Music Cures My Soul

Summary: Hayden and Paris are Hollywood's hottest couple. I mean, look at them. But behind the fortune and the fame...something else.

Something Hayden does everything in his power to hide.

Word Count: 2.4k

Hayden takes the long way home. To think.

And he thinks.

Thinks about what led him to this particular moment in his life. Everything that’s led him to the door of death. Everything that’s led him to this one decision that will ruin his entire life no matter what he chooses.

He’s already certain that he won’t share this with Paris.

He can’t.

She and her father haven’t spoken in years, but there was a time when he was her entire world.

She misses him, no matter how little she speaks of him.

Hayden can’t imagine she’d want him dead.

Or perhaps she would. Truthfully, he’s not quite certain.

But he doesn’t intend to find out.

He slips through their apartment door over an hour later. Tormented by the task at hand and struggling with his decision.

If he attempted to warn Paris and flee, maybe they’d be safe.

But she’d never understand. Could never understand…could she?

“Where the fuck have you been?” he hears her call, his eyes lifting from the floor.

He had been distracted. Walking into their living room with nothing else on his mind. Oblivious to her body curled up on the bed on the other side of the apartment. 

He sees her now. Legs strewn out beside her, silk nightgown adorning her body, brow raised in question. 

He hesitates, anxiously shoving his hands inside the pockets of his large coat. “Sorry…lost track of—”

“One hour, Hayden,” she reminds him, now pushing herself from the mattress as she begins to make her way toward where he stands. “One fucking hour and you didn’t even call—”

His lips purse together in a smirk. “Baby…my phone—”

“Well borrow someone else’s,” she hisses, tiny fists balling beside her hips. “I thought you were fucking dead or something.”

“Paris,” he can’t resist chuckling, although the look on her face indicates she doesn’t find this the least bit funny. “Relax, baby—”

“Relax?” She finally closes the distance between them, hands coming out to slap at his chest before he has a chance to realize what just happened. “You fucking relax—” Shove. “—don’t fucking tell me to fucking relax—” Shove. “—as if I wasn’t here all fucking night worried sick.” Shove.

He stumbles, laugh loud and boisterous, which only makes her assault that much more belligerent. 

He waits a moment to grab at her wrists and pull her steady, hands caught between their bodies as she struggles. “Darling, I need you to breathe.”

She huffs, narrowed eyes focusing on the tie around his neck, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

“And I need you to look at me,” he adds, although she only raises a brow and keeps her focus elsewhere. “Paris. Don’t make me ask you again.”

A beat. He can see the annoyance pass over her expression before she does oblige, rather haughtily.

For a moment, he just stares at her. Adoring those perfect features he’s studied every night as they lay in bed. Pink pouted lips. Beautiful green eyes. The gentle curve of her nose.

“I’m okay,” he whispers, and he watches her resolve fade. “See? I’m perfectly fine.”

“Hayden—”

“I always come back to you. Don’t I?” His head tilts, fingers stroking the skin of her wrists. “Could never leave you.”

It’s rare she lets him see this side of her. Rare she lets him see the fear that consumes her the moment he walks out that door.

“You do,” she agrees, and he offers a tender smile. “But don’t ever fucking do that again.”

“Deal,” he promises, releasing her hands to take hold of her chin. “Fucking missed you—”

He’s barely able to get the words out before he’s kissing her, tongue slipping past her lips as he tastes her. Reminds himself why it’s all worth it.

 She sighs into the rough intrusion, wrists slipping from his grasp as she wraps her arms around his neck to straighten up. Deepen the demanding show of affection. 

“I know,” she mumbles after a moment, tugging at his curls. “Couldn’t fucking wait for you to get home.”

“Yeah?” His hands find her waist, palms caressing the soft fabric draping over her curves. “God, fucking wore this just to hurt me, didn’t you?”

She chuckles lowly, the gentle smirk teasing her lips. “Know me so well, Tiger.”

He’s animalistic. Tossing her toward the couch like she’s weightless. Watching her fall onto her back as she gasps before he’s ripping his suit jacket from his shoulders.

He follows her like a predator following prey. Crawling across the cushions until he can slot himself between her thighs, feeling her nails scratch down his nice shirt.

She wraps his tie around her fist before tugging him down, teeth and tongues colliding with a fervent desire. He swallows the groan she makes at the feel of friction to her cunt, unable to resist grinding himself down once more just to hear it again.

His palms help him hover above her while her fingers move down his back and around his hips, finding the belt so she can undo it quickly.

The moment there’s a bit more room to work, she slips inside, finding his cock and feeling him out. Eliciting a soft curse from between his teeth as his face nuzzles between her neck and shoulder.

He presses open-mouthed sloppy kisses to the skin he can reach as she squeezes him gently, flicking her thumb across the top until he rocks against her touch.

The rage seeping through the pores of his skin becomes evident. Makes itself known. Because maybe he can take this misplaced wrath and fuck it out of his system. Take the one good thing in his life and use her to find peace. Find relief. In more ways than one.

Things move quickly. She tugs his trousers down his legs as he balls the soft material of her nightgown around her hips.

She guides him to her, head rolling back as her jaw drops, that familiar first thrust exactly what she’s been missing. 

And being this close to him is the only thing strong enough to ease the ache in her chest. The racing thoughts of his demise and fear that she’d never see him again.

She’s desperate to remind herself that he’s all right. That he’s safe. Her hands, lips, and skin attempting to connect themselves to every part of him.

A part of her wishes he’d share the events of the night with her. Wishes she could find comfort in the details of his disappearance.

But alas, that’s never been his style. He’s made it abundantly clear that she is to remain separate from the shame of his second life. 

The times he does allow her in, she feels pleased. Desperate, almost, to prove her assistance and her place at his side.

But those moments come and go quickly if tonight is any indication.

“Fucking asshole,” she whispers after a particularly harsh thrust, although her response isn’t to his actions. But rather to his disobedience earlier tonight.

And he smirks, having figured as much. “I know.”

His fingers find her jaw. Tugs her head to the side so he can kiss down her neck. Squeezes the gentle skin.

She hooks her leg around his hip before arching her back into his touch. “Shit…could fucking kill you.”

“I know.”

“Don’t ever….ever fucking do that again—”

“Mhm—”

“Don’t make me miss you like that—”

“Never, baby—”

“Shit…I mean it, Hay.”

He pulls back, rhythm stuttering but never quitting. He finds her eyes. Takes note of the pensive look on her face, despite how high in the clouds she is.

“I know,” he repeats, fingers stroking the soft skin of her cheek before his thumb finds her bottom lip. Tugs it down until she sucks in a sharp gasp and holds it. “Won’t do it again. Promise.”

She seems pleased with this. Gaze softening as she fists his hair once more until their tongues have melded together, erasing each thought and fear.

However, she doesn’t miss the anger he’s attempting to subdue. Each action is rough. Each thrust inside. Each grit of his teeth as he curses.

Their sex has never really been tender. Affectionate moments, maybe, but never sweet. So this doesn’t really come as a surprise to her.

But she’s not naive. Knows there’s something he’s not telling her. Knows there’s something he’s hiding. Attempting to work out through his aggravated movements.

He flips her onto her stomach, taking her from behind, forcing her thighs apart. She loves it. Feeds off it.

But still, can’t help wondering if there’s a reason he hasn’t shared the details of his meeting.

Once they’re left to catch their breath, something shifts. He kisses up her thighs. Gingerly. Coaxingly. Lovingly.

Cleans her up. Cups her cheek and murmurs things like, “So good, baby. Fuck. So fucking good for me. Can never leave you. Never leave the taste of you. The feel.”

He settles into her embrace, head buried in the crook of her neck, legs tangled with hers. Leaves little kisses along her jaw and collarbone. 

They stay on the couch for hours like this. Another rare occurrence. 

She wonders how long it will last.

“Oh, wow, that’s so awesome to hear, man,” Jimmy replies from his side of the desk as Hayden nods his thanks. “So, tell us a little bit more about this look.”

Hayden glances toward the photo currently propped up on the table as he offers a smile. “Custom Louis Vuitton, of course.”

“Of course,” Jimmy agrees as they both chuckle.

“Yeah, it was great. It was really flattering to get the invitation at all,” Hayden recalls as he throws an arm over the back of the couch. “The Met has always been just this pinnacle of success and I felt honored to be a part of it.”

“You looked great,” Jimmy quickly interjects as a couple of people in the audience cheer. Then, Jimmy pulls up a second photo, sliding it in front of the first. A photo of him and Paris, and now the crowd really lets loose. “I mean…yeah, right? You both did.”

Hayden can’t resist laughing as the room cheers and fawns over the photo of them cuddled on the carpet. He has to admit it is one of his favorite photos. “Yeah, she looked amazing. Not a surprise, of course.”

“No, not at all.” Jimmy grins as he takes a closer look at the photo. “Was it kind of nerve-wracking to walk together? Or are you guys used to that?”

Hayden shrugs. “I mean, a little? With so many amazing people in one room, you know? But she’s been going for years, and so she really just kind of led me along. Made it a lot easier to have her by my side. Especially because I knew nobody would be looking at me if she was there.”

More laughter as Jimmy shakes his head. “What? No. You looked great out there, you looked great. That’s so sweet, man. That’s great. You two are doing good?” 

“Yeah, we’re really good,” Hayden nods before his eye catches something just off to the right of Jimmy’s shoulder. 

A hooded figure. A face he doesn’t recognize. Stare locked on Hayden as he weaves between the crew and their large cameras before disappearing down the exit hallway.

Hayden can feel his muscles recoil, every nerve ending on fire as he straightens up. For a moment, he doesn’t speak. Can only focus on who that face was.

And why they’d be here.

The studio goes quiet for a moment before Jimmy barrels on to the next question. “And Paris has been doing this for quite some time, right? For those who don’t know, her father is Dezi Hendrix.”

A few cheers in the audience as Hayden feels his blood run cold.

They never told him they were going to bring up Dezi.

Slowly, he turns, the coincidence of the hooded figure followed by Dezi’s name a bit too suspicious. 

He meets Jimmy’s eye.

“She used to go to wrestling matches with him as a kid,” Jimmy tells the audience as they coo. “I heard you’re a big fan of Dezi’s career, is that true?”

Hayden’s fingers flex. He’s never said that once in his entire fucking life. His jaw begins to clench as his teeth grit. He has to stay calm. Has to…has to—

“Yeah,” he manages to smile, the peeved expression slipping away quickly. “Uh, yeah. Been following his career since I was a kid myself.”

The lie comes out easily. Perhaps too easily.

But that’s what Hayden’s been doing his entire life.

Lying.

It's all he does now. Lies to the people around him. Lies to his friends. Lies to the people he sells the drugs to.

Lies to Paris.

The moment the interview is over, he disappears. Slips between the curtains as they cheer him off and Jimmy wraps up the show, without a single look back.

He scours the hallways for the hooded figure. Looks over the face of everyone he passes. Grabs shoulders to turn them around and face him. 

Nothing.

He knows why he saw the man. Knows why that question about Dezi was slipped into Jimmy’s cards.

He never agreed to the assignment.

It’s been two days. He’s done nothing but think. Think about the cost. The consequences. The effects it would have on Paris.

Paris.

He knows she knows something is off. Sees it every time she looks at him. She wants to ask. Wants to know.   

He almost told her yesterday. But he couldn’t.

He can’t.

He wants to take her and run. Run as far away as they can fucking go. 

He makes it back to his dressing room before collapsing onto the couch. Hands cemented to his face as he yells. Loudly. Angrily.

Tormented by the nightmare that follows him through the night and into the day. 

If he doesn’t agree, the consequences will find him. 

Find them.

What choice does he have?

After a moment of silence, his chest heaving, he reaches for his new phone. Types in the only number they gave him to contact them by.

Hesitates, his finger hovering over the green button.

This was only a warning. The next time he sees that hooded figure, it’ll be inside his home. With her.

And he can’t fucking let that happen.

When the voice answers, he takes a deep breath. Decides then and there to throw his life away.

For her.

“I’m in.”

Previous:

~ Sex, Drugs, Etc. | 3. Strangers in the Night