Page 25 of Rock Strong
That I stayed away from Abby for her sake as much as mine.
But even as I did, I couldn’t ignore the tiny voice in my head proclaiming that sometimes I could be a fucking idiot.
I awoke in my suite to slivers of sunlight filtering through the curtains. Thank baby Jesus there was nobody in bed with me. I’d had too many drinks last night, and I vaguely remembered the Cream Team painting whipped cream bikinis on each other, licking them off, then launching into a five-girl fuckfest, but I hadn’t partaken.
Participating would not have been the best way to win Abby’s affections.
But then I remembered—I hadn’t gone looking for Abby last night. After I told her I would. “Shit,” I muttered, pressing my hands against my eyes. Despite all my bullshit mental gymnastics last night, it was suddenly abundantly clear why I hadn’t gone after Abby. Fear and hurt pride. Fear of being responsible for someone else’s feelings. Hurt pride that she’d walked away. Fear that I’d already hurt her and that I would again.
But most of all?
I’d doubted my ability to truly give up my backstage partying for her, even for the short time we might be together. Because some part of me doubted that once I got involved with Abby, our time together would be short.
The girl did something crazy to me.
And despite the fact I’d run from my feelings for her at the first opportunity, I missed her. I’d do anything to turn back time and do things differently.
God, I really was a fucking idiot.
I sat up in bed. Scattered around my room was a mélange of people. Corbin and the blond porn star were asleep on a sofa, her tanned arm curled around his shirtless middle, face resting against his furry belly. Two of the other girls were asleep on the opposite sofa, naked and tangled in a blanket, cradling each other like newborn twins. Wes wasn’t around, but he never was in the mornings, always preferring to sleep in his own room.
The clock told me it was eleven, way too fucking early to be awake, but Abby would probably be up already, maybe at the lunch we catered daily, and I had to find her. I had to explain things and beg forgiveness.
I pulled on some jeans and threw on my Ramones T-shirt, heading down the elevator—empty, thank God—and out the back of the hotel. Our security guard, Nathan, gave me a thumbs-up. “Morning, Mr. Collier. Will you be needing a car today?”
“Nah, gonna walk, man. Thanks.”
“Just call if you need us to pick you up again,” the tall, black man said in a deep, übercool, rumbling voice.
“Ah, yes. Thank you for not letting me live down ‘The Incident,’” I said.
During last year’s tour in Seattle, some crazed Point Break fangirl had camped outside all night, knowing exactly which hotel we frequented, and accosted me with demands. Her brother was in the hospital, and could I go visit him? Her mother had cancer, and could I go lay my healing hands on her? She went so far as to corner me against a waiting car, shove me inside when the back door opened, then slide into the passenger seat, as her wingman drove one block before hotel security blocked their path.
She apologized profusely, so I ended up dropping the charges after her father called Robbie to explain that she suffered from some sort of mental illness I’d never heard of before. It was fucking crazy, but I had to be on the lookout for her again, just in case.
It was partly cloudy as I walked the three blocks to the venue, but it was a warm day, perfect for strolling the city. I reached the parking lot, showing the security guard my ID. “Have a pleasant day, Mr. Collier,” he said. Everyone was so nice around here. Well, they damned well should be. We were paying them.
Trying the sleeper buses first, I went up to the buses one by one, knocking on their doors, waking up half the drivers. “Is Abby here?” I asked each one, feeling like a middle-school kid looking for his girlfriend at her trailer. Only one knew who I was talking about, and he mumbled and pointed to the main venue. “You just missed her. She went inside with that violin case.”
“Cello,” I said.
“Violin, cello, it’s all the same shit to me.”
“Thanks, man,” I saluted him for the tip, pivoting and breaking into a jog toward the back entrance to the venue.
Once inside, finding her was easy—I just followed the sounds of sheer awesomeness. Pausing at the doorway to a rehearsal room, I leaned against the doorframe and peered inside. She was there, facing away from me, the only person in the room, the only one rehearsing. Possessed by music, swaying her instrument in time with her song. I wished I knew which piece she was playing, so I could appear to know my shit around her. I even thought of using Shazam to see if the app could recognize the song, but she must have sensed me standing there, because she stopped and turned her head to the side, listening.
“That was sexy. What’s it called?” I asked.
She said nothing for a long time, and I thought I was pretty much done for. Then she mumbled, “Serenade,” without looking at me.
“Beautiful. Who’s it by?”
“Me.”
Whoa. “You wrote that?” Slowly, I stepped into the room.
“Yes. Is there a problem with that?” Icy eyes.