Wyatt laughed, but it was a rusty sound, painful to listen to. “Actually, I’m in the perfect position. In case you haven’t noticed, my life’s a fucking mess. When you find someone who loves you the way Jelly Bean does, you need to grab onto her, not crush her into the dust.”

“She didn’t seem very crushed to me.”

“That’s because you were too busy dealing with your own emergency triage to recognize she was doing the same thing. She ran out of here because you ripped her open, not because she didn’t give a shit.”

“You’re wrong.”

“Dude, I’m wrong about a lot of things. But not this. Jamison loves you. She always has—you know it as well as I do.”

Yeah, but— “That didn’t exactly feel like love to me.”

“Why? Because she didn’t cry all over you? You’re a bigger asshole than I thought if that’s what you want from her.”

“Of course that’s not what I want.” Or at least he didn’t think so. He hadn’t wanted to hurt Jamison, had in fact gone out of his way to avoid doing just that. He’d ending things because he’d wanted to protect her from his fucked up life, from the bad shit that always happened to the people he cared about.

And yet, watching her walk away like that had wounded him in a way few things ever had. He felt empty, bereft, and had no idea what to do about it.

“She’s not Carrie, you know. She’s stronger than that. And you’re not the same person you were back then, either.”

He wanted to tell Wyatt to shut the fuck up, not to talk about Carrie. But he couldn’t, because if anyone understood her damage—understood what had happened to her and why she’d chosen suicide over him—it was Wyatt.

“She got hurt because I wasn’t there to protect her.”

“No. She was raped and beaten because the world is full of fucked-upness. And she killed herself because she wasn’t strong enough to move past it. She lost the light and it’s damn fucking hard to live without it.” Wyatt’s voice broke and Ryder knew he was talking about himself as much as he was Carrie. “That won’t happen to Jamison. You couldn’t knock that girl off her path with a fucking baseball bat.”

“What about you?”

Dead silence. And then, “What about me?”

“You nearly died.”

“I’m fine—”

“Jamison and I did fucking CPR on you, asshole. I walked into that room and you were fucking dead. Not unresponsive. Not passed out. Not fine. You were fucking dead. You weren’t breathing and we couldn’t find a heartbeat. That is not okay. Watching you kill yourself is not okay with me.”

Seconds, minutes, ticked by. Then “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, you are. You fucking dick.”

Wyatt laughed weakly. “For the record, I’m not okay with watching you throw away the best thing that ever happened to you.”

“It’s not the same thing.”

“Yeah, it is. In case you haven’t noticed, you’re having a damn hard time breathing without her.”

And here he’d thought the tightness in his chest was the first sign of an impending heart attack. He absently rubbed the area in question. “It’s better for her to get away from all this. In case you haven’t noticed, this life isn’t exactly normal.”

Wyatt snorted weakly. “That’s your problem, dude. You haven’t figured out that no one’s life is normal.”

“Well aren’t you the fucking philosopher?”

Wyatt ignored his snideness. Asked instead, “Do you want her?”

“I want what’s best for her.”

“That’s not what I asked, asshole. Quit being so damn selfless and answer the question. Do. You. Want. Her?”

More than he wanted his next breath. Why had it taken losing her for him to realize that? “Yeah. I do.”

“Then go get her.”

“It’s too late.”

“She left here a couple minutes ago. If that’s too late then you’re a bigger pussy than I thought. Get your ass up. Go fix this. And then bring her back to me and prove you did it. You do that and I’ll go back to rehab. And this time I’ll actually try to stay sober.”

Everything inside Ryder froze. That was a bigger concession than Wyatt had ever before been willing to make. “Don’t screw with me on this.”

“I’m not. But don’t you screw with Jamison. I want her to be happy.”

So did he. Jesus, so did he. He wasn’t entirely sure that he was the one to do it, but what if Ryder was right? What if he’d just broken Jamison’s heart and never even knew it? He couldn’t live with that.

“I’ll be back in the morning and we’ll talk about which rehab you’re going to.”

“Bullshit. You’ll be back tonight—with Jamison—or I’m going to get out of this bed and kick your ass.”

Ryder snorted. “That’s big talk for a guy in a hospital gown.”

“Don’t make me prove it. Nobody needs to see my ass hanging out the back of this thing.”

…

Jamison blew her nose on the rough paper towels near the sink, then splashed cold water on her face in an effort to alleviate the redness.

It didn’t work. She still looked like she’d been on a three-day crying jag. Which at the moment didn’t feel that far from the truth. It had been six hours since Ryder had ripped her heart out of her chest and this was the first time she’d been able to go longer than five minutes without bursting into tears. Could she be more of a loser? Then again, could he be more of a jerk?

The worst part? She’d been holed up in the back of a coffeehouse two blocks from the hospital for the last four hours. When she’d left the hospital, she’d originally planned on going straight back to the hotel. But she couldn’t—not when she was this big of a mess. Jared’s whole life had fallen apart that day. The last thing he needed was to deal with his hysterical sister.

But there was nowhere else for her to go. So she’d wandered the streets of suburban Houston for two hours, pretending to window shop. But everywhere she went, people stopped her to see if she was all right. Damn Texans. They were too nice for their own good—or anyone else’s, for that matter.

After the sixth person asked her if they could call someone for her, she gave up. Thank God she’d been in front of Genuine Javas, a coffeehouse equipped with very dark corners and customers who had no trouble minding their own business.

But she couldn’t stay here forever. In the last hour, her phone had blown up with texts from Jared, Quinn, even Ryder himself—all asking if she was okay or demanding to know where she was. Normally, she’d ignore them all, but it had been a hell of a day. The last thing she wanted to do was add to the drama. Besides, it was two in the morning and the coffeehouse was about to close.

Which was why she was now standing in the bathroom, washing her face and trying desperately to erase the damage caused by her six-hour freak out. She’d texted Jared that she was fine and would be back at the hotel soon. But she couldn’t show up looking like this. Not if she didn’t want him to wrap his hands around Ryder’s throat and squeeze until he was in as bad a shape as Wyatt was.

While that might have been a little satisfying—okay, more than a little—the fact of the matter was Ryder hadn’t done anything wrong. He’d warned her going in that the thing between them was just temporary. That it was just for fun. Hell, she’d said the words more than once herself. It wasn’t his fault that she had let it become more than that.

Which was her own stupidity. After all, hadn’t she always known she wasn’t enough for Ryder? He was a rock and roll god and she, she was just one of the little people. Or not so little people if she was being brutally honest. It wasn’t a shock that he’d dumped her, just that he’d ever looked twice at her to begin with.

She glanced at the clock on her phone, wondered if the cab she’d called had shown up yet. Figuring there was a good shot it was waiting on her, she wandered outside only to be slapped in the face by the darkly humid heat of a summer night in Houston.

Sure enough, there was a yellow cab waiting next to the handicapped spots. She climbed in, gave the driver the hotel’s name. He nodded, then called in to his dispatcher. She didn’t bother to listen to what he was saying—she was exhausted, completely worn out from the emotional roller coaster she’d ridden all day. Settling back against her seat, she closed her eyes and prepared to zone out for the length of the trip. She’d spent the last six hours locked in her head— not a pretty place at the best of times, let alone after everything that had happened that day—and it was more than time for a break.

Except the driver didn’t seem to understand how tired she was. He’d barely pulled into traffic before he started fiddling with the radio, moving through a bunch of stations and a lot of static before settling on one that declared it was the home of rock in Houston.

Her stomach pitched and rolled. “Please,” she said in a voice little above a whisper. “Can you turn that off?” With her luck, they’d play a Shaken Dirty song, and she just wasn’t up to hearing Ryder’s voice right now. Not if she wanted to get to the hotel without having a complete and total emotional breakdown.

“Sure, sure,” the man said in heavily accented English. He tossed a nervous glance over his shoulder at her. “But this is a good station. Good music.”

“I’m sure it is. But I have a headache. I don’t want to listen right now.”

“Oh. Yes. Of course.” He stopped at a red light, reached for the dial. But instead of turning the radio off, he just played with it for a minute, before tuning it back to the exact same station.

She started to ask again, but before she could get the words out, the song ended and the DJ came back on. “That was ‘Take Me’ by Darkness. Now, we have a special treat for you—an in-studio performance of a brand new song by one of your favorite bands. Earlier tonight, Ryder Matthews, lead singer of Shaken Dirty, stopped by and did a quick interview with us, which we’ll be playing in its entirety tomorrow morning at eight a.m.