Guilt suffused me. Was she even still proud of me?
I certainly looked the part, didn’t I? My rainbow hair was twisted up into two high buns above my ears and I wore my red velvet blazer with gold buttons over my favorite black Metric shirt. I’d paired them with a tight black satin miniskirt with fishnets and black Doc Martens. I wore three rings on each hand, my wrists jingled with bracelets, and my bold makeup was done to perfection.
Beneath my foundation were dark circles only weeks of uninterrupted sleep would get rid of.
I stared at my phone, knowing I should call my mom.
Last year when we finished our album tour in Billings, I’d lied to Mom and told her I needed to get away from the guys. I’d spent my six-week break in Paris instead of at home, bleeding money at a five-star hotel where I locked myself in a suite the entire time.
See: Woe-is-fucking-me with my room service and three million thread count Egyptian cotton sheets.
“Let me guess, you’re thinking about your mom and why you haven’t called her yet?”
I glanced up from my phone and stared at Micah in the mirror reflection. He stood in the doorway. When I didn’t reply, he shut the door and walked over. His hair was mussed, his cheeks flushed.
I knew that look.
Tensing with anger and disappointment I should really be beyond by now, I winced when he leaned down and wrapped an arm around me so he could nuzzle my neck. “You need to talk to your mom,” he murmured, pressing a sweet kiss behind my ear.
I glared at him in the mirror, stiff in his embrace. “You smell of pot and cheap perfume.”
Micah rested his chin on my shoulder. My strange eyes tangled with his gorgeous green ones. Green rimmed with red from the pot. Still, he was so beautiful. All golden skin, tall, lanky, lean muscular frame, and thick, dark blond hair he only had to run his fingers through to style. He was a pretty, bad-boy musician, and he had the whole act down pat.
“Groupie,” he muttered, his voice rumbling in my ear. He sounded sad.
How was it possible to hate someone I loved this much?
My eyes moved from his to take in the whole package we created together.
The two of us were a social media sensation: #Miclar
Because of Micah’s inability to not flirt with me anytime we got interviewed . . . or shit, anytime we were on the goddamned stage together, fans and the media jumped on our connection. They wanted us to become a couple, always disappointed when we turned up in tabloid photos with other people. A couple? Us?
I snorted at the idea.
We were a train wreck as a couple.
Depressing, really, since we loved each other.
Staring at him, I suddenly saw him five years ago as my seventeen-year-old best friend. We’d been friends since middle school, started a band when we were fourteen, and had been working our asses off to make the big time. It was all we talked about. All we ever wanted.
But at seventeen, beyond our dreams for the band, there were feelings of jealousy and hurt anytime the other dated someone else. Until Micah’s feelings exploded all over me one night and he told me he loved me. I cared too much to lie to him so I’d returned the sentiment. However, I’d also admitted that I was afraid a relationship would hurt the band. Micah agreed. We put the band first and it worked because we got a record deal three months later. Our first album came out eight months after that.
And the hurt and jealousy and resentment simmered all the while until one night three years ago, we slept together after a terrible shouting match in my hotel room in Berlin. Afterward I was freaked out, still not sure we weren’t a mistake as a couple, so worried that we’d blow our shot just as we’d started to see success. We argued and I told him we couldn’t be together. But the hell of it was that as soon as I walked away from him, I realized what a moronic thing it was to put a band before this person I loved.
So I’d gone to him to apologize, to give our relationship a real shot and . . . and I’d found him fucking a groupie in his hotel room.
He’d been punishing me with cheap flings ever since, and for a while, I’d punished him right back. It only made me miserable and lonely. Trying to find something real with someone else had proven difficult.
Until Max.
How could I still love Micah after that? I hated him but I was pretty sure I hated him because I still loved him too.
He kissed my cheek, a soft brush of his lips on a path to my mine. His arm tightened around me. “I love you so much,” he groaned as if in pain.
I jerked away, shoving his arm off me. “No, you don’t. The only person you love is yourself.”
Micah straightened, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “Not true.” Hurt blazed in his eyes.
That was the problem with my best frenemy. Sometimes he was vicious in an argument and other times he had the ability to make me feel like I’d kicked a puppy. I huffed in exasperation. “You just had sex with a groupie and then came in here to tell me you love me. Do you not see anything wrong with that?”
“One thing hasn’t got anything to do with the other. She was a faceless fuck. You’re the heartless bitch that torments my goddamned soul.”
And there he was. Vicious. I winced, looking away.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I don’t know why I said that.”
Because we were a mess. We were the kind of mess there was no fixing.
I pushed the dressing room stool back from the table and stood up, pulling the hem of my skirt down. “We’re on soon.”
“I’m sorry about Max,” he said. “I fucked up. I’ve tried to tell him the truth.”
Max was the lead singer of Talking Trees. We began dating eight months ago and I got his band on this tour with us. He was sweet and artistic and quiet. Being around him was soothing and safe and he had this ability to calm my mind to all the crazy stuff that came with fame. He was the kind of guy who I knew with certainty would never let the fame part compromise the art. I didn’t know if I’d been in love with him, but I was happier with him than I had been in a while.
Until Micah started his drama, filling Max’s head with insecurities about us. The final nail in the coffin was Micah kissing me and making out to Max that it was mutual. Even believing me, that I’d pushed Micah off, Max still broke up with me, sick and tired of the drama. And who could blame him?
So now I was stuck on tour with my ex-boyfriend because Micah was a giant man-child.
“It’s not about Max anymore.” I brushed past him, heading for the door when his next words drew me to a stop.
“You think I don’t see how sad you are, but I do. I know you better than anyone, Sky.”
I knew he knew . . . and that was why I really hated him. Angry tears flooded my eyes as I glanced back at him. “Do you even care?”
He sighed, expression regretful but resolute. “Honestly, I’m afraid of what it means for the band, so I try not to.”
My chest ached at his selfishness.
I turned to leave when my cell suddenly blared to life. Planning on ignoring it, I opened the door to leave when I was abruptly halted by two men in suits blocking the way.
They wore resigned expressions that made my stomach plummet. “Skylar Finch?” the tallest of the two said, flashing me his police badge. “I’m Detective Rawlings, this is Detective Brant. May we come in?”
Wondering what the hell had happened, I stumbled back, silently gesturing for them to come into the room. They frowned at the sight of Micah, who’d positioned himself protectively at my side.
“Perhaps we should speak alone, Miss Finch,” Detective Rawlings suggested softly.
The way they were looking at me . . . like they had news they weren’t looking forward to imparting.
“You can say what you have to in front of Micah.”
“Then . . . Miss Finch, I’m afraid we have some bad news . . .”
The detective spoke but in retrospect, I can’t remember his exact words, something about “your mother,” “stepfather,” “armed robbery,” “shot,” “too late.” “Gone.” “I’m sorry.” “Come with us.”
Perspective.
For some strange reason, it was the only thing I could think of in that moment.