Page 90 of A Crazy Kind of Love
“She’s lying?”
He exhaled through his nose, half laugh, half snort. “Martina showed up at some point at a show. She made it clear she was interested in coming to my room. I wasn’t seeing anyone else at that time. And did I mention I really like sex? I’m pretty sure I did.”
I clenched my fists together and relaxed them. “So you started to see her?”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “No. She started to see me.”
“What?”
“She was always there at all the shows we played. I don’t know how long that went on. She says three months. It could have been. It wasn’t a consecutive three months. It was a night here and there. And after a while, we’d hang out some. We went out to eat or did something in town to blow off steam. But I never saw her between towns.
“And then during a hiatus, I started seeing Lauren—who isn’t interviewed in this article, you’ll notice. Things didn’t work out with Lauren either, but that’s another story. The next time Martina came to a show, I told her I was in a relationship and couldn’t hang out with her.”
“Did she keep trying?”
“I guess. I never thought she was looking for anything more than a hookup. She didn’t even have my phone number or email, so I wouldn’t have told her to stop calling. I might have told her she shouldn’t keep trying to hang out. I don’t mean to freak you out, but there are a lot of women like Martina at shows. They aren’t usually looking for a long-term relationship.”
“And you like sex.” I raised an eyebrow at him. “What about Victoria? She didn’t seem to be in it for the sex.”
He fell back in his chair. “You may not believe me, but I have no idea what Victoria is talking about. Maybe she thought they asked her about someone else. I’ve never had anything with her. Ever. Maybe she wanted to be featured in a story. I swear.” He held my gaze for a beat and said, “You’re going to have to decide if you trust me more than a quote in a tabloid article, Jo.”
A knock on the window caught my attention. A cameraman had pressed his lens up to the glass, pointed right at us. I sorely wanted to give the guy the finger, but all that would accomplish would be getting my picture in the paper looking like a jerk. Nobody would see it from my point of view. They’d never see that guy spying on us. On a sudden impulse, I lifted the strap off the back of my chair and grabbed my camera out. I pointed it right back at the paparazzo in the window and clicked a photo.
Micah laid his hands on the table and stared at his thumbnail as if it held magical properties. “Jo, are you going to want an explanation for all of these? I know it sounds terrible, but for the past couple of years, women have literally thrown themselves at me. I can’t change all of that. But it’s not like we spent a lot of time talking about our futures.”
“So you’re just a man-whore.”
“I’m a man-whore?”
“Yes. You are a man-whore who really likes sex. Did I mishear you?”
He coughed. “With you, I love sex.” He touched my arm, and a chill traveled up my spine. “But Josie, I’m not some kind of sex addict. You don’t have to worry about me here or out on the road. I’ve got some self-control.”
I thought of the first night we spent together, sleeping in my room. “Yeah. I believe that.”
“I want to be with you, only you. You’re special to me.” He reached across the table for my hand. “Josie, I love you.”
The sincerity in his eyes gave me pause. For that moment, I trusted him completely. I opened my mouth to tell him I loved him, too, but then the door swung open, and a man took a seat at a table across from us. He laid his phone in front of him and began flipping through the sugar packets with interest—which was odd because he hadn’t ordered anything to drink.
“I’ve got to get out of this fishbowl, Micah.” I stood to gather my things.
Micah jumped up. “Will you walk with me to my place at least? Can we finish this conversation?”
As we left the coffee shop together, the cameramen divided and conquered. One approached Micah. The other walked beside me. I ignored the guy peppering me with questions and lifted my camera to shoot video of the other guy, clearly harassing Micah all the way up the street.
“How long have you been seeing each other? Did you start dating Jo before you broke up with Isabelle?”
Micah got the easy questions. My inquisitor wanted to know if I was using Micah for sex or if I was using sex to further my career. Watching all this unfold through my lens placed it at a distance, like watching someone else’s life being torn to shreds. I lowered the camera out of curiosity to see this person’s eyes. I wanted to know what it would look like to no longer have a soul.
It was a miscalculation. As soon as he saw my face, his strategy deviated, and he asked, “You’re not stupid enough to have fallen in love with him, are you?”
I’d almost made it to Micah’s townhouse without giving them anything, but the new line of questioning took me by surprise, and the tears burst forth as we neared the steps. Micah led me inside and slammed the door behind us. We hadn’t exchanged a single word in those harrowing five minutes.
He wrapped his arms around me, whispering, “It’s okay. It’s okay.”
But it wasn’t okay. I broke free and sat on his sofa. Micah ran into the kitchen, and I waited, running my fingers through the soft underside of that damn crimson throw. I pulled it to my face to wipe away tears, but the smell of Micah overpowered me.
He sat beside me with one of those snack boxes, and I stared at it. Without looking up, I said, “Micah, I know you love me.” I lifted my eyes. His blue eyes were so pretty. And his lips—God, his lips. “At least for now.”
