale, and there were bruises beneath his eyes. To put it mildly, he looked like shit. And yet, all I could do was stare.
It was probably just the shock of seeing him again after so long. I mean, I’d seen him. Hell. I could hardly avoid him on billboards and the internet and all the rest. Sometimes with beautiful women draped over him, and sometimes without. Wasn’t that just fucking delightful? But experiencing him again in the flesh seemed like something else entirely. Something I apparently hadn’t been quite as prepared for as I’d hoped.
A woman dashed up behind the group, waving a piece of paper and a pen. And she was gorgeous, dammit. A statuesque redhead with ample cleavage spilling out of her barely tied-on top. She shrieked Adam’s name in what I guessed to be some sort of groupie come hither mating call. Glass would have shattered at the high pitch she managed, though Adam didn’t even flinch. Didn’t even acknowledge her existence. The rear security dude stopped her progress, and that was that.
Where were these hordes of fans a short year ago when he was playing to half-empty clubs and selling CDs from the trunk of my car? He was the same guy playing the same music back then. Better music, actually. More honest. Less me-being-a-bitch-centric, which I was bound to appreciate.
“To the club, Mac,” said Adam, climbing into the vehicle, obviously not having seen me. There he was, rock ‘n’ roll’s newest darling and my ex-boyfriend.
Martha all but growled. “Straight home, Mac. I mean it!”
“You’re not my real mother,” grumbled the rock star.
“I’m not your mother at all, you idiot. Now enough with the partying. Go home and get some rest, Adam. Or else.” She turned to go, then paused. “By the way, there’s a problem with the parking level access gates at the apartment building so you’ll need to go through the front door.”
Mac just nodded.
“And there’s one other potential issue on the horizon tonight,” Martha continued. “But for that one, you’re on your own. Enjoy.”
Adam opened his mouth to say something, but then he followed her pointed gaze and spied me hiding in the corner. He stopped cold. The man totally froze. Bambi in headlights had nothing on him. His brows rose, and his eyes went as wide as the moon. “Jill?”
“Hi.” My one-syllable greeting seemed a bit of an underwhelming start to our so-we-meet-again-my-nemesis moment. “Hey,” I added.
Notice my amazing conversational skills at play. To think I rehearsed this meeting multiple times in the mirror.
“What the fuck?” He turned back to Martha, who helpfully shut the door in his face with a sly sort of smile. You’d almost think she was enjoying herself. Bon the bodyguard climbed into the front passenger seat, and we were moving.
“Seatbelts, please,” said Mac.
Both Adam and I did as told while giving each other wary looks. Now I’d known it would be difficult to get near him. He had a posse of people around him these days for protection and other purposes. And I’d known it would be awkward as all hell to talk to him again after all this time. However, I’d had no idea it would be this bad. My heart stuttered, and my brain stalled. I’d thought I was over him. I mean, I was. I definitely completely had to be. Yet even reeking of sweat and clearly exhausted, he continued to play havoc with my hormones.
This was awful. A terrible mistake. I should have just texted him maybe. Or taken the money and never gone near him again. Much safer for my heart and soul.
“It’s really you,” he said, a line forming between his brows. About as much as he committed to being curious about anything outside of music. One small line. “What are you doing here?”
“You sent me that check,” I said, tone terse.
“Yeah?”
“Well, it’s a bit excessive, don’t you think?”
He just shrugged, pushing back the towel half covering his face. “Figured you helped support me while I was coming up. Plus, you were sort of the inspiration for some of the songs, so…”
“Sort of?” I just blinked. “Which ones?”
“What?” He blinked back at me. There was always something boyish in his gaze that got to me. Something pure, almost. He loved what he loved, and as far as he was concerned, it just was that straightforward and simple. Not that any of that mattered anymore. Right now, he just seemed tired and confused.
“Which songs was I sort of the inspiration for?” I asked, pushing onward.
He took a long pull on the bottle of Gatorade. “You know.”
“No, I don’t, actually. Though I’d very much like to.”
Nothing from him.
“I’m a little perplexed, Adam. You see, I thought you’d written the whole damn album about how abhorrent I was. All about what an utter backstabbing, Satan-worshipping hussy I turned out to be. I mean, you basically told the entire world I was the worst of the worst. But apparently, it was only some of the songs. What a relief. Phew.” I blew out a breath. “So, which ones?”
“Jill—”
“How about Hard Little Heart? Did I inspire that one?”
“Um.”
I tapped a finger against my lips. “‘She’s solid rotten to the core, guaranteed to make your heart sore.’ Those are the lyrics, right?”
“Yeah, but—”
“And Devil in the Woman?”
“I kind of take inspiration from everywhere,” he blurted out, sounding all sorts of soundbite and desperate. The idiot.
I cocked my head. “That’s strange. I could have sworn in that interview for Music Monthly that you’d only ever been in one serious relationship in your life, and it was the basis for almost all of your recent music.”
“You’ve been following me online?”