It occurs to me that this is the shot of a lifetime—the one Ryner wants to see on the cover of Rolling Stone—of his rock star, his songwriter, and his photographer making out fervently. But he can’t have this shot, because all three of his artists have gone rogue, and there’s no one to take the picture.

We kiss for long minutes before I feel someone tugging me back by my shirt. I snap my eyes open and find out it is Ashton. I also realize he’s a step away from us. He’s not a part of the kiss anymore. He hasn’t been a part of the kiss for a while, I notice when my mind adjusts to the fact that there was only one tongue in my mouth for a few good seconds, if not minutes. My legs are clasped around Mal’s thigh. I’ve been riding it. Jesus.

“C’mon,” he whispers to both of us through a mostly closed mouth. “You’ve been soloing for a full minute now. People are starting to rub their genitals on the floor to get off.”

My eyes flare, and I look over at Callum, who stands up from the circle, turning toward the door. He grabs my camera before dashing out, and the thick, red cloud of lust I’m engulfed in evaporates. In a knee-jerk reaction, I launch myself after him, chasing him down the corridor.

“Callum, wait!”

He thunders toward the elevators, swinging the camera here and there. By the time I catch him punching the elevator button, I’m out of breath. I put a hand on his shoulder, but he turns around, swatting it.

“Don’t touch me.”

“Please,” I beg.

I don’t even know what I’m begging for. It’s pretty obvious what happened there got out of hand, that Mal and I shared more than a kiss. There were feelings there, too.

“Please, what? Please, let me make a fool out of you, Callum? Please, let me go suck someone else’s cock? Please, leave me alone so I can pick up where I left off with a man who so very willingly let me go?”

He screams in my face, and he is red and angry and no longer the Callum I know and feel comfortable and safe with. The elevator dings, and he walks in. I follow him.

“I wasn’t going to let you go, Rory. I was supposed to be the last man standing. I put up with your bullshit attire and stupid quirky dreams and boring colleagues.”

He stares at the corridor, the elevator doors still open. I don’t know what to tell him. I don’t even know if it’s worth coming clean about what happened, because this is a breakup, and even though I did something vile, he is being no less despicable.