by Kacey Shea
“This is good,” I say absently. “Isolated incident.”
“Seems so.”
“Then let’s get down to business and make sure something like this never happens again.”
“Uh, Miss Miller.” It’s Casey, or Lipshitz, as the guys call him. I don’t know why he’s here or why I haven’t noticed sooner.
“Yes?”
“A word. Or rather, a minute please?”
“I need to meet with my security team.”
“It’ll only be a minute. Five tops. Promise.”
“Go.” Brian nods. “We’ll start assignments and you can approve them when you get back.”
“Thanks,” I say and follow Casey out into the hotel hallway. “Is there a problem?”
“I, uh . . .” He fiddles with his phone, then holds it out to me. “Mr. Collins would like to speak with you. He’s on the line.”
I take the phone and hold it up to my ear. “Hello?”
“Miss Miller. You’re a difficult woman to track down.”
I inwardly wince at his observation. I’ve been avoiding his calls since Austin posted the last video. Sending his calls to voicemail was immature. Then I got caught up in the responsibilities of the job and never reached back out to him. I take a few steps down the empty hallway, away from Casey. “I apologize for that. It’s been busy.”
“Not too busy to make another video, though. Some might wonder whether you’re more interested in a career in Hollywood than security with all the acting you’ve been doing.”
“Pardon?” I twist to see Casey lean against the wall outside the meeting room. He whistles and taps his fingers as if he has no worries in the world. I’m pretty sure he’s out of earshot, but I take a few more steps to be sure.
“Let’s cut the shit. Yeah?” There’s a condescending edge to Vince’s tone that causes me to bristle. “Can I be frank?”
“By all means, please.” I don’t mask the incredulity from my voice.
“I don’t like you.”
What the fuck is this guy’s problem? “Okay.”
“I don’t trust you. I would have never hired you if I hadn’t been pushed into the decision.”
“Please. Don’t hold back now,” I say at his sudden pause.
“I won’t have you running this show. Three Ugly Guys are a dime a dozen. They make money for us because we know how to market them. How to pull the next top single and shove it down listeners’ throats until they claim to love it. We set up the press events. We have all the connections. I could easily do the same with any other band.”
I should bite my lip. He’s an ass and I won’t change that, but I can’t help myself. “Sounds like you appreciate your talent. Respect them, too.”
“Please.” He drags out the word. “Don’t act like you care. You’re using that band like everyone else does, to get whatever it is you want. So, Miss Miller, what exactly is it that you want?”
“I’m so sorry to disappoint, but I have no ulterior motives.” Not exactly true, but I’m not about to confess my feelings for Austin to anyone, let alone this asshole.
“Everyone has a motive.”
“I think I’ve had enough of this phone call. I need to get back to my security team. The one that keeps your expendable band safe each night. Though maybe you don’t care about that?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he chides as if I’m a child. “No one wants to buy concert tickets when there’s a threat of being blown to bits. It’s a public relations nightmare I don’t want to repeat.”
I want to tell this guy off, but this time I do bite back my retort.
“Anyway, if you insist on being difficult, that’s better for me. One more video with Austin, or any of the guys, and you’re off the job.”
Off the job? He thinks he can fire me? I don’t like the way the thought settles over me. I don’t want to go back to LA. Not yet. I don’t want to be apart from Austin. I like my work, and how every day brings new challenges. I like spending time with Austin.
“I have a contract.”
“The one my corporate lawyers drafted. I’m aware.” He chuckles through the line. “So, don’t cross me, stay off the fucking internet, and you’ll finish your contract. I’ll even add in a little bonus if you make it to the end. Another grand? That’s fair.”
I don’t want his money. I don’t like any of this or how it eats away at the integrity of my position. But I can’t seem to open my mouth, or form a decent comeback.
“I’ll take your silence as agreement. Have a wonderful day, Miss Miller.”
I don’t bother muttering my good-bye because without even checking the phone’s screen, I know he’s already hung up. Inhale. Exhale. I try to calm my nerves along with my spiraling thoughts. I can’t believe this is the guy Austin works with. Does he know what a horrible human being he is? Does he care? I shake off the questions and straighten my spine. I don’t have time for this. Today’s agenda is filled down to the hour, and I have a new hater to prove wrong. Vincent Collins doesn’t like me? Fuck him. I’m being paid to do a job, and I won’t give him a reason to doubt that I’m fully qualified or committed.
28
Austin
A day that started out so damn promising—Jayla in my bed, finally in my arms, and working her way into my heart—quickly turns for the worse with the news of Coy’s harassment of Jess. I can’t believe that fucker came after her again. And yet I can. It takes a few hours, but Rachel Kinsley returns my message and I thank God she’s a workaholic. She promises to get started on a settlement offer immediately so it’ll be waiting for Coy’s lawyers Monday morning.
That should set my happy-go-lucky attitude back on track, but my mood sours with each passing hour. I want Jayla. To myself. Back in my hotel suite where we can make up for thirteen years of pent-up sexual attraction. Yeah, it might be immature and I’m worse than a little kid going through separation anxiety with his favorite blankie. Only I’m a grown-ass man, and Jayla isn’t some object I can lock away in my room.
Though, the thought of being locked in a room with Jayla sounds about the best thing in the world right now.
I don’t like how our paths rarely cross today, but that’s how it works out and when they do, it’s all business. On the way to interviews. In a crowded room of fans. Mingling with sponsors. Even backstage before the show affords no privacy with my bandmates and their women in attendance. Pisses me off even further, because she’s right there, not five yards from me, and I can’t ask her the questions that’ve been racing through my mind alongside images of her naked and falling apart while we fucked.
When can we do that again?
Will you be mine?
I want you to be mine.
Won’t you ride my dick, forever?
Fuck. I sound like a dirty version of the intro to “Mr. Rodgers Neighborhood.”
“Hiya.” Casey pokes his head inside the green room. “Twenty minutes till show time.”
“Thanks, Lipshitz. You’re the shiz.” Trent lifts his chin to nod at Casey.
Casey’s lips pinch together, his smiles falls, but he leaves before saying another word.
My body thrums with impatient anticipation. My knee bounces and my fingers tap along the black fabric of my jeans. I can’t wait to get out on that stage to expel all this energy. I’d rather work it out with Jayla, but at this point I have no clue if or when that’s gonna happen again.
My gaze finds hers across the room. She speaks into her headpiece, but her stare is focused on the tablet she carries around for most of the shows. She’s working. The alpha leader and queen of her domain. I witness how the security team regards her with respect and trust. Each time I watch her work my chest swells with pride. She’s doing her thing, and fuck if that doesn’t make her even more attractive.
My phone rattles with an incoming text from where it rests on the small table at my side. A glance at the screen sobers my hopes regarding Jayla. Another photo link. Another chance to right a wrong, or mor
e likely, another chance to fuck up everything good in my life. Every time I open one of these emails I put my place in the band at risk. If this ever came out, the guys might understand, but the public would never forgive me. It’s why I pay the guy who finds them for me a fucking pretty penny for his silence. Part of me wants to tell Jayla, but I’m scared it’ll give her a reason to push me away for good. She’d remember Brianna, I think. She helped me watch her sometimes. But I don’t think she’d be okay with the desperate measures I’ve taken to try and find Bri. Something like this could obliterate all of the trust I’ve earned.
I pick up the phone and delete the text. It’s sent from a burner phone, and I doubt anyone could decipher the meaning of the message, but after Jayla saw the note sent to my room last night, I’m certain this would spark curiosity on her part. As it is, I’m surprised she didn’t push me about the hotel note. Oh, right. That’s because I distracted her with my mouth.
My cell rings before I set it back down. I catch my mom’s name on the caller ID and let loose an audible groan. I’m not in the mood for her shit. Not ever, but especially not now. However, she only calls when she needs something and she will keep calling until I eventually answer.
“Austin,” she says, sounding surprised that I pick up. In her defense, I usually don’t on the first try.
“Hey, Mom.” I keep my voice low, but Trent catches my greeting and meets my stare with concern. He’s the only one who understands the depth of turbulence when it comes to my relationship with my mother. Right now I can’t handle his pity, or attention. Pushing to my feet, I stride past everyone, including Jayla, to take the call in the hall. “What do you need?”
“So, it’s gonna be like that?”
“You’re the one who makes it like that.” I scrub my hand over my face, wishing she’d get to the point. She needs something. Most likely cash.
“You always were an ungrateful child.” Her words shouldn’t affect me, but even after all these years, they fire me up.
My jaw tightens. “Oh? What should I be grateful for? The times you left me to take care of your boyfriend’s kid so you could go out and party? How about the times you said I’d amount to nothing? Told me I was an idiot for all the hours I spent practicing guitar? Or how about the times you kicked me out of the house?”
“You ever gonna grow up and let that shit go? You know I did the best I could. I put a roof over your head. We always had money for groceries. I even got you your first guitar. Remember that? No? You conveniently only remember my failings, not all the times I clothed and fed your ass.”
She’s right about one thing. I need to let it go. I shouldn’t hold on to this stuff; it doesn’t serve me to have one foot in the past. I shouldn’t get this annoyed by her calls. She’s always been the same woman. I can’t expect her to change, and I shouldn’t get so angry when she’s already shown her character.
I should cut all ties. Leave the past in the past. Except I can’t. Not when Brianna’s still unaccounted for. If there’s a chance she ever comes back, she might contact my mom, and my mom’s just spiteful enough to not tell me.
“Have you heard from Bri?”
“Steve’s kid? Why would I hear from her? I told you what happened.” I remember. I’d been on the road. Three Ugly Guys was finally gaining success. We’d cut an EP that was blowing up the radio charts. I hadn’t been home in years, not since I left my mom’s for good. Steve liked to get high, so much so that he started dealing from the apartment. It wasn’t safe. Not for me, a teenage kid, but even worse for his little girl. She spent half of her time at her mom’s, and when she was with Steve, it was mostly me who looked after her.
The last day I saw Brianna, I threatened to call CPS on Steve if he didn’t stop. She was six years old. Steve and I got into a fist fight that left my body and my ego bloody and bruised. I was going to move out when I turned eighteen anyway. Steve gave me the push to pack my shit and never look back. Only life’s not so simple. I was the only one who protected Brianna, and after I left she must have felt so alone.
Two years ago my mom called in a panic after Brianna showed up out of the blue, claiming her dad threw her out. While Mom stepped out on the patio to call Steve and light up a cigarette, Brianna ransacked the apartment and made off with all the cash and what few valuables she could find. Steve and Mom had been long broken up by then, and apparently Brianna had been skipping school and hanging with a bad crowd. Local law enforcement found her cell in a trash can at the Greyhound station a few days later. Given her behavior leading to her disappearance, foul play wasn’t suspected.
No one had heard from or seen her since, and from talking to a few of her friends, we think she might have made her way to LA. Which is why my mom reached out. Brianna had always looked up to me. But Bri never came to see me—if she even made it to LA. She’d be seventeen today, and the private investigator I hired to locate her is convinced she’s one of thousands hiding in plain sight as a victim of human trafficking. That or another unthinkable possibility, but I refuse to believe she’s dead.
“I’m just asking,” I grumble into the line so I won’t go off on my mother. I blame them for not being better parents, but mostly I blame myself. If I’d been braver, I would have actually called Child Protective Services on my mom and Steve. Then maybe this would have never happened. If I hadn’t left, or had checked in more, maybe Brianna wouldn’t have felt the need to run.
“That girl won’t come here; her daddy and I aren’t together. And she stole my jewelry and two hundred dollars too.”
“Which I replaced.”
“But she doesn’t know that. And before you bite my head off, I’m not mad about it. Brianna was a good kid. It’s the teen years that changed her. Shame too. Waste. She was such a pretty girl.”
There’s nothing I can say to that. I’m tired of this conversation, and the walk down memory lane.
“But I didn’t call to talk about Bri,” my mom snaps. I’m almost relieved for the change in topic. I already know why she’s calling. It’s the same every time. “I’m a little short on rent.”
“How much?”
“Whatever you can spare. My hours got cut this month. It’s been a struggle. Did I tell you Dale moved out?”
Dale? Last I remembered she was with Eric. Or was it Ron? I honestly can’t keep up and stopped trying. My mom’s co-dependence on men is something I’ve accepted. She attracts guys who are users—namely she supports them financially because she doesn’t like being alone. Until she decides she deserves more, nothing will change.
“Three grand enough?”
“That’s perfect, sweetie.”
Sweetie. I roll my eyes. Pet names only roll off her lips when I send her cash. It’s okay. I have the money. I’d set her up with more if I wasn’t certain she’d blow it all on one of her conniving boyfriends.
“I saw you on the news. You’re all over Facebook with those videos you’re making.”
“Yeah.”
“The woman on there with you? She reminds me of your friend from high school. The one who lived across from us.”
I can’t tell if she actually recognizes Jayla or she’s just generalizing that all black women look alike to her, but for whatever reason I don’t tell her it’s actually Jayla in the videos.
“Speaking of that”—I swallow a surge of anger—“did I ever get any letters? Back in high school?”
“In the mail?” She laughs. “Honey, how would I know? That was over ten years ago.”
“They would have been from Jayla Miller. Our neighbor. After she moved.”
“Jayla! That was her name. She had an older brother too, didn’t she?”
“The letters?”
“Austin, I don’t know about any letters.”
“It’s fine.” But it’s not. Whatever shortcomings my mom has, she’s not much of a liar. I take a little solace from the fact she wasn’t so hateful to keep Jayla’s letters from me. It was Steve. I’m sure of it more than ever.
The green room door swings open and my bandmates emerge, along with the girls. Trent tips his chin toward the waiting carts ready to drive us through the concourse and onto the stage.
I hold up one finger to indicate I’m coming. “Hey, I’ve got to go,” I say to my mom.
Jayla leaves the guys at the golf carts and struts over before I can end the call.
“Sure, of course. The money? Can you wire it Western Union? I don’t know how much longer I can put off the manager. He’s been leaving notices all week.”
“Yeah. Sure.” I don’t care about the money. And as bad as it sounds, it doesn’t bother me knowing my mom is struggling financially when I’m not. It doesn’t matter how much I send, she’ll always need more. “I’ll send it tomorrow. ’Bye.”
“’Bye, Austin.”
I pocket my cell phone and breathe out in relief. She won’t call for at least another six months.
Jayla catches my gaze and lifts her brow. “What was that about?”
“Nothing.” I shake my head. A heavy cloud of guilt settles on my shoulders. I should tell Jayla about my mom. The call. Brianna. The private investigator I send way too much money each month to find lost girls. But I can’t put any of this on Jayla, and I won’t risk pushing her away now that we just found our way back. The pressing need to find Brianna, wherever she is, eradicates any regret I have about keeping all of this from Jayla. For now, at least.
“Nothing,” she repeats, leveling me with a stare that calls bullshit.
I roll my eyes and paste on a smile that doesn’t feel quite right. “Another sponsorship offer because of our kickass videos.” The lie tastes bitter on my lips but I push forward anyway. I swing my arm around her shoulder and walk us toward the waiting carts. “Hey! Why don’t we tape a new one after the show? It’s been a while and I can’t wait to get my hands on you again.”
She wriggles out from beneath my arm, a scowl hiding her beautiful features.
I stop walking. “Jayla?”
