Badass In My Bed 3 (Badass #3) by Rae Lynn Blaise Read Free Book Online Page B

I stay in this world with Blaine?
    Numbness creeps over me once more like a blanket, and I welcome it.
    It isn’t until we pass the gates to his community that I realize he’s not dropping me off at home.
    I sit up and turn his way. “Why are we at your house?”
    He pulls into the driveway and shuts the engine off. “I think you should come inside.”
    “Can we do this another night? I’m really tired and just wanted to go home.”
    He actually looks sincere. “I’m aware this is tough on you. I can be demanding, but it’s going to benefit us both, you know.”
    “I know.” My voice comes out with an edge. “Sorry. I really only wanted to go home to bed.”
    He removes the keys from the ignition. “I understand, but we’re supposed to be young and in love and out on the town. If we’re going to spend the next five years pretending to be in love, it’s probably a good idea for us to actually get to know each other for real. Spend some time together really talking.”
    He has a point. It is a good idea to get to know my husband and soon-to-be father of my child.
    “Outside the orchestra, I’m not a horrible guy.” He smiles, and for the first time there’s warmth in his eyes, transforming his features into something pleasant. Maybe I can do this. If there’s warmth in him when he isn’t performing—with the symphony or the public—then maybe this won’t be so bad.
    I follow him inside his house.
    I’ve been here before, briefly. Chrome, marble, glass. Tasteful, modern, no personality. It could have been decorated by anyone for anyone whose income was above half a million per year. This is where we’re going to live while married, he said. Probably sooner, since we’ll have no reason not to live together, now that everyone knows about us—and in a couple months, I’ll be pregnant. I’ll get rid of my little house and move in here.
    It looks more like a museum than a home.
    Blaine shows me to the living room, and he goes to the kitchen to make us drinks. Wanting something for background noise for this odd experience, I find the remote and turn the television on, flicking through the channels to find something appropriate. Not that there’s bound to be anything right for a “getting to know my fake husband” conversation.
    “…on all the things I didn’t say,” Dylan croons into the microphone, singing straight at the camera. “Words I never said sent you away.”
    My finger stalls on the button. I should turn the television off, hit mute, or run from the room, but the words he’s singing aren’t from any Fallen Angels song I know and I need to hear them. Only the band ends the verse with a C Sharp Minor chord, and it’s over, and they’re walking over to sit in tall stools in front of a crowd of screaming fans. A blonde host claps along with the audience, light blue cue cards in her hand. I missed the song.
    My heart pounds as I soak in the sight of Dylan’s dark eyes and scruffy hair as the host shakes his hands. I hate her because she’s touching him, breathing the same air as him, standing close enough to smell his cologne.
    “Welcome back. We’re here with Fallen Angels, arguably America’s favorite band right now and some of the world’s hottest musicians, am I right?” She looks to the audience, who fills the room with their appreciative screams.
    Two words on the bottom of the screen capture my attention.
    Previously recorded.
    How long ago \? It has to be after my visit; Dylan’s had a haircut. He looks edible in a gray tank top and dark jeans, but his eyes are haunted—or is that my imagination?
    Blaine walks into the living room and holds out a glass. “Here’s your water. Are you sure you don’t want sparkling water instead of flat?”
    Shut up! I take it from him. “I’m sure.”
    “Wine maybe?”
    “This is fine.” Dylan’s said something that made the audience swoon, but I’ve missed it because of Blaine’s annoying voice.
    Blaine sits at the opposite