Page 50 of You Rock My World

JOSIE

Dorian doesn’t call that night. My text telling him I got home sits on delivered but not read.

Earlier, when Lily returned home after her shift, I left her house as fast as I could, dodging all the questions my sister had about the mystery woman saga and the kiss.

She wanted to know if kissing Dorian felt as hot as it looked on the million videos of us—it did, but that’s beside the point.

I made it home uselessly fast. And now, hours later, I stare at my unread text, fighting the urge to send another one. A second message would probably share the fate of the first. So I call him instead and get sent straight to voicemail. I call again twice, but his phone appears to be off.

I hate myself for what I’m about to do, but I’m worried sick. So I call Tessa despite the late hour.

“Hey,” she picks up, her voice sympathetic.

Why does she sound like she pities me? What does she know that I don’t?

“Hey, Tessa, do you?—”

“He went to his recording studio.” She doesn’t let me finish. “When he goes there, he turns his phone off and no one is allowed in until he’s done with whatever creative shit he needs to cope.”

“Cope with the press? I thought he was taking it well but?—”

“It wasn’t the media. From what I gathered, Billie went to the house earlier. It’s always her. He didn’t let her in, but something must’ve happened.”

Billie. A pounding pressure builds in my temples. My skull is shrinking around my thoughts, squeezing them in while they’re pushing to get out.

“And you don’t know what?”

“No. I haven’t talked to him. But Josie?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t sweat it. This is how he’s been dealing with the emotional abuse for the past couple of years. He isolates, creates, and comes out regenerated. And for what it’s worth…” A pause, then a sigh. “I think you’re good for him.”

Okay, so we’re not circling around it anymore. And she approves? I wish I could be happier about the discovery. This morning, I would’ve been. Now, I’m just worried.

“T-thanks, I guess.”

“No problem. Let him have his time, and we can manage the rest from the outside. I’ll see you at the house tomorrow, okay?”

“Yeah, thank you again, bye.”

We hang up and I stare at the ceiling of my bedroom, unsure how to feel. Regular boyfriends don’t have gatekeepers. A security detail that can keep their girlfriends at bay whenever they feel like having a moment to themselves.

Is this how it’s always going to be? Shit hits the fan, and Dorian becomes unreachable. What did Billie want? What did she do to trigger him? And how is being shut in a recording studio alone helping him?

I get the answer two days later—after endless hours of worrying and wondering—when I receive a Google Alert that Rian Phoenix’s new single is out. He wrote a song?

But when I click on the link, it’s even worse because he didn’t write a song, he made a cover of Billie’s: “Just See (Rian’s Version).”

I play the song and it has the same lyrics, but it’s rock instead of pop.

Billie’s version has a catchy chorus and that’s about it.

Dorian’s take is a masterpiece. It’s rough, sexy, raw—angry.

In the outro, he uses his low, seduction voice, adding a gothic-rock edge and I almost have an orgasm just listening to it.

It’s a brilliant cover and a total disaster.

His and Billie’s versions sit at number one and two in the charts. This is only going to enrage his ex-wife, escalate things, bring even more attention to their public spat, and feed the media frenzy when we need the exact opposite.

What the fuck was he thinking?

The last report I got from Tessa was that he still hadn’t returned home.

The chances that he’s back now are slim, but I don’t care.

I grab my keys and hop into my car without changing out of an oversized sweatshirt and crappy leggings with a hole in the butt but that I’m never throwing away because the elastic has gotten stretchy enough to be the most comfortable.

On the drive, I consider how ridiculously I’m acting.

I don’t even know if Dorian will be at his place.

But if he released the cover, it’s safe to assume he won’t keep living in a recording studio with nothing to record.

And even if he isn’t back, I’ll squat on his porch, seething in my rage and in my hurt until he returns.

Luckily, it turns out an occupation of his domicile won’t be necessary because Dorian is home when I get there.

I find him sitting on the couch—big living room—a glass of bourbon in one hand, the bottle next to him, his gaze fixed on some invisible point in the distance. He looks livid. His jaw is tight, and his shoulders wound up as if to contain whatever storm is brewing inside him.

He looks so scarily mad that I consider turning around, walking back out, and letting him sulk in peace. But then my own anger flares up.

I stride in, arms crossed. “Welcome back. Did you have a nice time on your retreat?”

Dorian doesn’t even flinch. He lifts the glass to his lips, taking a slow sip before replying. “I needed time to think.”

I scoff. “Oh, you needed time. Right. And I’m supposed to just sit around and wait, wondering what the hell happened? Wondering if you’re okay, if you—” I cut myself off before I say something pathetic, like, forgot about me entirely .

Dorian stands, drink still in hand, and starts to pace. “I needed to be alone.”

“For what? To get back at your ex-wife in the pettiest possible way?”

The vein in his temple jumps. “Billie came here…” He presses his lips together, gaze flicking to the floor before snapping back up. “…made threats, so yeah, I took her little song and turned it into a half-decent single.”

I let out a hollow laugh. “Yeah, because that’s what this situation needed—more gasoline. And I’m not sure calling Billie’s music small is what you want to do right now.”

Dorian’s grip tightens around the glass, tension rippling through his forearm.

“What the fuck do you want me to do, then?” His entire torso coils up as he hurls his drink across the room.

Some of the bourbon slashes through the air in an amber streak until the glass shatters against the far wall in a violent explosion of liquid and shards.

I freeze, my lungs locking, but not out of fear or anger. Because for the first time since I walked in, I understand what’s happening. His reaction isn’t rage. Or his usual knee-jerk defiance against Billie’s bullshit. Dorian is panicking.

As he looks at me now, his breath unsteady, his chest rising too fast in sharp, uneven pulls, his eyes are filled with fear—sheer, unfiltered, and helpless .

And that terrifies me more than shattered glass.

I take a step forward. “For starters, you could calm down and tell me what happened.”

Dorian drags a hand down his face and meets my eyes. “Billie showed up here with a folder full of pictures.”

“Pictures?”

“Of you.” His jaw flexes. “Of where you live, where you work,” he continues, voice tight, controlled, like he needs to keep a leash on it or it’ll unravel. “Of you taking Penny to school.”

My heart turns into an ice stone in my chest and the blood freezes in my veins.

Dorian hesitates, his throat working like the next words are physically painful to say. “She had pictures of Lily, too. Of your mom’s house. From Thanksgiving.”

The room tilts. I drop a hand on the nearest wall to steady myself, but everything inside me is collapsing, crumbling under the weight of this revelation.

“My family?” I choke the words out. “She has—she knows ?—”

“She’s threatening to leak it to the press.”

I gasp but can’t get enough oxygen in my lungs. Fear uncoils inside me, slithering around my wrists and ankles like invisible restraints, squeezing my ribs, pressing icy fingers against my throat.

I take a staggering step back. “And knowing that, you provoked her?” I raise my voice as my pulse pounds in my ears. “You still went ahead and made that fucking song? You had no right .”

The accusation snaps out of me, sharp and vicious, and I don’t even care that I’m yelling.

Dorian’s face drops. “I’m sorry, I?—”

“I can’t do this,” I cut him off, my throat tight. My vision blurs as hot tears prick at the edges. “It was one thing when it was just me and my job on the line, but Lily? Penny?” My breath shudders. “I cannot drag my sister into this.”

“Josie, the press won’t be interested in Lily. And there are laws to protect Penny, she’s a minor, I checked with my lawyers.”

“What of Billie’s fans? Can you guarantee that if your ex plays the wronged woman on all her socials, they won’t harass me or my family? All it takes is one unhinged follower.”

Dorian doesn’t reply.

I stare at him, seeing only the impenetrable wall that has risen between us. Because no matter what, I’ll never put Lily or Penny in a harder situation than they already are. They lost too much. Whatever implied threat Billie wanted to make with those photos, it worked. I have to give him up.

My heart breaks, and then I break, too. My hands fly to my face, my body shaking as the first tear slips down. Dorian’s arms wrap around me before I can stop him, his warmth surrounding me, anchoring me.

I almost push him away. But then a crushing thought slams into me: this might be the last time I can let him hold me like this.

So I let myself have it and sink into the safety of him, savoring the steady beat of his heart, the solid comfort of his body.

“I know.” His voice is rough, and his lips are pressing against my hair. “That’s why I needed time. I think best when I’m making music.”

I pull back, wiping at my face, anger seeping in through the cracks again. “And what brilliant conclusion did you come to?”

Before he can answer, my phone pings with the ringtone I assigned to Nadine’s messages.

Dorian watches as I pull it out, his hand still resting on my waist. “Who is it?”

I stare at the screen.

Nadine Fox

Report to my office first thing Monday morning

“My boss, making an appointment to fire me.”

“I’m going to fix this.”

I meet his eyes, feeling only despair. “How?”

He hesitates. “I don’t know yet.”

“Great.”

“But I will ,” he says, voice fierce as he takes my hands and holds them between us. “I will make it right.”

I stare at him, at the determination blazing in his blue eyes.

I want to believe him.

But I can’t. Not this time. If it comes down to choosing between him and my family, there is no choice.

I glance down at our joined hands, at the way his fingers curl around mine. I lift my gaze, ignoring the regret already sinking in, and kiss him.

It’s different this time. Not playful or teasing, not desperate or rushed or even lustful.

It’s slow, weighted, and final .

It’s a kiss that tastes of goodbye.

A kiss that tastes of never again .