I'd stayed in the hospital with Caleb while he recovered, and every day there had opened my eyes more to the realities and consequences of our lifestyle. The doctor’s warnings were the last straw, making the last bit of wool or whatever you wanted to call it fall from my eyes. For the first time, I could see our lives with startling clarity, and I didn't like what I saw.
Caleb was only twenty-fucking-four, and he was already in danger of causing permanent damage to his body if he kept drinking. The rest of us hadn't been tested for anything, but I was sure our bodies were probably in the same state.
Add to our drinking habits the crazy hours, packed schedules, shitty sleep patterns, constant stress of having to produce something perfect, and the subconscious pressure of knowing that at every moment, fans around the world were watching us, our chosen career path wasn't conducive to living long, healthy lives.
If it was just me, I wouldn't have given a fuck. I would have kept living the life imagined larger and larger without regretting a single minute. But it wasn't just me. Caleb was my little brother, and though the other band members weren't my biological brothers, it sure felt like they were.
And so I’d pulled the plug.
It was the hardest thing I'd ever had to do, but I guess it was true that everything worth doing is hard.
"So this is what a moody, brooding rock star looks and lives like?" Caleb's voice interrupted my thoughts, pulling me back to the reality where he had appeared in my house out of nowhere. He leaned against the doorframe of the sliding glass doors leading from my bedroom to the balcony. I would never have guessed that my brother had been lying in the ICU two weeks ago. He pulled the sunglasses hanging in the V of his shirt out and slid them over his dark eyes before stepping out onto the balcony.
"Ex-rock star," I corrected him dryly, draining my drink and pushing to my feet. "You want some breakfast?"
Now that he'd broken me out of musings that were way too deep to be having at this time of the morning, I became aware of my growling stomach. Coming to think about it, I couldn't remember the last time I'd eaten.
As if he could read my mind, Caleb gave me a long look and shook his head. "No, but you should eat something. You look like shit."
I hadn't looked in the mirror today, but I didn’t doubt he was right. The song I'd been working on had woken me up three hours ago, and I hadn't bothered with a break to shower.
Caleb, on the other hand, looked fresh as a fucking springtime flower in his crisp white T-shirt and black jeans. His leather jacket hung haphazardly over one of the stools in my kitchen like he'd flung it there on his way upstairs as he breezed into my house. The ends of his hair were still wet from a shower or maybe even an early morning swim.
Fuck him, sprightly clean motherfucker. He was probably sleeping too.
"Thanks. Clearly, unemployment doesn't suit me as well as it does you," I replied sarcastically, flipping him the middle finger as a rummaged around for a pan to make some eggs.
Raising his eyebrows, he tilted his head slightly to the side and dropped his chin, crossing his arms over his chest. "I prefer to think of it as funemployment."
"Funemployment?" I chuckled and shook my head, igniting my gas stove and breaking some eggs into the pan.
Caleb's lips kicked up into a wry grin as he sat down on one of the stools at my kitchen island. "You always were the one who said we had to have more fun. I'm just trying to follow your advice. You should try it sometime. It's working for me."
"I am having fun," I retorted, grabbing a plate for my eggs and pouring two glasses of orange juice. I slid one over the island at Caleb and set the other down for myself, scraping my breakfast onto the plate and sitting down across from him. "I get to do whatever the fuck I want all day without Gerry on my case, I write songs just because I want to, and no one has told me to post a single damn thing on social media or that I'm setting some kind of bad example for fans. See? Fun."
Caleb turned his juice glass between his thumb and forefinger on the counter, staring intently at it before lifting his eyes to mine. "Doesn’t look like you’re having fun. Are you sure breaking up the band was the best thing to do?"
"Letting you become another statistic of rock stars who died too soon didn't seem like a great idea at the time, so yeah. It was the best thing to do."
"You know that was no one's fault but my own," Caleb argued forcefully, glaring at me like he wanted nothing more than to punch me. "We can't leave the one thing we love doing just because I took too many shots one night."
"You didn't just take too many shots, Caleb." I wasn't in the mood to rehash this conversation. We'd had it, or a version of it, in the hospital, on the plane back home, on the way to Gerry's offices the day I dropped the bomb, and in the car afterward. "I'm over talking about this. This conversation is over. It's done. The band isn't getting back together. That's that. Game over. The end."
"But—"
I held up my hand to stop him, jabbing my fork in his direction. "You have to let this go. It's not easy, but it is for the best."
"You're not going to hear me out, are you?"
"I already have. The decision's been made, bro. The team has been broken up, and everyone is moving on. It's time for you to do the same."
Caleb's stool scraped against my tiles and nearly fell over from how fast he pushed it back and stood up. "You haven't heard me out, asshole. You heard what you wanted to hear to support conclusions you'd already drawn. Enjoy your new version of 'fun.' And take a shower, would you? You stink."
He stormed out of the kitchen without another word. I heard his car start and his tires squeal as he spun away a minute later. I sighed, shoving my now cold eggs away. I'd lost my appetite. Fixing myself a cup of coffee with the machine I’d had for months but only had time to figure out this week, I muttered, "How's that for fun?"
I carried the mug to my balcony and got back to writing my song. I couldn't let Caleb get to me.
Our new normal was going to take some time to get used to. I would have to let him pull punches where he needed to and stand there and take it when they were aimed at me. It was the only way to protect him.
Buzzing started from somewhere underneath the pile of crap that had accumulated on my table outside, followed shortly by the song I'd chosen as Alicia's ringtone on my phone. I felt around and finally found it lying underneath a sweater I'd been wearing earlier.
The picture I had of Alicia that came up when she called was a beautiful one, but that didn't matter. I wasn't answering any of her calls. Exhaling a deep breath, I denied her call. The last thing I needed this morning was someone else tearing into me over making the only decision I could make under the circumstances.
“One lecture per morning, people,” I mumbled, throwing my phone back down on the sweater and getting back to work.
CHAPTER 48
ALICIA
I slammed my phone down with more force than necessary and muttered a string of curses that would've made me blush before I’d started working for Destitute. Those boys would, however, be able to make a saint swear, and I was no saint.
They were a handful, but their fearless leader, or lead singer rather, was the worst. Hands down.
Jared-freaking-Larsen.
Just the thought of him made my heart do strange squeezing things in my chest, but it also made me feel outrage like I'd never felt before. He’d ripped my heart out, stomped on it, and then turned it into his own personal mosh pit to crush whatever was left when he turned around and walked away from me. But that wasn’t enough.
No. No. No. That would’ve been way too easy and not nearly dramatic enough for the great Jared Larsen. Not only had he crushed my heart, he'd also broken up the band, which meant that not only was I heartbroken and feeling like an idiot for going down that road not only once but twice, but my only client also didn't exist anymore.
And if they didn't exist anymore, neither did any of the hard work I'd put into them since I started. That was what really ticked me off.
When I took this job, no one believed I could do it, but I'd proven each and every one of them wrong time and time again. I'd taken five of the baddest bad boys of rock at the moment and kept them just about completely from getting negative press. I'd turned the hype up around their now-dead album so much that the words “Most Highly Anticipated Album of the Year” were being thrown around in certain circles. And then I'd coached them to give the best damn live television interview of their lives, a feat my so-called legendary predecessor had failed to manage in all his years with the band.
And now that was all gone.
Thank you, Jared.
I’d get reassigned to a new client in no time, but without Destitute finishing their album and going on their tour, none of the work I'd done for them really mattered anymore. Sure, someone would probably pat me on the back at some point for the hype, the interview, and the lack of stories about Destitute's terrible antics, but there would be no way to measure whether my work had paid off.
I wasn't after acknowledgment or even praise. I was after gathering evidence to prove my track record. Experience was the name of the game in my field, and without proof of my success, I would always be low girl on the totem pole. The one who could be replaced by anyone.
My ticket to the next level in my career where I wasn't seen as the young girl who couldn't handle anything, as I had been when I started this job, would have been the work I did on this album. It would have been in the singles flying off the shelves faster than ever, the sold-out stadiums, the string of killer interviews and good press all the way through.
Gathering that evidence was now impossible. As was my settling down with a nice, mild, and well-mannered boy. And it was all thanks to Jared Larsen.
Jared-fucking-Larsen.
Chances of any other guy I ever dated measuring up to him were slim to none, at least compared to all the guys I'd met in my life to this point. As such, I would now have no choice other than to throw myself into work and become a lonely, yet insanely successful spinster.
I probably would have been okay with that since I loved my job and happened to be really good at it, but he'd also managed to take that away from me. At least in part.
And now he wouldn't even answer my calls.
Blowing out a deep breath, I pulled my hair free from its ponytail and dragged my hands through it. When I'd combed my fingers through it enough that it was hanging in a wavy curtain to my waist, I absently started a braid and looked around my office.
The space had been given to me by Gerry's management firm when I’d started because they said they preferred to have the whole team together. It'd taken me some time to settle into the modern oceanfront monstrosity and even longer to get used to the gorgeous view I had if I spun my chair around to look out over jagged rocks, mostly abandoned piece of beach, and the Pacific Ocean beyond.
It was only starting to feel like mine now, and sadly, if I couldn't fix this, I would probably be moving out soon. Gerry barged into my office like he'd been cued by my depressing thoughts, carrying an empty cardboard box.
"What's that for?" I asked Destitute's former manager.
Unlike myself, Gerry looked like he'd gotten a great night of sleep and was dressed in one of his four-thousand-dollar suits. "It's for you. Figured you probably wanted to get out of here as soon as you could. Destitute’s broken up, which means you're a free agent again. It was a pleasure working with you, Ms. Diamond, but it's time for both of us to move on."
If I'd ever needed proof that Gerry didn't care about the talent, the music, or anything but the money, I had it now. The man had been working with the band for years, but he didn't look like he had a care in the world.
"Not yet," I told him, squaring my shoulders with determination I didn't feel. He might be prepared to pack it all in, literally considering the box, but I wasn't.
Gerry frowned and set the box down on my paper-laden desk. "What are you talking about?"
"I need you to give me one more week. I will get things back on track." As unlikely as it was, I had to try. If not for me, then for the rest of the guys in Destitute.
Nick Masters, Matt Tillman, and Dominic LeSalle, the base and rhythm guitarists and drummer of the band respectively had all been to see me in these last couple of days and seemed to think I could somehow turn this around.
Why they had so much faith in me instead of simply speaking to their surrogate brother, I didn't know. All they said was they understood why Jared was worried, but that he wouldn't listen to them right now. They seemed to hold the opinion I might be able to get through to him.
Frustration flowed hot through my veins, but I pushed it back and focused on a confused Gerry instead. His eyes squinted as they searched mine. "Get things back on track? How? What's done is done."
"I don't think it is. I've managed to keep this out of the press. I just need some time to make it right." If only I knew how.
I didn't let my uncertainty show, though. I’d made a promise to the guys that I would try, and I kept my promises. Come hell or high water, I had to at least try.
Gerry sighed and flashed me what I was pretty sure was supposed to be a sympathetic smile. "I like your persistent attitude, Alicia. I respect it even, but I don't think it's going to make a damn lick of difference. I know Jared, and his stubborn mind is made up at this point. I don't think he does, but even if he did doubt his decision, his pride would stand in the way of him letting the band get back together."
It was true that Gerry had known Jared longer than I had, but I didn't think he knew him better than I did. Who Gerry knew was the Emperor of Rock, the arrogant and cocky persona Jared played to the world. I knew Jared Larsen, the man behind the mask.
Or at least I thought I did.
Gerry was right that Jared was a stubborn ass, but I didn't think he was right about the pride thing this time. It wasn't pride that had driven him to do what he did or that was keeping the band apart.
It was his love and sense of responsibility for his brother's well-being that made him call things off. I also believed the human part of him had seen the very human consequences of their actions, even if they had been elevated to godlike status in recent years by the fans.
They weren't gods. They were men, and they'd been living in a way that had killed many before them and would kill many after. Jared just didn't want to get caught in the crossfire. Or maybe he did, but he wouldn't let it happen to the others.
I couldn't tell Gerry any of this, though. He wouldn't believe me even if I did, and Jared would probably kill me if we ever spoke again only for him to find out I'd confided these things to Gerry.
"I know he’s stubborn, but I have a plan."
Gerry lifted his eyebrows as if he was saying, "let's hear it." Since I didn't really have a plan, I pretended not to notice and hit the spacebar on my computer keyboard to wake it up.
He narrowed his eyes again and then shook his head and started walking toward the door. "I wish you the best of luck then. We'll talk again soon."
He closed the door behind him and as soon as I heard it click into place, I sagged back in my chair and rubbed my tired eyes. Gerry might have been sleeping well, but I certainly wasn't.
I hadn't gotten one decent night's sleep since New York when I'd been sleeping in Jared’s arms. At first, it was worry for Caleb and strategizing over what to do if the story broke that kept me awake at night and then it was Jared's lack of communication.
In the weeks since his apocalyptic return, it'd been difficult to avoid what felt like the apocalypse on both a personal and professional level keeping me up. Last night, when I finally managed to fall asleep, I dreamed of the band and everyone in and around it asking me what to do now.
I’d jerked awake so fast, I nearly gave myself whiplash.
In the case of the band, it was easy to imagine what the voices might sound like when they asked "what now" because they'd already been asking me all week.
Staring at my closed office door after Gerry l
eft, I knew I needed a plan. A good one.
I drummed my fingers on a small open patch of glass on my desk and considered my options. Jared wasn't taking my calls, and though my heart was begging me to go and see him, I doubted he would let me into his house. He hadn't been pictured in or around town, so my best assumption was that he hadn't left his property all that often. If at all.
Trying to corner him at the gym or out and about was therefore not an option. If I couldn't pretend to run into him, couldn't get into his house, and couldn't talk to him over the phone, I needed another way to get to him.
Before I moved into this office, someone had framed a picture of Destitute at the first awards ceremony they'd attended and hung it on the wall. My eyes drifted to the picture as I thought, and to the joyful, disbelieving, wide-eyed guys in it. You wouldn't say it if you didn't know them, but I could see the pride and excitement radiating from them in that picture.
Usually, I spent most of my time while looking at any photograph of them fixated mostly on Jared. This time my eyes fell to the man on his right. So similar in appearance and yet so different, Caleb looked every bit as full of joy as the rest of them in that photo.
It hit me then that I was looking at my answer. Why hadn't I thought of him before?
Caleb.
This had all started because of him. Maybe, just maybe, it could end with him too.
I had my phone my hand and was dialing Caleb's number before I could second-guess myself. My heart hammered and skipped a beat when he answered after only a few rings.
"Alicia?" Surprise made his voice an octave higher than I was used to. "I wasn't expecting to hear from you. What's up?"
"What's up? Don't play dumb, Caleb. You know why I'm calling."
He let out a deep sigh and paused for a second before replying. "Yeah, I guess I do. You want me to talk to Jared about this whole breaking up the band thing. You should know I've already tried. He's not budging on this one."
"Actually." I hesitated and cleared my throat. Having called him so fast, I hadn't really thought about what I wanted to ask him. "If you've tried and failed, then maybe I should try talking to him."
My One and Only: A Bad Boy Secret Baby Second Chance Romance Page 86
