Page 19 of Wild Infatuation (Rebel Rockstars #3)

Chapter Eighteen

Terrance

IN THE DAYS SINCE the fashion show in New York, I’ve gone from avoiding those photographs of Shawn and his date to obsessing over them.

They’re better than the nothing Shawn is giving me.

I set up my phone on my coffee table, zooming in on a picture of Shawn with his arm around the pretty blonde woman, Olivia.

He’s grimacing, but that’s not enough to detract from how handsome he looks on the red carpet.

I pick up my pencil and start sketching.

It’s not the same as touching those stubbled cheeks myself, but it’s as close as I might ever get again.

Shawn’s gone silent since New York, despite promising me we could see each other again when he got home.

Maybe he said that to appease me. Maybe it was the high of what we did that night at his house.

Maybe he’s scared I’ve seen the pictures from the fashion show and drew the same conclusion all my friends on Discord did.

In the face of his silence, I have only assumptions.

I sketch his face swiftly, barely checking my reference photo. This isn’t exactly the first time I’ve drawn him. I used to do it to live out a fantasy, but now that the fantasy has come true, I’m doing it to claw after some shred of a connection with him.

Notifications pop up on my phone, obscuring my view of my reference image.

I swipe them away irritably, but I can only ignore them so long.

My friends on Discord have been pestering me for days, wondering why I’ve gone silent when I’m usually the person sparking conversation all over the server.

They’ve started wondering if I’m depressed because I’m sure Shawn has a girlfriend; they have no idea how close to the mark they are.

It’s not that I necessarily think he has a girlfriend, though.

It’s that I don’t know what’s going on. I don’t know anything.

The silence is worse than a simple confirmation that he is or isn’t attached.

I pause in my drawing, swiping through my phone, going back to our old messages. For a heartbeat, I’m tempted to text him. Maybe he’d even respond. After so many days of silence, I’d prefer to know than to remain locked in the dark.

“Fuck it,” I mutter at my empty apartment.

I start typing before I can think better of it, sending a simple message out into the ether. How was the fashion show?

There. He can ignore me if he wants, but it leaves the door open for him to talk if he’s willing.

I try to go back to my drawing, but sweat slicks my palms as I think and rethink my text. Too much, not enough, too forward, too vague. Every doubt flits through my mind in an unceasing chorus, and I struggle to focus on getting Shawn’s eyes just right in my drawing.

I toss my drawing pad and pencil on the table, getting up to pace through my apartment.

The lack of response only confirms all my worst fears that he’s moved on and isn’t even going to bother to tell me.

It’s hard to square with the night I spent in his bed, the night where he seemed so open, the night where everything felt so good between us.

That Shawn and the one I’m begging for a response today are like two entirely different guys, and I’m starting to wonder which one is real.

I almost jump out of my skin when my phone rattles on the table.

I’m in the middle of boiling water for pasta, but I turn off the stove and forget dinner in a heartbeat, running the few steps from my cramped kitchen to my cluttered living room.

These two rooms could fit in Shawn’s loft bedroom with room to spare.

Hell, the rest of my apartment could probably fit up there as well.

Maybe I was a fool to ever think I’d have something real with someone on such a different strata than me.

When I reach my phone, I scoop it up in trembling hands.

It was okay , the message says.

I don’t know whether to take that as an opening or not. The broody, silent thing is hot on stage, but right now, I really wish he could freaking talk to me.

I almost push him, but then three dots appear to indicate he’s typing. My heart stops beating. I stand watching those dots for what feels like an eternity, forgetting to breathe every time they stop and start again.

Sorry I haven’t reached out, the next message says.

It might as well be a declaration of undying affection for how my heart soars. I could float off my carpet, but Shawn isn’t done yet.

Things have been crazy, he says. There’s someone parked outside my apartment building.

What??? Are you safe?

It’s just paparazzi. Not dangerous. Mostly annoying.

I shouldn’t feel relieved by this, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t breathing a little easier.

There’s a reason. He still could have texted, but at least there’s a reason for the silence — and the reason isn’t that he’s a hot, cool, famous rockstar who’s too good for me.

He is certainly all of those things, but they haven’t made him stop talking to me quite yet.

Then the next message hits, and I literally swoon right there in my living room.

I wish I could see you.

My whole body goes hot. All this silence, and he wanted me the whole time.

I do too, I say.

Would kill to see you in my bed again.

The past several days of silence disappear in a wash of heat. I could come over.

There’s no way. That douchebag outside would notice.

I don’t really understand why that’s a problem. I’m no one. Even if they knew I was specifically going to Shawn’s apartment, would it actually matter?

Maybe my theories about those photos from the fashion show aren’t as hare-brained as I feared.

Maybe it really was a publicity thing like Shawn said.

That would explain why some paparazzo catching me sneaking over would be a problem.

The speculation about Levi’s sister would end, and the speculation about me would begin, and apparently that’s not something Shawn can risk.

I won’t pretend I understand all the nuances of that, but I don’t really care. I fire off a text while I have some momentum.

Then come here instead. No paparazzi at my place, that’s for sure.

The silence stretches. It stretches for so long I feel like I might snap. I don’t even get three flashing dots to soothe me. For long minutes, there’s nothing.

Finally, he responds.

Okay.

Okay? That’s it?

I can be there in twenty or thirty. Depends how hard it is to sneak out.

I’ll clean up for you, I say.

Don’t bother. I plan on ruining it.

I shiver at the dark promise in that, then reality hits me like cold water. He said yes. He’s coming here. Now. I have half an hour at most to be ready to have Shawn in my house.

I toss my phone on the cushions and start running. I pour out the pasta water and clean up the dishes left out in the kitchen, then hurl myself into the shower. I’ve been too down to bother with shaving and things like that, so I make quick work of it now.

Out of the shower, I wrap a towel around my waist and try to tidy up my room, scooping up the clothes left out on the floor and shoving anything embarrassing deeper into the trash can.

I cast an anxious look at the Baptism Emperor posters on my wall, not to mention that T-shirt he got signed for me, but I don’t have time to hide all of that as well, even if I was willing to risk tearing things in the process.

It’s not like he doesn’t know I’m a fan, right?

So maybe it won’t be too weird for him to fuck under pictures of … himself and his friends.

Fuck.

I climb on the bed, meaning to take down at least a couple of the posters, but I don’t manage to yank out even a single thumbtack before a knock sounds at my door. I yelp, almost falling off the bed — and remember I’m still in a towel.

This hasn’t even begun and it’s already a disaster.

Shawn knocks again, his anxiety clear. I’m sure he doesn’t want to stay out there where someone might spot him, so I have no choice but to rush to the door in a towel, damp hair dripping, and open it for him before I’ve gotten so much as a shirt on.

He sweeps inside instantly, but falters after a step. And when he looks at me, it’s like no time at all has passed since I was in his bed.