There were two guys my age. One was Parker Harmon, an actor in a hit TV series and the son of a director. The other was Justice Kane, lead singer of the Indigo Kings, the hottest boy band around, and the nephew of a family friend.
Earlier, Tiana had said Isabella invited Parker and Justice for me, and I will admit that I entertained a few fantasies of kissing a Hollywood prince that night. Those fantasies were dashed when Isabella introduced us . . . and I found an excuse to flee the moment she walked away. Kissing princes was one thing; talking to them was quite another.
As dinner got underway, I ducked into the house to prepare for our performance. Tiana, Jamison and I were going to surprise their parents with an after-dinner anniversary musical tribute. Of course, it wasn’t really a surprise to Colt, but I was sure he could fake it, being an actor and all.
While the kids ate, I snuck the instruments out behind the hedge. Then, as Isabella and Colt dined on the beach with their guests, we came out playing. We started with the theme song to Mi Hermana, and then the theme for Fatal Retribution and, finally, the theme for The President’s Wife, the movie where they’d met. Tiana played her sax, Jamison his violin, and I had my viola, and we serenaded the celebrating couple with songs from their past.
As we focused on Isabella, drawing closer to her, Colt slipped off. We swung into “Belle,” from Beauty and the Beast, and Isabella clapped and turned to Colt . . . only to see his spot empty. Then he appeared from behind the boathouse, joining in with a guitar.
“She’s going to cry,” Tiana had said earlier, and Isabella did.
When we finished, she came to embrace the kids, and I slipped off to grab dinner, leaving them to their family moment.
I came back when Isabella brought out her flute, and we played impromptu tunes while the guests danced. Then Isabella pulled in Justice Kane, who took vocals. Guests danced on the beach, and champagne flowed. I had half a glass before Tiana backed into me, and I spilled it on my viola.
I excused myself, and I was hurrying inside to get a rag when Karla—Colt and Isabella’s manager—appeared, towel in hand.
“Colt’s right,” I said as I took it and wiped down my instrument. “You really are a fairy godmother.”
She chuckled. “No, I’m just not much of a party person, so I look for any opportunity to be useful. I’ve offered to serve drinks, but Isabella refuses.”
Her eyes glittered with an almost self-deprecating amusement that was a far cry from the ultraefficient woman I’d come to know. Karla stopped by regularly, usually following a summons from Colt. He’d have some minor emergency, and she’d need to race up from New York, where she was stationed while they vacationed. She was indeed their fairy godmother, and judging by her tailored clothing and tasteful jewelry, they compensated her well for it, as they should.
We chatted for a few minutes, a lighter conversation than usual. She usually only talked about my job, making sure I was comfortable and happy, and I suspected, if I’d said I wasn’t, she’d have waved her wand to fix that.
Karla wasn’t exactly warm—at our first meeting, she intimidated the hell out of me—but she had a deep streak of compassion I’d come to appreciate. Between Karla and Isabella, I’d discovered two models of successful women to emulate, capable and caring in very different ways, proof that you didn’t need to be a stone-cold bitch to succeed . . . and proof you could be a stone-cold bitch if the situation required it.
“I believe someone is waiting for you,” Karla said, her eyes twinkling as she nodded toward the pool.
I looked over to see Justice with two filled champagne flutes in hand. He lifted one and smiled. I excused myself and walked over.
“To a successful concert,” he said as he passed one flute to me.
I thanked him and took a sip. Then I glanced toward the beach.
“The music’s done,” he said. “Apparently, everyone’s going swimming.”
A splash echoed in the background.
“Right on cue,” he said. “You’ve got a suit, I’m guessing?”
“Already wearing it.”
He lifted a brow and looked at my dress.
“Underneath,” I said.
“Good plan. I forgot mine. I’m hoping if I swim in the ocean, no one will notice I’m wearing my boxers.”
I laughed softly. “Also a good plan.”
He extended his elbow. “Will you join me? I hear you’re at Juilliard, and I’m dying to pester you with questions. I figured I’d throw in a champagne walk on the beach to make it worth your while.”
I nodded dumbly and took his elbow, and as we passed Isabella, she tossed me a wink. I was glad for the darkness as my cheeks flamed.
“Did Isabella tell you that I tried to get in to Juilliard?” he said as we wound our way through abandoned picnic blankets. “Twice. Didn’t make the cut.”
“And now look at you,” I said with what I hoped wasn’t a nervous laugh.
Justice grinned. “Well, that’s what I say when I mention it in interviews. Hey, kids, I couldn’t get in to a fancy music program, either, and look where I am. It makes a nice feel-good story, as my publicist would say, but the truth . . .” He shrugged and sipped his champagne. “There’s a huge difference between being a talented classically trained musician and a guy who can strum a few chords. I grew up being told what an incredible musician I was, which I thought must be natural talent, since I never practiced.” Another quick grin my way. “But the truth is that I was a cute guy with a guitar. Of course, the girls voted for me in the talent show every year.”
I was about to say the expected thing—that I was sure it was talent that won him those accolades—but I’d sipped more champagne than I intended, and I heard myself say, “Nobody likes to practice.”
A sharp laugh. “True enough. I still dream of Juilliard, though. What’s it like?”
We talked as we strolled along the beach. Whenever we started getting too far from the house, he’d notice me glancing back and turn us around. The champagne buzzed through me, loosening my tongue, and we chatted away about the life of a music student versus the life of a pop star. At some point, we tossed our clothing onto one of the blankets and swam.
Isabella had invited Justice in hopes I’d have some flirty fun. And I did. I talked and swam and laughed with a twenty-one-year-old heartthrob who, in person, was as real as Colt or Isabella. Colt complained about how often people said he seemed like a real person.
“I am a real person,” he’d grumbled. “Do they expect a talking mannequin?”
That was the allure of gossip rags. Look, this actor eats at McDonald’s, too! This musician’s kids throw tantrums in the mall, too! They’re just like us! As if we thought they were another species, dwelling on some perfect plane of existence separate from our own.
Justice Kane was a swoon-worthy twenty-one-year-old who played guitar and sang lead vocals in one of the most popular bands on the planet. He was also a guy who liked bad puns, couldn’t swim very well, and wished he’d gone to college.
I basked in the glow of Justice’s attention, but even more than that, I enjoyed exactly what Isabella prescribed: time with a guy my own age.
Despite my hopes, there wasn’t any kissing. I got flirting, though, and glances of appreciation for my new bikini. We’d retreated to the beach to talk when a shadow blocked out the moonlight, and I twisted to see Colt looming over us.
“I’m behaving,” Justice said, gesturing at the two foot gap between us. “We just snuck away from you old fogies.”
Colt kicked up sand, and Justice dodged it, laughing.
“I need to steal Lucy from you,” Colt said. “Tiana wants to talk to her.”
“Sure.” Justice held out a hand to help me stand, but Colt deftly moved into his way. I ignored both and rose to my feet.
“We’ll catch up later,” Justice said. “I think I saw cake. I’ll grab you a piece before it’s gone.”
“Lucy has to put the kids to bed,” Colt said, and I shot h
im a look—since when did I do that?—but he ignored it and started leading me away.
“I’ll still see about the cake,” Justice called after me. “I’d love your e-mail in case I have more questions about Juilliard.”
Colt snorted and muttered something under his breath. He had his hand on my elbow as he led me away like a naughty child.
“We were only talking,” I said. “We were in sight of the house.”
Colt nodded abruptly and loosened his grip. “It’s not you. I’ve known Justice since he was a kid, and he . . . has a reputation.”
“He was fine,” I said. “A perfect gentleman, actually.” Even when I would have been okay with slightly less gentlemanly behavior.
Colt only muttered and led me to a side table where two glasses of champagne waited, still fizzing, as if he’d set them there. As he handed me one, I shook my head.
“I had one earlier, and it went straight to my head. I still feel woozy.”
“Lightweight,” he teased. “You’re walking and talking just fine.” He pushed the glass into my hand. “This is the good stuff. In thanks for helping me make Isabella very happy tonight.”
“Doesn’t Tiana need me?”
He leaned down and whispered, “I lied.” He straightened. “That was about getting you away from the clutches of a very unsuitable young man.” He enunciated the words in a proper English accent, and then his lips twitched in that crooked smile I knew well. “Do you forgive me?”
Not really. I’d been having fun with Justice, and I was irked to be pulled away, especially when Justice hadn’t given off any unsuitable vibes. If Colt was right, though, maybe he’d been working up to that, lowering my guard so I’d let him lead me from the watchful eyes of my employers.
“You are forgiven,” I said. “The surprise went well earlier. Isabella didn’t suspect a thing.”
He grinned as his eyes danced. “She didn’t. And so we must drink a toast to our success, student and teacher.”
We clinked glasses, and I tried to just take a sip, but he lifted the bottom of my glass, leaving me sputtering as champagne spilled down my throat. When he reached to do it again, I chugged it, which I was certain was entirely wrong for expensive champagne. He sipped a little of his and then set our glasses aside and took my hand, his warm fingers enveloping mine.
“I have something to show you,” he said. “My secret stargazing spot.”
He tugged my hand, and before I could protest, my feet were moving, following him as we jogged through the bushes that separated the beach house from the next property. The owners had left the first week of August, and the house was dark.
As we dashed onto the back deck, I giggled far more than necessary, the champagne making me so dizzy I could barely see straight. When I stumbled, Colt scooped me up, and I laughed, kicking half-heartedly.
He carried me across the dark porch to a gray square embedded in the wood floor. Then he kicked the square and managed to catch the edge on his toes, lifting what turned out to be a cover. Underneath, water glistened in the moonlight.
“A hot tub?” I said.
He hopped in with a splash that had me laughing anew as he turned and lowered me into the water.
“My secret stargazing spot,” he said.
“The neighbors’ hot tub? You just come over here and hop in?”
“Only when they aren’t home. They never remember to turn off the heater.”
As he sat, we sank into the warm water together, and I was dimly aware that I was on his lap, but my head swirled, thoughts flitting away before I could snatch them. I did manage to seize one long enough to realize I should move, but when I squirmed, he held me there, chuckling, until my struggles dissolved in giggles.
As I settled onto Colt’s lap, he nuzzled my neck. Was he . . . kissing my neck? Whoa, no.
I struggled to move away again, and he let me get to my feet and slosh toward another seat in the tub. I made it two steps before he grabbed me, spun me around and pulled me to him, and this time, when I ended up on his lap, I was straddling him.
“You’re so sweet, Lucy-girl,” he murmured as he nuzzled my neck. “As sweet and delicious as cotton candy.”
His hands slid down my sides. My bare sides. I was still wearing the bikini.
I was on Colt’s lap, straddling him, wearing scraps of fabric, while he was in his bathing trunks, pushing up hard against me.
Pushing hard . . .
No, no, no.
He kissed my throat, whispering words I couldn’t hear as blood crashed in my ears, my brain and body warring. I had to go, go now, but his hands felt so good. He felt so good.
Colt was kissing me.
Not just my neck. His lips were on mine, and I wasn’t sure how they got there. Time had seemed to leap from his lips on my neck to his mouth on mine. His hands gripped my hips, and he ground into me, and oh, God, that felt so good.
No, no, no.
I went to shove his hands off my hips. Only they weren’t there anymore. They were on my breasts. My bare breasts. Where was my bikini top? How did his hands get there? What the hell was happening?
Stop.
I needed to stop him.
Except I didn’t want to. It felt so—
Isabella.
Her name was like a slap, and I reeled back, arching from the kiss, breaking it, pushing Colt, his hands gripping my breasts as something sounded behind us.
As a click sounded behind us.
A click-click-click, like the whirring of some giant insect. Light reflected off the side of the house. Flash-flash-flash, keeping time with the clicks.
I twisted out of Colt’s grip just as the camera flashed again.
Chapter Thirteen
New York 2019
When I finish, Isabella sits there, staring at me. “You’re . . . you’re saying Colt drugged you? Dosed your champagne and took advantage of you?”
“What? No. Don’t put words in my mouth, Isabella.”
“You said you were disoriented and confused after he gave you that champagne.”
I pull back, coffee cup cradled in my hands. “I said I was tipsy after two glasses of champagne. You remember how I was after less than one glass, right here in this hotel room. Clearly, two was more than I could handle. That’s not an excuse.”
“If you were losing time, that means you blacked out—”
“Have I considered the possibility that someone put something into the champagne? Yes, I have, but there’s no way of proving that now. It really might have just been champagne.”
“Which Colt literally dumped down your throat.”
“I—” I rub my face frantically, my gut screaming for me not to go there, not to remember that part. Chin up and accept blame.
“The point,” I say slowly, “is that Colt kissed me, and I kissed him back. I was tipsy, and I was flattered, and I was an eighteen-year-old virgin with Colt Gordon kissing me in a hot tub. He didn’t need to force me.”
“He—”
“The point,” I say again, more emphatically, “is that I stopped once I realized that what I was doing was wrong—horribly wrong—and a betrayal of your trust. That’s when we discovered we’d been photographed. You have my version. Get Colt’s. Believe me, I haven’t spoken to him since that day. His will match mine.”
“Except for where he forced himself on you after drugging you. If it happened the way you say, Lucy—”
“No.”
“There was coercion there beyond Colt using his charisma and his fame, which I already knew was a factor. If he did what you say—”
“No,” I say, sharper, gut twisting with anxiety. “You won’t do that.”
She looks at me in genuine confusion.
I continue, “I said that my mother wouldn’t let me use that silly virginity proof. But when I first told her the story, she was furious with Colt. She wanted to call the police. Report him. Insist on an investigation. I was the one who talked her out of that. Begged her not to. Broke down
in tears when she tried.”
“If it happened—”
“And that is exactly why I didn’t. Those words. If it happened the way you say, Lucy. If he did what you say. I had a friend in high school who went to a frat party pretending she was eighteen. Wore a miniskirt. Drank a beer. Smoked a joint. Wanted to have some fun and party with cute college boys. She passed out. Woke up to a guy on top of her with friends egging him on. She reported it. A year later, she killed herself. Do you know what she told me? That everyone—from the cops to the lawyers to her own parents—couldn’t talk about it without saying ‘if.’ If you really were passed out. If the guy didn’t know you were unconscious. If it happened the way you said. Even people who were trying to be supportive still said if just like you’re doing. So I choose to excise that part of what happened to me. I will not say I was drugged. I will not say Colt used coercion. I will not say it was anything other than a drunk teenage girl letting her hormones run away with her and making an inexcusable mistake. That is where we will leave this. Insist on more, and I leave. Say if one more time, and I leave.”
She looks at me. Stares, as she did when I first told the story, and I squirm under that stare and then hate myself for squirming. I want to be stronger. Not tougher, not harder, just stronger. Why is that so difficult?
Because it’s Isabella, and every look, every gesture, every nuance feels like a needle pricking an open wound.
“What?” I say, finally, more peevish than I intend. I try to cover it with, “Can we just leave this and—”
“I’m sorry,” she says, “for what you went through. I’m truly sorry, Lucy.”
Now I squirm for real. “I don’t need you to be sorry, Isabella. I don’t want you to be.”
“I still am. I thought I’d had this great revelation. With what’s happened in Hollywood, Weinstein and the rest, I’ve had friends come forward, and I never doubted them for a second. I have my own stories. MeToo has been like a splash of ice water, waking me up and making me look back at what I endured and how we just accepted that’s the way things were. The casting-couch jokes that weren’t jokes at all. The casual misogyny that wasn’t casual at all. We never stopped to ask why is it like this? Why do we accept this behavior? Why is it our job to overcome it? In the midst of all that, a friend told me a story about something that happened when she was a teenager, a one-night stand with a producer. Afterward, his wife came after my friend. I was outraged on her behalf. How dare this older woman blame her for her husband’s actions. And then I realized I’d done the same to you.”
Every Step She Takes Page 7
