Provoke: A Seaside Pictures Novella

by Rachel Van Dyken

I’d never once in my life dealt with anyone from the music industry. The firm I worked with was private, discreet, and catered to wealthier clients who, after realizing every goal they set out to accomplish, often became depressed with their lives and needed to find direction. A purpose outside of what used to be their passion. And nothing on Earth was more gratifying than witnessing that moment.

  It was like a sunset that took your breath away.

  The first snow.

  Birth.

  It was like someone shouting “hallelujah” in the middle of church.

  People always talked about the moments in their lives, the ah-ha ones. And lucky for me, I was almost always the one who helped facilitate that with my clients.

  It was what I did.

  Normally, I loved that part of my job.

  Which again brought me back to the present.

  How the heck was I supposed to help a singer who’d, if the media was to be believed, had a meltdown on stage after someone used his concert as a way to make a personal statement by way of violence? It didn’t help that loud noises triggered him now, and concerts were notoriously loud.

  Details were on lockdown.

  The media had been oddly quiet about what had actually happened that day, despite all of the video footage. They feared there would be a copycat. And even though Braden had cooperated, he looked a lot different now versus the blurry footage of him on stage.

  Haunted.

  I’d watched all of his old YouTube videos from when he was nineteen and then graduated to his more recent stuff. He went from looking young to haunted. I wasn’t sure what I expected him to be like in person but this wasn’t it.

  I quickly grabbed my notepad, my duffel bag full of fun, and my notes on the client, then slowly made my way back into the living room.

  I could finish unpacking later.

  I wanted to get to know Braden first. The real Braden, not the one that people saw on TV or worshiped while swaying to his nearly identical Sean Mendes-style voice.

  “Braden?” I glanced around the bare-yet-gorgeous living room with its deep brown leather couches, fuzzy white throw pillows, and floor-to-ceiling fireplace.

  The doors to the outside folded inside the kitchen. It automatically transported the area into an indoor/outdoor space that had two heaters, an outdoor fireplace, and several fur blankets next to red umbrellas that blocked the wind.

  Braden had changed his clothes and was sitting outside with his guitar in his lap, staring out at the ocean. He wore a pair of worn brown Birkenstocks, a black Adidas sweatshirt, black sweats, and a beanie.

  I was almost sad his hair was covered.

  I’d never seen red hair on a guy that close, and his was like this fiery orange color that looked so shiny and wavy that I imagined it would feel like silk if I ran my fingers through it.

  He strummed something on his guitar, a song I wasn’t familiar with. I shivered from the cold breeze entering the living room and repeated his name, this time louder.

  “Braden?”

  He didn’t turn around, but he did stop strumming. “Yes, Coach?”

  I rolled my eyes, thankful that he couldn’t see my irritation. I could put up with a lot, but it would be easier if he wasn’t a dick for the next twenty-one days. “I have a name.”

  He was quiet and then said, “Yes, Piper?” Slowly he turned, his blue eyes locking onto mine with an unnatural intensity, like he could see inside my soul.

  I broke eye contact first and walked over to one of the brown wicker chairs. I sat, ankles crossed, posture perfect, lipstick on point. I was well aware that I looked every inch the professional.

  Entirely reliable.

  I needed to look that way so the clients had faith that if I was in control of myself, I could easily help them gain control of themselves.

  I was the spiral stopper.

  I lifted my chin and offered a polite smile. “Should we talk?”

  His right eyebrow arched as he strummed with his left hand. His fingers were slender and graceful as they moved across the instrument. Why was I fixating on his fingers?

  “See something you like, Coach?” He grinned.

  I gave him another placating smile. “No, I was just noting that you do that really well.”

  He barked out a laugh. “You mean strum the chords?”

  “Right,” I chirped.

  His laugh was rich. I liked it immediately. “Look, if you’re going to be in my house for the next twenty-one days attempting to fix my brain and life, you should probably relax. Your posture’s so rigid, even my back hurts, and I do yoga.”

  “Huh?”

  “I have a strong back.” He winked. “Normal people slump, by the way. It’s a thing.”

  He went back to playing his guitar and watching the waves crash on the beach.

  My smile started to falter. “I don’t slump. And your body sends signals to your brain when your posture shows defeat. If you stand straighter, sit straighter, your mind takes notice. Think of it as a way of sending a little alert to your nerves that says, ‘Hey, listen up, or look ready for action.’” I could feel my smile growing as I explained the art of body language. I mean, it really was fascinating. “You can even send—”

  Braden slumped forward and made a snoring noise, then jerked his head up and laughed. “Did you get that message?”

  I glared. “Be serious.”

  “Hey, you’re the one trying to teach. Me being the good student I am, I gave you an example. See? Match made in heaven.”

  “You were rude.”

  “Maybe I am rude.”

  I scowled. “Look, I know you don’t want me here, but I promise if you let me do my job, you’ll be out there touring in no time. Just think of this as a groupie hiatus if you have to, all right? I’m sorry you’re not getting bras tossed at you on stage, and women aren’t weeping in your presence right now, but this is going to be like a cleanse to your soul. After me, you’re going to feel like yourself again.”

  His eyes narrowed. “You’ve never been to one of my concerts, have you?”

  I shifted in my seat. “I don’t like concerts, they’re too loud.”

  “You’re a bucket of fun, aren’t you?” Sarcasm dripped from every word.

  “What? We all have our things. And I can assure you that I’ve studied your music extensively, watched your YouTube channel. I’ve taken notes. I know we can make this work, we just need a plan, and that’s where I come in.”

  His eyes widened. “Didn’t think it was possible.”

  “Making a plan is always possible,” I said reassuringly.

  He snorted out a laugh. “No, not that. I just didn’t think it was possible to actually find someone more terrifying than my therapist, and she doesn’t even smile. But you? Your talk of plans and body language and that black duffel bag you creepily have by your feet… Yeah, I’m gonna give you a hard pass. Thanks for trying, but if my own therapist can’t cure me of this bullshit, I highly doubt a woman in six-thousand-dollar shoes is going to do any better.”

  I opened my mouth to say they had been on sale…but then shut it.

  “Exactly.” He stood. “I’m headed to bed. Sleep tight, Coach, and make sure you lock your door. I get violent when I sleepwalk.”

  “Wh-what?” I grabbed his file and frantically looked through it. “This says nothing about sleepwalking!” My eyes narrowed. “Are you just being difficult?”

  Braden shrugged his massive shoulders. “Better safe than sorry, Doc.”

  “I’m not a doctor, I’m a life coach.”

  “So sorry. Better safe than sorry, Coach.”

  I clenched my teeth.

  “By the way, the middle two buttons of your blouse have been open this entire time. And well, the wind wasn’t helping your situation. I like the pink lace.”

  With that, he was gone.

  And I was clutching my shirt closed as if he’d just seen me naked.

  I counted to five.

  Breathed in an
d out.

  Grabbed my things and decided to change tactics. I rarely had to force clients to cooperate because they entered into the situation wanting help. Which meant I had to remind Braden why he needed me, and what was at stake if he didn’t cooperate.

  After all, he was the one in danger of being in breach of contract, not me.

  Chapter Three

  Braden

  Day one of Piper taking over my life was going about as well as going to the dentist and having multiple root canals.

  Apparently even my breathing pissed her off.

  She ordered me to fill out a stack of worksheets that I was one hundred percent convinced would end up sending me to a mental hospital at some point, or at least would come back stating I was crazy.

  Then again, you could only fill in so many little circles with a pencil before you wanted to break it in half and then shove it into your thigh to distract yourself from the mental pain of thinking too hard.

  “How many more of these, Coach?” I grumbled.

  “My name’s Piper,” she corrected in that same clinical voice that made me want to rip my hair out—and I really liked my hair, so that was saying something. “I need these so I can figure out the best way to help you.”

  “I don’t need help,” I snapped, both of us knowing it was a stupid-ass lie but whatever. If I had to fill out one more worksheet…

  She was deathly quiet, which was a bit disconcerting since she tended to talk a lot.

  Maybe the quiet was what did me in, but I slammed my fists onto the stack of papers and stood. “Look, I know you’re here because the company’s paying you, and they’re scared that they’ll have to take me off the tour. But filling out paperwork regarding if I prefer to be alone or in crowds isn’t going to fix this. Or me. Or what happened!”

  I didn’t realize I was raising my voice until she put her hands up and took a step back.

  “Shit, I’m sorry. I just…I’ve been through this, been through the therapy. The breakthrough obviously didn’t happen.”

  She swallowed slowly and then took a few seconds as if she’d either had a stroke or didn’t know what to say. “I understand your concerns—”

  “See, and that’s another thing. I’m a person. Talk to me like a normal human being.” I was agitated, annoyed. “You’re treating me like some sort of troubled youth, I’m twenty-four.” I just had to tell her my age.

  “Braden.” She said my name softly and then took the stack of papers and shoved them into her briefcase. “I know this is hard, but trust me when I say I’m here to help you. I want to help you. Sometimes it’s easier to trust a stranger who’s not trying to diagnose you with anything when it comes to trauma and getting over things that make you anxious. Triggers, if you will.”

  I stared her down. “I feel triggered now, does that help?”

  She glared and then forced a smile. “Really? What’s triggering you? Because I feel triggered by your poor penmanship.”

  I looked down. “Bullshit, I write perfectly fine.”

  “If you were a doctor maybe.” She shrugged a shoulder. “So what’s setting you off, Braden? The fact that you have to fill out paperwork when you’d rather be writing music? The fact that a stranger’s in your home, telling you what to do? What?”

  I opened my mouth and then shut it. It was physically impossible not to react to the way she bit down on her bottom lip or looked directly into my eyes like my celebrity status didn’t mean shit to her. I was so used to the giddy screams and selfies, that I almost forgot how uncomfortable it was to be so…human.

  So normal.

  “You,” I huffed out. “You trigger me.”

  “Because I’m a woman?”

  I scoffed. “Hell no. My mom would kick my ass. It’s because…” A light went on in my head. Shit, was it because I wanted to impress her and I felt embarrassed?

  “Because?”

  “I like your smile,” I blurted. “And I don’t like being bossed around by someone who doesn’t know the full story of what happened. And I don’t like being told what to do. But the biggest trigger of all is that a stunning woman is here trying to help me, and all I keep thinking is, what if she can’t?”

  Her smile was real this time as she pulled out a chair and sat down. “Well, we won’t know until we try, right?”

  I scowled. “Did you purposely leave out the part where I gave you a nice compliment?”

  She licked her lips and looked away. “No. I just didn’t want to inflate your head any more by telling you I liked it.”

  Shock must have shown on my face because she laughed and then eyed the stack of papers.

  “So…” I leaned forward. “Does this mean we can be done filling in the holes?” I frowned. “That came out wrong.”

  “Very,” she agreed. “And yes, you can be done filling holes for the day, Braden. I’ll go over all of your results while you do what the production company wants you to do.”

  My ears perked up. “What’s that?”

  She tossed me a yellow notepad and grinned. “Write.”

  I went to bed that night with two new songs and a smile on my face. Piper had ordered in pizza, which meant I smelled it first, inhaled five pieces second, yawned and waved goodnight third.

  Just because she was hot didn’t mean I had to eat with her. Plus, part of me was terrified of letting her in when she was just going to be gone in a few weeks. At least therapists didn’t abandon you.

  Great. Was I really so pathetic that I was worried about her leaving? Like I had a middle-school crush.

  I groaned into my hands and tried to fall asleep, only to realize that I was too damn curious if she was sleeping already or not. Did she wear pajamas to bed? Was she a fan of nude slumber? Should I check?

  I was screwed.

  She was the first woman I’d seen in months that made me go, yeah, I want to kiss that mouth even though it’s attached to someone so prim and proper that I’m worried she’ll call me a sinner and knee me in the balls.

  I got out of bed anyway, threw on a pair of gray sweats, and meandered out into the house with a gorgeous woman on my mind. One who had a mouth that liked to give orders rather than receive…anything.

  Awesome.

  The lights were all low, but the TV was on. She was watching some Netflix documentary I’d seen a few weeks ago, hugging a pillow to her chest, eyes wide.

  She didn’t even hear me approach until I was next to the couch. “Creepy as hell, right?”

  She jumped to her feet with a yelp, knocking over a perfectly good glass of rosé and spilling it across the coffee table.

  Holding out my hand, indicating she should remain seated, I stepped into the kitchen, quickly grabbed a towel, and mopped the table clean. As I took one final swipe over the now-dry surface and pitched the rag in the general direction of the kitchen, I made the grave mistake of looking at her.

  Because…damn.

  She was wearing white linen boy shorts and a matching loose linen tank that most definitely did not hide the fact that she was nipping out.

  I gawked and then in a hoarse voice said, “Did you break into my wine stash while I was sleeping?”

  Her cheeks blushed bright red. “Maybe?”

  “Naughtier than she looks, folks,” I teased with a grin. “At least you chose a good one.”

  “Sorry.” She looked sheepish. “I couldn’t sleep so I figured it might help. And then my best friend back home was like ‘you should watch that cats documentary on Netflix.’ And because I’m an idiot, I assumed it was going to be happy, not about cats dying while someone filmed it.”

  I made a face. “Yeah, not the best thing to watch at night.”

  “No.” She groaned. “I can’t stop, though.”

  I laughed. “Be a little bad. Binge watch the entire season with wine in one hand and mine in the other.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Cute. You make that up all by yourself, or did you have to write it down and memorize it a dozen times before y
ou got the delivery right?”

  I gaped then felt her forehead before pulling back. “Wait, do you actually have a sense of humor?” I slow-clapped. “And here I thought you were half dead. I actually brought salt into my room just in case you turned into some sort of zombie.”

  “Salt doesn’t protect against zombies.”

  “How do you know?” I asked with a grin.

  “Uhhhh.” Her eyes narrowed. “You’re baiting me.”

  “Always. I love a good, solid…” I eyed her up and down. “Catch. Hey, question. Are you purposely trying to show me your boobs?”

  She crossed her arms. “I thought you were asleep.”

  “Yeah well, I caught whatever you have, so now I’m up…” And because I was alone, and she was smiling. Because she’d said she could help, and she was, I added in. “Want some popcorn?”

  We stayed up until midnight and then went our separate ways. I fell asleep hoping that we’d both decided we were friends of a sort.

  Only to find myself woken up the next day by a fucking air horn and another list of likes and dislikes, followed by an assignment to write my own eulogy.

  It was a bad day, to say the least.

  When I was finished, I tossed the notepad to her and said, “That was bullshit, by the way. And a little too close to home. It could possibly send a person over the edge, so now I’m curious. Why the hell would you make anyone do that?”

  “Sometimes…”—she spoke slowly—“it helps to imagine the worst-case scenario and then realize you’re here for a purpose. You’re here because people need you, and you aren’t done with what you’re supposed to do on this planet.”

  I thought about her words throughout a quiet dinner where we barely spoke to one another. And, like the night before, I came out around ten, sat next to her on the couch, and watched more of the documentary.

  Wine in one hand, popcorn in the other.

  “It should be this easy,” I whispered.

  “What?” She tilted her head.

  “I like this side of you better,” I answered instead. “And I’m not telling you how to do your job, but if the Piper sitting next to me right now asked me to bare my soul, I would do it.”

  “Versus the Piper who’s your coach?” she asked.