“So we can read it together,” she explained.
“You won’t hear me complaining,” Jack said, wrapping an arm around her.
As the link connected, the Franklin Standard home page popped up on the screen, and Tess moved her face next to Jack’s. He was a faster reader than she was, because she could tell the exact moment when his cheeks lifted, stretching his mouth into a broad smile.
“Congratulations,” he said, putting his other arm around her and giving her a squeeze. “Or congratulations to Penny, I should say.”
Tess grinned, turning to press her forehead against the side of his face. “She deserves the scholarship,” she said. “Her dream is to get into the musical theater program at NYU. Do you think she’s heard the news? I should give her a call.”
But just as she was about to search for her number, her cell disappeared.
“Not so fast,” Jack said, holding the phone out of reach. “I said you could make one call.”
“I didn’t make a call,” Tess protested, a bit halfheartedly when she felt Jack’s free hand move up, resting on the back of her neck. With his other hand, he made a move as if he was going to silence her phone. But then he stopped.
“Huh. There’s a bunch of other missed calls.”
“Really? That’s weird.”
Without her having to ask, Jack handed over the phone. “From Eva,” Tess said, scanning through her missed calls. “The one who has the music studio I was telling you about.” She frowned down at her cell. “She phoned five times and left a voice mail.”
“What does it say?”
Tess slid off his lap and sat at his side. “Nothing,” she said after listening to the message. “She just wants me to call her. What time is it?”
“Almost five.”
“Do you mind if I…?”
He held up his index finger, “You have time for one call. Because there’s something I really need to show you.” He was fingering the edge of the towel around his waist. “Soon.”
Tess bit her lip and grinned. “I’ll make it quick.” She clutched her phone and walked into the other room.
…
Jack sat on the edge of the bed. Smiling, he leaned back and ran a hand over the spot next to him. She had been right there, her legs crossed, wearing his T-shirt, the neck hole sliding off her shoulder. He felt a deep pain in his chest when she was away, even if she was only in the next room. Something inside him ached at the thought of her leaving his house at the end of the weekend.
He was happier with her than he’d ever been. They loved each other; they trusted each other. Even this early on, they had a history that made their relationship even more special. Still, he couldn’t bear that she wouldn’t be here with him forever, every night and every morning…for better, for worse…as long as they both shall live.
“Eva!” Tess gasped. “Are you sure?”
Alarmed, Jack sprang to his feet and found Tess in the kitchen, slowly lowering herself into a chair. He moved to her side and quietly pulled up a chair, staring into her face. She didn’t look upset, but there was definitely some vast expression trying to break through her bemused countenance.
“Tess?” he whispered, laying his hand over hers.
She lifted her eyes to him. “I…” She was speaking into the phone. “I don’t know what to say.” She listened for a minute then dropped her chin, laughing. “Well, thank you, then. Officially. Thank you with all my heart. Okay, we’ll talk soon. ’Bye.”
Jack stared at her as she lowered the phone.
“Tess? Is everything—”
“She’s giving me her studio,” Tess said, staring straight ahead at the wall.
“What?” Jack wrapped his fingers around her hand.
“Eva. She wants to retire.” Tess exhaled a weak, unbelieving chuckle. “And she wants me to take over. All the classes—everything. My own music school. Isn’t it amazing?”
Jack’s muscles relaxed and he let go of the breath he was holding. “Baby,” he said, pulling her onto his lap, “that’s completely amazing.”
She broke into a glorious grin, her whole being lighting up with joy. “Do you know what that means?” she said, leaning in to touch her nose to his cheek.
“What?” Jack asked, feeling his heart pick up speed.
She kissed him once, slowly. Jack couldn’t help trembling. “It means I’m not leaving.” She kissed him again.
He swept the hair off her shoulder, moving his mouth to the side of her bare neck. “Town?” he asked in a whisper. She tilted her chin to give him full access. “Or this house?”
She straightened her head, then pulled back to look him in the eyes.
“Neither, I hope,” Jack continued, touching a finger to her cheek, then running it across her bottom lip. “Because I absolutely cannot live without you.”
After a moment, Tess leaned down and kissed him, letting her lips linger on the side of his mouth. Jack’s entire body flooded with perfect warmth. When he felt her tug at the towel around his waist, that warmth turned to heat. He pulled back to find her grinning.
“Then neither, it is,” Tess said, placing a hand on either side of his face. “Now, what was it you wanted to show me?”
Acknolwedgments
THANKS…
to Mom and Dad for having faith in beginner’s luck and for lending me the ante,
to Heather Howland for placing the first bet on a long shot,
to my high-rolling editor, Stacy Abrams, for scooping up the dice and going all in, and to Alycia and Lauren for blowing on the dice,
to my publicity team, Heather and Debbie, for making it happen,
to the Entangled Authors Loop ladies, for gathering around the table and cheering me on,
to my critique partner/card sharp, Sue, for stacking the deck and never letting me fold,
to Nancy, my unswerving beta, for keeping the game clean and keeping cupcakes at the table,
to my pit boss Gary, and my bookies: Randy, Shoopz, The Sherrys, and all my other gassy dudes,
to my glam squad show girls, Ginger (photog), Lydia (G.A.), and Susan (supporter of my Jennifer Aniston hair and of me looking like Angelina Jolie in general),
and to all my friends and family, thank you for encouraging me to stay in the game and to always bet high.
Don’t miss Ophelia London’s first full-length novel, ABBY ROAD, coming in March 2013 to online and print retailers everywhere!
Touted by the tabloids as the biggest rock star of our generation, Abigail Kelly is used to being in the spotlight. But beyond the glam of Hollywood, her world is falling apart. Still reeling from the death of her brother and wilting under the iron fist of Max, her manager, Abby banishes herself to the secluded beaches of Florida for the summer, thinking some anonymity and sunshine are just what she needs. What she finds instead is Todd, an ex-marine eager to embrace life after war. Together, Abby and Todd find the balance Abby’s life has been missing.
That is, until Max resurfaces, demanding that Abby return to Los Angeles to record her band’s newest album. As the pressures of public appearances, paparazzi, and late-night recordings start to mount, Abby will have to risk everything or lose the life she always dreamed of.
Ophelia London’s ABBY ROAD is a love letter to music—both the kind you cherish and the kind you create—as well as a beautiful love story that proves even when everyone in the world can recognize your face, the only people who matter are those who can see inside your heart.
Read on for a sneak peek…
Prologue
How could there be no valet parking? This was Los Angeles.
After circling the building a second time, I finally found a space. Even though parallel parking was not my forte, I managed to snake in, then did that reverse-forward-reverse-forward trick about ten times, trying to straighten out. I glanced through the passenger side window, inspecting the population of the sidewalk. Hmm—busy, lots of businesspeople and shoppers dodging one another. Hopefully no tourist
s, though. My stomach felt queasy at the thought.
I sat back in my seat, closed my eyes, and breathed slowly. In through the nose…out through the mouth… Repeat until pulse steadies…
If I were late to my appointment, I’d just tell Dr. Robert it was because I was practicing a relaxation technique. He knew agoraphobia wasn’t my current paranoia, however, so he probably wouldn’t buy it. So, after one more inhale, I adjusted my huge round sunglasses, took a last look through the window, then opened the car door.
I was careful not to slam it shut—no need to draw unnecessary attention. I walked around the car. And I was fine. I stepped onto the sidewalk. Still totally fine. Dr. Robert’s office building was only about fifty paces away. Dead ahead. If I looked down and walked fast, no one would—
“Abigail? Abigail Kelly?”
I froze in place. Bad idea; I should’ve kept moving. I turned toward the voice. It was a girl, maybe about sixteen years old. She was pointing at me with one hand while her other was clapped over her mouth. Probably stifling one of those ear-splitting teenage squeals.
“It is. It’s you!”
“Hi there,” I said, forcing my mouth to turn up into my “charming smile.” Before she’d even reached me, I was automatically ready to take whatever scrap of paper she handed over. It was a movie ticket stub this time. I glanced at the title, but I’d never heard of it. Occupational hazard of being on the road and out of the country for the past eleven months.
“What’s your name?” I asked, then scribbled my best wishes followed by my signature, including the trademark loopty-loop on the Y at the end.
By that time, three other girls—friends of girl number one, presumably—had joined us.
“Seriously. I just love you!” one of them said, beaming. “Your songs are, like, all my favorites.”
“You’re so much prettier in person,” declared another.
I was nodding and smiling and loopty-looping as fast as I could, keeping one eye on the building entrance a few yards away.
“Your hair,” girl number one said, “is so totally beautiful. How do you get it that blond and shiny?” Then she actually reached out and touched my head. I allowed it. Not that I was used to having total strangers pet me on street corners, but it was like I’d been nine months pregnant for the last five years, and everyone thought they were allowed to rub my belly.
“Yours is gorgeous.” I smiled. And it was true—it was the kind of red you can’t get out of a bottle. “Never change it,” I said, signing the last piece of paper. “Grow it long. You’ll rule the world. Trust me.”
The girls gathered in a buzzing huddle as I started to walk away. Not too petrifying that time. Four autographs, probably a couple of cell phone pictures. Nothing that was going to make tonight’s news. I clutched my purse strap over my shoulder and exhaled. Home free.
“Hey. Abigail.” It was a man’s voice this time. “C’mon, give us a big smile now.”
When I looked over my shoulder toward the voice, I didn’t find just one man, but three, all dressed in their typical LA daytime street garb: shorts, wrinkled T-shirts, ball caps on backward and cameras strapped around their necks.
Suddenly, they were one arm’s length away from me.
The paparazzi really had no sense of personal space. Looked like I’d picked the wrong day to run a simple errand alone, without Shugger, my bodyguard, or even Molly, my personal assistant. I wondered for a frightening second if I should call Max and have him send in the troops to pull me out; managers were very good at things like that. But I dismissed the idea—causing a scene might’ve been worse.
“Hi, guys.” I waved in what I hoped was a friendly manner, even though I was dying to turn and run. “I gotta go.” I pointed toward the building. “I have an appointment.”
“With the Psychiatrist of the Stars again?” one of them said, his snapping camera literally three inches from my face.
Really, I shouldn’t have been at all surprised that they knew, even though I’d only gone in to see Dr. Robert one other time—the rest of our sessions had been done over the phone, because I was out of the country. Not that they were doing much good, if you ask me. When I’d tried to convince him I was simply having a quarter-life-crisis, he didn’t believe me.
Maybe he was smarter than I’d thought.
“What do you talk about with him, Abigail?” another paparazzo asked.
I shook my head, playing mysterious, and backed away.
“Yeah, c’mon, you can tell us. It’ll be our little secret, right?” He snickered while moving his camera to a different angle.
Knowing this had already gone on for too long, I turned on my heel and started to walk off, ignoring the warning bells chiming in my head. But they followed me, saying things I tried to ignore. All the paparazzi were really after was a reaction—they wanted to snap a picture of you crying or yelling or adjusting your bra strap.
“Yo, Abby,” one of them called out, stepping in front of me right before the entrance. “How’s Christian these days? Huh?”
The question made my stomach drop to the floor and my throat feel like a long, slippery snake was choking off all oxygen. This was a low blow, even for them. But I did not react. Christian was my one button the paparazzi knew they could push—even though what happened to Christian was a year ago. That didn’t matter to them. In fact, they would sink as low as they had to, dig up the most painful part of your past, then twist it into something even uglier, just to get the response they wanted. But I refused to give it to them.
Instead, I swallowed hard and said nothing. When I tried to step around them, the photog in front blocked my way again.
“How does it feel, Abby? To know you killed your brother?”
I wasn’t sure when I realized that my forward motion had stopped. Half of my brain was screaming to remain calm—do not react, Abby—while the other half was painfully aware that the clicking sound of the cameras had suddenly tripled. There was no part of my brain that could give the command to retreat.
The next sound I heard was my own gasping. I felt tears on my cheeks when I pressed a hand over my mouth. Blood rushed to my head as I bent forward, my other hand braced on the front of my thigh. My eyelids were clenched so tightly that all I saw was black…
The next thing I was fully aware of was sitting on the small sofa in Dr. Robert’s office. He was staring from a wingback chair a few feet away while some hidden machine was playing sounds of the ocean, and there was a steaming cup of something minty-smelling on the table next to me. I looked down at my lap toward an area of acute pain. Both fists were white-knuckled—nails digging into my palms. When I swallowed, my throat felt uncharacteristically raw. I tried to think back, wondering if I’d really just broken down like that. In the middle of rush hour. For the whole world to see.
“Are you ready to talk about it?” Dr. Robert asked, clicking his pen. “About your brother?”
I took a breath and opened my mouth.
But then I closed it, sealing my lips together. No, I was still not ready to talk about it.
Dr. Robert crossed his legs. “All right, then.”
I reached over for my drink and took a sip, then another, staring down into the mug; the liquid inside looked like tiny tsunamis as my hands shook uncontrollably.
“Okay,” Dr. Robert said, lowering his notebook. “Let’s talk about something lighter for a while.” He tapped a finger to his chin. “When was the last time you felt happy?”
I chuckled darkly and rolled my eyes, about to explain to him that I hadn’t had one moment of joy since Christian died. But then I thought of something else and realized that wasn’t the truth.
“Three…three days ago,” I began, my voice sounding scratchy. “We were in Paris. The band was exhausted—it was our ninth show in nine nights. We were running on adrenaline.” I returned the cup to the table and looked toward the window past Dr. Robert’s head. “During the acoustic set, it was just Hal and me onstage. The song was slow
—a love ballad from our first album. We were sitting on stools; Hal was on guitar and I was behind a standing mike. Toward the end of the song, I remember closing my eyes.” I closed my eyes now, reliving the memory. “I could actually feel the music pulse through my body, down to my toes, under my hair. I’ve never felt so…alive.” I sat forward, leaning toward Dr. Robert. “My voice, the band, all the instruments were blending perfectly that night; everything was clicking. As I sat under the spotlight, I felt the energy of fifty thousand friends singing along with me, singing their hearts out. That massive venue was suddenly intimate, like we were all in sync. I wondered if they knew we were experiencing something extraordinary.”
I pressed both hands over my heart. “Hal and I snuck a look at each other at the end. “We were both grinning like idiots. Right then, I knew I was doing exactly what I was meant to do, what I love to do, every day, every minute. I felt that in my bones. And I was so…” I broke off when my voice cracked. “I was so perfectly happy.”
I opened my eyes and looked at Dr. Robert, pleased that I’d done what he’d asked.
“And now?” he said. “How do you feel today?”
I felt my chest go instantly tight and my hands ball up as before.
One
“A Day in the Life”
“Yellow Submarine” was playing from my jeans. I knew who was calling by the ringtone, but I didn’t answer right away. It couldn’t be too important; we’d already spoken five times today.
By the second chorus, I moved to a corner of the bookstore and fished out my cell. “Hi, Molly,” I half whispered. “What’s happening on the home front?”
“Hold on, Abby. Just a tick.” Behind her voice, I heard traffic, the radio, and a single horn honking: Molly’s. “Bloody move it, Tiny Tim!”
I bit my lip in amused pity, imagining some poor waif on crutches trying to cross the street without being mowed down by the beautiful, impatient brunette in the convertible Mini Coop with the Union Jack paintjob. Despite the British accent, Molly’s creative potty mouth was legendarily dirty.
Playing at Love Page 22
