Page 109 of Drive

“Reid, goddamn you,” I rasped out.

“I am damned,” he whispered between us. “Look at me.” I shook my head as he gripped the sides of my face. Hot tears pooled and slipped down my cheeks. I was burning up, on the verge of losing myself. The reinforced wall I’d built shook down to the foundation. Everything I felt for him came brimming up to the surface. My heart pounding wildly as he searched for and saw everything in my eyes. And then the warmth hit, the feeling of it spread from my chest throughout my limbs.

“Stella,” he whispered before his lips pressed to mine. The agony of missing him leaked from my every pore. I threw every ounce of pain into that kiss, all the love that I felt escaped in a sob he captured with his lips. Softly, he pressed in, and I wrapped my arms around his neck as he slid his arms around my body, pulling me tightly to him. He kept our mouths sealed while he held me, our lips pressed together, and I felt his hesitance to let go when I pulled my lips away. He dropped his forehead to mine.

“Happy New Year, Stella. I’m glad you’re happy. That’s all I came to see.”

“Happy?” I scoffed. “I guess now you can put that guilty conscience to rest,” I said in a ruined puddle under the weight of him.

“Hate me if you need to,” he said softly, as he let me go and stuffed his cap in his jeans.

I hated the way it felt, the distance. I scrambled for words.

“Reid?” I whispered. Shoulders slumped, his eyes found mine. “What in the hell kind of rehab lets someone out on New Year’s Eve?”

We laughed. It was our special skill, one we created together when things couldn’t get any worse. Our smiles faded as he looked me over and opened the door.

“I’ll see you, Grenade,” he whispered before he closed it behind him. I went after him and stopped him on the sidewalk.

“I’ll be the one to watch it happen,” I shouted at his back.

Slowly, he turned to face me, his eyes closed with the memory of my words, his lips twisted. “Say it.”

I smiled through my free-falling tears. “I told you so.”

He gave me one last breath-stealing smile, got into his truck, and left me without his warmth, once again in the cold.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

“Ex-Factor”

Lauryn Hill

THREE YEARS LATER

“Miss Emerson, I’d like to see you in my office,” Nate sounded through my newly installed phone in my newly gifted office. I pushed his extension as I searched my notes on my laptop. “Nate, everyone here knows we have sex on the regular. You can call me Stella,” I said with a tone that matched his.

“Miss Emerson, I have Roger Morris in my office for a meeting,” Nate snapped as laughter echoed out beside him.

I leapt from my desk and stared at the phone.

Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit.

We would be fighting over this one later. Face flaming, my tail between my legs, I walked into his office, failing to meet Nate’s eyes and apologizing profusely to Roger Morris, who was one of the biggest agents in the music industry. He had a stellar reputation and carried some of the most sought-after talent under his management company. It took all my courage to shoot an apologetic glance at Nate.

The scold, colored deep blue told me it may be a nasty fight. Still, I couldn’t help the little high I got from knowing he still wanted to be inside me while simultaneously strangling me. I gave him a slyLove you, honeysmile.

“I’m truly sorry,” I went on to Mr. Morris, a tall man with a New York complexion and red-carpet attire. He had sharp eyes that let you know he held the secrets of many but a genuine smile that made him more approachable. “That was highly unprofessional, and it’s definitely not—”

“Stella, may I call you, Stella, though we’re not having sex on the regular?” He coughed out a laugh as Nate drilled holes into my skull. We were at that comfortable stage of our relationship where we bared all and had no issue arguing, and it wasn’t detrimental to our relationship. We lived together, worked together. In every aspect of our lives, we weretogether. And it was bliss, well, for the most part. Except for when I played my music too loud while he was writing, or that time I ran over his expensive golf clubs, or sometimes spoke—case in point, the situation I was attempting to charm my way out of. At twenty-four, I had finished my bachelor’s degree and enrolled for my master’s. I had a future atAustin Speak,not to mention a semi-successful podcast, something I started for myself despite my focus on the growing paper and the man who owned it.

Life was good, better than good.

“Of course, yes, call me Stella.”

“Truth be told,” he said, addressing Nate, probably to offset my upcoming ass lashing, “that’s probably the mildest thing I’ve ever heard as a rock ’n’ roll manager.”

I nodded as Nate’s jawed ticked, probably in contemplation of his words and my punishment when he got me alone. I was almost giddy with anticipation. Fighting always lead to epic fucking. Nate and I legitimately had the best sex on earth. We competed with ourselves. It was our thing. I mouthed a quick “I love you” which granted me soft eyes as Nate cleared his throat. “Stella,” he said, laced with a hint of prejudice, because wedidhave that epic sex on the regular, “Roger manages that band Dead Sergeants. It was one of the first articles you published.”