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“I should go admit myself to some rehab place. The press would love that. Have a field day with the fact that The Great Dieter is having some kind of breakdown.”
“Well.” I cleared my throat. This was way out of my league. “I have absolutely no experience with people having breakdowns. So fuck that. But what I do know?”
I looked at him. He actually looked back.
“Trust me.” I smiled.
“I do,” he whispered. “You talk to me like a human being. You’ve always been nice to me, and you know that first time we stayed at The Clouds?”
“The BRITS gala, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah. You remember?”
“Of course I remember. You’re The Dieter. You’re super famous, you know.”
He smiled.
“I am. I’m super famous and super important. You remember I got drunk?”
“Dude, I remember everything. It was three in the morning, and your security had to carry you upstairs, and everyone was in a right panic. Then I had to get your jacket up to your room, since you’d hurled it across the lobby and your security dude went off to get something to clean up your puke with. I tucked you into bed and sat there and held your hand while you cried like a baby. Like I could forget. You really shouldn’t drink vodka, mate. Or not a whole bottle at any rate.”
“I’m a pop star. We’re supposed to raise hell and break stuff. Trash hotel rooms.”
“You spilt most of that vodka on the lobby floor.”
“And cried about it.”
We both laughed. Good. This was better.
“That’s why I trust you,” he said. “You cleaned it all up for me and put me to bed. And you didn’t tell a soul.”
“Why would I have told someone?” I laughed. He did too. “Ah, yeah. You’re super famous.”
“Yeah.”
“What I meant to say was…” I let my hand drop onto his thigh, which was risky, but I thought maybe he just needed a little contact. Reassurance. He put his hand on top of mine, clumsily held onto my fingers.
Freaky. But. Whatever.
“My dad does a mean roast. And it’s kind of our thing. If we’re off together, we have a roast. Even if it’s not Sunday, but who cares? Nobody makes the rules here. So, you up for a roast dinner?”
“Can I stay?” he asked. Hearing him say that felt all weird. Like I was suddenly warm on the inside.
Trust.
He’d said it. I said it all the time. It was one of those words that meant nothing in passing, thrown about like it was specks of dust.
“You trust me?” I asked.
“Do I have a choice?” He grinned. There he was, the snarky little shit I knew he was on the inside.
On the outside, it was becoming harder and harder for me to even see a connection. I flicked the radio on, only to get blasted by one of the Blitz megahits.
He cringed. I did too. Then he laughed, and it was…actually…nice.
I sang along, in my very worst voice, because the lyrics were truly stupid. Maybe he wasn’t quite losing it, because if he’d come up with those lyrics?
“You wrote this?” I shouted over the beat.