It seems it’s going to take a lot more work than I’d expected to convince her to share her painful memories of the past so we can move ahead with our future.
Until we head to Grandma Caroline’s, I’d only seen Belle in outfits made to rock out. In black skinny jeans, her black Chucks, a gray sweater that falls off one shoulder, makeup and hair left as natural as I’ve ever seen, she’s mouth-watering gorgeous. With my hand slung over the seat behind her, I not so absentmindedly play with her long waves on the long ride. She’s been distant since our little quarrel, so I decide to steer away from any subject that will cause more tension.
“Tell me more about your band,” I say, twisting a soft dark lock between my fingers. “Have you sent any demos out?”
Shrugging, she relaxes a little as if relieved by the sound of my voice. “We sent out a few last year, but Chaz and I don’t exactly have the same vision. He’s content playing the local scene.”
“What’s his day job?”
“He runs a tattoo parlor in Midtown. He makes a killing raising the prices for tourists willing to pay whatever to say they got inked in New York.”
My eyes draw down to the intricate designs on her arms, peeking out from her shirt. “He does your ink?”
I’m relieved when she turns to me with a little smirk. Anything’s better than the cold distance she’s been putting between us since our conversation about my father. “Why, you jealous?”
Shrugging, I lift my chin. “Should I be?” How can I not be jealous of any fucker who got to spend time with my girl? What if he’s the one who brought out her wild side?
“I told you I don’t want him that way.” Then her brown eyes darken. “What about you? You haven’t mentioned any ex-girlfriends. You can’t expect me to believe you’ve been single all this time. I saw you with Brooke.”
Glowering, I remove my arm from behind her to wrap my fingers in my own hair. “Shit, Belle. What do you want to hear? Do you want to know that I slept my way through countless women, hoping I’d find one that made up for losing you, or do you want me to tell you how I fucked anything with a pulse, hoping to ease a bit of the unbearable loneliness and didn’t give a shit about any of them?”
With her face scrunched up, she shakes her head and closes her eyes. “You know what? You’re right. I don’t want to know that shit. I’ve slept with my share of men too.” Then her eyelids flip open and she pins me down with an angry stare. “The only thing I want to know is how you ended up with your tongue down Brooke’s throat that night at Vinnie’s. After the way she treated me—”
I hold the palm of my hands up. “You’re right. Even if you weren’t in my life anymore, it was a shitty thing to do. But she was no different than the others. She was just someone to make life a little less lonely.”
She flinches like it was a personal jab. “Did you sleep with her?”
Fuck. Is this how every conversation between us will end, with anger and bitterness over things we’ve done in the past? Maybe she’s right and we shouldn’t rehash the things that will only break us all over again.
So I decide to lie.
“No. I didn’t.”
With a deep huff, she crosses her arms over her chest, turning her attention to the view of the passing city outside her window. I get why she would hate the fact that I slept with someone who had treated her like shit in the past, but I don’t need to give her another reason to question whether or not she’s making the right decision. Her hesitation is clear enough already.
It doesn’t matter anyway. Brooke never meant anything. I slept with her on and off over the years, but not again since I saw Belle at Vinnie’s. And the night before, when Brooke tried to gain access backstage, I told security she wasn’t allowed. If that doesn’t send her a clear message that I’m done with her, I don’t know what will. She was just one of a thousand decisions I’d do anything to change.
I’ll do everything in my power to make myself a better man for Belle, even if it means atoning for my mistakes—every last one.
Chapter Nineteen
Isabelle
The minute we pull up in front of the mansion, it’s painfully obvious that Roman’s grandmother is loaded. The place looks like a fucking castle that belongs in Europe with turrets and stone siding. It doesn’t take a stretch of the imagination to picture it with a moat and guards in medieval armor.
Since I woke this morning, I’ve been even more uneasy about my decision to let Roman back in. Sleeping with him after all this time was even more amazing than I had hoped, but every conversation we’ve started since the concert has me second-guessing whether or not I can do this. He’s determined to know what happened with Chris, and all I want to tell him is that if he cared then he would’ve stuck around. But he’s already kicking himself for leaving and I can’t add to his guilt. I’ve already hurt him enough.