Page 51 of The Groupie

Keeping my voice soft, I have to ask, “When’s Mamma’s surgery?”

“In ten days.” She doesn’t face me. “I have my follow-up appointment with Yancey the next day, and if all goes well with Mamma, I leave for Park City the day after that.”

My heart climbs to my throat. I don’t remember the last time I felt this uncomfortable about the end of a… relationship—call it what it is. The next question pops into my head and can’t be held back. “When do you leave for Italy?”

“Soon after that. Not sure. All I know is I’m cutting it close.”

I gulp down my emotion and try to match her calm. “You think Chuck will keep his end of the bargain and keep your ankle injury quiet until then?”

“Yes. Unless someone else blows it up and I get the attention of other Olympic officials. Then they might question him, and I’m not sure he’ll hold up…whether he’ll back me. I wouldn’t if I were him. There’s no upside to it, and it would make no sense—”

“Sometimes, guys do things that make no fucking sense.”

“You speaking from experience?”

“Not yet.”

I relinquish the car to the valet, and she gets out with the crutches before I have a chance to come around and help her.

When I catch up with her, she stops and says, “You don’t need to stay with me.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I have a lot on my mind. I’m bad company right now.”

“I’m staying with you.”

She laughs with a derisive edge.

“I’m only trying to be helpful. I swear.”

“That’s always the cure for you, isn’t it? Fuck the problem away?”

Ignoring her comment, I head to the registration desk without her and check in. The woman recognizes me with a big smile, but I don’t smile back. Who knows what the fuck she’s going to make of me getting a hotel room in a city where I live—without a bag. I glance at Rylee, and she’s sitting with her ever-present ball cap low and a magazine in front of her face. When I’m finished, I walk to the elevator, and she meets me there, punching the up button.

Facing her, I keep my voice low. “This isn’t about fucking. I want to talk.” It’s the truth. Mostly. But her earlier words cut close to the bone. “We need to talk about your problem.”

She snorts. “Which one?”

“Your money problem,” I whisper as we get on the elevator, alone, thank God.

The door slides closed, and her mouth turns grim. “What about you? Why don’t we talk about what’s wrong with you?”

“I don’t have anything that needs curing.” My chest tightens in protest as if I’m lying.

She looks at me, her mouth turned in a skeptical twist like I smell bad. Or my statement smells like a lie.

“I don’t,” I insist.

“Whatever you say, Mr. Life is a Beach.”

We get to the hotel room on the top floor, and I let her in. She heads straight for the lone king-sized bed and lies down, fluffing the pillows behind her head and closing her eyes. I sit on the edge of the bed next to her.

“I thought you weren’t going to tell Chuck about your ankle?” It’s a detail that’s been bothering me, like everything else about the guy.

“My agent told him.”

“What the fuck? That doesn’t sound ethical to me—”