by Natalie Wrye
I’d read her out-of-the-blue text in Reed’s office while he was still reaming me a new one, and I can’t even meet her eye across the table, knowing that her arrival was no surprise, that I’d actually been in her brother’s bed when he received the impromptu call about her part-time stay in the local police station.
I tuck the sheet with my contestant number back into my purse, practically hopping to the sound of Kayla’s highly-squealed “Hi!”
I jump up out of my seat, hugging her, inhaling her vanilla scent. She pulls back.
“You look great,” she gasps softly. “Like you’re glowing.”
“I’m sure it’s just ‘whiskey-flush.’” I sit as she stares. I don’t want to tell her it’s probably from all the sex with her hot-as-hell brother, and as soon as our cute waiter returns, she forgets all about it, ordering a martini of her own and settling in, a smile on her ruddy face.
“So,” she lingers, grabbing the thin stem. “What did I miss?”
Her wide and famous grin give nothing away, but her eyes—those blue gems that so closely match her brother’s—tell an entirely different story. They hide a secret—a furtive story, and I can’t help but think that it might be the same one that Brett’s scars conceal.
I smile back. “Nothing.” I’m terrified that a break in my voice will betray me. Betray my broken dreams of being an “American Superstar.” Betray my broken affair with a blue/green eyed man named Brett.
I cringe at my own thoughts, drowning them out with the rest of my drink, which I drain quickly before launching into a diatribe about the grueling audition process that was my last shot at making it in Manhattan. Except I don’t tell my best friend in the world it was my last shot.
I can keep some secrets of my own.
The drink orders last well into the night until almost midnight when we consider packing it in and I start thinking about my bed.
A bed that’s become lonelier and lonelier without Brett.
I’m still looking into the reflective glass inside the bar bathroom when someone slides right behind me, their cold touch on my arm startling me with a start. I jump. Kayla. She says my name.
“Everything alright, girl?”
I place a hand on the sink to stop the tremors. “Yeah, just daydreaming.”
Her blue eyes meet mine in the mirror. Her face looks flushed. She looks so much like her brother. His spitting image. I never noticed it until now, and I want to tell her about my love for both Jackson siblings when the door behind us suddenly opens, the sound of heeled pumps clicking loudly over the linoleum.
I glance towards the reflective glass again only to find my magically missing roommate Sophie Santenelli staring back at me, her hazel eyes hard and unforgiving. She suddenly reaches for me.
Chapter 33
BRETT
I’m going to kill him. I’m going to fucking kill him.
I hold my glass-encased phone to my face. Horns blare through my periphery. I cut a path through party-hour traffic in my over-exhausted vehicle and even with tinted windows, drivers are flipping me off left and right, flashing their middle fingers as I try to rush to The Hutton headquarters before the damage is already done.
I didn’t sign up for this shit and Reed knows it.
My eyes narrow as the phone rings for the fourth time and then picks up. The overpaid bastard clears his throat.
“Hello?”
“Don’t hello me, motherfucker. Not after what you did. Not after what I’m rushing through thick miles of traffic to un-do. I’m through with you.”
He pauses. “Who is this?”
“Who is this?” I nearly bark. “The guy who you called your number one client. The guy who can’t go to his own goddamned gym because it’s surrounded by fucking photographers. That guy.”
I can hear the recognition seep in. “Whose number are you calling from?”
“That’s the least of your worries. My apartment’s front desk called. My place is surrounded. And it might not be… if someone hadn’t aired the trailer for the first episode of ‘Tattoo Gods’ without my knowledge.”
“You mean Julia, our new social media intern, leaked the trailer.” Reed sighs. “I know. I fired her early this morning after finding out that she leaked the news.”
“And did you contact Marilyn right after?”
I can hear his shallow breaths as he stops talking. “She told you?”
“She did… but she didn’t have to,” I growl behind the wheel of the now-screeching car. “I should have suspected that you were behind the paparazzi, all the sudden attention and adoration. Boy, you’re really fucking something, Reed.”
He starts babbling. “Look, let me explain…”
I honk on my half-broken horn to move cars out of my way. I nearly sideswipe a Sonata as I swerve to the shoulder of the road, doing fifty miles an hour as I head towards the nearest exit. I’m almost there.
“There’s nothing to explain. I’m sure this intern Julia didn’t promise I’d give an exclusive for the local magazine. Yeah…” I declare, my voice deepening. “Marilyn told me about that too. Now I’m going to unmake that promise you gave to them. And hopefully unmake all the money that I generate for you going behind my back to seal these grimy little fucking deals.”
I take the exit, accelerating up to seventy. The car shudders, and I slow down. Fuck. I’m not used to luxury cars anymore. I’m a bike man. Always had been. Broken bastard of a BMW can’t handle the speed. I whip onto a side street.
Reed coughs. “Listen, I told you to give me three weeks, and I’d get you a media tour. This is the beginning of that tour. I found you press like I said I would. You’ll be wiping your ass with hundreds for the next fifty years, but first you go to pay your dues. That means pictures and cameras and fans. And what better press to start than with a bang?”
I tighten my fingers on the steering wheel. “How many times do I have to tell you, Reed? I’m not your slave.” I hit the gas pedal. “Being your employee for the time-being doesn’t mean you fucking own me.”
The prick of a producer clears his throat over the line, his tone sharpening. “According to Webster’s Dictionary, that’s exactly what those words mean. And who better to handle an exclusive than me? Who better to keep your secrets…than someone who already shares some with you?”
I steer the car right. I tap the brake lightly, coming to a cruise. My heart races. Faster than this piece of shit car.
I’m locked into this business marriage with Reed—bound to him. Only the two of us know all of the craziness of our fucked up contract—not even Marilyn, and honestly? I never thought this unholy matrimony would last this long.
My heart calms down and I finally park across from the valet. I sidle up beside the sidewalk outside of the St. Regis hotel, the engine still running… and my thoughts running with it. I turn the ignition off.
“Listen, Reed, I gotta go.”
He calls out. “Wait, Brett! I want to talk to you about…” I hang up. I climb out of the car with the hood on my jacket up over my head, and the street I’m walking on starts to clear completely, each partygoer disappearing behind every pair of double doors. The city sky is alight on the horizon and as the darkness of night settles in, I walk up to the front door, feeling the brisk Manhattan air on my back.
It’s an unusually cold night. Unnaturally chilled. I pull at the door of the St. Regis, striding in when it opens and as I cross the long lobby, a receptionist from behind the side-saddled front desk calls out to me, nodding at me as I stalk towards the elevators.
“Welcome home, Mr. Jackson.”
“Thank you, Meredith,” I call over my shoulder. I never look back at her. Can’t.
It’s the word “home.” It’s still fucking with me. I still haven’t decided what home is, apart from Elsie. And with Kayla in the city without a reason, the concept is even more confusing with terms like “family” and “friends” starting to take on a whole new meaning.
I’ve left my fath
er in the past as much as I can, and so much of my future is uncertain as I contemplate storming into Reed Hutton’s office in the morning… and quitting. I can’t exactly go back to my penthouse beforehand. Not unless I want what’s left of the paparazzi meeting me at my front door. I scan the directory alongside the long line of elevator lifts. Seeing no one waiting, I tug on the hood over my hair, listening to the elevator ping as it settles on the bottom floor. I hop in, pressing for floor seven. Several seconds later, with my palms sweaty, I step out of the empty elevator, making headway through the small, darkening hallway.
I approach my hotel door, looking closer. You need a key to get in. Of course. But I left my wallet back in my bed this morning with Elsie, sometime before playing an awkward-assed P.I after Heath. I search my pockets for the slender piece of plastic, knowing I won’t find one.
I curse out loudly, fighting the urge to dig my knuckles into the metallic lock. I let out a silent “Fuck,” slamming my fist into the hardened wood, wondering how my world has veered this far off.
Until I hear a sudden footstep behind me. “The door’s locked. Can’t get in unless you have a card.” I hear the grin in her voice. “I’m guessing you don’t have one.” She flicks a tiny white square. “Maybe because you left it with me.”
The slender woman walks forward, slipping the square into the slot. Glancing up at me, she waits while I open the door. I escort Elsie inside, my eyes roaming her slightly scratched face and the bruise forming across her small arm. I follow her in.
Chapter 34
BRETT
“Go to the kitchen and wait for me so I can get you cleaned up, Tyson.”
The mood shifts drastically by the time I finish using my First Aid supplies on Elsie. And on myself.
It’s been only an hour since I found Elsie hanging out in my hallway, and I had to admit: I imagined a thousand and one different scenarios of how I would touch her tonight, but interestingly enough—this wasn’t one of them.
I place the last bandage on her final bruised finger, admiring my careful handiwork. Amused, I watch her sit there calmly on the kitchen counter next to a tin plate of food I ordered at her request, and I struggle not to tease her.
“You must have one mean right cross. I was right when I called you ‘Tyson.’”
She chuckles with a mouthful of delivered Chinese, her face lighting up momentarily.
Her fingers tickle my own bandaged hands, and she looks knowingly up at me with a smirk. “So do you,” she jokes.
I laugh. I should have never let her see me lose it in front of the door. Now she won’t forget it.
I’m glad to see she still has a sense of humor, though, and it must be tough… given all of the crazy shit that’s happening to her. To us.
Cross-legged, she’s been eating on my granite-top for the past hour, retelling a story that puts my parking lot run-in with Heath to shame.
She starts her “tale of two roommates”—a rumble if I ever heard one. I still can’t believe it, my brain trying to process every single statement I’ve been told. Craziest point taken? Sophie attacked her. Cornered her. Flew at her like a wild woman.
Elsie ends the anecdote of her fight with the would-be supermodel, mentioning how the angry amazon was dragged off. But not before taking a bashing, a veritable beat-down thanks to Elsie’s swinging knuckles.
The Kansas cutie was tougher than I thought, the city somehow already roughing her rosy edges. I don’t want to tell her… how proud I am of her. The frightened girl I once knew was all grown up and she was taking charge of own her life, defying every damned expectation.
When she ends the recount of her flying fists, she does so with flourish, her knuckles alone evidence of her victory over the batshit crazy Sophie. I smile.
“You sure these weren’t multiple women who attacked you?” I ask.
“Oh, yeah,” she mutters between bites of her food. “She clawed me like a raccoon cornered in a minefield.” She gazes down at the red scratches that decorate her body.
She winces as I hold the last finger, and I slow down, wrapping each carefully with my hands, holding onto her small palm just a little bit longer than I should.
“You got any alcohol?” she hisses softly.
I smooth the Ace bandage. “Of course. In the bathroom.”
She shakes her platinum head of hair at me. “No, not rubbing. Drinking alcohol. Something to numb the soreness… or the memory of this day.”
I drop her hand slowly, placing it on her warm lap.
“Actually, I don’t… the last couple of days have warranted a lot of whiskey. There’s no more in the suite.”
I turn my back to her, grabbing utensils from a nearby drawer. I’m distracting myself, and I know it. Truth is… I don’t know whether I should tell her or not.
Elsie scoffs from behind me. “I wish Kayla had stayed behind with me.”
I turn, my mouth opening. “Shit. She was there?”
Elsie shrugs. “We were having drinks when it happened. Kayla’s down at the police station, giving a statement. I told her I was fine. That I would meet up with her after.” She hangs her head, staring at her swinging toes. “I didn’t tell her where I was going.”
I shake my head. “Kayla and the police station. Again. What’s this? Part two?”
“Did she tell you why she was there?”
“No,” I breathe in heavily. “She didn’t. But I’m betting it had to do with Heath.”
Elsie squints, shifting where she sits. “Why do you say his name like that now?”
“Like what?”
“Like it’s a curse. A swear you hate saying.”
I reach for more Band-Aids. “Let’s just say some things are different now,” I say, pivoting back to her. “And this is one of them.”
I expect a reply at this admission… and get none. It was a response meant to answer her question… and close the matter before any others could be asked.
And it worked. Elsie simply nods at my explanation.
Relieved, I open up my chrome refrigerator, preparing to pour juice for us both. She talks about the Manhattan police station, passing the time as I busy myself, and I’m distracted when her questions probe even further. I don’t even notice the sudden turn our conversation takes.
“Cleanest police station I’ve ever seen,” she comments.
“Read: The only one you’ve ever seen…”
She laughs. “Nice of them not to arrest me.”
I grab glasses. “Sure was.”
“Nice of you to patch me up.”
“No problem.”
“How’d you get so good at this?”
“Well, my dad always…”
I cut myself off, turning to look at Elsie. I’ve been baited… and I walked right into her trap. I hand her a glass of orange juice. “Nice try.”
She blinks innocently at me. “Try at what?”
“Weaseling out information.” I lean against the counters, feeling exposed. I was right; I wasn’t dreaming. Elsie’s hands were taking a detour over my scars this morning, and here I was, playing into her quick cards. I almost told her about my dad… and he’s the last person I want to talk about.
Not tonight. Not with her… or with anyone. Ever.
I start to walk away. My steps carry me out of the kitchen and farther into the St. Regis suite, and Elsie follows me, her walk sounding in sync. I’m in the hallway before I hear her footsteps.
But I don’t turn to her.
Once I hit the isolated stretch of carpet right before the front door, she grabs my wrist just as I grabbed hers that first night she’d spent in the city. But unlike me, she drops my hand just as quickly as she grabbed it, her movements quick, her fingertips releasing my skin just as soon as she feels it as I were a fire-stoked stove—hot to the touch.
I spin to face her. But when I do, I regret it. Her face is full of shock…and rage. Righteous indignation shines like a beacon from her hazelnut irises and their dark cinnamon-colored
depths are on fire, a blazing amber liquid that threatens to scorch my very skin.
I fucking love it. I almost hate that I fucking love it because I can’t stop the feeling of warmth spreading in my stomach. She’s so angry at me. Nobody gets this angry with me.
People are usually afraid of me, like the typical new fan or rude like Sophie—entitled and spoiled. But never quietly incensed. Never this poised and professional beneath what could only be a boiling surface. And I know with Elsie that it’s only another sign that she cares, that she feels for me just as strongly as I long for her.
The beautiful broiling blonde doesn’t hesitate before she hisses at me. “Just what do you think you are doing?”
“Setting my terms. There are some things I just won’t talk about, Elsie.”
“From what I understand, that’s not what we agreed upon.”
“That’s what I did.” My eyes narrow. “I hate fucking publicity.”
“You mean the man who signed up for a television show hates the attention?” Her voice is dripping with disdain, and for the first time I see how she sees me. How she must have always seen me.
As another handsome face, lapping up the limelight.
The thought makes me angry. Irrationally so. And I take it out on Elsie, pushing my presence onto hers, approaching within inches to squeeze her body near the double doors of the nearby bedroom. I breathe into her face.
“You already know so much about me. What more do you want?”
She fires back. “Everyone’s about to know so much about you. I don’t want to know ‘so much,’” she nearly shouts, her teeth tightened as she speaks. “I want to know everything.”
We stare each other down, our eyes locked and unwavering. Wavy strands of golden hay-hued hair slip out of the slickened bun she’s used to subdue her silky hair, and I fight the urge to tame the strands with my fingers, my frustration with the lovely Ms. Carpenter slowly melting into a different kind of heat—one that’s thick and hot and slowly sinking its way below my belt.
