by Emily Childs
Parker chuckles, he always lets me ramble. “Okay, step one—get some shade.”
“And a smoothie. I think I’ll hit up Gardenia’s Smoothie House. It’s staring at me from across the street. It looks really good, sort of tropical with plumerias on the windows. Yeah, I’m going to think in there.”
“Sounds good.” Parker shifts again, the rustle of his sheets loud in my ear. “I’ll work on my end and see what I can find, okay?”
“Thanks.” My lip trembles, and I’m grateful he can’t see me.
“You’ll keep me updated?”
“Depends. Do you have practice?”
“Yes, but I sprained my wrist, so I’ll be on the bench.”
“Parker!”
“Hey,” he says, sternly. “We’re focused on you. I have an apartment to ice my pretty little wrist tonight. You, however, do not have a place to live. Seriously, Lex, say the word and I’m there.”
He would do it all, but truth be told, my journey to stubborn independence means my brother is not digging into his deep, professional ball player pockets to save me. As he said, I’ve got this.
“Thanks Park, I’ll let you know if it comes to that,” I say. “Love you more than Jane.”
“Love you more than baseball.”
Jane Eyre and Baseball. Two very loved things. It’s a big deal.
Once we hang up, I glide across the street, avoiding a few lazy cars, probably stalling beneath the sun, and step into the blast of cool air at the smoothie joint. I sip a strawberry mango smoothie, pause to dream of sandy beaches and islands for a moment, then focus. I’m used to this place. I grew up in a small desert town forty miles away. I can handle the flashing lights, the sequins, the feathers. I’ll take the crowds, the casinos, the smoke, and curious smells of unknown things in stride.
I’m here and I’m staying. I came for more than a wedding. The Library Studies program is solid.
Two hours later, and two texts from my brother, I’m forced to report I am no closer to finding a place than I was. I think I convinced him to stay in Seattle after I reminded him I’m twenty-six, and there are plenty of cheap hotels I can crash at with the remaining twenty-seven dollars in my wallet.
I get another text from Zoey, a friend from undergrad who ran off to Southern Utah with her perfect husband. Graham really is perfect for Zoey. I’m happy for her, but I miss her.
Zoey: Girl! What’s going on?
I lick my lips. What’s the point in avoiding it?
Me: Looks like my fiancé got married without me.
Zoey: Baseball bat? Keys? How are we handling this?
Me: We’re not. I have no idea where he is. He didn’t even have the decency to call.
Zoey: You’re kidding? I’m going to bury him. What do you want me to do?
Me: Nothing. No, wait, maybe text my mom and keep her from shouting to the neighborhood what a failure her daughter is. You know how she does that.
Zoey: *eye roll emoji* Don’t even worry about her. Want to crash here?
Me: Thanks, it’s a little far, though. Classes start Monday.
Zoey: Okay. I’m here, though. I’ve got your back.
When the texts stop, I let my shoulders slump. Maybe I ought to be honest with Zoey and Parker. The truth is I’m terrified. I’m angry. Embarrassed.
And I have absolutely no idea where I’m going to live.
Chapter 2
Bridger
Everyone deals with these things differently. Stacia wears sunglasses and pretends to have a hangover. Tate drums the walls with ball point pens. Leo is probably high. Me, I stare at the city skyline, imagining what it might be like to walk down the street without being incognito all the time.
The room is filled with dozens of signs and billboards for the first string in the two scheduled First Responder Concerts. It’s awkward staring at a massive blown-up version of yourself.
In the promotional canvas on the wall, my dark hair waves over my brow, perfectly styled. What did the headline say about my face—oh yeah—a jawline made of glass. What does that even mean? Expertly trimmed scruff is in the photo. It’s messier now. Two black studs in my ears, and they had me put in my old lip ring.
I look fake and ridiculous.
I blink my attention back to the schedule in front of me on the desk. My back aches from sitting so long, but these guys love to hear themselves talk.
Slouched in the chair, I spin side to side, and stare out at the Vegas Strip. Up here on the eleventh floor, I see it all. The sun is beginning to set. The lights of Las Vegas flicker to life. In two nights it’ll be like overcrowded cattle down there.
Four Billboard artists. Five sets each. I’ll play guitar for Leo’s solo debut. There’ll be a cameo duet with Ellie Walker and my band, Perfectly Broken. Then, we’ll sing and play with Stacia Blackthorne. All on top of our own sets.
The concert is extravagant this year. Enigma Records, the indie label that owns me, brought out each of their headliners. All to try to fix the damage being done.
I close my eyes, blood throbbing in my head. Don’t lose it here. Truth wins out, right? Except non-fiction memoirs of dating a rockstar sell faster than charity concert tickets.
I never wanted anything to taint this event, now here I am, the largest blight of all.
I’m already exhausted.
“Hey, you good?” Ellie whispers.
I hadn’t noticed she’d scooted her rolling chair closer. I smirk and adjust my Vegas Kings cap. “Yeah. Fine.”
“This’ll work out, you know. People will forget by Christmas.”
My jaw pulses. No doubt there are things in the book that’ll have people remembering and believing things to their graves. I offer a grim smile.
Ellie takes the hint and changes the subject. “Think the parents will notice if we slip out early?”
“I don’t think they even know we’re here.”
Ellie snickers. Her purple hair reminds me of my mom’s lilac bushes. Her matching nose stud, too. A solid pop-rock name, Ellie has become a good friend. One of the few in this industry who’s more content strumming guitar on the sidewalk, not always in front of thundering crowds.
I heard her sing at some dive bar and loved her voice. Little did I know she’d already been signed by our label. Ellie had an in since her brother is a music producer, but after I saw her singing with a beer splattered microphone and an old ball cap, we hit it off.
She has become the sunshine in the broody rockstars. Everyone loves Ellie. Except Tate, my friend and drummer. I don’t get it.
In the back of the room, Tate thrums the wall with his pens and wanders. Adam, our backup vocalist and lead guitar drinks, while Lance, our bassist, sleeps. Yep. He’s long gone.
At the head, a few managers, Ellie’s brother, and two more producers babble about the weekend plans. I don’t know what they’re so worried about. We rehearsed last night. We’re all known artists. We can hit our marks.
My agent, Tim, snaps his fingers. “Bridge! Come here.”
I’m twenty-eight, a professional, but it’s hard not to roll my eyes and groan like I’m fourteen. I stand, and since no one makes room with another chair, I crouch beside him.
“What d’you think about an ensemble number? I know, I know—it’s last minute.”
“A little,” I say.
“But these people can’t get enough of any of you. A big, final production. Tate comes in, buh-bom-buh-bom, drumming the beat.” Yes, Tim mimics the drum. “Then, Lance, buh-ba-duh, ba-duh.”
Ah, now my manager is a bass guitarist.
“Let me guess,” I say with a touch of sarcasm. “Next, Adam starts to hum.”
Tim’s eyes brighten. “Not just Adam, we’ll also bring in Ellie.”
“What?” Tate’s eyes abandon his wall. “No. She throws it off.”
Ellie’s eyes narrow. “What are you saying, Hawkins?”
Tate scoffs, it’s not friendly.
I shake my head. Tim sighs. We all know w
hat’s coming.
“Nothing, princess,” Tate says. His hair is tousled and messy behind his ears, but it’s his I-don’t-care rocker look. “It’s just we’re hard rock. Add a pretty-in-pink-pop star in the mix and you get bad branding.”
“Pretty in . . .” Ellie’s mouth drops. “I can out play you by a mile, Hawkins. A mile.”
Tate lets out an irritated chuckle. “You? On the drums? You couldn’t last two sets.”
“All right, guys,” Finn, Ellie’s brother, says. “Can we let this one die, just once? Some of us have a life outside of this office.”
Tate spins his mock drumsticks in his fingers and thuds a beat to the wall seamlessly.
“Coward.” Ellie mutters under her breath as her jaw tightens. No one else can drop her perma-grin like Tate Hawkins.
“Annnyyway,” Tim goes on. “Perfectly Broken will start the melody, then Ellie will take the first verse, build the crowd, you know. Then, who should appear?” He holds out his hand. “Leo!”
Tim says his name like a basketball announcer.
I bite the inside of my cheek when Leo peeks over his rose-colored glasses, annoyed for being disturbed, I guess.
“Then,” Tim barrels on, “you come through, smoke, yeah smoke, with Blackthorne. The lot of you finish the last verse and the crowd brings down the house.”
Stacia, aka Blackthorne snickers and settles back in her chair.
I lift my gaze to Tim, aloof. “I’ll do it for a million.”
Ellie lets out a kind of choked laugh. I even get Lance to shoot me with his fingers, grinning, though he never opens his eyes. Tim blanches, but he recovers quickly. Nothing phases the man. A good quality in the cutthroat industry, but just once I’d like to throw him off balance.
He nods, mind whirling, no doubt. “Okay. Yeah. Yeah. I think we can arrange it. I can get some addendums negotiated and we’ll, uh—”
“Tim,” I interrupt. “I’m joking. This a charity concert.”
“Right. Right. So, ensemble? Yeah?”
I shrug, wanting to say no, but it’s not only me. “If everyone agrees, fine.”
“Great,” Tim says, celebrating even though no one voiced in favor or disfavor yet. “Oh, and I’ll make sure Mallorie gets some girl-next-door a backstage pass. We’ll work it out, Bridge. Got your back, man.”
I crack two knuckles. “Girl-next-door? Explain that one, Tim.”
“For your image. Your new image.”
I simply stare at him, confused.
“Come on. Sweet, innocent, but daring enough to steal a rocker’s heart. I sent this in the memo. Tell me you’re reading them.”
We stopped reading Tim’s endless memos two years ago. I shrug.
Tim lets out an irritated noise and leans over his knees. “We need to help your image and since it’s a woman who’s causing the bad press, we’re going to get a woman to fix it. Enter, girl next door. The sort of gal you take home to your mom. Play it up right, and it’ll make ‘em lose their minds.”
As in the fans, or the paparazzi?
“You’re going to hire someone to stand backstage as my . . . date? To what? Hang all over me? How pathetic do you think I am?”
Tim snorts a laugh, but it turns into a sneeze. “Not pathetic, Bridge. We’re doing damage control before it happens. If you don’t want me to do it, then you find your own, but make sure she’s the right material. Not a groupie. Got it?”
I don’t have a girl next door on speed dial. Anyone on my arm knows exactly what they’re getting. No commitment, no relationship. I don’t do that, not anymore. I can’t do any of it.
“Trust me on this. It’ll help. And to be honest, we could use the boost in sales. It’s been, what? Like three years since we’ve had a top ten single.” Tim clicks his tongue. “If you’re in a slump, we need to focus on reputation.”
“I’m not in a slump,” I lie. It’s been two years since I’ve really written anything that sticks in the charts.
“It’ll be a hard sell, Tim,” Ellie pipes up. “Bridge loves the ladies in the shadows. One and done, isn’t that the policy, my man?”
I point at my friend. “Makes me sound like a total jerk, but yeah. The shadows part. Privacy. No cameras. All things people want.”
“Ah, but you should try the ones who love the limelight,” Tate says, and flicks his brows.
“Ugh, some of us have class, Hawkins,” Ellie mutters.
Tate frowns and whirls his pen drumsticks around his fingers, beating the wall with a little more umph.
“Bridge, listen.” Tim says. “In a little while your life is going to be anything but private. Get ahead of this and we win. Lose sponsors, then she wins.”
“Some paid groupie in a scrunchie and cat sweater isn’t going to solve it. In fact, it might make her think she’s something more, then I’ll get another stalker out of it. Want to miss your wife’s pot roast because you’re chasing off the lunatics?”
Tim chuckles and scratches the back of his head. “I’d sell my left hand to miss her pot roast. You would, too. I’m the best manager in Las Vegas for a reason. I know what I’m talking about. Take my advice, man. Either you find yourself a Mary Sue for the cameras, or I do. Women like to know a rebel is reformed, and sixty-three percent of your fanbase is women.”
My body stiffens. If I’d truly done the things I’m being accused of doing, then I would not be a man worthy of forgiveness.
“I’ll think about it,” is all I say.
“Great. Thanks, kid.” Tim pats my shoulder, I suppose as his way of excusing me.
My head is reeling a bit. I hate how this media frenzy over these new accusations are marring the point of this concert. A fundraiser for Clark County first responders. It’s my favorite concert of the year, the first will be for fire and police of the entire metropolitan area. The second for medical teams. Doctors, nurses, aides, and paramedics. It’s unique and special and close to home.
Plus, this year marks fifteen years since the accident. Unbidden, memories surface and I quickly shove them back down.
A few minutes later, Rich, Enigma Records CEO, claps his hands and looks to the bored musicians. “All right, I think we got it. Don’t do any talking tomorrow, rest those voices, and we’ll see you all at Caesar’s Palace at six. That’s in the morning, Tate.”
Tate snorts and scratches his scruffy chin. “I might be late. Apparently, I’ll be running miles around someone.”
A sound like a growl comes from Ellie’s throat, but Adam claps Tate on the shoulder, then winks at Rich. “Don’t worry, Pops. We’ll have him there.”
Pops—the weird nickname everyone on the label calls Rich. He isn’t a father figure. He’s all business, all the time. Still, he goes by Pops.
It’s chaotic as we start to leave. Managers and producers always want to haggle even after a three-hour meeting.
I slip my thin sweatshirt over my arms, making sure my tattoos inked from wrists to shoulders are covered.
Intolerable in Las Vegas August sun, but the tats have become too recognizable.
“Hey, you doing okay?” Ellie asks as she gathers her satchel, beanie, and sunglasses. Incognito in triple digit weather is simply part of us now.
I give her a quick nod. “Fine. Just anxious to get home and hole away, is all.”
“You can hole away soon. Remember, Saturday at six. As in morning, Bridge.”
I laugh and wave her away. “Go. Sleep. See you on Saturday.”
Ellie grins and leaves me alone by the elevators. Knowing her, she’ll hit the studio to unwind until dark. I once had that motivation, but lately I can’t find it.
Down in the parking garage the bright sun dims, and it’s surprisingly cool after roasting all day. The best part—it’s empty. All afternoon shoved in a small room with loud, pushy people has me on edge. A night at home, undisturbed, is practically mouthwatering.
The emptiness doesn’t last. I turn to the click of high heels and the slap of heavy feet over the cement. A
man dressed in a suit and tie laughs with a woman in a tight skirt. She hangs on his arm, head on his shoulder. They look happy. Authentic.
I’m envious. Even if fans scream their adoration and love, the truth is I’ve let two people into this thing in my chest. The first didn’t want me and ruined me for the next. When I took the risk on the second, she didn’t want me, either. She wanted the name and the cameras. She wanted the drama and the interviews. She’s getting them, and it has left a rotten, bitter thing in my heart.
I quicken my steps until I reach my electric blue jeep. One of the presents I bought myself with my first eye-popping royalty payment. The houses, the condos, they pale to this. I love my car. Too much, honestly.
Before I even close the door my cell rings, startling me.
I fumble to right the screen and a grin breaks as I answer. “Hey, man. What’s up?”
“Did I actually catch the famous B-Ridge?”
I scoff and lean against the headrest. “You’re one to talk, my friend. I see you on TV more than me.”
Parker snorts a laugh, but it’s true. I don’t miss a single Kings game. Nothing is better than watching him close out the games, watching the crowds freak out when he strikes out the last batter as if it’s nothing. Once inseparable, now we’re connected through TV, magazines, and the off season.
“It’s crazy right now, dude,” Parker says. “I sprained my wrist, too. I think my pitching coach about popped a blood vessel.”
“Because you’re his pride and joy. So when are you getting in? The guys and I have a gift for her, but don’t tell her it’s from me.” He’s coming home—briefly—between his Seattle series. Don’t like the reasons—at all. To the point my insides feel more like jagged bits of glass, but I’m in no place to say anything.
Truth be told, I’ve had to stop myself at least a hundred times from saying something.
Parker is quiet for a long pause.
“Park, you there?”
“Yeah.” He clears his throat. “This weekend is actually why I’m calling. Maybe hold onto the gift because I’ve got a favor to ask, man. And it’s a big one.”
