Beautiful Liar (The Reed Rivers Trilogy Book 2)

by Lauren Rowe

  I stare at her for a long moment, not wanting to leave her side. But, finally, I drag my ass to my room. Which is where I brush my teeth, shower, and, finally, blessedly, crawl into my bed with an exhausted groan. But before flipping off my light, I grab my phone and send a text to Henn:

  I need another favor, brother. Find out where Georgie went to high school. It’s in the Valley somewhere. A guy named Gates is the football coach. They won two championships in four years. I need you to hack into his phone and computer and dig around. See if you find a vulnerability. I don’t know exactly what I’m looking for. All I know is I want you to find something, anything, I can use to go Left Eye Lopes on the guy’s ass. I want to burn this motherfucker’s entire life to the ground, Henny. Just like Left Eye burned Andre’s house. No mercy.

  Chapter 22

  Georgina

  “Good afternoon,” I chirp to CeeCee’s personal assistant, Margot. She’s seated at a desk, holding down the fort while CeeCee is still on vacation in Bali.

  “Georgie!” Margot replies warmly. She hops up and gives me a hug. “How are you?”

  It’s a standard question, obviously. One I’ve been asked in polite conversation countless times in my life. One that should be answered with a simple, “I’m great! And you?” And yet, today, upon hearing that simple question, every fiber of my being wants to shout maniacally, “I think I’m falling for Reed Rivers!”

  It’s the same maniacal reply I wanted to shout at Amalia this morning, when she kindly asked if I’d slept well. And the same thing I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs at the barista in Starbucks, who asked if I wanted my coffee drink hot or cold. Truly, I don’t know how many more times I can be asked how I’m doing or how I slept or how I want my coffee, and be expected to not shout in reply, “I think I’m falling for Reed Rivers!”

  Because... I think I am.

  Hard.

  Obviously, I don’t want to fall for Reed. Indeed, I’m trying very hard not to do that supremely stupid thing. But it’s a hard thing to resist doing, after the amazing conversations we had last night, followed by the magic of this morning.

  This morning, after Reed woke me up (and kindly gave me a couple ibuprofen for my slight hangover), he led me into his home gym for our morning workout... and then shocked the living hell out of me by giving me yet another piece of exercise equipment. This time, a top-of-the-line Pilates reformer! Which I happen to know costs around four grand. I protested, of course. Said I couldn’t possibly accept it. But he insisted and wore me down. Obviously, I’ll never collect it from him. As far as I’m concerned, that thing will stay in Reed’s home gym forevermore. But just the thought that he bought it for me? Swoon.

  But the amazingness didn’t end here. After our workout, and after some delicious sex on my new machine, Reed and I headed to a recording studio in Hollywood. Which was where 2Real, aka Will Riley, was hard at work on his third album. Apparently, Will had asked Reed to swing by the studio today, saying he desperately wanted Reed’s input on a particular track that was giving him fits. So, of course, Reed dropped whatever he’d been planning to do today, and headed straight there, with his eager shadow in tow.

  And, oh, God, it was mind-blowing to watch those two work together. After brief introductions, I sat quietly in a corner for three hours that felt like three minutes, and watched in awe as they played a portion of the track in question. Stopped it. Went back. Talked. Tried something else. Talked again.

  I came away from the experience with even deeper respect for Reed. Clearly, he’s a meaningful partner to his artists. A genius at far more than business and marketing, or music scouting and strategizing. He’s a genius at pulling the best out of his artists, as well.

  Granted, I didn’t understand most of what Reed said to Will during those three hours. For example, at one point, Reed said: “What if we were to saturate the vocals and make them extra dirty?” And I was like, Huh? Another time, Reed said, “We could turn up the flux on the Echo to around 300, playback level at zero. Let’s try that and see if it makes our balls vibrate.” It was another huh? But even without understanding the conversation, I could plainly surmise, thanks to Will’s reactions to Reed’s comments, Reed was making a powerful contribution to Will’s art.

  But our amazing day together didn’t end after the studio. From there, Reed spoiled me by taking me to lunch at the nicest restaurant I’ve ever been to—a hotspot frequented by the Hollywood elite. And when we ran into several movers and shakers, all of whom Reed knew and introduced me to, he said to each one of them, “This is Georgina Ricci, a brilliant new writer for Rock ‘n’ Roll. CeeCee hand-picked her to write an in-depth feature on me, so she’s following me around to get the goods.” Of course, I swooned at that introduction, each and every time.

  After lunch, Reed had a meeting with his business partners on a bunch of nightclubs. He said I could come, but I decided to use the time to head over to Rock ‘n’ Roll’s offices for a few hours.

  “I’ll drive you over there,” he said. “It’s not too far out of my way.”

  And that’s when I said something awkward and embarrassing... that would have been mortifying to me if it hadn’t led to Reed saying something so swoony, it made an egg pop out of my ovary.

  The thing I said to Reed was this: “Thanks for the ride over there. I don’t know how long I’ll be there, though, so I’ll plan to grab an Uber back home afterwards.”

  Back home.

  I called Reed’s house my home.

  Of course, I was instantly mortified I’d let that word slip out. So, I quickly stammered, “I mean, back to your house. I’ll take an Uber back to your house afterwards.”

  At first, Reed didn’t even acknowledge my slip. He simply opened the passenger door to his Bugatti and gestured for me to get in. Which I did, and then promptly covered my face in embarrassment as he walked around the back to his own door.

  But when he dropped me off in front of Rock ‘n’ Roll’s offices, and called to me as I got out of the car, I forgot all about my embarrassment. Because that’s when Reed called out, “I’ll see you back home around five, baby! Don’t keep me waiting this time!”

  Yeah. I swooned pretty hard in that moment. It’s when I knew not falling for Reed was going to be a tall order. Which brings me to this moment with Margot. To her question, “How are you doing?” and my raging impulse to shout, “I think I’m falling for Reed Rivers!”

  Somehow, though, through sheer force of will, I manage to take a deep breath and reply, in a calm voice, “I’m great, Margot. How are you?”

  “I’m swamped,” Margot says dramatically. “It’s always bananas when CeeCee is out of the country. But this week, especially, has been insanity. Are you here to see Zasu?” She’s referring to the veteran reporter who’s been assigned as my mentor this summer. “She just left.”

  “No, I texted with Zasu earlier today. I’m actually here to see if a box of documents I’ve been waiting on from the courthouse has arrived.”

  “I haven’t seen anything addressed to you. I’d be happy to text you if something arrives.” Margot makes a note on a pad. “Is it legal documents?”

  “Yep.”

  “What is it, out of curiosity?”

  “Just an old court case that might have some interesting information in it. To be honest, I’m probably just chasing a wild goose. Speaking of which, do you guys keep old issues of Rock ‘n’ Roll on the premises?”

  “Of course. We have every issue ever published, filed in chronological order, in a storage room.”

  My heart leaps. “May I take a look?”

  “You bet. Follow me.”

  ***

  I look around me, taking in the small storage room, its shelves filled to bursting with back issues of Rock ‘n’ Roll. I don’t know which issue I’m looking for—from which month or year. Or, for that matter, if there will be anything of value in the article I’ve got in mind, if it exists at all. But not knowing what I’m doing has never
stopped me before, and it won’t stop me this time, either.

  I head to Wikipedia on my phone and discover that CeeCee turned sixty a few months ago, in March. Which leads me to conclude the birthday party Reed crashed, where he met both CeeCee and Isabel, must have been CeeCee’s fiftieth. I can’t imagine CeeCee would have thrown herself a huge, black-tie affair for her forty-ninth or fifty-first.

  So, that line of thinking gives me the year of the issue I’m looking for. Also, a two-month window, since my mentor, Zasu, told me the production cycle of most Rock ‘n’ Roll issues is thirty to sixty days. If an article about CeeCee’s fiftieth birthday party, thrown in March, was printed in Rock ‘n’ Roll at all, I’m assuming it would have appeared in the April or May issue.

  Obviously, it’s a long shot to think such an article exists. And that, if it does, it includes a photo spread. But Reed did say he posed in his rented tux for “all the photographers” on the red carpet outside the party. So I think it’s possible the magazine featured an article about the party, including photos... although I’m sure it’s equally possible those photographers were only there to snap photos for CeeCee’s social media or personal memories.

  And why am I looking for this, at all? For several reasons, I think. The one I keep telling myself is my primary motivation is that any photos, if they exist, would allow me to trace Reed’s professional path to glory, starting from the very beginning. Which, in turn, could lead to me painting a better portrait of Reed in my article. And, actually, I think that rationalization—that this wild goose chase is legitimate journalism—is plausible.

  Unfortunately, though, I think the higher truth here is that I’m shamelessly stalking Reed. Dying to see a photo of the wildly successful man who’s knocked me flat on my ass, from when he was nothing but a hungry, twenty-four-year-old hustler in a rented tux. Not too long ago, I crashed an event to meet CeeCee in an effort to change my life. And I can’t deny I’m dying to see a photo of Reed on the night he did precisely the same thing a decade ago. In truth, I think I simply want to feel closer to Reed. To get to know him, inside and out.

  But that’s not everything, and I know it. There’s one more reason I’m here, looking for a needle in a haystack like a St. Bernard looking for a skier buried beneath an avalanche. A reason I’m not proud of. But one I simply can’t deny. Isabel.

  I know the odds are slim I’ll find a photo of the pair on the night they first laid eyes on each other. Neither of them had yet become famous or important that night. So, why would the magazine include a photo of either of them, let alone the two of them together? But I can’t help thinking it’s possible they were snapped in a group shot, or maybe in the background of someone else’s shot, perhaps dancing together on the dance floor. If so, then I want to see the shot. I want to see what kind of electricity coursed between them in those first moments after they’d laid eyes on each other. I want to know how Reed’s chemistry with Isabel compared to his chemistry with me. I want to know if Reed looked at me in the lecture hall the same way he looked at Isabel at CeeCee’s birthday party.

  Okay, yes, I know. Obviously, I have zero chill. I’m a psycho bitch who’s jealous of one of the most beautiful, glamorous, famous actresses in the world. A woman who shagged the man I’m falling for, for years, and also, I suspect, snagged his heart at some point, too. I know she’s engaged to the love of her life now. And that Reed has said he wouldn’t want her anymore, regardless. But, still, I’m almost positive Reed loved Isabel at some point. And maybe still does. And I guess I’m grasping at straws here, irrationally trying to figure out if, maybe, Reed could one day, possibly, love me, too.

  After some poking around, I figure out the filing system used in the storage room, and five minutes later, hit pay dirt.

  The magazine in my hand has George Michael on its cover. On the left side of George’s head, a small headline reads, “Meet your new obsession: Red Card Riot.” In larger print above that, another headline reads, “CeeCee Rafael Knows How to Throw a F*cking Birthday Party!”

  My heart in my mouth, I flip to the article about the birthday party, and squeal loudly when I see five full pages of photos.

  “Jackpot,” I whisper, my voice cutting through the air of the empty storage room.

  Ravenously, my eyes search and scour. But, not surprisingly, I don’t see any photos of Reed or Isabel. But then I see it. In a shot of Justin Timberlake. He’s arriving at the party. He’s just gotten out of a limo, and he’s starting to traipse down the red carpet. And what I see in the background of the photo, behind Justin, snatches the air out of my lungs.

  What the hell?

  I pull out my phone and take a photo of the photo. And then I spread the background image on my phone wide with my fingers to zoom in. But it’s no use. Thanks to the camera’s focus on Justin, the background image is slightly blurred. Which means I’m only ninety percent sure of what I’m seeing. But, still, that’s pretty damned sure.

  Holy fuck.

  If this photo shows what I think it does, then that could mean only one thing: Reed lied to me. Right to my face. About something I would have thought was totally innocuous.

  And, for the life of me, I can’t understand why.

  Chapter 23

  Reed

  Georgina is late, once again. Caught up in traffic. This time, because she lost track of time while reading a bunch of articles at Rock ‘n’ Roll’s offices.

  To distract myself while awaiting her return, I’ve been sitting on my couch with my laptop, going over the marketing plan for Fugitive Summer’s upcoming release. As I’ve been working, I’ve been sipping a glass of Bordeaux. Occasionally, glancing up at the sunset painting the floor-to-ceiling windows on the far side of the living room.

  Surely, if someone were to see me right now, not knowing anything about Georgina, they’d think I’m the perfect portrait of a man in relaxation mode. But it couldn’t be further from the truth. If Georgina doesn’t get here soon, I’m pretty sure I’m going to die from anticipation. I’d probably feel that way, regardless. Just because I’m physically craving her after being away from her for several hours. But my impatience is amplified by the flat, square box hidden underneath my couch cushion at the moment. The box I hid there when I got home, so I can give it to her at just the right moment tonight.

  Georgina won’t keep my gift. Not this one. Not for long, anyway. She’ll take it from me with a beaming smile and turn around and sell it, the first chance she gets. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to give it to her. Or see that beaming smile of hers when she first opens the box and sees the sheer perfection of what’s inside. Whether Georgina winds up keeping my gift for a day or a week, her gift to me will be the look on her face when she first opens the box.

  Finally, just as I’m reaching the end of Fugitive Summer’s release package, I hear my front door open. When I turn my head, it’s just in time to see Georgina bursting into the expansive room. And, just like that, every cell in my body simultaneously jolts with a tsunami of reactions. Arousal, joy, relief. She’s home. She’s safe. She’s mine.

  “Sorry, sorry, sorry,” Georgie says adorably, barreling over to me, her computer bag clanking against her hip as she moves. “I got caught up reading a bunch of stuff, and totally lost track of time.”

  Frazzled, she kisses me in greeting, and I calmly rise and hand her a goblet of wine.

  “What were you reading?” I ask, settling next to her on the couch.

  “Every past article I could get my hands on about every River Records artist,” she says. “Including the article that started it all—the one CeeCee wrote about Red Card Riot’s debut.”

  “Oh, wow. I haven’t seen that one in forever. I’d love to read it, for old time’s sake.”

  “I thought you might say that...” Waggling her eyebrows, she reaches into her computer bag and pulls out a sheet of paper. “So, I made a high-resolution color copy for you!”

  “No way,” I say, as she hands me the page. “This is
amazing, Georgie! Thank you.” I kiss her cheek. “That was awfully sweet of you.”

  “Well, you’re awfully sweet to me, so... “

  Oh, Jesus Christ. Those condors in my belly are back again, full-force. I read the entirety of the short article, stopping once to make a comment to Georgie, and, finally, place the page on the coffee table. “What a walk down memory lane. Wow.”

  “I was actually thinking you might like a framed copy for your home office,” Georgie says. “You have all your major ‘firsts’ in there, so I thought...”

  “That’s a fantastic idea. Thank you. I’ll give this to Amalia to get framed.”

  “Oh. No. I was thinking I’d get it framed for you, if that’s okay.” She smiles shyly. “I know a framed article isn’t much of a gift, but you’ve given me so much. I’m dying to give you something special. Something that might be meaningful to you.”

  My heart skips a beat at the sweetness in Georgina’s expression—even as my heart leaps and bounds at the perfect segue she just lobbed to me. I’d planned to give Georgina my gift after dinner. But after a segue like that, how could I possibly resist giving it to her now?

  “Speaking of gifts, I have one for you.”

  “Oh, Reed. No.”

  “Just listen. My meeting this afternoon was in Beverly Hills.” I take a deep breath. Holy shit, my heart is racing. “And when I was walking the couple blocks back to my car afterwards, I happened to pass a store window that was displaying something that instantly reminded me of you. So, I walked inside the store and bought it for you.”

  “Reed, no. No, no, no.”

  Ignoring her protests, I reach under the couch cushion and pull out the box I’ve been dying to give her. “This is for you. I hope you love it.”

  Her wide eyes dart from the blue box to my face and back again. “I can’t accept that, whatever it is. Thank you so much for thinking of me, but it’s way too much.”