Page 5

Chapter 5

Hell No

Delilah

I ’m stomping, like full-blown, five-year-old temper tantrum, stomping down this overpriced Nashville sidewalk in boots that were not made for cardio. The city’s all lit up—neon shadows casting over the pavement like ghosts of dreamer’s past, couples laughing over rooftop drinks, the thump of bass from a bar I can’t afford rattling somewhere behind me. And me? I’m out here, muttering like a crazy person.

“Lying?” I scoff to absolutely no one. “ Lying? Oh, sure, because I just wake up every morning and decide, Hey, you know what sounds fun tonight? Getting humiliated by a man named Rick who guards a velvet rope like it’s Fort Knox .”

I tug my jacket tighter, still half-hearing the bouncer’s voice echoing in my skull. “Sweetheart, a guy like Damien Donovan doesn’t send girls like you to meet him. Not here, anyway.”

Girls like me.

Right. Because heaven forbid a broke musician in beat-up boots and a denim jacket older than most of his gold chains has any business being in that world.

“God, what a?—”

“Hey—”

I freeze.

Low. Rough. Definitely not Rick the Bouncer.

“Hey! Wait up.”

I whirl around so fast my braid nearly smacks me in the face. And there he is.

Damien Donovan.

Every stupid, six-foot-something inch of him, standing under a streetlamp like some baseball-playing Greek statue in a backward cap and a jawline sharp enough to cut glass.

Nope. Absolutely not.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” The words spit out before I can stop them, before my brain remembers that, technically, this man has done nothing except exist.

But I am already on a roll. Tired, embarrassed, my pride hanging by a thread.

“You know, if this is some kinda game for you, if you send for girls to get sized and then torn apart by security just for kicks, congrats. Really. Big man move. You must be so bored.”

He blinks. Doesn’t say a word.

And that just pisses me off more.

“What’s the next part, huh? Screenshot my texts? Bet money with your little clubhouse buddies about how long I’d wait? Sorry to disappoint, slugger, but I’m not your entertainment for the night.”

Silence.

Then …

His mouth twitches.

Not in amusement. Not in mockery.

In something else completely. Understanding?

Like maybe—just maybe—he knows exactly what it feels like to be small in a city built to swallow you whole.

“Are you done?” he asks, voice like gravel, like his patience is stretched thin.

Am I? Hell no. But I cross my arms anyway.

“Depends. You gonna apologize for your charming Doberman?”

He tilts his head. “I didn’t send you up there to get torn apart,” Damien says, voice low and even. “Tyler sent you up there to meet me. I missed his message. Was on the phone with my little brother, Dawson.”

And damn it all if that doesn’t add to me already feeling like a tantrum-throwing … twat.

He drags his eyes over me, not in that gross, sleazy way guys at bars usually do, but slow, thoughtful. Like he’s recalculating everything he assumed or was told about me in real-time. I hate how it makes my stomach flip.

“I didn’t send you up there to get embarrassed,” Damien says, scratching the back of his neck like he’s uncomfortable, too. “And Rick’s a … well, he’s short on patience.”

“He’s got a short something, that’s for sure,” I mumble.

And that gets the ghost of a grin. Crooked. Dangerous. Not fair.

“C’mon.” He jerks his chin toward the rooftop door like it’s no big deal. Like dragging me—me, who just verbally lit him up like the Fourth of July—back into his world is the most obvious thing in the world. “Let me fix it.”

I hesitate. I should walk away. Pride demands it.

But then he says, softer, “Let me buy you a drink. Least I can do.”

Rick looks like he swallowed a lemon when Damien stalks back through security with me trailing behind like some stray he picked up on the street.

“This her?” Rick asks.

Damien’s jaw tightens. “Yeah. The girl I sent up here. The one you treated like she was selling Girl Scout cookies at a biker bar.”

Rick’s eyes bounce to me. “Didn’t look like your?—”

“Finish that sentence,” Damien says flatly, “and I’ll make sure you’re relocated to valet.”

Rick pales then turns to me. “Ma’am … apologies. Got it wrong.”

I stare at him, deadpan. “You think?”

Damien chuckles under his breath, steering me past Rick with a warm, steady hand at the small of my back, way too casual for how much it short-circuits my brain.

The rooftop’s buzzing—lights strung overhead like fireflies, big guys in ballcaps and designer watches crowding around high-tops littered with beer bottles and bourbon glasses. And every single head turns when Damien strolls in with me at his side.

“Boys,” he calls, jerking his thumb at me, “this is?—”

“Delilah,” I supply before he can give me some embarrassing intro.

A few of them nod, friendly enough. One whistles low under his breath, like, Good for you, Deisel.

“Whatever she’s drinking,” Damien tells the bartender, “put it on the team’s tab.”

I blurt, “George Dickel. Barrel Select. Neat,” before I can overthink it. No ice. No mixer. No bullshit. It’s a Tennessee thing. Not loud like Jack. Not showy like some overpriced bottle with gold foil and a story longer than a song. Just the good stuff—smooth, sharp, and old as dirt. That’s why I drink it.

One glass. Always just one. Not because I’m delicate, but because I know better. Because this ain’t about getting sloppy. It’s about sittin’ with it, letting it settle in your chest like heat, like truth, like every lesson you learned the hard way.

Mama always said you keep the good whiskey for when it matters. For the kinda nights that earn it.

George Dickel neat says I’m not here to be messy. I’m not here to be some pretty little thing getting talked over and poured into an Uber. I’m here because I choose to be. And one’s all I need.

His brow lifts, impressed. “Respect.”

He slides onto the barstool next to mine and turns just enough that his knee brushes against my leg. On purpose? Maybe.

Good Lord …

“You always come out swinging like that?” he asks, voice low, teasing but curious.

“Only when strange men send me into battle unarmed.”

He laughs— really laughs—and it’s stupid how good it sounds. Warm. Deep. Nothing like the cold, cocky superstar I built up in my head walking down that street.

“Figured you were meeting some super model with two million followers and no personality,” I mutter.

“And I figured I was meeting someone lookin’ to ride my name for a little clout.”

We both stare at each other. Then, at the exact same time, we say, “Guess we were both wrong.”

Damien orders a club soda with a lemon. That feels wrong for a guy built like a linebacker but plays baseball and is lookin’ to get lucky, but okay.

He leans in on his elbows like this is just another night, just another girl, except it’s not , is it?

Not for me. Not with the way his stupid knee keeps brushing mine like gravity’s got a personal agenda.

“So,” he says, easy and unbothered, “what’s the story with you? What’s a girl like you do when she’s not verbally assaulting innocent ball players on downtown sidewalks?”

I snort into my drink. “Innocent, right.”

His grin crooks wider. “All right, fair. Mildly guilty. But seriously.”

I toy with my straw. It’s always weird, saying it out loud. Saying I’m a singer in a city crawling with singers.

“Customer service rep pays some of the bills.” I shrug. “And I play some music. Sing when I can. Write when I’m lucky.”

Something shifts behind his eyes. Not pity, thank God, but interest. Real, grounded interest. Like maybe this life isn’t so foreign to him after all. “Where at?”

“Everywhere nobody’s listening,” I say with a laugh that tastes a little bitter. “Dive bars, college joints, the occasional wedding where the mother of the bride cries because I played ‘Landslide’ off-key.”

That really makes him laugh.

“Sounds like a hustle,” he says, and damn, there’s no judgment in it. Just … respect.

“It’s a life,” I say, softer.

For a second, it’s almost comfortable.

Almost.

Then …

“Ohh, look at this ,” a voice cuts through the moment, full of glee.

One of Damien’s teammates—tall, tan, ridiculously good-looking in that effortlessly rich athlete way—flops down on the other side of me like he’s been waiting to pounce.

“Didn’t know D was out here, soft-launching his soulmate tonight.”

I blink. “Soft-launching?”

“Ignore him,” Damien mutters, dragging a hand down his face.

“Buddy,” the teammate stage-whispers to him, “you bought her a drink, and you’re listening to her talk . This is, like, dangerously close to a meet-the-parents scenario.”

I turn to Damien, deadpan. “Is he always like this?”

“Unfortunately.”

The teammate grins, holding out a hand. “Tripp. Official pain in Damien Donovan’s ass.”

“Delilah,” I reply, shaking it. “Official victim of your bouncer.”

Tripp winces. “Yikes. Yeah, Rick’s got the bedside manner of a tax collector. But hey, you’re here now.” He winks exaggeratedly at Damien. “And clearly making quite the impression.”

Damien glares at him with brotherly murder in his eyes.

But me? I just lean back on my stool, sip my drink, and shake my head. “Y’all are exhausting,” I murmur. But my cheeks feel warm. And for the first time all night, I’m don’t feel like stomping away.

I’m staying.

And not because I want his attention but because this may actually work … for both of us.

For the next hour, the seat next to me is filled as the players seem to rotate in and out, giving Damien just as much shit as the last. He doesn’t deny he’s interested, but he doesn’t confirm either. But one thing is obvious, Damien “Diesel” Donovan never hangs out at this swanky rooftop bar with a lady.

We’re lingering by the rooftop exit longer than makes sense; me fidgeting with my rings, him scratching absently at the back of his neck like maybe he doesn’t know how this night got away from him, either.

“You Uberin’?” Damien finally asks, glancing down at me like it’s an afterthought.

“Yeah,” I lie without hesitation, already dreading that walk back to my little shoebox apartment. “Probably.”

He lifts a brow. “Probably?” And then he adds, “Let me give you a ride.”

I blink. “You don’t even know me.”

“You’re fake dating me, sweetheart; pretty sure that’s what a date would do.”

I do not remember one time a date brought me home, yet still … the last thing I need is Damien Donovan rolling up outside my building.

“Fine,” I sigh like it’s some great burden, rattling off the first semi-nice address that comes to mind, an apartment complex across town where an old coworker used to live. Close enough to seem real. Far enough from the truth.

He doesn’t question it.

Outside, he hands the valet a ticket, and I swear he teleports himself to the matte black SUV that probably costs more than I’ve ever made in total.

“C’mon.” He opens the door for me. I repeat, he opens the door!

The city hums around us, windows down just enough to let in some Tennessee night air. But it’s not quiet. Oh no. Because, apparently, this man has decided we’re using this time for … homework.

“Okay,” Damien says, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, “since we’re supposed to be dating, we should probably know basic shit about each other.”

I side-eye him. “Like a pop quiz?”

“Exactly.” He glances over, grinning like this is fun for him. Dangerous. “Ladies first.”

Fine.

“What’s your middle name?”

He huffs a laugh. “Michael.”

“Seriously?” I snort. “That’s aggressively boring.”

“Your turn,” he says. “Favorite food?”

“Easy,” I say. “Anything I didn’t have to cook myself.” Which is a lie someone who doesn’t have a kitchen suitable to cook in would say; otherwise, all the pastas.

That earns me a sideways look and a grin that’s way too fond for a man I met tonight.

“Off season, it’s pizza,” he answers simply. “Pepperoni, extra crispy.”

I scrunch my nose. “You would.”

“My turn. What’s your go-to drink order?”

“If I’m not buying, George Dickel. Barrel Select. Neat.”

He chuckles.

“You?”

He nods approvingly. “Old fashioned.”

Ugh, of course.

“Biggest pet peeve?” I ask since we’re way out of order now.

He thinks for a beat. “People who treat waitstaff like shit.”

Okay … damn.

“Same,” I admit, softer than I mean to.

He smiles, and not that cocky grin. The real one. Small. Private.

We trade again.

“Worst habit?”

I snort. “Biting my nails when I’m anxious.”

He glances down at my hands on my lap. “Noted.” He hesitates then says, “Overthinking everything.”

And for some reason … that feels a little too real.

Last round.

“Your dream vacation,” I throw out.

Without missing a beat, he says, “Cabin. No phones. Middle of nowhere.”

I blink. “Mine’s Italy,” I admit, even though it feels ridiculous in the face of my rent due next week and I’m scrambling to pay that and purchase a bus ticket to Trenton, New Jersey. “Some tiny coastal town where nobody knows me.”

“That sounds”—he glances over again, slower this time, voice rougher—“real nice.”

We pull up outside the fake address and, for half a second, I wonder if he knows.

But he throws vehicle in park, turns that steady, dark-eyed gaze on me, and says, “Guess we’ll have to work on the rest later.”

“Yeah.”

Later feels like trouble waiting to happen.

And for the first time tonight? I don’t really mind.

“Can I ask you another question?”

“You just did,” I point out.

Damien rests his elbow on the console, all casual about this, but his voice? It’s not casual at all. “That label house thing …” He pauses. “What really happened there?”

My stomach tightens on instinct, every muscle in me ready to lock up, armor snapping right back into place. Because nobody asks that. Not like this. People guess. People gossip. People assume. Nobody asks.

I let out a slow, quiet breath, eyes fixed on the glowing dashboard, his question still hanging there between us because he hasn’t given me an out.

That house. That label. That mess.

And for the first time in a long time, I actually think about telling the truth. Not the press version. Not the polished, PR- safe, half-lie I’ve been choking down since everything went to hell.

The real version.

So, I do.

“I wasn’t supposed to talk,” I say finally, staring out at the quiet Nashville night. “That was the rule, or I owed them the advance they’d given me.” One I spent on treatments for Mom.

Damien doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t even move.

“But when I stopped letting him touch me, when I told someone I trusted, that’s when it got ugly.” I glance over at him, just once. “Didn’t even matter that I didn’t name names publicly. Didn’t matter that I played by their rules. Somebody leaked just enough. Just enough for everybody to put the pieces together. Just enough for it to look like I was bitter, difficult, lying.”

Damien’s knuckles go white on the steering wheel.

“Meanwhile”—I laugh, low and hollow—“that’s all forgotten, and he’s still everybody’s golden boy. Nashville’s kingmaker. The agent with the magic touch. Built half the careers in this town, so of course when the story broke that some girl accused someone of inappropriate behavior and he left the label?—”

“They assumed it was you,” Damien finishes for me.

I whisper, “They wanted it to be me.”

He’s staring straight ahead now, like he might actually break the wheel in half.

“And I didn’t stand a chance. Not against him. Not here.” I swallow hard. “You wanna piss off a city real fast? Mess with the guy who makes their dreams come true.”

Silence stretches, long and thick, between us. Then, rough like gravel, low like a promise, he says, “They messed with the wrong girl.”

I almost laugh. Almost. But then I see the way he’s looking at me.

Not like I’m broken.

Not like I’m trouble.

Like I survived.

And the way he said it … Like it’s a promise. Like it’s a threat. Like it’s gospel truth straight from the mouth of a man who doesn’t bluff.

And stupidly— stupidly —that does something to me.

His vehicle suddenly feels way too small, like all the air has been vacuum-sealed out except the little bit he’s letting me have.

He’s still watching me. Locked in. Unmoving. But not unbothered. Not even close.

His eyes—God, those eyes—flick from mine down to my mouth. Quick. Sharp. Like instinct caught him slipping before his brain could catch up. And then they come right back up like it costs him something. Like I cost him something.

I swear to God, my next breath feels like dragging barbed wire through my throat.

Neither of us moves.

Neither of us speaks.

And then …

His whole face changes.

Still fierce. Still carved from whatever stubborn, maddening material Damien Donovan is made of. But now? Pissed.

Not at me.

No, this is something else entirely. Frustration. Restraint. The brutal kind that makes a man look like he’d rather fist fight the steering wheel than say whatever’s going through his head.

Without a word, without giving me one damn second to recover, he kills the engine and throws his door open.

“What are you—” I start, panic flaring.

He rounds the front of the vehicle like a man on a mission. Hard steps. Set jaw.

Through the cracked window, I hear him grit out, “I’m walking you in.”

My door opens before I can stop him, before I can throw up the armor I live in.

“Donovan—” My palm hits his chest to stop him. Solid. Warm. Stupidly sexy. “I don’t need a bodyguard.”

His eyes drop to where I’m touching him. Then drag slowly back up to my face.

I feel that look in places I shouldn’t.

His mouth tightens like he’s biting back a thousand things. Then he says, his voice rough, like gravel, “You might not think you do, but I’m doing it, anyway.”

The problem with men like Damien Donovan isn’t just that they’re built like sin and talk like salvation. It’s that when they decide something, it’s already done. And this man has apparently decided he’s walking me to my damn door whether I like it or not.

He waits for me to slide down from the truck—doesn’t rush me, doesn’t touch me—just watches with that frustrating patience, like he knows I’ll eventually stop being difficult.

Spoiler alert: I won’t.

His strides are long, easy, but I can feel the weight of him beside me like gravity’s been turned up.

It’s too much.

Too close.

Too him.

I clear my throat, grasping at straws like they’ll save me. “You really don’t have to do this.”

“Not doing it for me.” Cool. Casual. Like this isn’t borderline mortifying.

“I walk this block every night,” I lie. “It’s basically safer than Broadway on a Sunday morning.”

“That supposed to make me feel better?” he deadpans.

I side-eye him. “It was worth a shot.”

We cut down the side street, toward the alley, the shortcut I always take because it’s faster, because it’s home.

But walking through here with him ? It feels different. Like the shadows shrink back just a little. Like even the night knows better than to mess with him.

“Bet you think I’m some helpless little girl now, huh?” I mutter, because silence feels dangerous in a whole new way.

He snorts under his breath. “No.”

That throws me.

“No?” I repeat stupidly.

“Nah.” He glances down at me, his mouth twitching like he’s fighting a real smile. “Helpless girls don’t spit fire like you do.”

I’m so busy trying not to react like an idiot that I almost don’t notice when we reach the bottom of my stairs. I turn on him fast, planting both hands on my hips like I’m gearing up for war. “Okay. This is where you stop.”

He raises a brow. “Is it?”

“Yep.”

“Didn’t get the memo.”

“Consider this me memoin’ you.”

That almost-smile again.

“I’ve got a guy,” I add quickly, grasping at the most ridiculous excuse possible. “The bodega owner next door? Keeps watch like Fort Knox.”

His brow furrows. “The one with the ‘Closed for Renovations’ sign that looks like it’s been duct-taped to the window for months?”

Shit. Busted.

I clear my throat, faking offense like a pro. “Different guy.”

Damien just stares at me long and slow, and so unbelievably amused that I could scream. But he steps back, anyway. Doesn’t leave, though. Just jerks his chin up. “Text me when you’re in, songbird.”

Oh hell. Songbird.

I scowl even as my stupid heart practically somersaults. “Go home, Donovan.”

He lingers long enough that I know he’s waiting for me to get inside safe before he’ll even think about driving away.

I give in and give him my real address. And as I climb the stairs ten minutes later, keys clenched tight between my fingers, I’m left with one thought burning hotter than the rest.

I’m not romanticizing this. He’s not a guy in one of my songs.

And another …

I am so. Freaking. Screwed.

The second— the second —I step inside our apartment and lock the door behind me, I hear it.

The slow, dramatic crunch of popcorn. Followed by Rae’s voice, sharp and deadly, like she’s been perched there, waiting all night, like some kind of nosy little raccoon goddess.

“Well, well, well …”

I groan, dragging a hand down my face. “Nope.”

“Oh, yes .” More crunching. The couch squeaks as she sits forward. “Explain why I just watched a six-foot-something MLB first baseman stand guard outside our sad little murder-box of an apartment like he’s auditioning for The Bodyguard. ”

I kick off my boots, harder than necessary. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Lala.” She gives me the slow blink … the slowest ever. “The man waited until you were inside, staring at the door like if anyone even looked at it wrong, he’d break them in half and use their femur as a baseball bat.”

I toss my bag down and collapse onto the other end of the couch with a long-suffering groan.

Rae wiggles closer. “So …?” she drawls. “What did happen?”

“He basically said … I wasn’t what they expected.”

Rae blinks. “They being?”

“The people who … tried to screw me over. With the label. With the house.”

Her teasing drops instantly. Because Rae might live for the tea, but she lived through all of that with me. Her expression sharpens. “And?”

“And then he said”—I exhale, every word making me feel more unsteady—“they messed with the wrong girl.”

Rae’s eyes go huge. “Oh my God!” she gasps, clutching her chest. “That’s it. I’m shipping it.”

“You’re deranged.”

“I’m correct.”

I shake my head, but my traitor mouth keeps going. “He looked at me like … like I wasn’t crazy for what happened.”

Quiet for a beat. And then Rae says, soft but no less Rae, “Maybe because you weren’t.”

My throat tightens. “This is all … a lot.”

But she senses it—my internal panic spiral revving up like an old engine—and bless her evil little heart, she switches gears in classic Rae fashion.

“Okay but back to the important part,” she says, sitting up straight. “Did you kiss?”

“No!” I practically shriek.

“But he looked at your mouth, didn’t he?”

Silence.

Betrayed by my own face.

Rae screams, “Oh my God, you’re feral for him,” she howls, grabbing a throw pillow and swinging it at me.

I catch it, throwing it right back. “I am not.”

“You are.”

“I’m not.”

Rae grins. “Okay, sure, yeah, totally. That’s why your voice went all soft and floaty just now, like we’re in a Nicholas Sparks movie and it’s about to rain for no reason.”

I bury my face in the pillow and muffled into the fabric, I mumble the words I wasn’t ready to admit out loud yet, “I am so freaking screwed.”

“Oh hell, yes you are.”

And just like that, she doesn’t even question how I met the guy we had been drooling over the night before.