by RC Boldt
“Yeah.” That’s all I’ve got. All I can muster.
David clears his throat. “Well, I’ve gotta run. I’ll shoot that email over to you. Good luck with whatever you decide.”
“Thanks, man.”
“Later.”
We end the call, and I stare down at my phone, wishing like hell I hadn’t pussyfooted around and just asked him flat out.
Does Simone seem to miss me?
Is she really doin’ okay?
Did she really block my number, or is she just not readin’ any of my texts?
I toss the phone onto the table, and it clatters, nearly bouncing over the edge before settling in the nick of time. I rake my hands through my hair, lacing my fingers on top of my head, and stare out the glass doors at the beach.
Should I just give up? Take a fucking hint already and bow out?
“Fuck,” I mutter to myself. And it hits me. I love Simone King.
Because not once in the epic shitshow with Lucia did I consider hanging around. Not once did I consider showing up at her door, running the risk of coming off stalkerish, and begging her to give me one more chance.
Not once did I consider using the money from the paycheck I received for the months working for her to fund whatever means it takes to track her down in whatever country she’s currently on tour in.
Leaning my forehead against the cool glass, I huff out a sigh mixed with annoyance and exasperation, and my eyes fall closed.
Figures I’d end up falling in love with a pop star.
Deleted/Unsent Text from Simone
Why are you still texting me? God, Kane. Why won’t you just let it go? You let me walk out of your life without so much as a backward glance, and now you’re sending me text after text? Sending me a goddamn book? Wondering how I am? If Matty’s with me, helping me through everything? FUCK YOU. I wish I could hate you. God, how I wish I could hate you. Instead, I find myself missing you so much. At night is when it’s the worst. That’s when I miss you most. I miss the way you’d hold me. The stories you told me. I miss
40
Simone
The Island of Martinique
Late November
“This is nice. Beautiful beach. Beautiful weather. Beautiful me. All I need now is a beautiful, available woman by my side.”
Even though he can’t see the sharp side-eye I’m giving him through my dark sunglasses, I do it just the same. “Watch it, buddy.” Settling back in the chaise, I close my eyes and tease him with, “And you do. Me.”
Matty makes a gagging sound. “Bleh. You’re like my sister.” He exhales dramatically. “Should’ve said available and interested in me.”
A faint feminine snort sounds from my other side.
“The girl at the front desk when we checked in was super cute.”
“Mmm.” His noncommittal response doesn’t surprise me. My best friend is ridiculously picky when it comes to women.
He falls silent, and I relax, allowing the sun to warm me through to my bones, soothing me in a way only it can. My mind begins to wander in the peaceful silence and yet again I thank my lucky stars for the ability to be here right now. To take a little time off and regroup.
It’s been a rough few months, to say the ultimate least. It seemed like the hits just kept coming with incessant frequency. By the time the trial wrapped up, I’d been emotionally exhausted, and Matty suggested we take some time away.
Until we arrived and he dragged me out here to lie on the beach and do absolutely nothing aside from listen to the peacefulness of the lapping waves and bask in the warmth of the sun, I hadn’t realized how much I needed it.
Although these past months have been exceedingly painful, they’ve enabled me to write some of the best songs I’ve ever written. Matty’s convinced this next album will be “epic as hell.”
My biggest worry now is having to perform those songs. Because each one has more of my heart and soul in it than any other song I’ve ever written.
“You know how amazing you are, right?”
Matty’s sudden question has me swiveling my head against the back of the chaise to study him. He’s not looking at me, eyes closed, his sunglasses settled on the small round table between us. In the center is an insulated ice bucket with bottles of water, covered by the lid.
I laugh it off and settle back against my chaise. “Stop trying to butter me up. I already told you I was paying for dinner tonight.”
“I’m serious.” His tone implies as much, and unease rushes through me.
“Matty, you—”
“Don’t do that, Sim,” he commands gently. “Don’t try to brush it off or downplay it. I’m serious.” He releases a long sigh. “You’re amazing, and you don’t give yourself enough credit.”
“He’s right.” The female voice with a charming Southern twang chimes in from my other side.
I stamp my mouth shut. Great. Now they’re ganging up on me. Just great.
“Listen to the lady, Sim.” Humor laces Matty’s words. “It’s not every day that country music’s sweetheart compliments you.”
“I’m beginning to regret this trip,” I mutter more to myself than to them.
In truth, I’m grateful for these two. Karina Lacy reached out to me after the trial first started. Of course, I’d been wary as hell, but the singer has made quite a name for herself even after being named runner-up to the winner on American Idol. The girl’s got some serious pipes on her, and I swear, now that she’s working with a well-respected vocal coach, she could probably give me a run for my money.
Karina and I bonded over our disturbing encounters with Shaun Sinquist. As much as I wasn’t surprised, I was still sickened to know she’d had that experience. Not only that, but she’d confessed to not having friends after busting onto the scene and finding fame after Idol and the subsequent release of her album that’s getting serious traction on the country music charts. This is something I can relate to. Now, I consider her a dear friend, as does Matty....although I must admit to holding onto a smidge of hope that there might be some chemistry between the two of them. But it’s purely platonic, which doesn’t seem to bother them in the least.
And go figure. I finally got my first real girlfriend. Someone with her own fair share of endorsements and income.
“You’ve been through hell and back, and you’re still kicking ass and taking names. I just…” His voice trails off before he continues, his tone softening. “I want you to know that I think you’re pretty damn amazing, that’s all.”
“Thank you,” I force out the words, thankful he knows me enough to realize I’m not being ungrateful, but that I’m uncomfortable with the praise itself.
“But I also think you’re being an idiot.”
I whip my head around to gape at him. “What?”
He doesn’t even bother looking in my direction. Eyes closed, it appears as if he doesn’t have a care in the world. As though he didn’t just call his best friend—me—an idiot.
“You’re being an idiot,” he repeats calmly. “You’re letting the fact that you got hurt and then got crapped on by life in general make you miss out on a guy who loves you.”
Karina inhales a sharp breath. “Harsh, Tobin.”
I shoot up to a seated position, spine rigid, and stare at my best friend accusingly. “I told you what happened.”
“Yeah, you did.” He squints one eye open. “But facts are facts. Guys are dumb as fuck sometimes. I also know what it looks like when a guy’s in love with a girl. And he was—is.” He shuts his eye. “You should hear him out. Talk to him. Something.”
My heart twists. I draw my knees to my chest and wrap my arms around them protectively. “Matty…”
“I just don’t want you to have any regrets.”
“Regrets are a bitch,” Karina murmurs softly.
I exhale slowly.
Matty gentles his tone. “Sim, you’re the bravest woman I know.”
I turn my head, resting my cheek on my knees, and
peer over at him. With a derisive sound, I make a face. “Doubtful.”
“I’m serious. But you need to be brave with this too. With him.”
I turn and bury my forehead against my knees, letting out a groan. “I’m scared.”
“I know. But if you don’t work up the courage, you’ll always wonder. And regret not doing anything.”
“What if he…” I can’t even bring myself to say it.
Both Matty and Karina answer in unison. “He won’t.”
“How do you know?” My voice sounds so small, meek.
“Call it male intuition for once.”
A huff of a laugh escapes me. Karina snorts at Matty’s response before letting out a tiny sigh. “A man in love, tormented by the woman he loves never respondin’ to any contact he makes, yet he doesn’t give up? That should speak for itself.”
Matty’s hand settles on my shoulder. “I’m getting in the water. Coming with?”
“Maybe in a few.”
The chaise creaks as he slips off. I still don’t look up.
“Think about what I said.” I have to strain to detect his sandy footfalls as he ventures toward the ocean.
Silence hangs over Karina and me, and I assume she’s relaxed and dropped the topic.
Until her hushed tone reaches my ears, that is. “He might be a goofball, but he’s right.” When she pauses, I lift my head to peer over at her. “You should really consider reachin’ out to him.” With that, she rises from her chaise and ventures to join Matty in the water.
Staring down at my slightly sandy toes, now painted a pretty shade of blue that’s distinctly reminiscent of a certain man’s eyes, I mull over my friends’ words.
I’ve stood up to an arrogant bully in court who thought he could touch me however and wherever he pleased. I’ve survived insurmountable betrayal, lost my goddaughter to cancer, and then…everything with Kane. Do I really have it in me to put myself out there again?
Every single fractured particle of my heart screams no.
Entertainment Weekly
THE MUCH-ANTICIPATED RELEASE OF THE LAST LOVE LETTER IS HERE!
Fans of both Jon Hammel and Simone King, the “Ice Princess of Pop,” showed their support by making the premiere of The Last Love Letter an instant blockbuster hit, raking in a cool $350 million in opening weekend alone.
Directed by the esteemed Jason Starke, the film features Jerrod (Hammel), who ships off to war in 1942, leaving behind Rosie, his fiancée (King). Rosie must forge a new path for herself while Jerrod is away and finds employment in an unexpected place: a machine shop.
The two are forced apart and put through trials and tribulations that attempt to destroy their relationship. Depictions of wartime and the emotional toll it takes, as well as their persevering love story, make The Last Love Letter a must-see angsty romantic drama.
Click the link below for the slideshow of the red carpet premiere, including photos of Simone King escorted by Holden Barrows, breakout star of the Moonstruck series on Netflix.
Drunk Texts from Kane
I miss you, Princess. And I’m so fucking sorry. For everything.
I fucking hate him. Moonstruck is a dumbass show.
I’m sorry. So goddamn sorry
I miss you more than i miss real milk
That’s a lot btw
You looked beat ful in that dress
Just hate that you were with him
need to acces srize better
Wit me
Id totally kick his ass
Back int he day I’d win your hand in marriage you know
By beating the shit outta him
I miss you
I suck so fucking much I’m sorry
changing my name to asshole cuz that’swhat i was to you
Sorryprincess
Dips hit shoulda been holding your hand
shit. Why am I pissed he wasn’t
Oh yeah cuz you tripped and David helped you
Tell David I said hi and I miss you
41
Kane
“For crying out loud. Men are such freaking babies.”
The grumbling female voice ricochets inside my head like someone’s tossed metal shards around. They cut deep, the agonizing pain making me wish like hell they’d shut the fuck up.
Soft footsteps approach, every single sound amplified like someone’s turned the volume up to a deafening blast.
I slap my hands over my eyes and groan between clenched teeth. “Go away.”
“No can do, Mr. Grinch.” Her voice is too damn cheerful, and it pisses me the hell off. “Time to get your ass back in gear.”
Presley, my buddy Hendy’s wife. Or Dr. Presley Hendrixson, my naturopathic doctor and chiropractor, judging from what I hear next, has decided to pay me a visit.
Sounds of metal sliding into place, fluid sloshing, and her continued muttering of, “How many beer bottles did you drink, you numbnut?” reach my ears, acting like screeching nails on a chalkboard. My painful groan just makes her tsk at me.
When soft, gentle hands tug at one of my arms, my hands still covering my face, I relent. She ties the band around my arm and hums to herself before murmuring, “A little stick on the count of three.”
Presley starts the IV of fluids, murmuring softly to remind me what she’s supplying me with; intravenous vitamin hydration therapy to combat what I’ve depleted by my pathetic binge after seeing Simone with that other guy at her movie premiere.
God, just thinking about it has pain lancing through my chest to rival the debilitating migraine I’ve been dealing with.
Presley works quietly while watching the progress of the IV. Once the bag’s contents have emptied into my body, she withdraws the needle and secures a bandage over the area to prevent bruising.
“Rest for a bit,” she whispers, and I swear I already feel the vitamins and fluids taking effect. Presley smooths a hand over my hair much like I’ve seen her do for her daughter, Emilia. “Then we’ll talk.”
I crack one eye open after what feels like sleeping for days, the pansy-ass part of me hoping she’s left.
No such luck.
“Sorry, big guy.” Presley flashes me a knowing grin. “Still here.”
My head is a million times better, thankfully. God only knows how long I would’ve dealt with that migraine if she hadn’t stopped by.
“Thanks, Pres.”
Her expression sobers, and she leans forward in the chair across from where I’m sprawled on the couch. Resting her elbows on her knees, she studies me silently, and I know what’s coming.
Which is why I try to distract her.
“Thanks for cleanin’ up.” I tip my chin in the direction of the clean coffee table that had been riddled with two old pizza boxes and countless bottles of beer. I should know better than to drink more than my allotted two. And those two are accompanied by glasses of water since alcohol triggers my migraines.
All things I’m well aware of but dismissed because of my goddamn pity party.
“Feeling better?” she asks gently.
“Much.” Then I tack on another, “Thanks, Pres.” When I meet her eyes, my spine goes rigid at the sight of both pity and concern.
“We need to talk.”
Slowly dragging myself upright to the seated position, I heave out a breath and avoid meeting her gaze. “I’m fine now. It was just a one-time thing.”
“How long has it been since your last migraine episode?”
I frown, trying to remember. “A while, I reckon.”
“Even with everything that went on between you and Lucia.” She says this as fact rather than a question.
“Yeah.”
Pres lets out a long sigh. “Okay, so here’s the deal. You should kiss the ground I walk on since I forced my husband to stay home and let me come here to give you shit instead.”
She leans back in her chair, looking unnervingly regal. “Get your head out of your ass and remember the time you gave my husband”—she use
s finger quotes and attempts my accent—“a ‘tongue-lashin’.’” Her dark eyebrows rise pointedly. “You didn’t give up on him then, and we’re not giving up on you now.”
My mouth parts to protest, to tell her I’m fine, but she stops me with a quick wave of her hand and rushes on.
“You retreated into your shell when everything went sideways with Lucia. We all know that. But you never did this.” Her eyes weigh heavy on me, the concern evident. “Sure, you were hurt and angry, but you never reacted like this.” She gestures to me. “You didn’t punish yourself by overindulging in alcohol.
“This should tell you, flat out, that you’re in knots over Simone, and you need to do something about it.” Her petite features turn fierce. “And do it now. Don’t take it out on your body just because you screwed up. Make things right with her. Do whatever the hell it takes.”
Pres stands up, planting her hands on her hips and leveling me with a stern look. “Hendy said to tell you to man up and use some of that Southern charm of yours to get back in her good graces. Said he believes in you. That Green Berets are a force to be reckoned with.”
I pinch my eyes closed. Not because I don’t want to hear this, but because once again, my friends see the best in me even when I’m at my worst. I nearly jolt when Pres’s hand settles on my shoulder, but I keep my eyes closed against the rush of emotion provoked by her words.
