Badass In My Bed 3 (Badass #3) Read online

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  Books by Rae Lynn Blaise

  Badass In My Bed #1

  Badass In My Bed #2

  Badass In My Bed #3

  Copyright 2015 Rae Lynn Blaise

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events or people, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  My betrayal tastes like expensive champagne.

  My stomach roils as the disbelief in Dylan’s eyes transforms into devastation and then disgust. This wasn’t how I wanted him to find out about my engagement, not that I’d ever planned on telling him. He was supposed to be a neat little fling, a wild ride that ended back in Chicago. But I couldn’t stay away. Greedily, I had to have more and more. Even now I want to rush into his arms and forget about the rest of the world.

  He’s looking at me like I’m a stranger, and agony twists like a knife hilt-deep in my chest. I can take anything except him hating me. I have to explain, make him know somehow that what happened between us was real.

  The patrons around me turn my way, following Blaine’s eyes to his fiancé—me—and I tear my gaze from the rock star twenty feet away to avoid suspicion. I’m trapped by hundreds of eyes and their expectations of me. My heart wants me to run to Dylan, take his hand, and escape from the pretentiousness sparkling all around us like a thousand diamonds, but this isn’t about what I want.

  Boston has never been about what I want. It’s about what’s best for me. Until Dylan strolled into my life, I never hated my decision to accept Blaine’s proposal. But some decisions we can’t take back without everything around us falling like a delicate house of cards. It’s not just my life affected by my next move, so I plaster on a smile and stride to Blaine’s side, doing what’s expected instead of what my heart is screaming at me to do.

  Every hand clapping congratulations might as well be slapping me in the face. I feel every percussive beat against my skin like an accusation.

  Liar.

  Liar.

  Liar.

  Lying by omission is still a lie, and Dylan thought I was single the whole time we were together.

  Blaine wraps his arm around my waist and kisses my temple. He grins at the crowd. Inside, I turn to stone and pretend I’m thrilled to finally be able to share this happy news with my peers.

  The few faces of other members of the symphony nearby look surprised but happy. Maybe not happy so much as relieved. I know what they must be thinking: Maybe Blaine’ll relax with a woman in his life. Maybe now he’s getting laid regularly, he’ll be less intense.

  They’re thinking about all the times Maestro was hard on me in front of everyone, putting me on the spot. He was getting me to publicly demonstrate that I deserved my position, that it wasn’t undeserved preferential treatment.

  If I hadn’t delivered, they’d think I screwed my way to the top or that Blaine gave a coveted spot to someone unworthy. Luckily, I did deliver. Maybe I did get preferential treatment, but I have the skills to back it up and they know it.

  They know it because he made me prove it.

  Some are also surprised, probably because they thought he was gay and our announcement disproves that rampant theory because straight-laced Rachel would never do anything outside acceptable expectations. I’m a good girl, they all think.

  They are easy to read, but what’s Dylan thinking?

  The spot where he stood is empty when I dare another glance his way. Panic tugs me a step forward before I get ahold of myself and search the room with my gaze.

  Porter Lofthouse, Chairman of the Arts Board, steps forward and shakes my hand then Blaine’s before holding his up for silence. He’s Old Boy’s Club from way back, and one of the reasons I’m in this situation. Blaine’s been trying to worm his way into Porter’s good graces for months.

  When the crowd settles, Porter clears his throat. “The board has an announcement we’d like to make as well. Blaine Sanderson has ambition—there’s no denying that. He’s young, and his talent cannot be denied.”

  Blaine dips his head modestly, but his eyes are gleaming triumphantly.

  “We’ve been without a Director for a while—until now.” He turns to Blaine. “Ladies and Gentlemen, it is my honor and privilege to announce Blaine Sanderson as the newest director of our beloved Symphony.” He raises his glass. “To Blaine!”

  “To Blaine.” I mouth the words, unable to force a sound from the lump blocking my throat. Blaine’s finally getting what he wants. Now all he has to do is maintain it.

  There, in the center of the room, Dylan snags two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter and downs the first in one gulp while continuing to the door with the second. Panic makes every heartbeat a giant throb in my body. I swear I can see my pulse in my eyes. Somehow, I manage a tepid smile for Blaine—who is predictably ignoring me to schmooze with Porter. “Excuse me for a moment.”

  Blaine nods dismissively, Porter ignores me completely, and I send a silent prayer of thanks to God that neither of them notice my distress. I’ve served my function, the first of a lifetime.

  I can’t get away fast enough, rushing through the handshakes of congratulations in the sea of people blocking my way to the door with well-wishes and smiles.

  I’m almost there when Paul blocks my way, we need to talk written all over his face.

  “Hi, Paul,” I manage weakly.

  “When you said there was someone else, I had no idea it was Blaine.”

  “I wasn’t at liberty to say.” I don’t have time for this. I have to get to Dylan. “I’m sorry, but I have to go.”

  Paul’s face reddens, and he places a hand on my forearm, halting my escape. From the look in his eyes, he’s going over every conversation we ever had, remembering every time he said something less than complimentary about Maestro. “Were you spying for him the whole time?”

  That low blow gets my attention. “What? No, it was nothing like that, Paul.”

  “Well, I know it wasn’t what I thought it was. You’re not who I thought you were.” His lips press into a thin line. He doesn’t want to think I was a spy, but any trust we had has gone out the window. He shakes his head and walks away.

  Great. If my one potential friend in the symphony isn’t even going to hear me out, the others are going to think the worst of me, after all. Then again, I already lost everything when Dylan walked out. What’s one more loss—and an acquaintance at that—in comparison?

  Twelve more people stop me to offer their congratulations and meaningless words. I do my best to smile at and murmur my thanks. More random syllables spew from my mouth while I keep heading to the door to find Dylan.

  My left hand grips my clutch with a painful strength. I don’t know what happened to my glass of champagne between the speech and the lobby door, but my right hand’s empty when I step outside.

  The cool night air gives some relief from the perfume and panic clogging my nose inside the party, but Dylan’s nowhere to be seen. I still don’t know what he drove, but the few cars parked near the door are empty. My aching feet carry me half a block when I see a cab, but it’s only one of the clarinet players leaving with her partner.

  Dylan’s gone. He wanted to get away from me as quickly as possible, and he had.

  I stagger toward the wall, bracing my hand on it to stop myself from falling to my knees. If I fall, I know I won’t be able to get up. My skin burns with regret, feverish in my desire to turn back the clock and do things differently even though this is something I can’t take back.

  He looked at me with such
… revulsion. I completely understand why he looked at me differently, but if he’d let me just apologize… It wouldn’t change things, but if he knew I never meant to hurt him, maybe he wouldn’t hate me.

  I pull my phone from my clutch and dial his number, insanely thankful I put it into my phone.

  No answer. Does he know it’s me?

  Ugh, of course he does. That’s probably why he isn’t answering.

  I try again and send a text, fingers trembling over the letters asking him to please pick up, to please call me back.

  What if he never takes my call? Never sees me again? What if this is it and he’s gone, thinking the worst of me forever?

  It’s a thought I literally can’t stomach. I dry heave so hard my eyes send wet trails down my cheeks. If I can just talk to Dylan one more time…

  Please, God.

  Blotting my face, I head back inside. I’ve done my part tonight. I’m saying goodbye to Blaine and going home. I’ll send Dylan an email or get through on the phone and explain that I thought it was done, that we were done, that I never wanted him to feel like a fool, even if it’s just in a message.

  And then I’ll fall apart in private.

  The glass doors whoosh shut behind me, and there is Dylan, ten feet to my left, slouched in a leather chair in the lobby, eyes like a storm about to hit the shore.

  Despite the anger and hurt brewing there, I walk steadily toward him and gently perch on the chair to his right. I hate that even now I’m choosing the chair more hidden from sight of the ballroom, tucked behind a large plant and a lamp, because now it’s even more important to maintain the perfect image. I hate the tension and anger rolling from Dylan more, from the agitated tapping of his foot on the floor to his fist bumping on the arm of the chair. I hate that I did this to him, made him feel this terrible. Even though I never meant to, the damage is done.

  The muscles in his jaw tense a few times as he grits his teeth over and over before finally speaking in a low, hoarse voice. “Explain.”

  Shaking my head, I swallow hard, every word in my vocabulary deserting me, and stare at the floor. My heart sinks with the enormity of what I’ve done to us both.

  Dylan’s hand roughly forces my chin up so my eyes meet his again, and despite the situation, tingles rush through me at the contact. It could be Armageddon outside, and I’d only be able to focus on this man and how very much I want him.

  But when I try to grab his wrist and hold his hand to my face, he tears his hand away. “Rachel, what the fuck was that?”

  The loss of his touch devastates me all over again, and I can barely focus on words. “It’s not what it looks like.”

  He barks out an angry laugh. “So, it wasn’t your fiancé announcing your engagement in front of everyone?”

  I can’t explain the circumstances behind it. I can’t change the engagement or the way Dylan found out, but he needs to know my feelings were real. “That’s not what I want to tell you.”

  “Actions speak louder than words. In there?” He jerks his thumb toward the ballroom, and his expression hardens. “That spoke volumes.”

  This is all going so wrong. My stomach tenses. “No, it’s not like that. Please, Dylan, just hear me out.”

  “Why? So you can lie to my face and tell me that I didn’t see what I just saw?”

  “It’s what you saw, but not what you think.”

  “Then what is it, Rachel?” He’s giving me an opening, even now.

  “I…” My mind spins, stuck in a rut of the truth. What can I say? I can’t tell him the truth. There’s no way I can explain anything without explaining everything, and I absolutely cannot do that. Right now, I don’t even want to think about it; I just want to run away from reality with Dylan. My teeth dig into my lower lip hard enough I taste blood. “We…”

  He leans closer. “Are you or are you not engaged to that man?”

  The tears don’t drip so much as pour down my cheeks. “I am.”

  He flinches and nods. “Then there’s nothing else to be said, is there?” His long, perfect body unfolds until he’s towering over me. “You made your choice before we even met.”

  I spring up and follow. “Dylan—”

  He holds a hand up over his shoulder, a curt motion. I crumple into the chair he left and bury my face in my hands so I can’t see him leave for good.

  I’m such an idiot.

  What have I done? My chest squeezes like it’s being crushed. Every inhale is a shallow battle in my efforts not to take a deep breath, because if I do, I’ll scream.

  I shouldn’t have ever gotten involved with Dylan. I’m not the girl who can separate sex and love.

  But it’s not just me confusing sex for feelings. I genuinely care about Dylan. No, I should have never agreed to marry Blaine. That was my mistake, but I can’t take it back.

  Angry footsteps approach. Slight pain grips me as Dylan’s hands forcefully grab my biceps and haul me from the chair. “No, I do have a couple questions. When you left me, did you run to him right away or did you wash my cum off your body first? Did he know where you’d been all night? Did you think about me when he put his cock inside you, or did it all just blur together?”

  I can’t defend myself. I can’t tell him the truth without exposing secrets I’m not allowed to share. It’s better for us both if we part ways now. My stomach heaves. “Dylan, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. You have to believe—”

  “Did you tell him what we did with his baton on the piano? Do you remember that? Does it get you off when he’s telling you what notes to play, knowing the things I did to you with that fucking baton? Does it make you wet when he’s there, holding it in his hand?” His eyes narrow.

  I shake my head.

  “I thought you were a musician, but you’re an actress. The ‘good girl’ filled with secrets and lies. All you wanted was another secret thrill to make your heart race more when you were with him. How many others were there? I can’t be the first, not with the things you let me do to you—the things you begged me to do to you.” He closes his eyes as if he can’t bear to look at me any longer.

  I deserve this—his hatred, his condemnation. If it’ll make him feel better, I suffer through his questions, his accusations, but the words burn into me, leaving me scarred.

  “That douchebag with the ponytail at my concert. Him? Did you suck him off in his car after I got you off?” His lips twitch into a hard line. “Maybe you let him fuck you before he dropped you off at my hotel. Did you let him come inside you? Was I getting his sloppy seconds that night?”

  I close my eyes against the way he’s trying to make what we did into something ugly and crass now that he knows I was engaged to another man while we did them. Letting him hate me hurts too much. I care too much and can’t take it. “Please, I’m sorry. This is already so hard for me. I can’t—”

  “Hard for you? Right.” He scoffs. “Tell me something. Did you and I mean nothing?”

  You and I mean everything. Saying that will only make the situation worse. All I’m left with is the part of the truth I can share. I’ve said it already, can never say it enough, but he’ll never believe it. “I’m sorry, Dylan.”

  He releases my arms and takes a step back. “Yeah. I am too. Congratufuckinglations. You two deserve each other.”

  This time, I can’t look away from his back, getting smaller and smaller as he leaves. Dylan might not know it, but he takes a huge chunk of my heart with him. Not all of it though, because I can still feel the ragged edges of the piece he left behind, aching in my chest, every throb raw agony.

  The door swishes shut, separating us through glass. He turns left and disappears from sight.

  The elevator doors roll open and closed with an expensive sliding sound.

  A phone rings at the front desk.

  Safely hidden in my little alcove, my knees hit the lobby floor and tears flood my cheeks. My sobs are so deep they make no sound.

  I’ve forgotten how to breathe.

  A
lex forces a fresh tissue into my clawed fingers after removing the soggy, used one without flinching. I’ve gone through a box and a half since she got here an hour ago and moved my breakdown from the couch to the bedroom where I can wallow in comfort and we can both stretch our legs.

  “Thanks for coming,” I snivel, scrubbing at my bloodshot eyes.

  “Shut up. This is what friends do,” she admonishes. Me? I’m the worst friend. I’ve kept so many secrets from her. Maybe Dylan was right—my good-girl persona just covers up all the bad things inside.

  I can only imagine how terrible I look, last night’s elegant up-do sagging like a ruined soufflé, still wearing my fancy dress. My eyes feel swollen and dry from crying. Makeup disaster or not, they’re crimson and puffy, I’m sure of it. “Looks like I’m the one who should have taken the red eye.”

  Alex smiles at my pathetic attempt at a joke. She stands, digs in my closet, and tosses a pair of sweats and a snuggly, chenille sweater at me. “Put these on. I’m going to go change.”

  I undress slowly. Somehow my body is sore too, to match my insides. I notice two bruises on my knees—probably from when I fell in the lobby. No one saw me; I said no goodbyes. I had my breakdown and escaped outside where I caught a cab home.

  So many secrets jangling together inside me seeking escape.

  Just taking off my bra helps me feel a bit better, freer, and I shrug the soft sweater on, glad for the gentle texture against my skin, grateful Alex is here to help.

  She reenters my room in a tank top and yoga pants and perches on the bed. “Comfy?”

  I nod and slip under the covers.

  “Good. Are you ready to tell me what the 911 was about?” As usual, she cuts through the bullshit right away.

  I bite my lip. After the hotel, I’d found my way to a cab and called Alex. It took a few minutes—I was crying so hard she initially thought I was being murdered but eventually she made out that I was begging her to come—and she jumped on the next flight out to be with me without even knowing why, only that I needed her.