Our friendship, our love is so unlikely. How we even met, a fluke. I’ve been a star so long, I’m like the Big Dipper, a fixture above, there every night for eons. Kai is this supernova, propelled and rising. Or a shooting star, fighting for hang time. And somehow, implausibly, we crashed into one another. Beautifully, passionately, soulfully crashed, burning bright and hot for everyone below, pointing and gawking at our stellar spectacle.

I look around the room, scrubbed free of her. The pictures of her mother and Aunt Ruthie have been stripped from the walls and surfaces. The closet is like a small, empty tomb, none of her jeans or dresses or vintage nightshirts to be seen. She’s not anywhere to be found, and I need something of her to get through this next three months.

I use my key to open a box marked “DRESSER.” Some of her clothes are neatly folded and packed, and I’m immediately assaulted with the scent of pear and cinnamon. Just that bit of her wafting up from a cardboard box is enough to have me blinking back damn tears.

Despite what San said about her loving me and letting her go being my only chance of getting her back, I have no assurances. Three months is a long time, and this industry has a way of changing people beyond recognition. A lot can happen on the road. Look at Jimmi and me. At home, fucking her wouldn’t have even occurred to me, but the road makes strange bedfellows. I know for a fact that Dub is choreographing Luke’s tour. He’ll be there every step of Kai’s journey that I’m missing out on. That ups the stakes. That bastard won’t hesitate to take advantage of the next three months I’m separated from Kai. How do I know, in her hurt, in her anger, she won’t turn to him?

I don't.

I’m risking the best damn thing I’ve ever had. Forget my musical ability, my career, and my ambition. What has that gotten me but trapped in here alone with more money than I’ll ever spend and a pack of hungry wolves salivating at the door? The last months I had with Kai were more real than anything, so real I was desperate to never lose it and made the biggest mistake of my life. I ruined it, and just like my parents lost me, I’ve lost her. She has emancipated from me, but I’m not free of her. I’m still chained to her, body and soul.

The last time I felt this broken, Grady found me vomiting and shaking on the floor of my tree house, trying to break myself free of Xanax. It was Christmas Eve. It was the beginning of the end, and it was the beginning of the beginning. It was hard, but it was worth it. I can only hope this will be the same.

I go to refold the box when I notice a small, sheer bag filled with hundreds of pale pink glass shards. The pieces are so fractured I wouldn’t know what the figure had once been if a piece, a ballerina slipper, hadn’t remained intact. I don’t know the exact significance of this little bag, but it must be important to Kai, and that makes it important to me. As if I haven’t already transgressed enough against her, I slip the bag into my front pocket. I’m walking out of here with at least a piece of her. It’s only right since she’s somewhere right now, and she has all of me.

THE END

Keep reading for a sneak peek into Soul Series Book 2,

DOWN TO MY SOUL, coming March 2016!

DOWN TO MY SOUL

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THAT WEARINESS DOING WHAT YOU LOVE kind of loses its novelty around the second week of eighteen-hour days. Dub and I expend so much energy working on my opening act for the second leg of the tour, I barely have energy for the tour each night. It’s just singing easy BGV parts for Luke’s show. When Luke performs his hit single, I join him onstage to simulate the lap dance from the video. It’s a show-stopper.

The whole plan is getting me lots of face time, lots of exposure. It’s a brilliant strategy, but it’s wearing me down. I can’t let on though. I don’t want Mr. Malcolm to think I can’t pull this off. I can. I’ve waited too long for this. Nothing will get in my way. Certainly not my own body.

I keep hearing Rhyson’s warning about John Malcolm. It’s galling that I kind of already see what he means. Mr. Malcolm’s not tyrannical, but he definitely focuses on the bottom line, and requires the talent to do whatever it takes to meet it.

It’s been a week since Rhyson called or texted me. We have a fifteen-minute break from rehearsal, so I sit on the stage step and pull out my phone to look at his last text. It was a long one, but I almost have it memorized, I’ve read it so many times. It starts, of course, with a movie quote.

Rhyson: So I’m single now, and everything’s changed. I hate it.”—Say Anything

I know you’re mad at me. It was a dick move. I know that, but don’t give up on us, Pep. San told me you’re on tour for three months. I’ve started my tour too. We can take this time to clear our heads and do what we need to do, but you know I can’t let you go. Please don’t see me not coming after you as giving up. When you get back, you have to give me another chance. You have to. I thought I was doing what was best for you. I wanted to protect you. I’m sorry I went about it the wrong way. Please forgive me, and PLEASE TAKE CARE OF YOURSELF! You know I don’t trust John Malcolm, but this is a great opportunity, so kill it. Your whole life is about to change, because when the world sees what I see, they won’t be able to get enough of you. I can’t. Don’t forget I’m yours and you’re mine. I LIVE you.

I’m reading the last line when a new text comes in.

My heart patters in case it’s him. Stupid heart. After all he did—the manipulation, the deception, the out and out betrayal—a chain still hooks my heart and Rhyson’s, stretching from wherever I am to wherever he is in the world. I have no idea how to break it. When it comes down to it, in spite of everything, I’m not sure I want to.

The text is not from him. It’s an unknown number. Odd.

There’s a link, and I open it, which is probably stupid, but I’m curious. It’s to a Spotted post detailing our very public fight. And breakup. Okay. Old news. Even my tourmates have stopped looking at me funny by now. Their curiosity has waned, and thank God, so has the public’s.

Another text comes in.

Unknown: You and Rhyson Gray don’t belong together. I advise you to keep things this way.

What the hell?

Me: Who is this?

Unknown: Don’t worry about who I am. Worry about what I have.

A video file comes over. This can’t be good. Finger hovering over the screen, I tap the file. Sounds of loud panting and grunting come from my phone. Two naked bodies in profile, a man and a woman, fucking hard, doggy-style. The man at the back turns his head to grin right into the camera like he’s giving the performance of his life. My heart skids to a halt, burning rubber and slamming on the brakes in my chest. Horror and disgust war in my belly, churning dark emotion until it leaks out through my sweaty palms and under my arms. I can’t process what I’m seeing. How did he . . . how could it . . . It can’t be. The handsome face smeared with a devil grin is Drex. Even though I know it’s not possible, I feel like those malevolent eyes are looking right at me—taunting and toying with me.

My brain is still catching up to what my eyes are seeing, when I focus on the woman. She’s on all fours, her face forward and turned away, but I know her. I see the words hugging her ribs. Lost in the iniquitous sight, buried in the lusty sounds, the prayer looks out of place.