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by Laurelin Paige

  “Oh! I’m learning how to do that!” Even after being exposed, I’m still delighted that I was able to act on my feet when approached by those fans at Disney World. I’ve been acting professionally for almost half my life, who knew I could turn over a new leaf now?

  Hadley hands me one of the magazines that my face decorates. Us Weekly. It was one of the first covers I’d ever been on. “Plucked from the Midwest,” the headline reads. Inside is a story that portrays me as a wholesome girl next door, the first time I wasn’t a B-list Other Woman in the press.

  “Stop gawking at yourself,” Hadley scolds. “Then tear off the cover and the pages of the article about you.”

  I suddenly see where this is all going. “No way!” I hold the magazine to my chest.

  “Look,” Rowan says. “You can always order these again from the publishers. This is symbolic.”

  Hadley frowns in Rowan’s direction. “She could order them again.” She looks more kindly at me. “My hope is, after this, you no longer need to. These aren’t your stories.”

  I let the cover slide back down again and stare at it. Really, what is it that I am holding onto? My career still is what it is even without these items in my hand. I’m not giving up anything that I worked for by destroying this image. Or any of the others. I suppose there’s no harm in following through with Hadley’s orders.

  Not my stories, I tell myself.

  Then I tear off the cover. Flipping through the magazine, I find the pages I’m featured on, and tear those out as well. I don’t need to be told the next step. I bend down and place them into the shredder, watching the pages turn into long slivers of confetti. Watching them turn into nothing.

  Rowan claps her hands and jumps with glee. “Do another one. Do another one.”

  Hadley is already handing me another issue. “America’s Sweetheart.” The headline is destroyed. As is “Girl Next Door.” And “Pure and Powerful.” And “Why We Love The Good Girl.” And “Too Good To Be True.” And “Sometimes The Good Girl Finishes First.” I destroy them all, one by one, feeding page after page into the shredder as the warm cinnamon scent of apple pie fills the air. It’s comforting, somehow.

  “We’re taking your narrative back,” Hadley says, assuring me with each shred. “This life is your story. No one gets to say how it’s written but you.”

  And I get it—get why she wanted me to do this. It’s a powerful gesture, and I understand what she wants me to know. I haven’t ruined anything. It’s my career, standing on my acting alone. It’s my life, and I write how it goes.

  But even as I’m somewhat emboldened, I still have doubts worming around inside me. What if I’m not sure what to write?

  And what if the person I want to write it with isn’t the right guy for the job?

  Chapter Sixteen

  Too Far

  Nick

  It’s the first time in weeks that she hasn’t answered my nightly call.

  We never officially committed to the routine—it’s developed organically. We text every morning when we wake up and throughout the day. Then, I finish a show and call her from my dressing room. When I was on the East Coast, it was still early in the night for her. I’m in the Central time zone now, but she’s a night owl. It’s not even eleven p.m. in LA.

  She’s avoiding me. I feel it in my bones. In my teeth. In my blood, the same way I feel a song when it’s coming on.

  I know it’s the pictures. They appeared on the Internet, a hyperlink in my inbox sent from Jake. When I first saw them, for one stupid minute I felt validated. Finally, I thought. Proof that this crazy, happy thing going on in my life is real.

  That feeling disappeared as soon as I read one of the more pointed headlines: “Good Girl Gone Bad?” Then I remembered what these pics mean for Natalia, and suddenly, I couldn’t get enough air in my lungs. Couldn’t stop my chest from squeezing.

  Now I feel those images everywhere, even when I’m not looking at them, as though they’re living entities breathing down on me, threatening me with the story they tell. A story that was never destined to have a happy ending. I wanted her, I convinced her to be with me despite her misgivings, and I couldn’t protect her.

  I’m afraid I’ve lost her for good.

  Disney World was my idea. Or maybe her idea, I don’t even remember now. I remember telling her it was fine that the cashier recognized me. I remember the girls in the restaurant noticing me. I definitely feel responsible. But I don’t want to lose her. Not yet.

  Not ever.

  I’m pacing my dressing room, still sweaty and unchanged nearly forty minutes after the show ended. The rest of the band has gone on to the traditional dinner without me. I couldn’t eat if I tried, my stomach is so knotted with worry. When my cell rings I rush to it immediately. It’s her face on my screen, and the relief that pours over me is palpable.

  “Hey.” I wince at my lame greeting.

  “Hey,” she says softly. She sounds tired. “Sorry I missed you. The girls were over.”

  My shoulders relax. She wasn’t avoiding me, then. Just spending time with her friends.

  Though she usually tells me when she’s going to see Hadley and Rowan.

  “I didn’t realize it was your night with them.” I don’t want to make a deal about her not telling me; it’s not like we have rules for whatever this is between us. Yet there’s a tension that’s throwing me off. These pictures that we haven’t even talked about yet are creating a divide between us that I don’t know how to cross.

  “It was an impromptu girls’ night,” she explains.

  Oh, right. She’d call her girls for support. They always know what to say to her when she’s stressed.

  It makes me jealous. I wish I knew what to say to her, and I usually do. But I don’t this time. I want to say the right thing. The thing that will not only soothe her, but also make everything go back to normal and okay between us.

  Since I don’t know what that thing is, I just ask, “How are you?” like a dumbass.

  She lets out a harsh laugh. “You mean about the pictures?”

  “Yeah. Those.”

  She hesitates. I can hear her breathing, and for every second she doesn’t answer, the knot in my stomach pulls tighter. “I could be asking the same,” she says eventually.

  “I don’t think there’s any way I don’t come off as a hero in this scenario. You’re the one I’m concerned about.”

  “It certainly puts a dent in my good-girl image, that’s for sure.”

  “Damaging?” I’m walking on eggshells. I hate this. I don’t like being so tentative around her. I like it when we’re talking freely and sharing everything. Now, I feel like she’s holding back. But so am I. This is new territory, and I just don’t know what’s allowable.

  “I . . . I don’t think so.” She pauses again, and when she talks again, her voice is stronger. “I just have to readjust.”

  Hope bubbles inside me. Maybe I’m being paranoid. She’s dealing with the repercussions of this publicity, and that’s a big thing for a woman who has dedicated her life to defining her career. It’s not about me. Or rather, it’s not about how she feels about me.

  I hope.

  “Then this isn’t creating a bunch of backlash? I’ll say or do anything you need me to if it will help. I’ve already reached out to my publicist to hold the no-comment line until I notify her otherwise.”

  “No. That’s not necessary. Actually, I haven’t had this many fans tweet at me in a long time. ‘You go girl,’ seems to be the theme. Well, and an obscene number of women—and men—are asking detailed questions about your dick.”

  The public is ruthless with their entitled pursuit of personal knowledge. But these are the lives we’ve chosen, and we’re both used to the game. It never stings like this when it happens to me. Having her affected makes me want to punch a hole in the dressing room wall.

  But that’s not helpful.

  I take her candor as a cue for my reaction. “I hope your response wa
s that it’s too big for any of them.”

  This earns me a laugh. The sweet, authentic sound sends a jolt straight to the appendage we’re talking about.

  “It’s not too big for me, though, is it?” I can practically hear the bat of her lashes in her tone.

  “No, baby. Your holes are made to fit my cock. You know how to take it like a good girl.”

  Too late, I realize the good-girl reference may have been insensitive.

  She sighs, and the playful moment is lost. Damn my big mouth. I was so eager to get us back onto familiar ground that I forgot how delicate our situation is. There’s silence for a moment while I debate whether or not to offer some sort of platitude.

  “It’s going to be okay,” she says finally, and I’m not sure if she’s telling me or herself, but I’m the one who’s starting to believe it. After all, the worst thing she imagined has happened, and she’s still talking to me. And not we have to talk talking to me. The knots in my stomach are slowly unraveling along with the knowledge of what I have to do next.

  It’s time to start revealing how I feel about her.

  The only way out of this is up.

  I reach inside the room and flip on the light, stepping aside so Natalia can go in first.

  Walking past me, she runs her eyes around the periphery. “I have to admit, Nick, I didn’t think we’d be spending your first night back from tour in your private studio.” She’s not complaining—she’s flirting. I know her. I get her.

  It’s been two weeks since the NickNat scandal broke, and we haven’t issued a single statement. I continue to tweet teaser lines of new songs and reminders about tickets. She keeps posting throwback pics to old sets. Business as usual for both of us, yet the rumors about our affair haven’t died down one bit.

  A random shot of me hugging a thirteen-year-old fan outside my Austin show has shown up with the headline, “Trouble in Fantasyland Already?” That one was particularly gross. But without any new fodder, the gossip sites have had to stretch. I haven’t spotted so many papz following me since the Ryder Brothers were at the height of their career.

  Nat has said she’s noticed the same. Of course, no one’s accused her of dating an eighth-grader. Mostly it’s been shots of her exiting the coffee shop in a ballcap and yoga pants, with captions like, “Sad and Missing Her Boy Toy.”

  But none of it has interfered with what we have going on between us. We’ve continued to text. Continued to talk every night. Of course, this is the first time we’ve seen each other in person since Orlando. She says she was careful driving over to my house, but I’m not ruling out that she might have been followed, or at least seen driving in.

  I’ve had media waiting by my gate for days, according to my security reports. I’m not going to make a fuss about it. We’re going to have to get used to it, if she’s going to be spending time here.

  As far as I’m concerned, she’s going to be spending a lot of time here.

  I scoot into the room and take a seat on the stool behind the main table. “Don’t worry, baby. I can bend you over the mixing board as easily as anywhere.”

  She turns back to face me, her cheeks nice and pink like I like. The same shade they get when I’m buried inside her. The same shade as her ass when I spank her. I don’t even bother trying to hide the eye-fucking I’m giving her at the thought.

  “That sounds amazing,” Nat says with a wink. “But libido aside, this place is incredible!”

  I look around the studio and try to see it how she sees it. Memorabilia covers the walls—framed gold records, my awards, a blown-up copy of Billboard magazine from when Ryder Brothers first hit number one. In all honesty, the presentation comes across a little self-masturbatory, but it’s also inspiring to remember that what I do matters to people. I feel comfortable enough for her to see this side of me, feel confident that she’ll understand.

  Besides, it’s the function of the studio that I’m most excited to share with her. And the product it’s capable of producing.

  “I still have to give you the full home tour, but this is honestly the only room worth seeing—besides my bedroom.”

  “I think I might have been a little too preoccupied to really see your bedroom the last couple of times,” she says coyly, before turning back to study the articles posted on the walls. “Do you record your albums here? Do they still call them albums?”

  She’s so adorable, I can’t help grinning. “Yes, they still call them albums. I don’t record the majority of my songs here, but I’ve put down a single or two from that booth. Mostly, I use it for demos and fooling around with arrangements.” And, as of right now, for saying how I feel about the woman I love in the guise of a new song.

  Which is why I’ve brought her here. To sing her my feelings.

  I take a deep breath. “I started laying down a new track earlier, and I thought you wouldn’t mind watching while I layer the vocals.”

  “Today? You recorded something just today?” Her awe is an ego boost, for sure.

  “Yeah. As soon as I got in.”

  “You just walked in, sat down, and two minutes later you had a song?”

  “It was closer to an hour, and it was only the instrumentation, but yeah. I was eager to get it down. The lyrics have been haunting me through the whole tour.” Much the same way she haunts me, never leaving my mind, even when we’re miles apart.

  She leans against the side counter and smiles. “I love that. That the lyrics have been haunting you. That’s really beautiful.”

  She’s the one who’s beautiful. She’s my muse. The inspiration for everything I think of these days. The total of everything I think about.

  “And you’re really inviting me to watch while you record the voice parts? God, the girls are going to die. I might die.”

  “Don’t die yet. But yes. Yes, definitely. I need you here to hear it. If you don’t mind.”

  Her eyes lock on mine. “I’d be honored, Nick.”

  “It’s my pleasure.”

  Then I have to stop looking at her because she’s blushing harder, and if I don’t look away, I’m going to lose my nerve and kiss her to distraction instead. And as nice as that sounds, I’m hoping there will be even more than kissing once I do this. More than sex. I hope there will be reciprocation.

  So I focus on the business at hand. I show her what button to push to start the tracks playing, and the button that will record my voice. I can do it remotely, but I like making her part of the process, and she seems to be into it as well.

  After she practices a few times and feels comfortable, I grab a bottle of water from the mini-fridge and slip into the booth on the other side of the window. She mouths something I can’t hear. I give her a puzzled look then place the cans over my ears, and now her voice is in my head. For real this time, not just the way it is when she’s not around.

  “Sexy,” she says.

  Jesus, she’s the sexy one, sitting perched on the stool behind my equipment. I don’t ever want her to leave this room.

  I don’t ever want her to leave my life.

  “Ready?” she asks, and I’m suddenly afraid I’m not ready at all. I’m nervous. I always get a little rattled before a show, but when was the last time I was this nervous? My hands are sweating, and my throat feels dry. I gulp down half my bottle of water in one swig.

  I focus on the lyrics in front of me, even though I don’t need them. My heart is beating way too fast, and I wish I was sitting behind my piano, but I’m good enough to go.

  I give her the cue.

  The simple guitar line starts playing. Sixteen bars of intro pass as I breathe slowly, in through my nose and out through my mouth. Then I sing.

  Every day a different city. Every night a different crowd

  Every morning I’m more lonely waking up without you in my bed

  Touring lights keep getting brighter, the noise surrounding them is loud

  But you’re the music I keep hearing, song repeating in my head

  * * *<
br />
  Before

  I could never get close enough

  Could never get close enough to love

  But now

  I’m getting close to you

  I’m getting closer, too, to love

  It’s not the whole truth. I’m not just closer to love with Natalia, I’m smack-dab in the deep end. But I’m not sure she’s ready to hear that yet, so I’m proceeding with caution. I’m not expecting her to be fully immersed in this pool with me, but I am forcing her to stick her toe in. I’m hoping she’ll decide she trusts the water.

  But the way I sing the song? That says everything. I show her a raw side of myself that very few people see. The depth of emotion I pour into it is a confession and a prayer all at once. Even without the words directly saying so, my heart is pleading love me, Natalia. Love me like I love you.

  I don’t watch her while I sing. I want to, but I can’t look at her without falling apart. My feelings are too close to the surface, and her reaction is too important. I’m putting myself on the line, inviting her to change paths in our relationship, and there’s every chance she’ll break my heart.

  The risk is worth it. Because the reward is getting her.

  I feel good when I’m finished. Like I’ve just had a cold shower. I’m alive and refreshed and cleansed. I take the headphones off and stand up, careful to keep my eyes off her until I’m back in the same room with her.

  As nervous as I was before I started, I feel strangely calm walking into the recording room.

  And then I look at her and everything changes.

  She’s staring at the board, unable to meet my eyes. Was I too forward? Was the song too much?

  Or is she just so moved by what I’ve shared with her she can’t find words?

  Because I definitely know how that feels. She makes me feel that every day.

  “Nat?” I ask cautiously when she doesn’t say anything for several seconds.

  “Yes. Hi. Sorry. I guess I was in a daze.” She shakes her head and then looks up at me—or past me, rather. “Great song! Thanks for letting me listen. It was really cool.”