DRASTIC (Book 4 of the Soundcrush Series)

Chapter 69: Smart Girls See A Lie

Trigger Warning: A pregnancy-ending scenario is related in this chapter . It's handled with sensitivity,but  be forewarned if you are sensitive to this particular topic...

Marley

Fog is just a blanket of innocuous molecules, but it never feels that way to me. It feels like a deliberate, malevolent entity descending to thwart. I hate to drive in fog, it sets my teeth on edge to think of an accident, especially with Darius in the car. I hate to walk in fog—it frizzes my hair.

Today, I hate looking out of my balcony window and seeing a ghostly white. It reminds me of the specter that creeps on Bodie, and how my effort to help that situation only made it worse.

Arabella left in a huff last night, and I didn't try to stop her. She was angry that he was so dismissive to her when she really was trying to be on her best behavior and helpful at the same time. Right now, no good can come from them opening up a Cain discussion when they are irritated with each other.

Of course she's still loyal to him—I'm not worried about her causing trouble for him over her missing stepfather. But she needs time to cool off, and maybe...maybe there is something to what Bodie said to me last night. I was trying to manipulate him, like you might manipulate a child for their own good. Maybe it's not my place to intervene in his process over what happened to Cain.

I just love him so much, I can't stand to see him struggling.

Well, Jasmine...if you love him so much, why did you kick him out of his own bed last night?

Dr. Watkins, you should know the answer to that if you are so frickin' smart.

Because you were pissed off and also a little bit drunk and you didn't want to mouth off and create a big fight from one small frustrated exchange.

No. Because the fool needed to be checked. He might be the rock star, but he can't yell at Doc Gorgeous like that. If he had been yelling because his kit got lost in transit, okay. But he can't yell at me about personal stuff in front of the crew.

You yelled at him first, you know.

Shut up, Dr. Watkins.

Go make up with your man, Jasmine.

That's advice I will take, if he's awake. If he's sleeping I will wait, of course. I turn from the view of fog and crack open the door to the living area. The couch is empty, but the blankets are swirled in a mass like he slept there. Or at least tried.

A quick scan shows me there is a large bower of jasmine on the kitchenette counter.

I smile. Whenever I have a work triumph—like the day one of the Soundcrush trailers broke down but I still managed to get the band's equipment to the show on time— or we have the smallest thing to celebrate—like the anniversary of the day he showed up in the Lunar lounge parking lot— or if we have a rough day like yesterday when we get irritated with each other—which has happened a few times, because it's not easy to work together in this stressful situation, live together out of suitcases and parent together— I always find jasmine in the suite with a note from him.

I don't know how the man does that. Jasmine is not an easy flower to find. I guess he has some secret rider that he has someone—maybe Riley or Ariadne or more likely Penelope—adding to our hotel requirements before each stop, just in case he finds a need to flower-shower me.

The sweetness of the jasmine fills my senses and obliterates my residual irritation before I reach the note. It reads:

Jasmine,