Chapter 12

Axton

By the time I make it home, my hand throbs from banging it on the steering wheel. Every word, every lie, every truth I avoided is sitting, festering, threatening to evacuate. I hated hurting her, and there were easier ways around it, but that glint in her eyes when we left the sushi place wasn’t casual.

Twist that together with Carson’s text…

I sneer, disgusted with myself. I don’t know when our conversation switched from letting her down easy to focusing on my career, and she pissed me off with her presumptions—every one spot on, shining a light into the corners of my mind where I hide all the self-doubt and distaste for this life.

What does that man look like?

How the hell am I supposed to answer that fucking question honestly when I don’t even know myself?

I know what that man is going to look like in a couple hours: drunk as hell and under a woman who will work very hard to impress him.

Slamming my hand forward, I lay on the horn until the front door opens.

“The fuck?” Carson spits out as he walks off the front porch and comes to the driver’s side window. “What’s your fucking problem?”

“Why aren’t you dressed? Don’t we have somewhere to be?”

His grin spreads wide, but then drops at the look on my face. “You work faster than I gave you credit for.”

“I feel like shit for doing it,” I mutter.

“I knew you couldn’t help playing with fire.” He sighs. “No big deal, man. Let’s just hope she thinks you were a decent lay. It decreases the chances of her talking shit about you to her friends.”

Before he has time to back away, I fling the door open wide, jumping out before he realizes what’s going on. It catches him in the gut, and I tangle my fist in his shirt a second later.

“I didn’t fuck her,” I seethe.

“Holy shit,” he whistles, unaffected by my hold on him, our proximity, and the anger ripping through me. “It’s already happened.”

“The fuck are you talking about?” I release him, hoping he falls to the ground, but he steadies himself too quick for me to be satisfied.

“You fell for her.”

I shake my head. “No. I called things off with her. Told her there wasn’t even a chance for anything more than sex.”

I hate lying to him, but it’s not his business that I offered something later on and she shot me down like the smart girl she is.

“Why?” he questions. “Why did you break it off?”

“You told me to,” I spit out.

“Fuck you!” he yells. “This shit isn’t on me. You knew it was the right thing to do. Now, fucking tell me why.”

“She’ll only drag me down.”

He raises an eyebrow at me, challenging me, daring me to lay it all out.

“She deserves better.”

He nods, and damn if that little action isn’t worse than a hard kick to the stomach.

“I’m sorry, man. I know it fucking hurts.” The sympathy in his eyes makes me see red, but I just shove it down. I have other things to do.

“The only thing that’s going to hurt is my nuts in the morning after banging a couple chicks after the party tonight.”

He smiles. “There he is.”

“Go get dressed, asshole, and don’t bother grabbing the guitar. The only thing my fingers are worried about is whiskey and women.”

Regret.

It comes easy for some, but it’s never been an issue for me. My mother calls it narcissism. My dad has referred to it as self-awareness, meaning I do everything with purpose, which leaves no room for regret. Even if I don’t get the outcome I desire, I knowingly took the steps and such is life. You win some, you lose some.

Now, it sits heavy in my stomach, swimming around with the extensive amounts of alcohol before I even open my eyes. My mouth has that damp, gritty feel to it, much like a sneaker after a five-mile run on the beach. My head pounds at my temples, and my neck hurts from the angle I ended up passing out in last night.

Thankfully, though, I hear nothing but the soft, familiar whirring of a ceiling fan. But it’s the scent on my skin that is foreign to me, and it’s the heat at my back that’s making the awful, unwelcomed sense of regret sink down into my bones.

I squeeze my eyes tighter, forcing the memories from my mind. If I can’t remember, it didn’t happen, right?

“Turn off the fucking light,” a husky voice demands. “It’s bad enough you were too drunk to fuck me last night. The least you can do is let me sleep.”

We didn’t sleep together? Relief washes over me so fast, I shiver. Any other time, I’d be pissed at my whiskey dick, but right now, I couldn’t be more grateful.

“You need to leave,” I grumble, eyes still closed. If I keep them as such, the sanctity of my room—the pureness I’ve managed all these years—is still intact.

“You’re in my house, asshole. Feel free to leave.”

I stiffen at her words, thankful she’s not in my home, but not looking forward to my walk of shame.

Tossing the covers back, I realize neither of us are naked. She had enough wherewithal to put on pajamas, and I’m still in my t-shirt and boxers.

“Don’t worry,” she grumbles as I bend over to pull on my boots. “I’ll tell everyone you were fantastic.”

“I wish you wouldn’t,” I reply.

She snorts. “Like I’d let anyone think I wasn’t able to get Axton Lane hard enough to fuck. Sorry, sexy, the world will think you’re the best I’ve ever had.”

I look over my shoulder at her, startled she’s now sitting up and pulling her shirt over her head.

“Or,” she whispers, “we can make that a reality.”

I cringe, torn between pissing her off so she’ll tell the world we didn’t sleep together and not wanting to cause a stir that could affect my career. It’s Carson’s voice in my head that makes the decision for me.

“Sorry, sweetheart. I’ve got somewhere I need to be. Maybe next time.”

Getting up, I walk out. Her “sure thing, stud,” rings in my ears as I make my way through the house.

“Hey, Axton. Wanna hang out later?” My head cuts in the direction of the voice, and I groan at making a huge mistake. A woman sits on the couch in the smallest shirt and shorts I’ve seen outside of a lake party, but that’s not what’s concerning. It’s the phone she’s holding up, no doubt recording.

Without another word, I nod in her direction and walk myself out. I don’t pull my phone from my pocket to call Carson until I’m a block away from the sorority house I ended up in last night. My indiscretions flash before my tired eyes. I avoid social media, knowing the video from just a few minutes ago and whatever the hell I did last night are already making their way through the town.

Carson pulls up beside me, honking when I don’t acknowledge him.

“The fuck, man? Your text said you were at the gas station.”

“I just kept walking.”

“Clearly,” he grumbles. He’s still in pajama pants, no shirt, and Birkenstock sandals on his ugly ass feet.

“Seriously?” I ask, pointing to the ridiculous shoes.

“They’re coming back, man. I can feel it. Besides, you said it was an emergency.”

“Not really,” I mutter. More like a midlife crisis. Is that even possible at twenty-one?

“I figured you’d be balls deep in that other girl you scheduled before you left the party last night. I think she’s from the same sorority.”

“I didn’t sleep with anyone last night.” Not that it matters. I already ruined any chance I had at something real with Addi. My words severed that connection yesterday at the park. The videos she’ll see today are just a way to cement her assumptions about me.

“Not how it looks online,” he mutters as he turns his truck in the direction of our house. “If your followers can read context clues, they’ll think you had an orgy last night.”

“Fuck my life,” I mutter.

“Yeah,” Carson says. “You’re always the center of attention at every party, but last night was on a whole other level. You were so accommodating, it’s gonna jack up your fan base even more. Now, every woman thinks she has a chance with you. That’s the kind of stuff that sells records.”

“Great.” I keep my eyes focused on anything but him. I hate that my major fuck up last night makes him happy, and despise the fact that it’s shit like that giving my ratings a boost. It’s supposed to be about the music. “Addi’s going to hate me.”

“Better than your fans hating you because of her.”