by Bowie, Emily
“Off to eat a new man’s soul?” I question, wondering what’s made her turn and leave so abruptly. I stay standing outside, my hand holding the door open as she passes me, enjoying the view.
“Always with the jokes. If I had more time, I’d have a comeback.” She doesn’t look at me as she talks a mile a minute. It’s disappointing. We have this love/hate relationship in which we just insult each other. I find it refreshing. I always know where I stand with her. She is the only person who refuses to blow smoke up my ass.
“Actually, would you mind doing me a favor?” She stops and turns to me, her long, dark ponytail hitting her in the face from the sudden turn. She’s not wearing a stitch of makeup, making her look a lot younger than I thought she was. She’s normally done up perfectly, but I think I like this look on her better.
“Sure.” I push my hands in my pockets, intrigued. Camilla isn’t the favor type; in fact, we’re not even friends. She always acts so high and mighty, with this “I can do everything better than you” attitude. She is pure talent, and she knows it.
“I forgot my phone and it has all my new lyrics. I have a meeting pretty much now.” She pauses before walking backward. Her dark whisky-colored eyes are bright and excited. “And I need my phone for the lyrics for this meeting. Can you let them know I’m running late?”
Camilla Black writing her own lyrics. Now I’ve heard it all. “Don’t say a word.” She levels me with a stare, knowing what I’m thinking. She seems too happy to have any irritation in her tone.
“You got it.” I shake my head, laughing at how stressed out she seems as she turns and runs down the small hill toward her parked car. Already, I feel my worry level going down. If she’s late, then I must be early.
Walking down the bright hallway, I hear a melody that pulls me right to it. I can’t help but follow it right to the source. It’s one of our new songwriters sitting with our producer, and this song is perfect.
“Liz, that song is fantastic,” I tell our songwriter once she finishes, and I clap my hands together.
“Thank you. I’m demoing it for Camilla today.”
I know right away this song was made for me. I have to have this song. I need it. In my head, I’ve already spent this money to help with my family’s rebuild of the ranch they lost in a fire.
“I just ran into her. She went on and on about her own songs she planned.” I make sure to look at my producer as well. “Did she know you wrote one for her?” I try to look concerned, playing the part perfectly.
Seeing the disappointment flash right across Liz’s face, I know I have a chance.
“You know what? I love the song. What do you think of me singing it?” I look at my producer for support. “I know how excited Camilla was with what she wrote. But I don’t want to step on any toes,” I lie, knowing what I’m doing is wrong. But I need this money bad. Without it, I can’t help rebuild my family’s home on our ranch land. Hell, I don’t even have a place to call home anymore either.
I love how Liz’s face brightens.
And I have a new number one song.
CHAPTER 3
Present
I walk the red carpet in my stunning red dress, the color popping against my olive skin, making my summer tan still look fresh. The thin straps rest on the top part of my arms, creating the off-the-shoulder look. The dress is sleek, sexy, and sophisticated. It’s not see-through; my vagina isn’t hanging out. It’s classy and worthy of the best-dressed category in any magazine or blog.
I get no callouts asking who I’m wearing. No one cares, because that sexy bastard is steps ahead of me. I don’t have to search through the crowd to see him. They’ve placed him right in front of me, tormenting me. I can’t get away from this man. I hate everything about him. His natural charisma, that cocky swagger, his talent.
“Rhett!” Each reporter calls his name out, hoping to lock eyes to secure an interview on the red carpet. They all follow him around like crazed puppies needing acceptance and attention from their master.
They call him “Country’s Heartbreaker.” It’s the nice term for it. What they mean is womanizer. He fights with reporters, says god-awful things in interviews, and yet they still love him. It has to be his good looks. It pains me to say it, but that man is beyond handsome.
His six-foot-two stance is broad and strong. He wears dark, almost black jeans with a huge-ass belt buckle that looks to be encrusted with shards of diamonds, with a white dress shirt left open at the top, showing off the skin underneath. He pulls the look off with a brown suit jacket and a matching cowboy hat. When almost everyone else is in black and white suits or tuxedoes, he stands out.
How can the media hate me but not him? I volunteer and do charity work. He doesn’t. All it takes is one look at him and they have all forgiven and forgotten.
Just last week, I heard him bitching about how the media is slandering him. Hardly. The media has said worse things about me. If anything, his fall from being Nashville’s golden boy has been short, but I hope to hell it hurt.
I wish I didn’t sound so jealous. They say I have too many boyfriends. I had one last year. One! They say I’m too jealous. What can I say? I write what I feel. Sorry I included my ex’s name in my last song. Oops.
I wear the wrong nail polish, and the tabloids go crazy, calling me all types of names. All my hard work goes unnoticed. Everyone portrays me as the reality star who has no talent. After Rhett stole my song, I was determined to one-up him. And finally, today, I’m being recognized. I have to work three times as hard as anyone else, because I have something to prove.
“Rhett, is this the woman you plan to hold out on?” A TMZ reporter asks him, referring to his last radio interview. He planned to go celibate until he found “the one.”
Ha, yeah right! Yet, they all swooned over it. Barf.
I snort loudly, gaining the reporter’s attention along with Rhett’s. The eye candy on his arm giggles, curling herself into his side.
“Rhett knew when he found forever, and so he didn’t have to wait.” She smirks adoringly to the reporter than sends daggers my way.
Please, girl, I hope you’re smarter than that.
“This isn’t the elopement girl, is it?” A follow-up question is asked, referring to another tabloid rumor that surfaced a few weeks ago.
“No marriage for this guy.” He looks over to me and winks.
I can feel my lips tighten. Just looking at his bright green gems has my fingers wanting to ring his neck. My eyes travel down his taut chest, landing on his belt buckle. I would love to see it wrapped around his throat.
“Eyes up here, Ms. Black,” he taunts me, thinking I was checking out his package.
I can feel my anger roll off me as I stand there being ignored by everyone but him. His chuckle brings my attention back to his face, only for him to turn back around and ignore me like the rest of the people here.
“At least not right away,” adds the poor, clueless girl, gaining the attention back on her. Rhett gives a strained grin. She’s stupid if she thinks she has what it takes to tame that man. Rhett pulls them out of the reporter’s way, leaving me on the red carpet, looking out past the velvet rope and smiling, hoping someone takes a damn picture.
By now, I’m steps from the concrete that leads into the building. I feel forgotten while most of the reporters run back to the entrance, hoping for another story.
Why do I come to these things? Oh yeah, Rhett and I are up for the same bloody award. Song of the Year. If he gets it, I will pour my champagne over his head while I “accidentally” stumble forward, wanting to give him a congratulatory hug. Yes, that sounds like fun. That will be my backup plan if I don’t get to say my thank-you speech.
“Camilla!” My name is called just as I place one black heel onto the steps to head in. Turning around, I smile. At least one of these guys has good sense.
“What do you think of the Black Widow nickname you’ve been painted with?”
That’s right. I’m known
as the Black Widow. Apparently, dating me means the end of one’s career or their financial ruin. I make men fall from grace to what they consider the grave. They report I suck their power, making myself stronger while they grow weaker. Now that count of one boyfriend is starting to make sense. I don’t think I’ll have any this year. Not when my ex, a former pop star, went down with a harassment charge from a fan.
And the media still thought to blame me for his fall. Give me a break.
“Why? You asking me on a date, sugar?” I purr at him, making it look like his words don’t affect me.
His words stumble as he tries to come up with a comeback worthy enough to play on television for the next week. I can see the ratings and a new promotion he might be striving for dance above his head. “The honor would be mine, but I like this job too much.”
Not even a reporter wants to date me.
Giving him a nod, I head into the awards. With each step, my heart picks up. Holding my head up, I put my public smile in place as I wave to a few other performers. To get through this, I’m going to need a drink. Swiveling on my heels I begin my search to see if I can spot the bar when I bump right into my nemesis.
“Just because you’re the big fish in the Canadian pond doesn’t mean anything here.” Rhett looks down at me with loathing. He just can’t get over the fact that I won an award and he didn’t. I can’t help he’s not fucking Canadian and therefore isn’t part of the Canadian Country Music Awards.
“Did you throw a fit when your drummer got a CCMA award and you couldn’t?” My index finger bounces on my chin like I’m thinking. “I heard you threatened to kick him off the tour, because then he would have won more awards than you.”
His eyes widen at my accusation. Whether it’s true, I have no idea. I read something to that effect, but I don’t keep up with the tabloids unless it’s on the front page at the grocery store. I, of all people, know most of these reports are exaggerated with half-truths twisted into full lies.
“I’m going to enjoy winning the award over you tonight. If you’re lucky, I’ll let you kiss it in the morning.” He winks at me and smiles flirtatiously.
Gross. As if I would even consider the idea of going home with him just because he won some bullshit award.
“I’d rather kiss my cat’s ass.” It’s true. I don’t see the charm other women see in this man. He goes out of his way to be rude. All I know is I need to take this win from him. I want that bullshit award like I need air.
He takes a step closer to me. The air buzzes around us, my heart that is already beating fast starting to gallop. He bends his head down to my ear. “We both know that’s a lie.”
I can feel his breath hitting my neck, shooting goosebumps down my body. I stand like a statue, hating my reaction when I can’t stand the man in front of me. He goes out of his way to piss me off every time he sees me.
Taking a step away from him, I say, “May the better person win.” I try to say it in my sweetest voice, but it comes out breathless. What makes it worse is that I honestly don’t mean it, but maybe I can kill him with kindness.
CHAPTER 4
The first thing I will do when I win that award is thank the Black Widow for all her support. Maybe I’ll even blow her a kiss. I love to push that woman’s buttons. If done right, maybe she will lash out, placing her as tomorrow’s top headline, putting me back as Nashville’s favorite bachelor again out of sympathy.
I don’t pretend to cast my eyes elsewhere as I watch her saunter away. Man, she has a fine ass. Her red dress is spot on, making her look exotic and sexy as hell. I want to take a bite out of her plump nude lips and curl her long, dark chestnut hair around my fist as I drag her mouth closer to mine. I would bask in the way her bright Canadian whisky eyes would widen.
When she disappears, I head back to my seat and my date, Hanna. She’s a nice girl, but I get the impression she would ride on anyone’s coattails to be here, living with this crowd. This is the part I’m tired of. You never know who your true friends are, making me feel like I can’t trust anyone.
The back of my seat is kicked, and I ignore it, but when it keeps happening, I turn to look over my shoulder to see Camilla right behind me.
“Your giant feet don’t fit very well behind there, huh?” I ask her innocently, hoping for a reaction. I damn well know she was hoping to get one from me. I stay turned around, waiting for her to tell me to fuck off. The neckline of her dress dips just enough to get a nice view of her cleavage.
“Eyes up here, Mr. Steele,” she repeats my earlier words. My dick swells knowing she likes this thing between us just as much as I do. It’s difficult to keep a neutral expression when I purposely take my time to raise my eyes, but I refuse to find hers. Instead, my gaze lingers on the curve of her neck, loving the way small pebbled goose bumps break out along her skin.
It’s only then I look, lifting one brow in question before I turn myself around. I smile at the feel of her feet kicking my seat again. Yeah, she feels it too.
I have thought about fucking her before. It’s always a hard, possessive type of fuck, but man, it riles me up. Each time, she would willingly submit, and the thought of the act itself would make her wet for me. It would be our little secret from the outside world. She never lets me get away with anything, but behind closed doors….
The lights dim and the award show begins. I have a feeling this is going to be one hell of a night.
Walking up are two of country music’s greatest icons: Garth Brooks and George Strait. They go straight into their banter before calling out the nominees for Song of the Year. Hanna squeezes my hand as my leg bounces faster than a telegraph sending SOS codes in a panic. I want this so badly. I worked my ass off for it. In all honesty, after taking so much time off, I didn’t expect to get the nomination, but now that I did, I want it more than anything in the world. I deserve it.
The men on stage pause, looking around the crowd. Holding up the envelope slowly, they delicately open it. “Rhett Steele!” they announce as the crowd erupts in applause.
I give myself a tiny fist pump at my side. Stress immediately leaves my body. Standing up, I look behind me and wink at Camilla Black. I love the way her eyes meet mine as they narrow. I pucker my lips, blowing her a kiss before turning my back and hugging Hanna beside me. At this moment, I regret bringing her. I should have gone with my gut and took my ma, instead of listening to Dick. She would have loved this.
Turning, I move to shuffle forward, winding between the seats. Each person in the row stands up, shaking my hand, I hear a gasp from the crowd as I feel my hat being plucked off. I snicker, thinking, that’s all you got, girl? My hair is perfect underneath. I made sure of it. Before I can look up, showing Camilla she has nothing, I feel the cold, bubbly liquid being dumped over my head. It seeps into my shirt, making me arch my back from its sudden wetness.
Now it’s her turn to blow me a kiss as she gives me a four-finger wave. The crowd is silent, with no one believing this just happened on live television.
Taking her outburst with class, I continue on my way, heading to the microphone. I can’t wait to read the headline about her in the morning. She did pretty much everything I expected. Silly woman. I have won this battle.
Stepping onto the stage, the room is silent as everyone sits in shock, not knowing how to respond. Looking straight at her, she smiles sweetly at me as if she gave me a congratulatory hug. “Thank you, Camilla, for not asking me out,” I joke, holding my award up in the air. I look at the crowd in front of me and don’t miss how her wide eyes pinch with the rest of her forehead. “I must have you to thank for this.” I make a not-so-inside joke about her Black Widow nickname.
She gives an innocent shrug, unable to retaliate, as the cameras no doubt have panned toward her after my words.
“But in all honestly, I wouldn’t be up here today without the following help.” I dive into my thank-you speech, the one I started on the day I got the news. I want to make it perfect.
*
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The past
“He did what?” I question, feeling my hysteria starting to break free. “And why the hell are you telling me?” I say the last part slowly, reigning in my anger.
Kellie, my best friend, bites her bottom lip before she speaks. “Everyone else was too scared.”
My eyes widen as I realize no one is willing to stand up to Rhett Steele. Not my manager, my producer, or the songwriters. Somehow, he stole my song right in front of everyone, with a smile.
I feel like I have been fucked and didn’t even get to enjoy it. No one had the balls to tell me themselves.
“Honestly, you don’t even need that song. I’ve heard your new stuff; it’s fantastic.”
“That’s not the point. It’s the principle of it all. Rhett Steele is going to get a number one hit that should have been mine.” I point my finger at her. “And he knows it.”
“You’re starting to get crazy eyes. Should I be worried or excited?” Kellie cautions, now starting to look amused rather than scared I’d rip her head off.
I know better. You don’t shoot the messenger; you shoot the bastard who stole your song.
“Grab your purse. Let’s go.” I’m already out the door, marching toward my car, ready to drive to Rhett.
I walk into the studio like I own the place, keeping my smile on my face. Kellie lingers in the back, not wanting to involve herself too much. I’m okay with that. I know if I need her, she has my back, and this is between Rhett and me anyhow.
Wasting no time, I tap the top of his broad shoulder, feeling how hard it is under my firm jab.
Turning, he looks at me and smiles. “Here you go.” He hands me his dirty coffee mug. “Would you mind heading out to grab me lunch? Make sure you grab yourself something too. It’s on me.”
I stand there dumbfounded as he pretends not to know me, like I’m some new intern who is only here for coffee and lunch runs.
