by Max Henry
“Do you love it?” Cassie delves carefully.
“I love the music.”
“And the touring?”
“I don’t know.” A family sits a few tables across, and I find myself envious of their situation. A feeling that has become all too common the past year. “I can’t do it forever.”
“Of course not.” My sister huffs a little breath out her nose. “Can you imagine doing anything else, though?”
“Not with the same conviction.”
“There’s your answer.” My baby sister reaches across the table, fingers coaxing my face back to hers. “Get out of your head, Toby. You take far too much on when there is an entire team dedicated to ensuring your success.”
“They don’t know us as well as I do.”
“Because you won’t let them.” Cassie nods toward my vibrating phone. “Exhibit A.”
I reject the call. “A tabloid spread isn’t the right way to go about revealing who we are behind the music,” I state, firm in my conviction. “What happens after we’ve let all of ourselves go?” I tilt my head and study her reaction. “What do I have left when everyone in this world knows me as intimately as I do myself?”
She smiles softly, taking my hand in hers. “You have your freedom.”
FOURTEEN
Jeanie
“Hometown” - Cleopatrick
Charlie Hunnam fights his way across my TV screen, but I barely register the finely-honed body as I blindly stab the phone in my lap. I don’t care how many times this fucker rejects me; I have all goddamn night and a charger cable attached to the wall.
I won’t be the first to break.
I may have had a few more drinks after Kelly left—so sue me. The phone falls quiet where it sits tucked in my folded legs, and I shift my finger to redial.
“Sixteen.”
I stiffen, the phone sliding so that it sits back against my calves and the screen pointed at the most inappropriate part of me possible. “Shit.”
“And now I wonder why I answered,” Toby drones from between my heated legs.
“I didn’t expect you to answer.” I lift the device to a more civilized level.
“You hammered my phone all night, and you didn’t expect me to answer.” He falls silent as thought pondering the thought. I can’t tell what he does; he isn’t within view.
I have a perfect shot of what I assume to be Toby’s ceiling.
“What do you want, Jeanie?”
What do I want? “You walked away from me.” Top answer, you drunk fool.
“Yes. I did.”
He doesn’t disconnect. I cling to that. “Why?”
“The conversation was over.” He comes into view and I have to clutch my throat to stop the gasp from escaping. “You look like shit.”
And he looks like a fucking wet dream come to life. Literally, wet. He has no goddamn shirt on. “Were you in the shower?”
“I was.” No wonder the calls took ages to reject. “Do you have any idea how irritating it is to hear the fucking thing ring out every few minutes?”
“Why didn’t you switch it off?” I lift an eyebrow.
“What if it had been somebody I actually wanted to hear from?” The fucker smirks and lifts the phone. I get a somewhat blurred but interesting enough view of what has to be his bedroom. “What else did you have to say, then?”
“Huh?” I track every roll and swell of his incredibly defined chest and shoulders while he settles against the headboard.
“You said the conversation wasn’t finished.” Toby’s takes a moment to close his eyes. “Focus, Jeanie. How much have you had to drink?”
He’s so damn handsome in that troubled, rebellious way. “Who says I’m drunk?” Harsh lines and a firm jaw.
“The mostly empty bottle of Wild Turkey tucked beneath your arm.” His lips do that lopsided thing that sets my gut on fire.
I scan the outer edges of my image and spot the neck of the bottle against my side. The label isn’t visible, though. “How did you know it’s Wild Turkey?”
He draws a deep breath, bringing that chest higher. “I tour with an alcoholic, remember? I know bottles by their label.” Right. “Your pressing issue, Jeanie,” he coaxes. “Or this call is over.”
“Help me rewrite the story,” I word-vomit.
He lifts one eyebrow.
“If Devon wants to run the story, anyway, make sure it’s told right.”
“You want me to help you put out bullshit about me that I never sanctioned in the first place?”
“Damage control?” I squeak.
He tilts his head to one side with a sigh; the joints make a loud crack. “There is no story. Okay? There’s no conversation between us.” His finger waves between himself and the screen. “And there is no fucking article.”
“I won’t give up.” This jerk answered my goddamn call. He might not know it yet, but the idea grows on him. “I’ll keep calling.” And damn it if I won’t be the one to collect when he’s ready to harvest.
“Then I’ll continue to reject them.”
He kills the connection, once again pushing me back into the water. And I’m the one stupid enough to swim back to his shore. I hit the damn Dial icon, apparently not done with the humiliation for one night. It takes a solid twenty-eight minutes, but he finally picks up again.
“I’ll get a new fucking number if you keep this up.”
“Then do it. And I’ll find out that one too.” I’ve switched locations, my phone rested on its charging stand beside my bed.
“Were you born this fucking annoying, or did something happen to you as a child to make you this screwed up?”
“And yet you answer my call,” I tsk, closing my book and setting it aside.
“Purely to tell you to fuck off.” He disconnects.
I call again. The earlier shame has softened somewhat now this becomes an amusing little game. Eight minutes before he picks up.
“Fuck. Off.” And hangs up.
The next time he connects, I beat him to the first word. “Face it; you love hearing my voice.”
He snorts in disdain and disconnects.
I reach out to tap the screen, but to my surprise it already lights up with his incoming call. I lift the device and slide to answer. “I need to sleep, Jeanie.” Toby lays back on a black pillow, his multi-colored hair in stark contrast as he places a hand to his head. “Knock it off. Okay?”
Goddamn it, he’s fucking handsome. Between Toby and Rey, his parents totally won the lottery. “I’ll stop when you promise me an exclusive.”
“Here’s one.” He drags the hand on his head down his face. “Annoying reporter kills rock star through sleep deprivation.”
“Funny, but no. I need something better than that.”
He looks at me then, as in fixes his incredibly sharp eyes on my image and frowns slightly. I take a sneaky screenshot. His gaze narrows. “Did you just fucking do a screen grab?”
Shit. I didn’t think the shutter sound was that loud. “No.” The lie must be all over my damn face, though, because he sits up straighter and does the same.
“No way,” I groan. “I look terrible!”
“Eye for an eye.” He quirks an eyebrow. “Stop calling or I publish it to our social pages with a less than flattering caption.”
He fucking wouldn’t dare. “Do that, and I’ll make up a story on why you felt the need to talk to me via video in bed.” I tilt my head.
He scowls. “Fucking vulture.”
“Goddamn princess.”
His brow twitches and then he snorts, the most alluring smile cracking wide his full lips. “Princess?”
“It was the first thing that came to mind.” I roll my eyes.
He still smiles—damn him. “And you call yourself a writer.”
“No.” My jaw sets hard. “I call myself a journalist. There’s a difference. One generally pens fiction, while the other reports the truth.”
His brow dives, mouth twisted. “Are you sure a
bout that?”
Asshole. “Give me my exclusive.”
He fidgets with the phone, absently asking, “You’ll leave me alone if I give you an exclusive?”
“Yes.”
His fidgeting continues. “Good. Because I have that promise captured. I love the new recording feature.”
“You absolute—”
“Name the place.” Toby places a hand behind his head, arm bent in a way that he can’t seriously expect me to think straight. “And not that shithole of a bar you tried to get me into.”
“I’ll send you the details when I figure one out. What day?”
“Pick one next week.”
I can’t believe I finally made the asshole break. “I’ll send you details in the morning.” A sardonic smile grips my lips. “Goodnight, princess.” I reach to disconnect when he stops me.
“Jeanie?” My name is a mere murmur.
“Mm?”
“It is the morning, vulture.” He hangs up first.
I set the device down with a loaded sigh, pulling the first full lungful of air in a while. I need to be strategic about the place I choose, somewhere not too private. If he’s allowed the space to play me like he did just now, I could easily fall victim to his toxic charm.
That is, if I haven’t already.
FIFTEEN
Toby
“Talk Like Thunder” - VANT
She chose a goddamn train station. There’s no shortage of crowds amongst the brick halls, and it takes me fucking forever to follow her weird-ass scavenger hunt clues and track Jeanie down. Seated on the bank of plastic chairs, she buries herself in a denim coat, a thick wool scarf wrapped around her slender neck. There must be at least sixty people within earshot of her, and yet she looks fucking alone.
I reach the end of the row of seats and twist to get past a woman and her enormous handbag laid at her feet. Jeanie lifts her gaze, watching me silently while I navigate the narrow aisle to where she sits—in the goddamn center.
“I know I said I didn’t want to go to that dive bar, but a fucking train station?” My ass hits the plastic with a groan from the flimsy design. I keep my hands buried in my coat pockets.
She drags her gaze the length of me, and it unnerves me that I can’t decipher if it’s out of interest or criticism. “My guess is you wanted somewhere neutral. It doesn’t get much more everyday than this.” She lifts one hand to gesture to the atrium where we reside.
“It’ll get quiet soon once the morning rush ends.”
“It’s after ten,” she points out. “I think most people are at work.”
“I guess.” She coated her lips in a deep shade of red today. It makes me think of blood, but not in a creepy horror way, more like a vampire vixen filled with desire.
I look away.
I don’t know what I expected when I walked into the Better Beats offices, but she was not what my mind’s eye had conjured up. Perhaps a pallid, underfed woman with greasy hair? Or a rat who spends ninety percent of their life under fluorescent lights surviving on a bottomless coffee pot. I don’t know. I just didn’t expect the woman who wants to ruin my goddamn life to look like a fucking angel sent to save my soul.
She’s too pretty. To alluring with her eclectic style. Far too pleasing on the eye for someone who has no scruples about airing all of my private life.
The rustle of her tote draws my attention back to Jeanie, and I use my periphery to track her as she pulls a notepad out of her bag, a pen tucked in the rings. So old school. Everybody uses digital technology today, and it makes me wonder if this is some way of avoiding her asshole boss tracking every word. “Don’t see that much anymore.” I jerk my chin toward the paper on her thighs.
“I prefer it. It feels more intimate.” She seems to stumble over the natural choice of words. “As in, creative intimacy.” A laugh falls from her lips. “Not the other sort.” She tucks her hair behind the ear closest to me. A nervous trait, perhaps, but one that revealed the fine cut of her jaw.
She’s striking in her beauty but more so in the way she doesn’t feel the need to dress it up and shove her good genes in anyone’s face. Aside from the bold lipstick, her eyes are bare today, only the darkened brows showing any sign of makeup. She reminds me a little of Rey’s girl, Tabitha. I suck my bottom lip between my teeth at the timely reminder of why I’m here.
To set things right.
“I don’t see how you’ll rewrite this shit without using anything you had already.”
Jeanie drops a sigh, tapping the blank page with the end of her pen while she stares down at the faint blue lines. “That’s why I figured I’d start from scratch.” She dates the page. “You pick the topic.”
I didn’t prepare for this. I spent the days leading up to our rendezvous prepared to rebut whatever she threw my way, but I didn’t give a lick of thought to where I’d prefer the topic went. “How about we do a piece on the influence of media over our state of mind?”
She levels me with a stern glare. “That would be like you writing a piece on why music is a waste of aural space.”
My mouth tugs high on the right; I like it when her attitude shows. The chime of an arriving train echoes through the PA system, giving us pause to study the other. Her gaze dips to my mouth, skimming across my shoulders before she sweeps those warm irises over my thighs to finish back at her empty notepad. I spread my legs a little wider, asserting my dominant stance. She removes her scarf.
“If you can’t tell me what you want to talk about, then let’s list what’s off-limits.” She heads the page with No-No Bucket. I snort. “What?”
“Nothing.” I reach up and pop the buttons on my wool coat, letting the heavy halves fall away from my body. She’s not the only one who feels hot all of a sudden. “Rey is the first obvious off-limits topic.” She grumbles and pens his name in bold round letters. “My sister.” I meet Jeanie’s curious gaze. “She’s never been a part of what we do, and we keep it that way.”
“Okay. What else?”
“Anything that’s not my place to discuss, so Em’s issues with addiction, anything about Kris.” I chuckle. “He’s such a dark horse I don’t think there’s much you’re likely to know about him.”
“He has a girlfriend now, right?”
“His story.” I flatten my features.
“Right.” Jeanie pulls her mouth tight, closed lips hard against her teeth. “What else? You aren’t leaving a lot.”
I’d probably know what the fuck to talk about if I knew why I’m here. Cassie touched on the idea when we had dinner last week, but since then, I couldn’t pinpoint what it is about talking with Jeanie that piques my curiosity. What do I want to tell her? A question I’ve asked myself over and over, and never once has the answer showed itself. I figured I’d show up today and waste her time the same she has mine, but now that I’m here…
“Can I be honest with you?” Jeanie twists to face me, a single empty seat between us.
I lean my head back and roll it her way. “Sure.”
“Having a list of things I can’t discuss makes it hard to get into a natural flow.” She dips to the right and places her notepad back in the bag. “How about we just talk? About anything. I’ll sign an NDA if you like, which details I won’t share anything we’ve talked about without your permission.”
“That would take days to draft.”
“Maybe.” She seems as off-put by the delay as I strangely feel. “But it’s easier if I can just hear about you and craft the angle from what shows up. I’ll write the piece, and you can have the final say with a big red marker.”
“You really want this, huh?” I mirror her, angling my body toward Jeanie. “I’ll agree, on one condition.”
“Name it.” She juts her pointed chin forward.
“That you tell me why my story is so important to your career But,” I state, lifting a hand to stop her speaking. “I want to believe your answer. Convince me this is worth the investment.” Maybe I’m here because I’m just cur
ious.
I’m as keen to hear what makes her kind tick as she is for me to share the same.
Her brow dives, fine lines showing between her eyebrows. “I can’t promise you anything out of this. It’s not an investment as much as it’s a favor.”
“It’s PR.” I shrug. “All news is good news, right?”
She huffs, smiling. “You don’t believe that. Otherwise, you would have let me use the first bullshit story.”
I give her the side-eye.
“Was I right?” She shifts half onto the chair between us. “Were there truth in my lies?”
I don’t want to say anything, but at the same time, something deep in my gut tells me this is the point where I can either choose to trust or stay as I am: closed off and suffocating in my bullshit. “It was a revelation more than a truth.”
She relaxes, body slumping a little when she tilts her head.
I glance across and feel the weight of her stare. “You held a mirror up to a few things I never considered.” I recall the points of her story, but not the exact words. “Maybe it is my fault Rey is so hard on himself.”
Her eyes widen, head pulling back a little as though disbelieving that I’d see something in her cutting lies. “No. I know I wrote that, but it was honest-to-God bullshit I pulled out of thin air.” She flinches. “I wanted to hurt you.”
“You managed that.” I shrink into my seat, attempting in vain to hide behind the collar of my coat. I hate talking about my faults with a passion. I’d rather cut off one hand than admit I’m a fuck-up. At least the dude from Def Leppard proved you can still drum single-handed. I’m not sure my ego can withstand the pressures of touring if I see fault in my actions.
Jeanie shoves the scarf in her tote and then loops the handles over her lax hands. She appears to think over her words before asking, “Do you want to go somewhere else?”
“I thought you wanted somewhere neutral?”
She twists her mouth, scrunching her nose. “Maybe it’s not the best idea I’ve ever had.”
“I can think of one worse.” I grin, waiting for her to catch on.
She smirks, tucking hair behind her ear again. “You won’t let me live that down, will you?”
