Along for the Ride

by Katrina Abbott

  “Is your father here?” he asked.

  I crossed my arms and gave him a curt nod. “Getting ready.”

  He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “The other guys went early, so can I ride with him?”

  “I’m sure that’s fine,” I said, uncrossing my arms to gesture toward the living room. “Have a seat. He should be ready in ten.” My normal instinct was to offer guests a coffee or glass of juice, but it was Andres, and my dislike for him won over my need to be a good hostess. After what he’d done to me, his comfort wasn’t my concern, apology notwithstanding.

  “Thanks,” he said as dropped into one of the brown leather club chairs, the one that faced the gas fireplace.

  Determined to look busy and not focused on him, I gathered my things off the coffee table and stuffed them into my bag: phone, notebook, charger. He seemed to zone out. Good; the last thing I wanted was to have to have a conversation with him. Small talk would be agony—awkward silence was a million times better.

  “You hate me,” he said suddenly and so softly that I had to look at him to make sure it hadn’t been my imagination filling the tense silence.

  He was still facing the fireplace, his angular face in profile. “What?” fell out of my mouth before I could stop it.

  He turned his head and looked at me, his chocolate brown eyes intent on mine. “You hate me after what I did. I understand why and I can’t blame you for it, but I wish you didn’t.”

  I stared at him stupidly, but he went on, obviously not needing any response from me. “Things are different now. I’m different now.”

  Do not let him charm you, I told myself as my resolve began to melt under the intensity of his eyes framed by those ridiculously long eyelashes. The stupid lashes that would be my downfall. Eyelashes, of all things. I looked down at my bag, digging around in it for something, anything.

  “Vanessa?”

  I shook my head, still rooting around, intent to find the whatever that continued to elude my desperately searching fingers.

  “Vanessa,” he said again and then out of the corner of my eye, I saw him get out of the chair and come over until he was standing in my bubble, making my entire body freeze as I held my breath.

  “Look at me,” he said. Somehow his voice was both gentle and commanding.

  “No,” I said, my fingers closing around a tube of lip gloss as though I’d been searching for it the whole time.

  “Please,” he said, and that one word sounded almost…vulnerable. Ugh. Vulnerability: my undoing. After eyelashes, of course.

  I straightened and turned my body to look up at him, resisting the urge to step back even though he was so close. Too close.

  “I know you don’t believe it. You think I’m a horrible person, and maybe I was, though it’s not like we even really knew each other…wait,” he said, holding up a palm as I opened my mouth to protest.

  “Please, hear me out. I am not making excuses for my behavior, but I was in a different place and didn’t understand then that you read more into it than I did. I thought we were just having fun and obviously misread cues, misled you. I see it now, and I am very sorry that I hurt you. That was never my intention, and I do wish I could go back in time and do things differently. A lot of things, really.”

  His words were exactly what he was supposed to say, and his eyes seemed to be pleading with me for understanding, forgiveness. But I’d been sucked in before and had seen it happen a million times to others; so many people got caught up in the fancy speeches and crocodile tears that seemed to be in the musician’s seduction toolkit. I wouldn’t be suckered. Not again.

  But as I stood there under his gaze, I realized the mature thing would be to move forward. Calling a truce would make it easier to be around him. Not to mention that staying mad at and constantly angling to avoid a person can be exhausting. I was tired, to be honest. And now that he’d said all this, I was more tired than angry. Though I would never stop being wary.

  I crossed my arms again, bumping my elbows into his chest until he took a step back. “Fine. Apology accepted. Happy?”

  His dark eyebrows dipped into a frown as he tilted his head. “Happy? Not really. I don’t think you believe I’m being sincere. I really am different now. When I met you, well, let’s just say I had a lot on my plate and not the best manager looking after me. I made a lot of mistakes.”

  I wondered where this was going, but I didn’t say anything, waiting for him to continue.

  “He worked me hard, which I thought was good—I wanted to be successful, and I did launch well and climbed up the charts quickly. But he worked me like crazy and set me up for a burnout. I wasn’t eating, I wasn’t sleeping—all I did was perform and rehearse.”

  I gave him a withering look because he’d certainly found time to do other things; I was proof of it.

  He must have read my mind because he suddenly looked contrite. “Okay, so I had a small amount of time for other things between sets, but that was all part of the downward spiral. It’s hard not to get caught up in it.”

  Like he had to tell me that?

  He shook his head. “Anyway, it caught up to me when I collapsed at a show one night.”

  What? I blinked up at him. “I never heard about that.”

  He searched my face. “Tony never told you?”

  “Tony doesn’t tell me everything. Especially private things,” I said. Though if my dad had known about my history with Andres, he might have told me. Still, it was a moot point, since he didn’t know. Never would, if I had anything to say about it.

  Andres sighed and looked away. “I’d just come off the stage to do a wardrobe change and passed out. Right there in the curtained-off dressing room backstage at a festival. They cut my set short and quietly rushed me to the hospital.”

  As he said it, it all clicked into place, and I even knew what gig he was talking about. It had been at a concert several weeks after I’d hooked up with him. I’d read about his shortened set and his angry fans—it had been all over social media. Even if I hadn’t been following his career, I’d have heard about it. “The press speculated that you were drunk,” I said, remembering how it had just made me even angrier about what had happened between us, though I couldn’t pinpoint exactly why at the time.

  “Not drunk,” he said. “Before I went on, I told my manager I wasn’t feeling well, and he gave me something he said would help.”

  My eyes widened, though I shouldn’t have been surprised. “He gave you drugs?”

  His full lips pressed together into thin lines before he nodded and said, “It wasn’t the first time. It…” He blew out a breath. “He was bad for me. I was stupid and had no idea what I was getting into. I signed with him without knowing anything about the business or him. I didn’t know what I could handle or even what was reasonable. I didn’t know how to keep my distance from fans and people who only wanted to use me because of the fame, including those who were supposed to be working for me.”

  My resolve had been melting by degrees, until that second when my hackles rose. “You thought I was one of those fans.”

  He took a long breath and nodded. “I won’t make excuses, but please believe me that it was a bad time for me. One I didn’t want to continue after that collapse. That’s why I came to your father right after, begging for his help, a chance to turn things around. I needed to do a one-eighty, or I was going to self-destruct. He helped me get out of my contract—no easy thing. Then he helped me get better.” He took a long breath and pushed his fingers through his already messy dark hair. “Maybe it sounds melodramatic, but I am one hundred percent convinced that he saved my life.”

  I dropped down onto the couch beside my bag, needing a moment because I felt my own one-eighty coming.

  “Andy?” My dad said from the hall, startling me; I hadn’t heard him approach. “What’s up?”

  Andres glanced down at me and then over at my dad, his face serious, and I had a weird premonition that he was about to confess everyth
ing to my father. I don’t know if it was to clear his conscience or to prove to me that he really was sorry, but no good could come of it, regardless of his reason.

  I tried to catch his eye, but he was looking at my dad, so I jumped up off the sofa and turned to my father, pasting a big smile on my face as I did. “He needs a ride to the studio,” I said. “So he’ll come with us.”

  Dad looked between us, and I could see he was wondering what we’d been talking about that had made Andres look so serious. I kept that stupid smile on my face like my life depended on it. Because I never wanted my father to even suspect that Andres and I had a history—for a million reasons, not the least of which was my own embarrassment. But also because he would boot Andres out of the band. And after that confession and apology that had taken me eighty—no, maybe ninety—percent of the way to forgiveness, my conscience wouldn’t allow it. Not to mention that we’d been interrupted and our conversation felt unfinished; we weren’t done yet.

  “Everything okay?” Dad asked, looking to me for an answer.

  I nodded. “Peachy.” And then before he could stare the truth out of me, I turned my eyes from his and stepped around the couch. “I’ll go get Sandy.”

  “I’m here,” she said, emerging from the hallway to join us, her big tote over her shoulder. She noticed Andres and glanced at me, her eyes widening just enough that I had to turn away. I couldn’t let her see my face; she would know immediately that there had just been a huge shift in my feelings toward Andres.

  Feelings that I was going to beat back with a stick if I needed to. Feelings I was really, really afraid of.

  Stupid, ridiculous, eyelashy, musician feelings.

  “You know what, Dad?” I said, feeling every bit the coward I was, but whatever, this was self-preservation. There was no way I could go spend the day around Andres now. “I think I will go shopping today after all.”

  Dad frowned, but I dropped my eyes, busying myself with putting my bag down on the coffee table, which took all of point four seconds.

  “You sure?” he asked, taking out his wallet and sliding his Visa from the slot before he held it out to me.

  “Positive,” I said, taking the card. “Thanks.”

  Later that night, I was alone in the condo, having begged off eating dinner with Dad, Sandy, and the band, and had just put my cereal bowl in the dishwasher when I got a text from Dave. Thought you’d at least meet us for dinner.

  I smiled at that and sent him one back: V. busy with shopping for the Hamptons. Then had gourmet meal waiting for me here.

  ?? he sent back immediately.

  I glanced at the box on the counter.

  A classic fruit and dairy fusion. Molecular gastronomy at its finest.

  Sounds intriguing! he sent.

  Sounds douchey. Froot Loops with milk, I returned.

  :P So shopping? What does one buy for the Hamptons?

  2 swimsuits, one floppy hat, 4 beach novels.

  Sounds perfect, he sent back.

  How was your day?

  Long. Crazy. Hard. Amazing.

  I smiled, loving that he was enjoying the experience. Before I had a chance to respond, he’d then sent: You won’t even recognize me.

  Kiki? I tapped out.

  Yep. I’ve been manscaped!

  I laughed and typed out a request for him to send a picture, then reconsidered and deleted it. I’d see him soon enough. Instead, I sent: glad you survived it. Happy with it?

  I guess so. It’s surreal being made into a heartthrob. Not my word, either—embarrassing.

  Buckle up, I sent back.

  I heard the door open then, Dad and Sandy returning for the night, so I tapped out a quick, GTG.

  He sent back a smilie right before I slipped my phone into my pocket.

  Wiretap Transformed

  “Nessa?”

  I rolled over and groaned. “Go away.”

  “You coming to the shoot?”

  I opened one eye and saw my father standing in my bedroom doorway. He was backlit by the overhead light coming in from the hallway. That meant the sun wasn’t even up yet.

  “What time is it?”

  “Three thirty.”

  It took a long moment for me to process the fact that it while it could technically be called morning, it really, really wasn’t. “What? Why?” I whined.

  “We decided to do some nighttime photos in Times Square before the shoot in Central Park. That means we need to leave very soon.”

  “Get Sandy to go.”

  “She’s in the shower. You don’t have to come, I just thought you might want to. Go back to sleep if you’re not into it.”

  I wasn’t into it. Not after getting only a few hours’ sleep after reviewing hours of Sandy’s vlog posts, I wasn’t.

  Except obviously Sandy was into it. And for some reason, she was having no part of me not going.

  I’d only just closed my eyes (or so it felt) when she came bursting into my room and would not leave me alone until I got out of bed, promising to go with them. I’ve never been so close to violence in my life, and she must have known it, because she stayed out of reach as she nagged me into the shower.

  When I left the bathroom in a towel—eyes still mostly closed—minutes later and she pushed the espresso into my hand, I still hated her.

  Though slightly less.

  I’m pretty sure I dozed in the car on the way to Times Square but was reasonably sure I wasn’t the only one. The vibe in the limo was pretty mellow, despite it being filled to capacity (so much so that Dad was up front with Ken). It seemed I wasn’t the only one a little put out about the timing of the photo shoot, but this was the life of a rock star, so the guys best get used to it. Linda had even said something to that effect as the five moaning bodies lurched into the limo behind Sandy and me.

  That Linda didn’t seem upset about it made me wonder if she’d be as eager to do things like this at all hours if she had a family. Moot point, I guess, since she seemed happily single. Or maybe she was married to the job. Either way, she seemed content.

  As I looked around at the guys and noticed they were all dressed in their band clothes (and were freshly manscaped and groomed) I wondered what time they’d had to get up to get ready. I couldn’t imagine Ginny had shown up to their condo at dark thirty to dress them, but obviously, she’d had a hand in what they had on for the shoot.

  They wore what looked like casual clothes—jeans, t-shirts, hoodies, worn-looking flannel shirts—that fit their individual styles (at least, the ones they’d been given by Dad and the publicity crew). That meant Max, Dave, and Darren’s jeans (different brands according to those aforementioned styles) were comfortably worn under their assorted casual tops, where Andres’s dark jeans were new-looking. He had on a tight black t-shirt, showcasing that Latin lover vibe which made his biceps look larger than normal—or maybe they were that large.

  I realized belatedly that I was staring and forced myself to look away and stop thinking about Andres’s arms. As I turned away from him, I caught Dave looking at me. He smiled, his eyes half-closed. He looked good all sleepy, another thought that made me keep my eyes moving, afraid of getting caught ogling.

  Graeme wore skinny jeans and a button-down that somehow seemed to highlight his tall Britishness.

  All their looks appeared effortless but were anything but. Even their eyebrows had been shaped, I noticed with an expert’s eye. Not that they looked anything other than masculine, but they were definitely tidier versions of their already very hot, very swoon-worthy selves.

  On that uncomfortable thought, I turned to Sandy, the only person in the back of the limo who was not glaringly attractive to me at that moment. I asked her a dumb question about her camera that I knew would get her talking, giving me something to focus on.

  Ken dropped us off at Times Square where Rex was already set up with his camera on a tripod holding a giant Starbucks cup in his hand. After we all piled out of the limo, Ken left to go do a coffee run.
r />   As soon as we were clear of the car, Dad and Linda jumped into action, not wanting to waste a moment of the time we had to get the shoot done. They’d worked together forever and were almost like one person the way they were so in sync with each other, but never was it more obvious than when they were directing things like this.

  We all stood to listen as Dad debriefed us on what they were looking for in these photo shoots. The ones here in Times Square would be nighttime long exposure shots—those pictures where the lights cross the photo like moving lines, giving something of a whimsical, mysterious feel. Dad turned it over to Rex, who would direct the boys, knowing the looks they were trying to capture.

  Rex said he’d already taken a bunch of background shots that he’d Photoshop in later, but he still wanted to take a lot of the guys, and it was best they get started before the sky started to lighten. And yes, that meant now, even before coffee.

  Though they were all sort of tired and crabby, the guys got caught up in the energy pretty quickly and even started to goof around, which made for some great candid shots. A look at my dad’s amused face told me he agreed.

  Rex directed the boys right into the triangle where the streets converged to get some group shots in various poses: smiling, not smiling, goofing around, standing with their arms crossed, standing with their arms around each other.

  Then he parsed them out one by one to get some individual shots. By then, Ken had returned and set up a folding table for all the drinks. Once those were laid out, he went back to the limo and popped the trunk, pulling out guitars.

  Rex allowed the boys all sips of their coffees and then they got back to it, taking more group shots with the instruments. Then more individual ones. After about forty minutes and what had to be a million photos, Rex stepped back and away from his camera.

  “What if…” he said quietly, tilting his head as he stared at the group of boys, thinking. They were far enough away that they probably couldn’t hear a regular speaking voice, but they stood together, waiting for direction.