by Andrea Dale
Damn. She hadn’t expected him to come in. She’d planned to have the cab waiting, her suitcase already in the trunk when she talked to him. It was the coward’s way out, she knew that.
But the pain was so damn bad she didn’t know if she could hold it together long enough to get through what needed to be said.
“I thought you were with Sam,” Hannah said. She turned, managing to step out of the warm circle of his arms.
Nate shoved his hands into his back pockets. The faded denim stretched tight over his crotch, and she felt heat rush through her. She was never going to forget last night.
“He’s busy dealing with the arena manager. Something about electrical outlets, I think. I thought we could grab an early lunch before the afternoon sound checks.”
“I can’t,” Hannah said. Resolutely, she gripped the handle of the suitcase and lifted it from the bed. Staggered a little under its weight.
Nate caught her arm. He removed the suitcase from her hand. “What’s going on, Hannah?”
“I didn’t want to do it like this,” she said. There was no way she could look into his eyes. She was only just barely holding on.
“Do what like this?” Suspicion and concern warred in Nate’s voice.
Hannah licked her lips. It didn’t help. Her mouth was too dry. “I’m leaving,” she said.
The silence stretched. Hannah darted a glance upwards. His face was taut, jaw clenched.
“You’re not leaving,” he told her. He tossed the suitcase onto the bed. “You can’t leave.”
“I have to, Nate.”
“Why? You’ve been dealing with your other clients by phone and e-mail. You’ve been handling it.”
“It’s not that.” She reached for the suitcase, but he stopped her. He pulled her around sharply, but the hand that tipped her face up to his was gentle.
“You can’t leave me,” he said softly. The huskiness in his voice held a note of panic that astonished her. “I need you.”
Hannah shook her head, fighting to keep herself from reacting to the emotion she heard. “No, you don’t. You need someone glamorous, someone who’ll raise your image back up to where you want it to be.”
“This is about that damned photo, isn’t it?” Nate raked his hands back through his hair. A tiny silver fox dangled from his ear.
“I’ve thought it all out,” Hannah said with as much conviction as she could muster. “You need to be seen with women on the A-list. Being seen with your publicist makes it look like I’m babysitting you. That’s not good for your career.”
“We’re not about my career,” Nate said. “We haven’t been for a long time now.”
The words cut her. She’d needed to hear them, needed to know that they were about more than hot sex. Needed to know that he might feel something close to what she felt for him.
But it was too late.
“I can’t be both things, Nate,” she said softly. She touched his chest lightly, unable to keep away. His heart beat wildly beneath the warm cotton. “I can’t do my job like this. I can’t be your girlfriend and your publicist.”
“Isn’t it your job to be on the road with me?” Nate asked shrewdly. His midnight blue eyes skewered her.
“I agreed to it,” Hannah said, “but it’s not actually in my contract. Sam will agree with me. Try to understand, Nate. I can’t put you back on top if I’m pulling you down.”
Catching the hand that rested on his chest, Nate dragged it to his lips. He pressed a hot kiss onto her palm, breathing in the scent of her skin. “Don’t do this to me, Hannah.”
“I have to go, Nate. The taxi will be here any minute now.” The tears were so close. If he didn’t let her go, she’d never make it.
His mouth tightened. “So what was last night, then? One last bang before goodbye? You’ve had your fantasy fuck and now it’s over?”
The words slashed at her. She’d meant for their last time to be something special, and he’d destroyed it with his cruel words. She knew he didn’t mean it, that he was lashing out, but the knowledge didn’t ease the pain.
“I’m sorry,” Hannah whispered. She hauled her suitcase off the bed. This time he didn’t stop her. “I’ll keep in contact with you about interviews and things. I’ll get you back on top, Nate.”
“Don’t contact me,” he said harshly. “You can deal with my manager. It’s what a publicist does, after all.”
Hannah felt the sob hitch in her chest. She pushed out the door, dragging the suitcase down the narrow aisle between the bunks. His voice came to her softly.
“Was I ever anything other than a poster on your wall, Hannah?”
She couldn’t look back. Couldn’t answer. The tears threatened to spill. If she looked back she’d never be able to leave.
He’d been more to her than just a teenage challenge since the night they’d spent in her apartment. It had grown into something more powerful than she’d ever expected. Loving him meant understanding why she had to let him go.
Even if doing so killed something inside of her.
*
The pneumatic slide of the door closing carried through the bus. The only other sound was his harsh breathing. Hurt filled him. Panic. A fury so intense that he wanted to smash something. He wanted to follow her. Knew that if he did, he’d say more things that shouldn’t be said.
Like, “If you don’t stay, I might self-destruct.”
Like, “I love you.”
He’d had enough of begging.
Stalking through the bus, Nate smacked his fist into a kitchenette cabinet. The flimsy wood panel splintered. The sharp pain in his knuckles drew him up short. If his hand swelled, he wouldn’t be able to play. He shook his hand out, cursing.
A car door slammed. Nate hurtled out of the bus in time to see a taxi accelerating through the parking lot.
She’d done it. She’d really left him. Their conversation had had such a sense of unreality about it. The whole time she’d been trying to get her suitcase out of the door, he’d been waiting for the punch line.
Hannah had left him.
Hurt was a bitter taste in the back of his throat. He’d thought that there was more. That she understood him, saw him as something other than the stage persona he adopted in front of the fans.
He’d never thought she would run just because one sleazy tabloid published an unflattering photo and article.
He ground the heels of his hands into his eyes. The starburst of colors seemed too much a celebration. He felt dark inside. Empty.
Her absence was a desolation.
Oh god, he needed her.
He didn’t want to, but he did. Needed her with an intensity that bordered on the insane. Needed her smile, her laugh. Her confidence in him. Even her conviction that she could put him back at the top of the charts.
Even if he didn’t need to be there.
Even if he’d give all that up, just to have her see him as the man he was. And not as the image it was her job to promote.
The taxi had long since disappeared, taking with it the opportunity to talk to her. To apologize for the words he’d said in the heat of anger. He knew their relationship went deeper than sex. He’d said that only to lash out, and now he felt like shit for wounding her.
Hurting in a way he hadn’t since detox, Nate walked slowly back to the arena. She had her job to do, and he had his.
Chapter Fourteen
Nate stepped out of the limo and into hell.
Cacophony of shouts and screams. Blinding lights. The heat of a summer night in LA.
He smiled and waved genially to people he couldn’t see thanks to the unceasing camera flashes, then turned to extend a hand to his date.
Marta Ingersol slid gracefully from the limo, somehow not flashing her panties despite wearing a scarlet dress slit all the way to there. Once squarely balanced on impossibly high heels that brought her to Nate’s height, she too favored the paparazzi and fans with a megawatt smile, then tucked her hand around Nate’s arm so he
could escort her properly inside.
It wasn’t Marta’s fault that Nate felt sick inside.
She wasn’t a bad person. They’d had some good times together. It was just that she wasn’t Hannah, and he missed Hannah like crazy.
He missed her more than he missed the ability to write music.
He was doing this for her. He didn’t understand it, but unless he wanted to lie down and kick his feet like a toddler having a tantrum, he had to go along with it. Be seen at this swanky party with a supermodel on his arm.
As much as he didn’t want to admit it, he did feel a trace of pulse-pounding excitement, a shadow of what he felt when he first stepped on stage in front of a screaming crowd. He could feel the energy from the onlookers—mostly paparazzi, but a few fans as well—their excitement washing over him.
But it wasn’t the same. There was no music, no escape and joy in the creation.
So he smiled, and waved, and made sure Marta was shown off to her best advantage, and then finally, blissfully, they were inside and the worst of it was over. Or so he thought.
There were a few photographers inside, but they were discreet. The camera crew from a local entertainment show filmed quietly, the trendily dressed reporter watching for opportunities to catch a word with any of the big-name celebrities she could snag. It was loud, not with screaming people but with pulse-pounding music blasting through speakers that shuddered in protest—and they hadn’t even made it into the main room yet, where the stage was.
He felt a headache starting at the base of his skull.
It had been a long time since he’d been to a party like this. Two years. He found himself mentally stepping back, trying to figure out if he’d missed it.
He used to think these things were fun. He went to every party, every place where it was the place to be seen. He rubbed elbows with actors and musicians and producers and models and fashion designers and celebrities famous for nothing more than being famous. He soaked up the energy, a substitute for the energy he felt on stage.
But it wasn’t the same as being one with the music. He realized that now. Before, he’d thought everyone was happy. Already he knew how wrong he’d been. Smiles were brittle, greetings were exchanged with a look deep in the eyes that assessed whether you were someone who could advance the other person’s career.
Which was what Hannah wanted him to do. She’d arranged for him to be here to bolster his career.
“You need to be seen in the right places,” she’d said through an e-mail to Sam that listed the details of the hot new club’s opening night bash. Then she’d sent over the clothes he should wear: blue silk shirt, brown leather pants and boots. Suggested a diamond stud in place of his usual gold hoop or silver fox, to imply financial success.
Nate had promptly tossed the shirt. Kept the pants and boots, but paired them with a T-shirt specifically designed to look as if it had been to hell and back. A belt slung low. He was a rocker, for god’s sake, not a fashion model.
The kicker was when Hannah had arranged to have Marta Ingersol be the celebrity he’d be seen with.
He didn’t need a supermodel to carry him to the top. He just needed Hannah, who made him feel like he’d already made it.
Marta was delighted to be there with him. He didn’t know how to tell her it was just for show. He suspected she really thought he was interested in revisiting, maybe revitalizing their relationship. He hoped he could let her down gently.
They entered the main part of the club. Across the big room, on a stage surrounded by a dance floor, a local up-and-coming band played. They weren’t bad, Nate mused, but they were still rough around the edges. Two levels of balconies ringed the room, with back rooms leading off them. There’d be sofas, food, tables, bars, Nate knew. The club may have been new, but the set-up wouldn’t be much different from anywhere else.
“Look, there’s Sandrine Moss and Ray Stark!” Marta said, pointing. “We should go say hello.”
Nate wondered if Marta wanted to get into acting, because as far as he knew, she didn’t know the redheaded starlet and her action-hero boyfriend.
“I don’t think they’re looking for company,” he noted. The pair were blocking access to one of the club’s several bars as they necked passionately.
“Later, then,” Marta said agreeably. She clutched his arm, pressing her breast against him. “Oh, hello,” she said to a reporter with a video camera who’d swung around and noticed them. She turned so that her upper body was slightly angled and one long leg was poised in front of the other. The official pose that was supposed to make women look thinner. Nate barely had time to register it all, but Marta was a pro, and had her hair swinging back and a smile on her face for the camera.
Well, maybe everybody would just think he looked brooding and sexy rather than grumpy and unprepared.
He really didn’t care one way or the other. But he had a commitment to make this party work for him.
A commitment to Hannah.
Maybe if he pressed palms with the right people, let Marta cling to his arm, put up a good face, he’d get Hannah back. If he did the public thing and it boosted his career, then she’d be happy because she’d done what she was hired to do. He’d be back on top because of her, and then she’d come back.
God, he missed her. He raked a hand through his hair before remembering he’d gone to a salon—Hannah’s suggestion, once again relayed through Sam—and had his hair trimmed, just a little, and styled, just a bit. How stupid was that? Not as stupid as forgetting you had product in your hair and messing it all up.
Maybe he could make it to the bathroom before any other photographers got to him.
“I’ll get something to drink,” Marta said when he excused himself. “Do you want anything?”
Twenty Advil and a pair of industrial earplugs. Aloud, he said, “Just a club soda with a twist of lime. Thanks.”
Two steps, and he was already accosted.
“Hey, Nate, how’s it going? Long time no see!”
“Bobby, hey,” Nate greeted the grunge rocker. “It has been a while.”
“Yeah. Hey, I didn’t see you on the roster for tonight,” Bobby said. He smelled of cigarette smoke and whisky, and his Led Zeppelin T-shirt had a stain near the collar. He had no product in his hair. Largely because his dirty-blond hair was in dreadlocks.
Nothing looked dumber than a white boy in dreads.
But Bobby’s band’s latest single held the number-one slot in the charts.
“Roster?” Nate asked.
“Yeah. All the musicians on the guest list were asked to do a song at some point. Didn’t see your name.”
“I’m in the middle of a tour,” Nate said quickly. “Saving my voice.”
“Cool, man. Good to see you.” Bobby slapped him on the shoulder and wandered off.
No one had ever approached him about performing tonight. Apparently Hannah hadn’t known, either, because she would have had him on the roster.
Okay, he’d gotten on the guest list late. But still. It hadn’t been so late that he couldn’t have been squeezed in. He’d jammed spontaneously any number of times in the past. They could’ve tossed him up onstage with any of the other artists he’d seen here (except, maybe, the blinged-out rapper over there) and he would’ve done fine. Had a blast, even.
The hallway to the restrooms sealed the deal. Signed photos of rockers and rappers, all the hot bands and artists of the day, covered the walls. Nate had seen over half of them here tonight.
His photo wasn’t among them.
Not important enough.
A has-been.
In the bathroom, Nate stared at his reflection.
Maybe Hannah’s work was in vain. Maybe it was too late, he’d fallen too far. Maybe this tour was a fluke, and soon he’d just be playing San Francisco clubs or touring as a nostalgia act. Doing Japanese commercials for booze or watches or cars.
It wouldn’t be that bad, would it? He hadn’t been completely stupid with his money. He
’d snorted a fair amount up his nose, but with the investments he’d make, he could never perform another note and still live comfortably. He wasn’t doing too badly. The pressure to succeed would be off. His relationship with Hannah wouldn’t matter and he could get her back.
But it would also mean that Hannah had failed.
He knew, with a wrench in his gut, how that would devastate her. It ate at him in a way that the lack of his picture on the wall never could.
Back in the main room of the club, he couldn’t see Marta anywhere. The local band was playing, currently fronted by Bobby.
Great. Ditched by his own date. The tabloids would have a field day with that one.
He checked the various side rooms, briefly chatting with people he knew, and being reminded of how tenuous and vapid it all was. These may have been people he’d called friends in the past, but none of them had called when he was at his lowest point, not one had offered support. They were glad to see him now, but in a fleeting sense.
Part of him just wanted to get lost in that.
He headed upstairs, weaving his way through the throngs lounging on the open steps. In one of the rooms off the balcony, he didn’t find Marta, but he found his past staring him in the face.
A past that tempted him, taunted him. Whispered to him of glory, ecstasy, escape.
Oblivion.
Money discreetly changed hands. He walked away with his addiction tucked into his pocket, his mind blank, his emotions numb.
Everything he’d learned about how to resist temptation had fled.
It was so easy. So very easy.
His hands were shaking. Nate stared at them, rather fascinated, before he remembered that if his hands shook, he couldn’t play the guitar.
But he hadn’t been asked to play or sing tonight so what did it matter?
Hannah mattered. The reminder was like the whisper of a song in his head. Hannah mattered, and the drugs in his pocket would change everything.
Or would they? Would she even care? Hannah might still believe in his career, but she didn’t believe in them. She’d made it clear: his career and hers came first. If his career tanked, she’d failed in hers. If his career soared, she couldn’t—wouldn’t—be with him.
