Andrew jams a tissue up his nose to stop the bleeding. I don’t even feel remotely sorry for fucking up his face.
“Now…” I grab his elbow and steer him out into the living room, “…walk outside with me and wave, so Mallory knows I didn’t kill you.”
He glances down at my foot. “Seriously, what’d you do to your foot? Is that why you came home?”
“Don’t worry about why I came home.” I have no plans to toss Pamela into this theater of absurdity by admitting to Andrew that she called me. She’d probably be thrilled to know she caused so much turmoil. And he’d probably take it as a sign that she wants him back.
“Mark let you leave?” he asks.
“He gave us the weekend off.”
“Damn. You must be doing good work. He never cuts us any slack.”
I hate the part of me that wants to discuss the recording sessions and ask for Andrew’s opinion on a few of the things we’re trying out for this album. Out of all the musicians in Hollywood, why the fuck did I have to pick this chaos-addicted man-child to be my mentor?
“Did he let you go because you hurt your foot?”
I stop walking and give him a quick shove. “Jesus Christ, you nosy prick. Mallory broke your giant gaudy vase and I cut up my foot on the glass. Ya happy now?”
“Fuck,” he breathes out. “Oh, fuck.”
“Yeah. Exactly.”
“She broke it?”
“You’re kinda focused on the wrong thing for someone who’s sorry.”
“No, no, it’s not that. I really was trying to apologize to her. I didn’t mean to piss her off even more.”
“It was an accident.” I give him a sideways glance. “She wasn’t going to change her mind and jump into bed with you, though. Roses or not.”
He has the nerve to act insulted. “That’s not why I sent them.”
“Sure it’s not.”
“So, are you headed back to Vancouver now?” he asks.
“Don’t worry about where I’m headed or when.”
“I didn’t ask…because…She’s not why I asked.”
“Yeah, but see, I don’t trust you anymore.”
“I’m sorry,” he whines.
“No more visiting Mallory at work.”
“She told you about that too, huh?”
I ignore his question. “I’m not fucking around. If you’re sincere, really sorry, still want to be friends or ever work together again—”
“I am, Chaser. I swear.”
“We’ll see.”
I finally step out of his madhouse and he follows me, stopping to wave at Mallory.
She hesitantly lifts her hand and wiggles her fingers at us but doesn’t get out of her car.
Andrew twitches and bounces from foot to foot. I sense he’s planning to attempt another hug, so I back away.
“We’ll talk?” he asks.
“Give it time.”
“Good luck with the album.”
“Thanks.”
I limp my way over to the car. Mallory starts the engine before I reach her. Guess she’s as eager to get the hell out of here as I am.
“Nice touch having him come outside with you, so I’d know you didn’t kill him,” she says without glancing over.
“Liked that, huh?”
She snorts as she reverses out of his driveway but doesn’t answer.
“He’s seriously fucked up.”
She flicks a no-kidding glance at me before putting the car in drive. “I hadn’t noticed.”
I blow out a long breath. Why the fuck do I feel compelled to tell her this? “He wanted to apologize to you. I guess he realized whatever he said to you was pretty shitty and he’s worried he hurt your feelings.”
Her mouth twists from side to side. “I’m done talking about this, Chaser.”
“Are you sure? You still sound pissed.”
She’s silent while she pulls into our driveway and turns off the ignition. Before answering, she unsnaps her seatbelt and turns to face me. “I hate that you trusted Pamela more than me.”
“That’s not true.” I stare out the window, not sure circling back to last night is the best idea when we should be moving forward. “It wasn’t Pamela.”
“But you said she called you.”
“She did. That’s why I came home.” I tap my knuckles against the window and stare at the shrubs lining the driveway. “When I got here, I realized how stupid that was. I do trust you, Mallory, I swear.”
“But?”
“Those flowers were delivered. He used to joke about giving pink roses to the girl he’s—”
“Ohh,” she breathes out. “You know I don’t care about stuff like that, right?”
“I know.”
“I don’t even like roses.”
I pick up her hand and kiss the back of it. “What do you like?”
“Sunflowers, daisies, irises, tulips…but I don’t need flowers, I need you.”
Should I really keep picking at every last thread? I think we need to if we’re going