Revenge: The Complete Series (Erotic Rock Star Suspense Romance)

by Mimi Strong

  “Uh.”

  “I worked my way up by keeping my eyes open and proving my value.” Technically, I did a lot more than that, but Carl doesn’t need to know the details. “Send my friend up now, and I’ll put in a good word for you.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Carl is so excited to be of service, he drops the phone without saying goodbye.

  I quickly rush around my glass-walled office, tidying things up for Dylan. Because it’s the weekend, there are only a few of us in working. We just finished a big meeting about our partnership project in Rome. My boss is trying to get me to drop everything here in L.A. and jet off to Italy for a few weeks. Hah!

  In the meeting, it was hard to keep a straight face while I made up excuses to not go. I couldn’t tell him I need to stay here and plan my secret wedding. Nobody can know. All it takes is one little slip-up, telling the wrong person, and suddenly the press is on you like a swarm of hornets.

  The paparazzi crashed my birthday party. The gossip websites and magazines ran photos of Dylan in his swim trunks and me in my bikini. They called me White Wolf, because my skin was so pale.

  I guess I could work on my tan this afternoon.

  The elevator dings with my visitor arriving.

  I pull out my phone and start composing a message to send to the girls. They can come meet us on the beach.

  A man walks into my office. His walk doesn’t sound at all like Dylan’s. My blood runs cold. I jerk my head up.

  It’s a skinny young man in black, with piercings all over his face. I know him, and he’s the last person I expected to see inside Morris Music.

  “Hello, Jess,” he says.

  I reach for the phone to call security, then stop.

  My visitor is Nick Clark. He was my supervisor when I started here at Morris Music, down in the basement archives. I didn’t know he was the son of Maggie Clark, the vice president at the time.

  The two of them were fired when they got busted trying to take over the company. Dylan was a pawn in their game. I was a pawn, too, until I figured out what they were doing.

  What hurt the most was that I thought Nick was my friend. I trusted him. I’m much more careful now about who I trust.

  I make my voice cold and hard. “What do you want, Nick?” The words come out like I’m spitting them.

  He’s still standing in the doorway to my office, a ghost from the past. Like Dylan, Nick is tall and has brown hair. Unlike Dylan, Nick has pale skin, hollow cheeks, and an assortment of piercings all over his face, from eyebrows to lower lip.

  The security guard might have mentioned the piercings and saved me from this encounter.

  “I’d like to talk to you.” Nick’s voice is flat and monotone, giving away no emotion. That’s how he always talks. I almost forgot how maddening it is, like talking to a robot.

  I look him over for a moment to figure out if I’m in danger. Nick is skinny, and not very menacing. Even though he burned me once, I know he’s not the violent type. He’s just weak. Even when he’d been plotting to take over the company, he was just following his mother’s orders.

  “You weaseled your way in,” I say with an equally flat, monotone voice. “You may as well take a seat and tell me what you want.”

  He takes a seat and rubs his palms on his black jeans. Nick wears black from head to toe no matter how nice the weather is. He’s odd. I actually feel sorry for him, which is why I’m not tossing him out.

  “I’m here to offer a truce,” he says.

  I lean back and swivel in my chair. How things change in a year. I’m glad this desk is between us, and that I’m on the executive side of the desk these days.

  “No way,” I tell him. “Even if I put in a good word for you, your name is mud. You’ll never work at Morris again.”

  A look of surprise flashes over his face briefly. The piercing in his lip wiggles, which means he’s flicking it nervously with his tongue.

  “I’m not looking for a job,” he says. “Although that would be nice.” He takes a deep breath, his whole body laboring, as if he’s under water. “I’m here unofficially. I need you to stop antagonizing my mother.”

  I let out a chortle. “Me? How am I bothering the divine Maggie Clark? By existing? By not trembling in her shadow like you?”

  He tilts his head to the side and studies me. “You have nothing to do with it, do you?”

  I point to a stack of folders on my desk. “Not unless she’s negotiating with the record labels in Italy. That’s the only business I’m involved in.”

  “She thinks people are trying to shut down the restaurant.”

  I let out a short, derisive laugh. “I’m sure the bad food and lack of entertainment will do that.”

  Nick doesn’t respond to my insult.

  “Sorry,” I say. “That was me going too far. I hear your food isn’t too bad.”

  “Things haven’t been great.”

  “Is she thinking about shutting it down? Going back to running a record company?”

  “She’s out of the music game. The only thing she cares about is the restaurant.” He scowls. “Well, that’s not the only thing. She’s always ranting about whatever Mr. Morris Senior is doing.”

  I almost laugh. You would think a couple of people in their sixties would act more mature. Instead, those two old weasels play games and manipulate people like it’s a chess game.

  “What is Mr. Morris Senior up to these days, according to her?” It’s been a year since I’ve seen my former boss. Now I work with his nephew, Chet Morris, who took over the company. Chet doesn’t talk much about his uncle.

  “He’s getting divorced again,” Nick says.

  “That should make your mother happy. She can swoop right in there.” I start to laugh, then stop, because it’s not really that funny. From what I understand, Mr. Morris strung along Nick’s mother for years, always keeping her waiting for a commitment he wouldn’t give.

  Nick glances around nervously. The walls of the executive offices are all glass, and the other people in the office this Saturday have started to notice him.

  “It’s good to see you, Jess,” Nick says softly.

  I look into his eyes, see the sadness, and swallow hard. It hurts to see other people suffering, even if they’re the cause of it. Especially if they’re the cause of it.

  “Take care of yourself, Nick.”

  He gets up, pauses, and grabs onto the edge of my desk for balance. His pale face is flushed.

  “Nick? Are you sick?”

  He straightens up, looking embarrassed. He pats his stomach. “You know how I am when my mother’s out of control. I can hardly eat.”

  “You need to take care of yourself.” I grab my purse and throw it on my shoulder. “I’ll walk you out. I’m off to meet some friends.”

  His eyes brighten. “Shopping?”

  I nod and steer him in the direction of the elevator.

  I repeat myself, “Take care of yourself, Nick.”

  There’s no way I’m telling Nick a single word about my plans to go wedding dress shopping now. He doesn’t deserve access to my personal life. We take the elevator down and exit the building in silence.

  I wave goodbye, he walks away, and then I signal for a taxi for myself. The visit from Nick was odd, but in my line of work with wealthy, temperamental artists, and the ambitious deal-makers they come with, odd is normal. If I don’t have two or three odd meetings per day, something’s wrong.

  I jump into the back of the taxi and give the driver the name and address of the bridal boutique.

  “Yes, of course,” the driver says. “Very nice dresses for the bride.” He studies me in the rear view mirror. “Are you famous?”

  I look around at the people outside the taxi. Unlike when I’m in Dylan’s new car, nobody’s turning their heads to look my way.

  The driver answers his own question. “Yes, you are famous. You are very beautiful, and we are in L.A. The City of Dreams. You are somebody.”

  I smile. “I�
�m nobody. Just a tomboy, a country girl.” I reach down and fidget with my engagement ring. Just a country girl… for six more weeks.

  The driver knows all the best shortcuts, and I arrive at the bridal boutique with a minute to spare.

  I step out of the taxi and stop, stunned. I can't believe my eyes.

  My dress is in the window.

  Chapter Three

  I’m staring at the beautiful gown in the window. The girls sneak up behind me and grab me in a group hug.

  I complain and try to push them off me, but secretly I love this. Besides Dylan, and my grandma back home, these two are my favorite people.

  Amanda, the blonde, is from the same small town as me. When I came to L.A., she was my roommate. Actually, she still is my roommate, sometimes. I stay over with her and Riley when Dylan’s traveling.

  Amanda pulls out of the group hug and jumps up and down, clapping her hands. “I’m so excited about dresses,” she squeals. “Don’t you think Caleb would look handsome in a tuxedo?”

  Riley, the brunette who looks like an older version of me, lets out one of her sarcastic laughs. “Nobody would recognize him,” Riley says. “Does he even own a shirt that didn’t come from a concert?”

  I have to laugh, because this is just like them. Amanda is the enthusiastic, positive one—the blonde cheerleader. Riley is always the voice of reason. I fall somewhere between their two extremes.

  Amanda ignores Riley and asks if she can try on my ring again. I pull the engagement ring off and hand it to her.

  Riley smirks at me. “One of these days, you won’t get it back.”

  I smirk back at her. “It’s okay. I know where she lives.”

  Riley’s expression gets serious. She stares at me quietly, and her eyes start to glisten. I don’t know what to say. Is she getting all emotional about me getting married?

  Riley is my half-sister, and she’s seven years older than me. We hadn’t seen each other in years, until we reconnected here in L.A. Our whole extended family is kind of a mess, so it’s a miracle we get along so well.

  Riley was living with Amanda when I moved in. I nearly fainted when I saw her face, because for years I’d assumed she was dead.

  That situation was hell at first, but we’re in a good place now. Some days I can’t believe how lucky I am, to see my best friends every day. The girls live in a house Dylan bought as an investment, right next door to his house.

  I’m so grateful for the good things in my life.

  Riley’s eyes pool with water, and her lip starts to tremble.

  Now my vision is getting blurry. I blink rapidly and frown at Riley.

  “Don’t get soft on me,” I warn her. “If you lose it, I will, too.”

  She snorts and rolls her eyes. “I wasn’t going to cry,” she says, acting tough.

  I playfully punch her on the shoulder. “Sure, you weren’t.”

  Amanda barges into our sisterly bonding moment and throws her arms over our shoulders. “Hello? Are we going to try on dresses, or what?”

  “We?”

  Amanda waves her left hand, making the diamond glitter. “My fiancée wants me to wear white.”

  Riley and I give each other a look. Amanda wearing white? Now that’s funny.

  Amanda moves toward the door impatiently. “Come on already, guys!”

  We walk into Verve Bridal. I’ve never been inside a bridal boutique before, let alone one this fancy.

  My heart flutters as I look around. Everything in Verve Bridal has a golden sheen, from the floors to the walls. Above us, small overhead lights on the high ceiling make everything glitter. A white grand piano takes up the center of the large room.

  Amanda runs straight for the white piano. Of course. She starts plinking on the keys. Of course.

  A sharp-featured woman in a burgundy dress walks over to us. She doesn’t even look at Amanda, plinking away on the piano. She also ignores Riley, who is dragging Amanda away from the piano keys.

  The woman’s dark hair is pulled back in a tight bun. From the neutral look on her face, either she’s a calm person, or she’s had a lot of Botox. Either way, I don’t trust her at all.

  After all my dealings with my former co-worker, Nick, I won’t open up to someone who wears their face in a mask. Seeing him today refreshed my memory. I have to be careful.

  This woman will probably try to get to me. She’ll offer us champagne, then she’ll pretend to let her guard down and tell us about her failed marriage or some other sad thing. After the chit-chat, she’ll move on to personal questions.

  She probably gets brides to spill their guts in here all the time. I bet they crack under all the glamor. Then she sells their secrets to the top bidder.

  Whatever happens today, I cannot let it slip that I’m buying my actual wedding gown, and not a spare one for photos.

  And this woman cannot find out the wedding’s in six weeks. Nobody can know. Not even my best friends.

  The woman reaches me and offers her hand to shake.

  “Jessica Rivera, I presume.”

  “That’s me.” I give her the same firm handshake I learned in business school, and that I use in my job. Her fingers go limp in my hand.

  I hate limp handshakes, but I give her a warm smile anyway. She looks me up and down, inspecting me. The girls return from the piano, and she looks them over with equal care. “This must be your entourage.”

  Riley and Amanda look at me, but don’t say anything. They have mixed feelings about being referred to as my entourage. We all treat each other like equals, so it’s weird when the rest of the world doesn’t.

  The woman goes into a smooth speech, “I’m Mrs. Montgomery Hale, the wedding gown expert here at Verve Bridal Beverly Hills.” She waves her hand as if pointing out the glam of the store. “I’m told you’re marrying a very popular singer. That must be exciting for you.”

  I’m not sure if she’s being nice or condescending. Before I can open my mouth, she turns on her heel and starts walking away.

  “Follow me,” she calls over her shoulder as if we’re children.

  Riley rolls her eyes. Amanda mouths, “Is she for real?” Amanda walks in a stiff waddle. I laugh out loud at her imitation. Mrs. Hale turns back to us, one eyebrow raised.

  “We don’t have all day,” she says. “I have another fitting scheduled this evening, after hours. Very private client.”

  “Of course,” I reply. How nice of her to make me feel less important.

  Mrs. Hale continues talking as she walks. “Finding the right wedding dress is more difficult than finding the right husband. In fact—”

  Amanda gasps excitedly and interrupts, “I know, right? That’s why you have to try out a lot of guys. So you know you’ve got a good one. I bet it’s the exact same thing with dresses. Right, Mrs. Hall?”

  “Hale,” the woman corrects.

  Amanda asks, “What’s the hottest style right now? The big trend? Big and poofy?”

  As they talk, I look around. The showcase room is even more fancy than the store’s main room. The walls are covered in ornately framed mirrors. This is a room for a princess. The floor is gleaming marble, with an inlay of gold tile. Above our heads is a giant crystal chandelier that’s bigger than the cows on the farm I grew up on.

  Amanda keeps asking what styles are trendy, peppering the woman with questions.

  Mrs. Hale’s tight face starts to crack with frown lines. “Hottest? It’s not about what’s hot or trendy, but—”

  “Champagne!” Amanda yells.

  Amanda runs to the sitting area in the middle of the showcase room. There are white leather couches, and tables set up with champagne. Mrs. Hale gives up on her speech and gestures for the girls to help themselves.

  I pass on the champagne. I don’t need anything loosening my lips and letting out my secrets.

  Mrs. Hale pulls a rack of white dresses toward me.

  She says, “Remind me, Miss Rivera, when is the wedding?”

  “Oh, not fo
r a while yet. We haven’t set a date.” I give her a polished, professional smile. “I’m just here today to get a pretend gown, for taking photos.”

  She pulls two dresses from the rack, her dark blue eyes piercing into me. “Pretend gown?”

  “Yes. For photos.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  She must be playing dumb to dig for information. I roll my eyes and sigh, pretending it’s such a chore to have to drop massive cash on expensive gowns.

  “Just rock star stuff,” I say. “A lot of my fiancé’s songs are about me, so we want some footage of me in a gown for a video.”

  “Hmm,” she says.

  I get the feeling she’s not buying my story.

  I change the topic by pointing to a random dress on the rack. “That’s pretty.”

  “Good. You do have taste.” Mrs. Hale pulls the dress off the rack. She doesn’t know I lied. This dress looks like the business suit version of a bridal gown, and not pretty at all.

  She coos, “This is by one of our newest designers. It’s cutting edge and ahead of its time.”

  She sweeps the dress up to my body, then guides me over to a wall of mirrors. This suit-dress is not as hideous as I expected, but definitely not me.

  “Too cutting edge,” I say.

  Her eyes narrow. She whips the dress away and replaces it with a silk monstrosity wrapped in ribbons. About a thousand ribbons. Is she messing with me?

  I glance over my shoulder at Riley and Amanda. They are wide-eyed and speechless, quietly sipping champagne.

  Mrs. Hale says, “Don’t you love these ribbons? Think of all the classic movies. Elizabeth Taylor could have worn this, or Betty Davis.” She goes on to name a dozen more actresses, most of them people I’ve never heard of.

  “Too classic,” I say.

  Mrs. Hale takes my rejection like a champion. She whips the ribbon monstrosity away and keeps going, holding up dress after dress. With each one, she lists off what makes it unique.

  I don’t want something unique, though. Or cutting edge. Or inspired.

  Finally, I just tell her the truth. “Mrs. Hale, I’m a simple, country girl. Of course I dreamed about getting married, but I didn’t see myself as a princess. My dreams were simple. I used to hang the sheets out to dry on a clothesline, and then I’d stand on the ground below, wrap myself in the sheets, and imagine it was my wedding day.”