Girl in Love (18 page)

“S
O THIS
is it,” Trace told the girl stepping onto the bus behind him. “Kylie and I each have our own living quarters, which I can’t show you. But we do have a kick-ass media room and big screen.” He grinned at the lady from the radio station and she blushed. It was kind of nice to know he still had it. Touring with someone who was completely immune to his charms didn’t do much for his ego.

The camera guy followed them onto the bus and Trace waited for him to give the thumbs-up signal before he began talking. He flirted and cracked a few jokes during the interview.

Just as they were about to wrap it up, the door to Kylie’s room opened. He turned and looked at her. Red-rimmed eyes told him she’d been crying. He did a mental recall of the last few weeks. Things had been going relatively smoothly. He couldn’t think of a single thing he’d done lately that might have upset her.

If Blythe had screwed around on her, he would kick the little fucker’s ass. And then dance a jig probably. But only because he’d be out of the picture.

He moved to block the camera guy’s shot of her. “Well, thank y’all so much for coming. See y’all at the show tonight.”

The lady with the microphone protested as Trace all but shoved them off the bus. Once the crew was gone and the doors were closed, he headed back toward her. Her pain was apparent on her face, and it weighed on him as if it were his own. The urge to reach out and wrap his arms around her was powerful and overwhelming, but she’d asked him not to touch her and he was trying his damnedest to respect her wishes.

“You okay?” He wanted to slap himself. That was a stupid question since she’d obviously been crying. People who were okay didn’t cry.

“I’m fine,” she answered, stifling a sniffle but not completely. “Just tired.” She pulled her oversized sweater around herself. He was kind of grateful that he couldn’t see her body so he wouldn’t be tempted to do things to her that he shouldn’t.

Yeah right. He was pretty much always tempted around her. She could wear a brown paper sack and he’d still want nothing more than to tear it off her.

“You’ve been crying.”
Master of the obvious, here.

She shrugged. “Do you know if there’s any ice cream on the bus?”

“Um, hang on. I’ll check.” Trace turned and beat it into the kitchen. He was grateful to have a task. Crying women made him feel helpless. What the hell were you supposed to do? Ask them about it? Not ask? Get tissues? Shut the hell up? Be there for them or get out of their sight? He never knew.

After checking the freezer thoroughly, he returned to her empty-handed. She was sitting on the couch, curling her legs up to her chest. She looked so…lost. The need to make whatever was upsetting her all better was more than he could handle.

Dropping to his knees before her, he looked up into her eyes from below. “Mint chocolate chip?”

Her lower lip trembled and she nodded.

“Okay.”

Trace sprang into action and practically sprinted off the bus. He grabbed the first person he saw. It was Hannah, Kylie’s manager slash assistant or whatever she was.

“I need ice cream. Now. Where the hell are we?”

“We’re outside of Lubbock. Drivers needed a rest. We got fuel about an hour ago and I haven’t seen any places since. I’m guessing she saw it?”

“Saw what?” He was scared to even guess.

“The article. It wasn’t great.” The short dark-haired girl retrieved an iPad from her purse and pulled up the latest issue of Rolling Stone.

Trace let his eyes drink in the vision of perfection on the cover. It was Kylie. She was in a tight plaid button-up but none of the buttons were buttoned. A lacy black bra thrust her full breasts up just below her collarbone. Her eyes were sultry and her fingertips lingered by her full, pouty lips.

The wanton expression on her face made him want to run back onto the bus and do unspeakable things to her. Well, unspeakable in front of Hannah.

The idea of the entire world seeing it made him want to hit something. Several somethings.

“She looks…amazing,” he choked out.

“It’s not the picture she’s upset about. It’s the headline.”

He looked at the bold print on the bottom of the cover.
Kylie Ryans: Not Nashville’s F@#*ing Sweetheart
, it read.

Aw hell.
Trace swiped the screen until he came to the article about her. There was another picture of her scantily clad body sprawled out next to a guitar. She was smiling this time. Again, he was struck dumb and breathless. He forced himself to look away from her and scan the article.

Very concerned about how she’s portrayed and whether or not the world thinks she’s a diva.

Below that was a breakdown of a day in the life of Kylie Ryans, and the writer had taken the time to add that she “barked” at her assistant every other hour and that she “handled” people like equipment. He called their performance that night in Connecticut “cold and automated.” He even hinted that she herself had said that the whole tour was a farce and she and Trace had no chemistry. Which the asshole made sure to mention he agreed with.

Trace let out a low whistle. “Ouch.”

“Yeah. I tried to steer her away from the magazine stand at the last few stops but I guess she ventured online. How is she?”

“I need ice cream, Hannah. A large amount. Mint chocolate chip, stat. Can you help me with that?”

She nodded. “I’ll see what I can do.” She pulled out her phone and he left her to it.

Trace headed back onto the bus. His heart sank when he saw that Kylie hadn’t moved an inch since he’d left her.

“Hey, um, Hannah’s working on the ice cream situation now. Anything else I can do? Order a pizza? Put on a movie? Kick the Rolling Stone reporter’s ass?”

She sighed. “I guess you saw it then.”

“Eh, I’m half illiterate according to that guy so I could barely read it.”

“He called you illiterate? I must’ve missed that part. What a dick.” She frowned and Trace couldn’t help but smile at the cute little thing her forehead did when she was mad.

“Not in your article. A long time ago when I was first starting out. He made a reference to hillbillies and the inability to read. He was surprised that one of my songs contained a reference to a Keats poem. Said I couldn’t have written that myself because surely stupid ol’ me had never read anything other than girls’ phone numbers on bathroom walls in bars.”

Kylie’s expression melded from annoyed to outraged. “I’m sorry. I never would’ve given him an interview if I’d have known he said that about you.”

He shrugged. “No big. Trust me, in this business, you learn to let things like that go.” Their gazes met as he spoke. “But I guess you know that already. You’re on tour with me, after all.”

He saw an unidentifiable emotion flicker in her eyes as he heard her sharp intake of breath, but before she could say anything, the sound of several people making their way onto the bus distracted them.

They turned to see Lulu, Mike, Steven, and Hannah all clomping onto the bus. Mike held a plastic grocery bag that Trace hoped contained ice cream.

“There wasn’t any mint chocolate chip at the Stop-N-Shop we found,” Mike began. “But there was chocolate chip cookie dough, double chocolate chunk, and chocolate fudge swirl.”

“Which one did you get?” Kylie asked, looking slightly amused.

“All of them,” Steven said, pulling out several spoons from a drawer next to Trace. “We figured you could mix them all together. If you want, I’ll squirt some toothpaste on it and it will taste just like that disgusting stuff you love so much.”

Kylie laughed, really laughed, and the sound both warmed Trace’s heart and cut into it at once. Steven made her laugh. Steven made her happy. She needed that. She deserved it.

So he did what he knew he should. He moved out of the way so Steven could sit next to her.

“Ohh, let’s make milkshakes,” her stylist friend suggested as he made his way off the bus.

“If there’s not a blender on this bus, you guys are up a creek. I’m not procuring a blender just because—”

He didn’t hear what else Hannah said. He couldn’t be a spectator in Kylie Ryans’s life.

After what had just happened in there, he was pretty sure he couldn’t be a part of her life at all.

T
RACE WOK
e up in the floor. The covers were wrapped around him as if he’d been wrestling them into submission. He was covered in sweat. He racked his brain and tried to remember if he’d had anything to drink earlier that night.

He hadn’t.

It was another nightmare then. They were back. Another highlight of sobriety.

Yanking himself out of his bed sheets, he stood and smoothed out the fitted sheet that had rolled off his mattress just as he had. He tossed his comforter back onto the bed. Just as he was about to step out into the kitchen for a glass of water, his door opened.

“Trace?” her soft voice whispered.

He froze. Kylie stood in his doorway, illuminated by the light behind her. Her legs were bare under her oversized T-shirt.

He swallowed hard and worked to locate his power of speech. “Yeah?”

“Um, you okay in here? I heard yelling and then a loud noise.”

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Fantastic. Just what he wanted. For her to know what a weak-ass baby he was. “I’m good. Must’ve been dreaming. Rolled out of bed.”

There. Hopefully she’d go on back to her room now.

“Another nightmare?” Her voice was soft, tentative and alluring. His dick threatened to go hard on him. But the shame of the situation kept his erection at bay.

He tried to swallow but couldn’t. Not easily anyways. “What do you mean, another one?”

“You have them sometimes. I hear…through the walls. You shout and moan and sometimes you cuss. Like you’re fighting with someone.”

Dammit. He knew exactly what she’d heard. His nightmares were always the same. Always had been. Well, sort of.

All his life he’d dreamt about his dad beating the hell out of his sisters and his being powerless to stop it. But after he’d left Kylie and gotten sober, sometimes the girl being hurt in his dreams was her. The shrink in rehab had himself a field day dissecting that one.

“Yeah, sorry about that. I didn’t realize you could hear.” He lowered himself onto the edge of his bed closest to her.

“You want to talk about it?” She took another step into the room.

Trace was torn. He wanted to pull her into his bed and bury himself deep inside her until he forgot everything else. His past, his present, his name. Everything. But he knew that wasn’t what she was offering. And he damn sure did not want to talk about it.

“Naw, I’m good. I’ll try to keep it down. You go back to bed and get some rest.”

The next words out of her mouth were the last ones he’d expected.

“Earlier tonight, I wasn’t upset about the article. I mean, it hurt that he called me a diva or whatever. But I was upset because my publicist had called me back about something that I thought was handled. Darla wrote a tell-all book. She found a way around the NDA you had her sign.
Confessions of a
Wicked Stepmother
, she’s calling it.”

“No shit?” Well this was news. Even though he was surprised by this information, his body was one hundred percent aware that Kylie was coming closer to his bed. In his room. In the dark. In nothing more than a T-shirt. On the bus on which they were mostly alone as far as he knew.

“No shit. A small press picked it up and the demand for it has led to five thousand copies being printed.”

“Jesus. I’m so sorry, baby.” He almost clamped his hand over his mouth. He had no right to call her that. The darkness was fucking with his head. Confusing him and warping him back to a place in time where she was his.

It must’ve been confusing her too, because she didn’t correct him. Or yell at him. In fact, the only thing she did was come one step closer. Her legs were touching his bed. And for the first time in his life, he had no idea what to do with the woman in his bedroom.

So he remained as still as possible in an attempt not to break whatever spell the darkness had them both under.

“I never thanked you. Earlier…for the ice cream.”

“Well, I never technically said I was sorry for kissing you on stage in Detroit.”

“So we’re even then?” she asked quietly.

“Can we ever really be even, Kylie Lou?” He lowered his head into his hands briefly before looking up at her. “Can you ever really forgive me for all the pain I caused you?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered. “I should go now.”

“You don’t have to.”
What the fuck?
He hadn’t thought the words before saying them. They’d just shot out of his mouth. A pathetic plea he hadn’t meant to utter. Damn nightmares. They made him feel vulnerable and fucked up. Even more fucked up than usual.

She was silent for a moment. Not that he could’ve heard her over the screaming in his head anyway. He held his breath until she spoke.

“If I stay, what do you think will happen?”

He exhaled. It sounded entirely too loud. “I have no idea. I don’t want to make promises I can’t keep.” Screw it. They could go back to pretending they were over everything tomorrow. Tonight all he could be was honest. “I could tell you I’ll keep my hands to myself or that I’ll respect the fact that you’re with someone else. But none of that would be true. The truth is I want you so bad it hurts. I swear to God, if I ever get to hold you again, I will never let go. Ever. I want to be inside you so damn bad. I fucking
need
to be inside you.”

She was quiet for so long that, if his eyes hadn’t adjusted to the dark and he wasn’t staring at her silhouette, he would’ve thought she’d left.

What was it about whispered conversations in darkness that made people honest?

“I want that too sometimes,” she answered, barely loud enough for him to hear. The pain in her voice, in her confession, raked over him like razor blades. He was raw and exposed, and he wanted nothing more than to feel her naked body against his.

“You’re not staying though, are you?”

“You know I can’t.” Her words lingered in the space between them.