Mended (Connections, #3)(60)
I flinch. I’m the misjudgment? That makes me want to laugh.
“I’m sorry,” she mouths silently, and when our eyes connect for that one moment, I know she’s trying to tell me something. I know she is, but I can’t get any sound to come from my throat to ask what.
He grabs her hand and shoves the ring in my face. “I think your visit has lasted long enough. Ivy will be performing tonight and she should rest. We’ll discuss the rest of the tour tomorrow. Oh, and Xander, Johnny will be with her at all times.” He nods to Johnny, who drags me down the aisle of the bus.
“Ivy, talk to me,” I yell. “How could you do this to us?”
“Xander, this is how it has to be,” she says in a soft voice, covering her face with her hands.
Damon steps closer and she steps back. It’s clear that what he says is love is not. Why did she marry him? I don’t have a chance to find out anything more, because the muscle throws me out of the bus and I land on my ass. In a haze I stand up. Ivy married Damon Wolf? I puke right there as thoughts of his hands on her send me to the pits of hell and devastation careens through my body. Looking around, I see Leif, Garrett, and Nix staring in disbelief and I stare back with the same feeling.
“Fuck, man, let’s get you cleaned up,” Nix says, throwing my arm over his shoulder. I walk with him, pissed and confused about what just happened, but knowing it is far from over . . . knowing something isn’t right . . . knowing sure as shit that Damon must have something over her. Because there is no other explanation I want to think about.
CHAPTER 14
Underneath It All
Morning had stretched into afternoon and before I know it, it’s evening. I spent the morning trying to convince myself not to turn my back on her like I did before. She loves me—or I thought she did. Fuck, for twelve years I’ve been flirting around, never finding anyone else who could light up my soul like her. I never paid much attention to it, either. Then once she was back in my arms, it was all there—she was the one I’d always needed. She brings out parts of me I never thought I had. I had spent the afternoon talking myself down off the ledge—I wanted to kill him, with my bare hands, strangle every last breath out of him. But then who would win? I have to keep my cool.
We’re huddled together for our drink and a prayer. But no one is praying tonight. I regard them all steadily as I sit in a chair and lean over. My head throbs, my nose hurts—the painkillers Leif gave me are wearing off. I’m starting to feel more than a little bit agitated and annoyed. The show begins in minutes and she’s not here yet. What the hell is going on? Did I imagine what we had? Why would she marry him? The questions are on constant repeat in my mind and I feel like I’m going to puke again.
The feeling gets even worse when I hear Damon’s voice taunt me. “Don’t tell me you’re feeling sorry for yourself.”
“Fuck you,” I say, not bothering to raise my head.
They walk in together, with the ninja right beside her, but I already felt her nearness. My body has come alive and her presence gives me the strength I need. I flick my eyes toward her. She looks just as sad as earlier. I need to talk to her—alone. But it’s too late—the music sounds and the band is announced, so she makes her way onstage with the guys. Thank f*ck Damon disappears, but he forgot the ninja and the guy stays front and center at the curtain.
Since backstage is as empty as I feel, I watch for a bit and then suddenly feel like I can’t breathe. I’ll be back before the show ends. The outside air is hot, muggy, almost suffocating, and I try to block out everything as I make my way back to my small cubby on the bus. The walk feels like miles and when I look up toward the sky I see thousands of stars there to light my way, but the darkness is everywhere. The bus doors are open and John is asleep in his seat. I finally make it to my bed and throw myself down, then call my brother. I want to check on Dahlia, but when he asks me what’s wrong, I tell him. He tries to persuade me to keep my cool and not do anything stupid, but at the same time I’m sure he knows he’s talking to the wind. I want to kill that son of a bitch, I want to scream at Ivy and ask, “What the f*ck are you thinking?” I want answers. And I’m going to get them.
An hour or so later I’m back in the empty area backstage and she’s announcing her last song. “How about ‘Sorry’ by Buckcherry?” she asks the crowd. They go crazy, like they always do whenever she sings a cover.
Vamping chords, then a wailing bass introduce the song. “I’m sorry I’m bad,” she croons into the mic with her eyes closed. Her voice goes even lower and she sounds raspy, beautiful, inspiring, as she continues with “I’m sorry about all the things he said to you.”
And there it is—he. She said he, not I, like the song is written. What the f*ck is going on? She turns slowly, fixing her gaze on me. She swings the mic gently and she sings the song to me.
With each verse, her voice grows stronger and louder and the ache in it more pronounced. Her passion and the love heard within the lyrics of the song infect everyone in the audience, but no one more than me. I want to wrap my arms around her and feel her body against mine, tell her we can fix whatever it is he did. Because I know it’s something he did. This time I will take care of her—I will not set her free. She needs to know this. I have to tell her. And now I know I’ll do whatever I have to to get her back—I’m not going to let her go this time.