Behind the Lyrics by Melissa Riddell

Chapter 29

Angela Morales

One week left until Viktor comes back to the States for the last half of his tour. I’d been trying not to count down the days, but it was hard. He never texted me first, which annoyed and delighted me at the same time. I mean, by not contacting me, he didn’t push, which gave me time to sort out my feelings, yet it irritated me, too.

It never failed—I’d break down and text him. Yesterday, I almost called before I came to my senses. I don’t know how it happened, but he’d slid under my skin and slipped into my heart, and it scared the hell out of me. I was afraid to love someone like him, someone who could so easily fall back into his old life of drugs and alcohol. If that happened, it would break my heart and tear me in two. I didn’t know if I could survive that kind of hurt again.

Marky and I lounged on the couch. With a microwave dinner in one hand, I mashed the remote control to watch a bit of television before starting my evening bath.

The cat’s purr rumbled against my thigh as he lay next to me on the cushion, his long, white whiskers twitching with whatever dreams ran through his head.

I finished off the meal and set the plate on the chipped coffee table. Restless energy coursed in my bones. Work had been busy with all the extra commercials and dubbing to be done, but my mind constantly drifted to Viktor, and I couldn’t stop wondering what a future with him would be like. Did he want kids? What were his favorite types of food? Where did he want to be in twenty years? Maybe I should just come right out and ask him, instead of beating around the bush every time we talk.

The thought of broaching these subjects ramped up my stress levels. Why should I care about these things? Yet I did. Yesterday, I finally had my prescription refilled, but so far, I hadn’t touched it. Just having it available eased my nerves.

I stared at my phone then the television playing in the background, which had switched to the entertainment section of the news. Screw it. I’m texting him.

Pushing the Home button, I pulled up our last conversation and typed.

Me: I know it’s what, four o’clock in the morning there? So, you’re probably asleep, but I just wanted to tell you good night. I’m glad you’re going to be here soon. I really do miss you, and I’m ready to talk face-to-face. Sweet dreams, Viktor.

There. I felt lighter for putting it out there, and when he awoke, he’d have a message waiting.

Something about the Angry Gods murmured from the broadcaster, pulling my attention from the phone. I tucked it into my pocket and turned up the volume on the TV.

“From all accounts, Viktor Farrow’s Fallen God tour is off to a great start. Fans all over are raving about the new singles being played at the concerts. Each venue has been sold out, so it seems his comeback is a raging success.” The camera switched from the anchorman to footage of the concerts.

People—especially women—screamed and shouted at him, practically climbing over themselves to reach across the barricades, even though security guards were spread out every five feet. Viktor, lids lined with black eyeliner, held the mic like a lover and crooned, or played the guitar several feet away on a large stage, complete with strobing lights and a giant-ass monitor behind the band, showing a montage of music and lyric videos.

I soaked in his features. Under the bright lights, he looked very much the sexy god, with his heavy-lidded eyes, black attire, and flowing hair. My heart thumped as memories of those lips on my mouth, sliding across my neck, and working their way up my thighs filled my mind.

A low groan slipped out, and Marky opened an eye, as if berating me for interrupting his nap.

“Sorry, Cat.”

The video changed to the band signing autographs outside an arena, the crowd held back by more barricades and security personnel. Justin and Alan chatted it up with several cute women, winking and smirking in their direction, clearly enjoying themselves.

I shook my head. Those men are walking STDs, I bet.

The camera panned over to the other guys, and even though his back was to me, I’d have known Viktor’s tall, lean frame anywhere. His hair, loose and wild, glowed golden, but that wasn’t what grabbed my full attention.

In one hand, he clutched a brown beer bottle. The other arm wrapped around a woman who stared up into his face with sultry eyes and pouting lips.

“What the fuck?” I jumped to my feet and leaned across the table for a better look.

Bending forward, he moved his head closer to hers, blocking out my view of her face.

Is he kissing her? Shock froze me in place. How could he? I thought we had something…

“That asshole.” Fury raged inside my brain and bubbled my blood. Seeing him with that woman was a physical blow to my stomach. If he’d been in front of me, I would’ve slapped him over and over and over. “I’m such a fool for thinking I was special, that he might’ve changed.” I threw the remote against the wall, the thump loud, and let out a frustrated scream. When it hit the floor, the batteries sprang from the back.

Clenching my fists, I dropped onto the couch. Someone could’ve poured a bucket of ice water over me and I couldn’t have been more shocked.

Marky pounced on the carpet with his tail bushed out. He hissed as he stared everywhere.

Tears sprang to my eyes. I’m such a damn idiot. My chest ached from what I’d seen, and I stomped to the TV and manually turned it off, unable to take anymore.

He’d seemed so sincere the night he’d told me about James, about his addictions, about his guilt and pain. And I’d believed every word like a lovesick puppy. Surprisingly, him lying about staying sober wasn’t what hurt the most. What tore me up was seeing that woman in his arms. I felt betrayed. Yes, I had said I wanted to be friends and go from there, so maybe it was my fault, but he’d implied he wanted more than a friendship.

Well, you know he always has a line of women waiting. Why would you think he’d change for you? I was nothing to him—never more than another notch in his belt, a challenge for him to overcome.

Grabbing the Xanax bottle from my purse, I fled to the bathroom and turned on the bathtub faucet. Sitting on the edge while steamy vapors curled upward, I cried ugly, hoarse sobs at the loss of what could’ve been the start of something new and good. “I hate you, Viktor. Swear to God, I’ll never talk to you again.” Through my tears, I yanked the phone from my pocket and typed out a quick message.

Me: You know what? I really thought you might be the one, but after what I saw on TV tonight, you’re no different than Jeff. Fucking delete my number, you son of a bitch. I never want to hear from you again.

Then, I pulled him up in my contacts and blocked him. He’d never call me—or hurt me—again.