Page 196 of Rush

Friends.

No strings. No expectations.

Just sex.

But why does it feel like Broderick’s weaving strings of his own.

I text him anyway, desperate to reclaim the upper hand. Desperate to keep our rules intact.

Elena

Still horny. What can I do?

I shower, scrubbing the night away, but it doesn’t clear the thoughts in my head.

My phone buzzes.

Broderick

I’m on my period lol

I snort. Shake my head. Of course he’d say that.

Still, I stare at the screen a little longer than I should. My thumb hovering over the reply, then drops. But underneath the laugh—there’s disappointment.

He’s unknowingly tipping the arrangement in his favor, stolen moments pushing us closer to the edge of bliss or disaster.

And I’m not the one steering anymore.

One thing I know for certain—one thing he made painfully clear tonight—I need him.

Chapter 23

Hungry Eyes

Kylie’s thrilled about the story that broke, redirecting the narrative from Alex’s constant posting to something else.

Still, I hadn’t expected my impromptu volunteer session—post–Montgomery Thanksgiving meltdown—to be twisted into some kind of PR fanfare.

I thought being tucked away in a soup kitchen in Harlem would keep me safe from prying eyes—but not anymore. I’m under a constant microscope.

I stare at the obscured photo—me, smiling as I dish out food, and Broderick, cropped out. Just his arm left.

Great.

If he’s not being roped into it, he’s safe.

The last thing I want is to be caught up in another social media love triangle. I’ve had enough of that shit.

But I can’t help thinking about the other night with Broderick.

Not wanting to come on too strong, I haven’t seen him for a few days. I thought maybe the distance might help quiet the mess of thoughts I’m not ready to dissect.

It doesn’t really help—if anything, his silence feels loaded. Maybe he’s done with the arrangement.

I sigh, trying to think about anything else. My mind drifts to the tour—only one more stop left before the holiday break. Then the studio. Then quiet.

I need it. I need to pour all this mess into a song. My kind of therapy.