by JJ Knight
Riley laughs, because it’s true.
Amanda keeps scowling. “But hearing about it isn’t the same as experiencing it. Feeling it.”
I scrunch up my face. “I’ve heard enough of your sex stories to last a lifetime.”
“But it’s not fair!” Amanda’s getting loud, which means she’s drunk. There are a bunch of empty shot glasses on the table in front of her, which is not a good sign. “It’s not fair. I mean, Dylan’s been with other women.”
“Amanda!” Riley swats Amanda’s arm.
“What?” Amanda won’t shut up. “Jess, he was married before. He had sex with Mrs. Evil Pants. The one who tried to murder him! The murderess!”
Riley clamps a hand over Amanda’s mouth. “Calm down. We’re in The Roxy. Those guys at the bar are probably reporters. Don’t be dumb.”
I stare down at the table as the world swirls around me. I didn’t like where this conversation was going, before Amanda started yelling about Dylan’s wife. The woman is dead now, killed by some mechanic who was also her lover. Dylan’s past has so much ugliness.
I take my glass of water and sip it slowly. I don’t like thinking about the pain in Dylan’s past. I think maybe that trauma is why he loses his temper sometimes. I can’t say I blame him. It upsets me, and it didn’t even happen to me.
Riley finishes lecturing Amanda and removes the hand from her mouth.
“I’m just saying,” Amanda says at a reasonable volume, “that if Jess is curious, she’s running out of time. Soon she’ll be a married woman.”
“Sooner than you think.”
They both look at me.
“What do you mean?” Riley asks.
“Nothing,” I lie. “Just that we’ll probably set a date soon. Don’t tell anyone. I don’t want the paparazzi crashing it.”
“You don’t have much choice,” Riley says. “You’re a celebrity, whether you like it or not.”
Amanda nods, her movements exaggerated. “Totally. Anyone can be a celebrity, if people take an interest. Remember how they hounded that fighter couple? The guy… the one who’s friends with Dylan?”
“You mean Colt.” I just saw some pictures of Colt McClure and Jo the other day. They looked happy, but you never know. Half of the stuff the press runs is fiction.
Amanda’s eyes grow big. “Oh yeah. She kept changing her hair and trying to blend into the background. But that only made them want her more.”
Riley adds in, “Plus there were those other people beating the hell out of them all the time.” Riley shakes her head. “Some people will do anything to steal a little fame. They’ll kill you for it.”
Panic starts to rise inside me.
“And don’t forget when you have kids,” Amanda says as she signals the waitress for more drinks. “The paparazzi will be all over your baby bump, then your kids, then your cellulite. Plus all those stories about Dylan cheating on you.”
“They’re saying Dylan’s cheating on me?”
The volume on the music seems to be getting louder and louder. I don’t want to be here anymore.
Amanda shakes her head. “Of course he’s not cheating on you. He loves you. But that doesn’t make money. The reporters don’t care. They just want money.”
I remember what Dylan said and repeat his words, “It’s not personal. It’s not about us. Just money.”
The waitress places new glasses in front of us. I leave my drink and stick to the water.
I look over to Riley. She’s frowning, and she looks like she’s having even less fun than I am.
“Riley? Are you tired? We can go any time.”
“I’m not tired.” She takes a sip of her drink, then licks her lips and looks thoughtful. “Jess, the photographers aren’t the only ones who are after money.”
“I know. It’s the people who run the blogs and sell the magazines.”
Riley looks down at the table, unable to meet my eyes. “I’ve been getting calls from people in the family. Everyone’s asking how much money Dylan has and—” Riley shakes her head. “They can go to hell. I’ve been telling them to leave you alone, but you know how certain people in our family are.” She keeps looking down, her upper lip curling in disgust. “Uncle Danny’s okay, and Nan, of course, but the rest of them… I’m going to change my phone number.”
I can’t believe my ears.
My family did nothing for me when I was kid. Nan was the only one who cared about me. Uncle Danny is okay, but the rest of them are awful. It makes me so angry, thinking of them scheming about how they can get money from Dylan.
The girls ask if I’m okay, and if I want to go home.
I put on a brave smile and lie. “Just one more drink.” I nod to the stage, where the band is playing another set. “And a few more songs. It’s not much of a Bon Voyage party if we go home at nine.”
Riley and Amanda cheer and turn to watch the singer introduce the next song.
I space out, staring into my glass of water.
The photographers are going to keep coming after us.
My family is going to jump into the chase.
For the rest of my life, I’ll be running from people who want something from me.
What if I can’t take the pressure?
What if Dylan can’t? Before we met, he’d been hiding away in a cabin for almost a year.
He seems to be taking all this fame stuff in stride. He wasn’t even nervous about the Rolling Stone interview.
But what if it’s just an act, and everything is about to come crashing down?
Will he come and meet me in Rome?
Chapter 12
I need to leave for the airport at four in the morning, so when I get home from The Roxy, I make some coffee and curl up on the couch.
There’s no way I’ll get a full night’s sleep at home, so my plan is to stay up, then sleep on the plane.
I click on the TV and quickly put on some old movies so I won’t have to see anything about me or Dylan on the late-night talk shows.
Midnight comes and goes. Dylan still hasn’t returned from his Rolling Stone interview.
I call his number and wait for his voice.
He answers, but I can barely hear him over the background noise.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“You didn’t get my messages?”
“No, hang on.” I pull the phone from my ear and check for incoming text messages. Something must be wrong with my phone, because I haven’t gotten anything from him in days.
I mutter about my phone problems, but Dylan doesn’t seem to be listening.
In the background, I can hear a crowd chanting his name.
“When’s your flight?” he asks hurriedly.
“I have to leave the house at four.”
“Ouch,” he says. “I’m sorry, Jess. My publicist called, and there was this opening tonight at the Avalon Hollywood. I’m going to try out some new material.” He pauses, just in time for me to hear someone announce his name. The crowd goes wild. “It’s important,” Dylan says.
“Of course it is.” I try not to let my irritation show in my voice, but it still comes through. There’s no way he’ll be done in time and back home before I have to leave.
“I’ll see you in Rome,” he says.
“I love you.”
“Jess, I—” The call ends before he can finish.
I do a reset on my phone to see if my missing messages will show up. The phone takes forever, saying it’s downloading a software update.
The living room feels chilly. I reach for a chenille throw and pull it over myself.
I start the movie again and get comfortable on the couch. I would set an alarm clock if I thought I was going to get any sleep, but I’m wide awake.
At four o’clock, Chet comes by the house to pick me up.
He looks even more wired than me.
We finish putting my bags in the trunk and I get into the passenger seat.
“Dylan’s sleeping?” he asks.
I explain that he’s probably signing autographs right now.
“That must be awkward, dating someone famous.” He steers his car carefully down the winding streets, out of the neighborhood. “How do you really feel about sharing the person you love with the rest of the world?”
“That part’s okay. He’s a bit of a workaholic, though.”
Chet snorts. “Takes one to know one.”
“I have a really cruel boss. He works me to the bone.”
“Your boss isn’t so bad. He upgraded the seats to First Class.”
“You did not,” I gasp. “But those seats are so expensive.”
He checks the car’s navigation and turns in the direction of LAX. “You’ll understand why when we get on the plane.”
* * *
The flight to Rome is my first international trip, and it’s a long one.
Thirteen hours and eleven minutes.
You really don’t know how long thirteen hours is until you spend it on a plane.
Chet did really upgrade us to First Class, and I can see why. The seats roll down until they’re nearly flat. It’s not as comfortable as my bed at home, but I am able to catch a few hours of sleep.
ROME, ITALY
When the plane lands in Rome, my body is in a time warp. The sun is rising. It’s early in the morning, but I’m ready to go to bed.
The airport is huge and overwhelming. There are about a million signs everywhere, all of them confusing. I’d be completely lost without Chet. He travels a lot for business, and seems to fit right in.
“Ready for Rome?” he asks.
I give him a weak smile and speed up my walk to keep up with him.
“Totally ready,” I say.
I put on a cheerful, professional attitude for Chet’s benefit. He and I work well together, and I respect and admire him. He’s done a lot for Morris Music since he took over for his father.
Still, I would give anything to be here with Dylan instead of Chet.
We leave the airport and get into a taxi. The air is hot and humid, but not oppressive.
My phone seems to be working again, and there’s a new text message from Dylan: Blue Shoes, I miss you already. Dylan.
My heart jumps at the sight of his words. I wish there was more, but I’m glad he misses me.
I send him back a picture of myself in the taxi, with a blurry background of Italian traffic behind me.
Chet is already on his phone, confirming meetings for today. I keep my phone in my hand so I can steal looks at Dylan’s text.
The taxi driver tells us, in thickly-accented English, “I can take you to the hotel by the fast way, which is not so nice. Or we can go the medium way. It’s very beautiful, the other way.” He turns and gives me a lingering, flirtatious look. I have to smile at his optimism, because the driver must be about fifty. “Bellissima, what is your wish?”
Chet turns to me, the phone still at his ear. “We’ve got time. Sure, let’s take the scenic route.”
“Show us your city,” I say to the driver.
He gives me some more flirty eyebrow raises. “As you wish, bellissima.”
He turns off the busy road, and we begin winding our way through Rome. The driver explains that the early morning traffic is still light, so our timing is perfect.
Chapter 13
I can see why Dylan loves Rome. There are statues everywhere, and the old buildings are beautiful. Many have apartments on the upper levels, and the first floors are lined with the wide windows of shops and boutiques. They show off the most stunning dresses, shoes and bags I’ve ever seen. I’m no fashion expert, but something tells me these are the new designs we’ll see in L.A. next year.
I take a few photos for Amanda and Riley to go crazy over.
“Your hotel is down this way,” the driver says. He steers the car onto a narrow road that’s packed with people walking up and down. The pedestrians are everywhere, and don’t even stick to the sidewalks.
Even more surprising, our driver doesn’t stick to the road. He pulls two wheels up onto the curb. The car tilts, and I nearly fall onto Chet. The driver keeps going, half on the sidewalk and half off. The crowd of people casually parts to let him through.
We turn a corner and nearly crash into another car, also a taxi. The street is too narrow for us to pass each other, so our driver backs up, speeding in reverse, back the way we came.
He mutters about a shortcut and veers onto another, even narrower street.
When we finally stop at our destination, my heart is pounding. I can’t believe the car is still in one piece.
I look up at our hotel, which looks tiny from the outside, and nothing like I expected.
I reach for my door’s handle, but before I can get out, the driver stops me. He gives us a speech about pickpockets, and staying safe in Rome.
I look at Chet to see if this is true. Something tells me the driver is playing up the danger, to earn a bigger tip.
“If you see someone smile at you,” the driver explains, “he is a pickpocket. They will charm you while they take everything.”
I pull my purse tight against my side and promise the driver I’ll be careful.
We step out of the car, and Chet helps the driver unload our suitcases. I stand by the hotel entrance and take out my phone. I need to get a picture of the flirty, fifty-year-old cab driver so I can send it to Dylan and tease him that I’ve met someone new.
I type out a message: This is my new Italian friend. Don’t worry, though. I only have eyes for you! Can’t wait to see you here. Just checking into the hotel.
I start to giggle, imagining Dylan getting this message and laughing.
There’s a gentle tug on my shoulder, and I step to the side to let some other people into the hotel.
I finish on the phone, and go to put it away. I reach down to my purse, but it’s gone. The strap is still over my shoulder, but the straps have been severed. I stare at the jagged leather ends in shock. Someone must have walked past and cut the straps when I wasn’t looking.
“Chet, my purse!”
He runs over to me.
I hold up the cut strap. “I was just looking at my phone. For a minute. I was being careful, I swear.”
We look around the small road, but I can’t see my bag or anyone running away. There’s just the steady flow of people.
Chet curses, and the driver shakes his head, making me feel like an idiot.
“Did you have anything important in there?” Chet asks.
I have to think for a minute. I keep checking the strap in disbelief, half-expecting my purse to reappear as suddenly as it disappeared. “Mostly makeup, and those glossy photos of Dylan I carry everywhere.”
Chet pats his chest, where his secret travel pocket is. He put our passports and wallets in there after we came through customs. “We can replace that stuff,” he says. “And everything else is safe in here, so take a deep breath and relax.”
I grit my teeth together. I feel so stupid, like a dumb country girl. I’m angry, too, but mostly at myself.
“You’re okay,” he says. “I know you, Jess. You really are tougher than you look. The purse thing can happen to anyone. Why do you think I have my dorky travel pouch? It’s because I had everything stolen the first time I went abroad.”
I keep gritting my teeth. I nod to let him know I hear him, and I’ll be fine. I just need a minute.
He puts his arm around my shoulder to comfort me. “I’ll have the office overnight us more pictures of Dylan, if that’ll make you happy.”
I let out a short laugh. I can live without the stuff in my purse. It was mostly makeup and toiletries, plus some personal items my boss doesn’t need to know about.
The driver calls out from his taxi window, “Ciao! Ciao!”
We both wave goodbye as he drives the car away, two wheels on the sidewalk again.
Chet takes the broken leather strap from my hands. “Now you have an excuse to buy a new purse. Let’s get through our mee
tings quickly today, so we can hit the shops before they close.”
“Sure.”
I check my phone to see if Dylan has responded to my message about the taxi driver. There’s nothing.
Rome is nine hours ahead of L.A., which means he could be sleeping. Then again, Dylan Wolf is a rock star. He could be doing anything.
Chapter 14
My hotel room is beautiful. I’m far from home, but there are some nice touches to put me at ease, like fresh flowers and a bowl of fruit.
“Hey, your room is nicer than mine,” Chet says. “And way bigger.”
“Blame whoever booked the rooms.”
He stays in the doorway, not coming all the way into my space. “My assistant must have given you this one for when Dylan shows up.”
“Or maybe she likes me better,” I tease. The bed is not as big as my bed at home, but it’s plenty big for when Dylan arrives. Then again, if I know him, he’ll probably sweep me away to some fancier hotel.
“You have about an hour,” Chet says. “Then we go to Deluca and show those old farts how irrelevant they are.”
“Ouch.” I pull a face. “Let’s start by not calling them old farts.”
“Sure. We’ll save that for day two.”
He pulls my door closed and leaves, going back to his own room next door.
Alone now, I take a picture of the room before I mess it up, and send the picture to the girls. It’s a strikingly attractive room. The carpet is a light cream color, the furniture is all dark wood, and the upholstery is rich shades of burgundy and gold.
The bathroom is bright white and modern. It’s compact, but has all the essentials. The air smells wonderful, like the perfume of an elegant, older woman.
I quickly try out the shower, which is lined with endless small octagonal tiles. I’d linger, but we have to get to our first meeting.
I change into a suit and meet my boss in the lobby. We take another taxi to Deluca Distribuzione, the European distributor that’s going to expand the reach of Morris Music here.
Our first meeting is long, and Chet restrains himself. He doesn’t call anyone an old fart, even though most of the Italian executives are old enough to be our parents.
