Dating a Tortured Artist│18+ ⚠️

prologue.

"Samantha, wait!" He's hollering after me, as I scuffle to open the door of the tour bus.

I've never once fumbled with this same door, having used it countless times in the past, but I am now. I can't seem to work it for the life of me. The harder I struggle to get out of here, the more erratic my heart beats.

"Don't leave—! Samantha, just listen to me! Please!" He shouts from the other end of the bus, while I force myself to breathe through my nose, pressing myself to calm down.

Breathe, just breathe. Breathe and calm down.

When I feel the beat of my heart begin to ease back down into double digits, my hands stop shaking and my vision clears. I give the latch another try.

Success.

I can hear him clambering behind me, probably throwing on his clothes as quick as he feasibly could to catch up to me.

To grab me. To make his case. To gaslight me...maybe.

But I'm already sprinting. Sprinting fast through some of the groups of people still lurking about the park.

Tour managers, bands, and their set-up crews work to get instruments and props back into the loading vans, while some others head off to their buses to catch some sleep. And then there are the fans. Quite a few fans. Eagerly peering at their favorite artists who are now off the clock. They trail after band members even after getting their CDs, shirts, books, and God knows what else autographed. Even after taking a plethora of photographs with their beloved musicians.

I'm sprinting through all of these people.

I'm sprinting because I don't think I could manage running right now if I tried.

"Shit, shit, shit, no, not now..."

The tears begin materializing, gliding down my face as I tug my lower lip into my mouth, biting it hard to keep from making any kind of noise whatsoever.

But when I'm reminded of what he's done, my heart aches in my chest.

"Samantha!"

I hear his voice coming from somewhere behind me, and I silently curse him for being six foot whatever.

"Samantha! Please wait—! Please!"

He's begging, and I know by the increasing sound of his voice, he's closing in on me, running to catch up. So I fight through the swell of emotions to put more distance between us. Walking faster. But when I feel his fingers brush my shoulder, I flinch as though the flesh of his hand was white hot, and he's just burnt me.

Ironically enough though, he has – he has in fact burned me.

"Please, Samantha, just stop and listen to me!" His fingers grasp my sleeve and soon his arms are around my shoulder; his grip around me is so firm that I'm forced to do as asked.

Keeping his hands on me, he gaits around my body, coming to face me. His head bows down the slightest to peer into my eyes and I evade his gaze, shooting mine near some teenage girls huddled in a group, avidly whispering.

I can feel my eyes brimming again as he lets my name slip from his lips once more, "Samantha..." I swallow hard, growing fretful as his long, slender finger traces my jawline to my chin, pushing my face up to meet his, "Please look at me, let me explain."

My eyes trail from his chest to his jaw, all the way up to his chiseled cheekbones, darting up at that mess he called hair before my green eyes settle into his panicked blue ones. They're currently scattered with darker specks, a clear sign he's worried and anxious now.