by Natalie Wrye
She sounded so nonchalant on the phone when we’d spoken earlier. So matter-of-fact. The casualness of her tight, blasé tone infuriated me, and yet the anger melts like butter as I clutch my little sister, now knowing it was all an act.
I mumble the word into her brow, my voice scratching with emotion.
“I don’t give a fuck what you’ve done. I’m just glad you’re here.”
“We love to hurt each other, don’t we?” Kayla releases a trembling breath inside my arms, hugging me tight enough to bruise.
Her voice is practically a sigh beside me, and I immediately scoff, my arms rising to wrap around her shoulders to kiss the edge of her soft hairline. I pull back, my voice sounding unnaturally small when I respond. It comes out as little more than a rasp.
“Hurting each other is just the by-product,” I breathe. “It’s the caring about each other so damn bad that really fucks us up.”
“Maybe,” she says to me. “Do we have to talk about what happened?”
“Not if you’re going to give me an excuse. ‘Excuses are bunny slippers for the weak.’” I grin. Jesus. I really do sound like dad. God knows how hard I’ve fought not to be him. “You tell me when you’re ready.”
I step away from Kayla’s embrace, gazing down at her, and she returns my wide grin with a watery one of her own. Her blue eyes are saucer-like—glassy. She grabs my hand.
“Take me home, big bro.”
I want to tell her I’m still trying to figure out where “home” is, that the only semblance of that loaded word I feel is when Elsie’s in my bed. Beside me. Beneath me. But I can’t.
I lead her away anyway.
Chapter 30
ELSIE
“It’s a done deal.” Violet practically bounces beside me as we wait in Reed Hutton’s office lobby two hours after Kayla’s call. “You’re winning American Superstar. This guy is a notorious hard-ass. And the toughest judge in the show. It’s a known fact.”
I continue watching the secretary’s empty desk like a hawk. “Uh huh. And that means something because…?”
“He invited you—personally—to his office. That means something in the world of national talent competition.”
“Reed Hutton?” I look over at the rowdy redhead. “You mean the Florida-golden-boy-always-gets-what-he-wants-picked-apart-most-of-last week’s-contestants-Reed-Hutton?”
“Yup,” the bubbly redhead motions towards the TV in the corner. “And you’ll be a high-profile superstar couple soon enough. Now that you’re dating that gorgeous-dark-haired-blue-green-eyed-makes-you-want-to-do-dirty-things-in-public-places Brett Jackson.”
I put my eyes back on the secretary’s desk. “Sorry. Not familiar with him…”
The over-eager redhead grabs my chin, steadying it on her focused gaze. “Then you must not be looking close enough.” She slaps the morning newspaper on my lap… plastered with Brett’s gorgeous face.
I don’t have to look. I know enough. Enough to know a little about the now-infamous tattoo star with the face that launched a million horny women.
I once thought I knew his type.
On some level, in some tiny back-of-my-mind corner, I had imagined—and feared—that Brett was somehow, someway like Becca Hamilton—an entitled privileged prick living without consequences. I’d sworn off those types in college, avoided them as an adult.
These strong-jawed rich men with their worlds served on silver platters. But Brett was none of those things. Though I loved and looked up to Kayla’s father—Steven Jackson, Brett was nothing like the admittedly arrogant businessman who walked into each room as if he owned it… most likely because it was the case that he did.
But Brett was self-built. He cultivated his tattoo business on his own broad back, and he didn’t use any Reed Hutton-like slick tricks or cheesy scams to carve his way into the heart of America. He isn’t that man.
I glance over at Violet’s joy-filled face, squinting.
“You’re a sadist, you know that?”
“Eh, that’s what all my submissives say.”
“How many times are you going to dangle Brett in my face?”
“As many times as it takes for you to realize that this is one you don’t let go.” She stands, planting a hand on the desk. Leaning over, she licks her lips, tapping a finger on the edge of the newspaper page. “Oh, c’mon… Madame Carpenter.” She waves her hand in the air. “You’re not going to tell me you don’t know that you’re going to blow your competition out of the water, that you’re going to stick it to the rest of these New York assholes, and give them a taste of their own medicine when they pant for your autograph as you walk off that stage the winner?”
I bite my lip. “Umm, no…?”
“Tell me,” she continues, “that you don’t want to give them what’s coming to them, after the bitches like that Becca Hamilton you mentioned, after every record producer decided to pass on your self-made EP. After every big-wig bastard and local karaoke bar thought they could look down their noses at you. After you had to pawn your shoes just to buy a Happy Meal—?”
“Okay, okay!” I yell, grabbing her hands. “Alright… you’ve—you’ve convinced me. I’ll…” I take a deep breath. “I’ll try to see things your way.”
“Less ‘look,’” she stresses. “More ‘will.’ You can bet your yoga-shaped ass that a thousand contestants have already written letters to this guy, begging for their bid. He normally stays behind the scenes, but he’s been surprisingly involved, it looks like, this season.” She leans in. “Be tough, Kansas.” I open my mouth and she stops me. “Show him that sweet sassy kick-ass side of you that I get to see.” Violet crosses her arms. “And if he doesn’t like it, kick the old bastard in his dusty balls.”
“What old bastard?” I hear from the doorway. I nearly drop my jaw on the floor.
American Superstar producer (and silent judge) Reed Hutton is just standing there, leaning against the doorframe. In a navy blue suit almost the color of his eyes, he smirks in my direction, arms crossed. His tiny smile is crooked and when he looks at me, his eyes full of humor, I don’t know whether to laugh or hide my face in shame.
I glance at Violet.
Fuck, how long has he been standing there? My closest friend in the city hops to her feet. Hugging me quickly as I stand, she clears her throat, laughing dryly as she pulls me in and squeezes. Her next sentence is a kiss. “Seems I’ve overstayed my welcome. Guess it wasn’t the best idea for me to drop you off after you got Reed’s email, huh? Next time we’ll call a Lyft car. At least you can pay their asses to be quiet when it counts.”
She kisses my cheek, practically flying out the door. Reed Hutton takes the lead by ushering me in, dawdling by the door as I make my leg-shaking, knee-knocking way into his office. I try to keep my fingers from trembling… and fail.
The renowned producer smiles as he looks at me, his grin growing as he stares. “Colorful car share driver you have there.”
I frown. “She’s a friend. I called her when I got the email from your secretary. I knew she’d get me here without a moment to spare. She loves your show.”
“As do most Americans.” Reed sighs, closing the door behind him. He ventures to his desk. “I just needed a spur of the moment meeting of the minds with a few of our finalists. There are a lot of new developments. I want to make sure that we’re ahead of them. Now more than ever.”
His fingers splay on the edge of his desk. In that moment, they fiddle with the edge of the oak, and I shake the sudden strange feeling of fear off me, grabbing my purse tighter to my side, my nerves humming as I watch him wield his silent power.
One wrong move… and my climb up the ranks of the show could slip out of my hands. My entire body is aware of Reed Hutton’s every move. And it terrifies me.
He takes a seat, looking somber, and anxiety suddenly eats me up like an eager meal. Reed Hutton leans back in his chair, steeple-ing his wrinkled hands. His gaze roams over me.
“So, I know you’ve
heard all about the dating rumors now between upcoming model Sophie Santenelli and local Manhattan tattoo star, Brett Jackson.” My heart jumps into my throat at his unexpected words. “Well, I will be the first one here to confirm that the rumors are in fact true. They’ll be discussing the status of their relationship in the very near future.”
I bluff, feeling off-balanced and confused. I don’t know what Reed is getting at…but I don’t like it. What does him meeting with me have to do with Brett? Or my new roommate? A coked-up flake who’s never even there. You’d think she lived somewhere else, she’s always gone. I suspect sleeping with half of the recent Vogue ad, a fact that secretly brings me joy, now knowing that at least it’s not with Brett.
And I still don’t see how this is any of Reed’s business. I’m dangerously close to saying so when he stops me, leaning over to look into my face.
“Don’t be nervous, Ms. Carpenter. This isn’t an ambush. I merely want to get your thoughts on a few things.” I take a deep breath, not believing him, my blood running cold. Crossing my hands in my lap, I straighten my back, not for a minute expecting what comes out of his mouth next. My pulse taps frantically under my skin, threatening to jump out as Reed’s husky voice takes a different tone. His blue-gray eyes grow steely.
He continues. “And I want you to get my own thoughts on a few things. Namely, the relationship that you’re rumored to have with the city’s infamous Mr. Jackson” He frowns, the bottom half of his uneven face turning downward. He blinks once. Just once. And the silence that hangs in the air as he does it slices on every nerve-endings, making me suddenly aware of the shift in the room—a change from barely tolerant and amused… to hostile. In the span of a minute. Reed wasn’t lying; this isn’t an ambush.
It’s an outright assault, aimed at my head in the open. There’s nothing secret or stealthy or underhanded about it. I’m being slapped without pretense or shame. I grit my teeth.
“Truth is, Ms. Carpenter. We don’t like it. Brett Jackson is a breakout star for Hutton productions, an important part of our team. We hold the rights to his new television show. And as a result, our little agency here might receive a lot of attention and press because of it. In no way,” he starts to circle his rich wooded desk with his fingers, “shape or form, are we going to encourage this—this negative attention. We are going to do what we do best: Rise above it. So, if anyone—anyone—in this town feels the need to feed this gruesome media beast surrounding Brett Jackson, let me know now, because I can tell you…that maybe you and American Superstar aren’t the right fit for each other.”
The room grows silent.
“If there are any questions, feel free to let me know now or within the next twenty-four hours,” he speaks. “I refuse to let the gossip mill drag us down with it.”
His eyes scan the room before finding mine, and I meet his stare, unblinkingly, my pulse no longer tap-dancing but stomping through the quick heavy steps of the Lambada. My ears heat.
“Alright,” he says after a silent moment. “That should conclude that. If no one has anything to say at the moment,” he utters as if we’re not alone, “then that’s settled.” He knocks his knuckles against the tabletop of his desk, and I almost jump, my chest squeezing hard enough for me to not breathe, my consciousness floating in and out.
I think I might faint when he declares “Meeting adjourned.”
Chapter 31
BRETT
Kayla has no idea how many things I have to refrain from.
My dick harder than my car’s throttle, “white-knuckled sobriety” took on a whole different meaning as I gripped the gearshift of my black car, my cock practically throbbing, my head trying to wrap itself around what I needed to do right now and what I so badly wanted to do in that moment.
I pulled out of my parking space in front of the police station, dropping her off at the St. Regis hotel at her request. Apparently, she didn’t want to stay in my “sex-sanctuary” AKA my swanky penthouse apartment. Go figure.
I wanted to tell her that the only woman helping me to “christen” the kitchen counters was Elsie, but I wanted to respect Elsie’s wishes, choosing not to tell my sister what was happening between me and the hot-as-hell woman until the right time. I just didn’t know when that time would be.
I dropped Kayla at the front door of her hotel room, hugging her tight. And in the instant I got in my own car and took off, I was caught between a grim reality and my wanton fantasies, desperate to blur the line between the two. To make the dream girl I’d abandoned earlier in my bed mine. To put her nightmares to rest. And revel in the beauty of the heaven I had forgotten had existed.
I was a fool to think it would be easy to let her go twice.
All I had known was Hell ever since she left. And now that I’d left her, Hell had come back to swallow me whole in the form of a windy Manhattan night.
The clock reflects back nearly five. It’s been a goddamned day, and it isn’t even over yet. I still have to take quick inventory at my shop, which I’ve been neglecting more and more.
Because, fuck, I wanted to go back. Back to Elsie. Back to a bed with her in it.
But a quick text from earlier let me know that she was convening someone from the set of “American Superstar” in some suddenly urgent meeting, and I swerve towards my tattoo shop, almost hopping out as I notice Heath—dressed up devil that he is, speaking to our general manager, practically sneaking out the back as he bows at the waist in a good-bye, slipping behind the wheel of his Mercedes.
And suddenly I find myself following, turning my wheel to trail behind him as he pulls out of the parking space, his dark wheels spinning against the asphalt.
A late afternoon city sky turns a gravel gray, and as it weeps tears of concrete , I accelerate in my black sedan, finding myself heading out of the Brooklyn borough limits and farther into the recesses of the nearby county. A sheet of rain shoots down like a curtain, and as the rainfall starts to fall even heavier, I feel as though the heavens are crushing me under a cascade of guilt, and I let it beat down on me, drowning me in a frustration of my own making.
I can’t quite shake this feeling. This suspicion.
The suspicion sours in my stomach when my phone suddenly rings, blaring like a singular siren. I pick it up, my eyes still on the road. On Heath. I answer with a gruff “Hello.”
“Brett,” the delicate voice over the line breathes.
Marilyn. “I was waiting for your call earlier. Thought we might talk more about Heath.”
She snorts softly. “Hell, Heath might be a discussion for another day, Brett. I’ve got something to tell you,” she stops, her voice growing husky with emotion. “I’m so so sorry.”
My chest begins to squeeze. “Sorry about what?”
She tells me, her words tinged with unshed tears. And I have no choice but to take it all in, with no buffer between us. Just my anger and the road. And with every second that passes of her story, with every mile my car’s wheels cross, the screws in my soul twist and tighten. Until there’s nothing left.
My closest friend is traveling around with me as his tail. And I’m the fool who’s been fucked all this time. Marilyn’s revelation confirms it, and with her sordid tale, my paranoia picks up by another notch.
I continue following Heath. Sneaking. Swerving. Stalking him like a shadow.
I mirror his quick movements with my own as I maneuver through thickened traffic to keep up with his dark Mercedes Benz CLS class coupe.
He twists through the thinning traffic like a stitch through a concrete wound.
Over darkened payments, without two fucks to give, the Benz barely scrapes by several cars, cutting vehicles off without warning and nearly taking a side-view mirror or two out as it sails past the speed limit.
Someone’s definitely in a fucking hurry. And it shows.
There was no method to the Mercedes driver’s madness, and I barely kept up. Trying to avoid a chorus of horns following me in my wake, I do my best to signal as
often as I can, keeping a respectable distance as I keep one eye on the grey, speeding Benz and one eye on the angry motorists left in its trail.
I manage to avoid any accident by the simple grace of God.
Clearly God and whatever wasted universe thinks enough of me to bless me with another miracle because as the now early afternoon downpour begins to fall, so does the speed of the hurtling dark car. I let the space between us lengthen, and the smoke-colored car exits the freeway onto neighborhood streets.
I ease down the roads, keeping my eyes peeled for a peek at what’s ahead, and those same eyes widen when I see where the car is heading.
Chapter 32
ELSIE
I’m on my third shot of Jack by the time Kayla shows up.
My skin is still tingling from spending part of my morning with devil incarnate—Reed Hutton, and I try to drown my nerves with the fiery whiskey, still sitting in today’s “meeting” clothes, my slickened bun undone—messy and mussed from where I’ve run my hands through the thick heavy strands for the past few hours.
I don’t know what to say, how to tell Kay… that it’s over. That I’m going to quit. Not that anything ever really started.
At least, not for me.
The waiter puts the forth shot of the brown liquid in front of me, and I almost inhale it as my best friend in the world strolls confidently in, straightening her skirt as the sun sets outside the restaurant window, the waiter delivering his room temperature water (with lemon) and disappearing.
I glance at the tepid drink at my fingertips, feeling similarly inside. Lukewarm… and drunk.
If I could, I’d dive into that Jack Daniels bottle the waiter’s using behind the bar. I take the crumpled piece of paper out of my purse for the fiftieth time tonight, re-reading its text, scanning the contestant number that has become the cause of my trouble—a number that Reed Hutton thoughtfully returns right before his car drops me off at the restaurant to meet Kayla on a date that I damned near didn’t keep.
