by Lisa Suzanne
I open my email once I sit at my desk, and there’s one from Mark with the subject line Maci Dane.
Maci Dane. The name sparks something unfamiliar inside me.
We’ve never met, but I’ve listened to her music. She’s a badass bitch.
She reminds me of someone, but I can’t put my finger on who it is. Every time I’ve seen her picture, which is often given her level of success, I get this strange rush in my chest.
And now, just seeing her name in a subject line gives me that same strange rush.
I click it open and find it’s addressed to several people in the office.
Maci Dane has a vested interest in Ashmark. She’s already had one multi-platinum album and we can’t lose her. Signing her would open a lot of doors. With planning our upcoming tour, I need to hand a lot of this off to you, but I need it done right. Don’t lose this one. I can’t stress enough how much we need her here.
Rush: Final approval needed on her contract (attached).
Keith: Draw up an offer for opener on the Destiny II tour pending the contract. We need to move FAST. We’re already behind the curve since tickets go on sale soon.
Vick: Get her manager’s name/number and their schedule to my inbox ASAP.
Ethan: Match her up with an A&R exec.
We’ll have a lot more to do once she signs on the dotted lines.
Thanks,
Mark
Mark’s secret message to me in this email is to match Maci up with our best A&R, or artists and repertoire, executive. They’re the ones who develop the artist, the ones who work one-on-one with them. The first exec who comes to mind is Owen, because he’s our best.
But I’m not sure I want Maci working with Owen, and I don’t even really understand why. Owen is a ladies’ man, the nice term for womanizing douchebag, not that I have much room to judge. I want to match Maci with someone who will be all business, not someone who might be interested in her. Plus Owen is busy with several accounts, and I’m not sure he could handle the star power of someone like Maci.
So instead of Owen, I choose Clay.
Clay has fewer accounts because he’s newer, but he has definitely shown his abilities in the short time he’s been with us. That’s why I’m picking him as Maci’s executive.
It certainly isn’t because Clay is gay.
CHAPTER EIGHT
MACI
The holidays always remind me of the most crushing moment of my life, but since basically every major life decision I’ve made since then has been because of that one moment, I embrace it even nearly twenty years later.
“Maci, you’re on in three.”
I duck my head at Johnny Griffin, better known to me as Griffin or sometimes just Griff, to acknowledge I heard him, and then I stand and look in the mirror. I press my hand to my abdomen and draw in a deep breath through my mouth. I close my eyes and exhale through my nose. It’s a little trick some therapist taught me. It doesn’t work, but I do it anyway.
I hate the nerves. They always get to me, even after a decade of doing this professionally.
I exit my dressing room and follow Griffin to the side of the stage then wait for the announcement.
“You okay?” he asks. He squeezes my hand in the dark.
“Yeah,” I croak. I clear my throat and hum a scale. Griffin passes me a bottle of room temperature water, and I take a tiny sip. It’s comforting to know I have him here with me.
“Ladies and gentlemen, Maci Dane!”
Cheers erupt, and they only serve to make me more nervous. Griffin leads the way with a flashlight. He wears all black except for a tiny white stripe on the soles of his shoes, the only thing reflecting light that allows me to follow him to the X on the floor where I need to stand. Once I get started, I’ll get that euphoric feeling when the crowd cheers for me, but that doesn’t eliminate the pre-show jitters.
I clear my throat and hum my scale once more, knowing my mic’s not on yet.
Rockers don’t traditionally do Christmas albums or shows. They’re more suited for country artists and pop stars. Bridget, my publicist, booked me for this event. She thought my image could use some softening after I was quoted bashing a notorious asshole rapper, but I disagree. He is an asshole, and I’m blunt.
Besides, I like being a bad girl rocker because it’s the complete opposite of anything I ever thought I’d become when I was a teenager.
There’s only one reason I agreed to do this show tonight, and it’s not to soften my image. Half the proceeds from tonight will go to a charity close to my heart, a charity I donate to every year, a charity I’ve spoken in support of time and again. The Illinois Coalition against Impaired Driving.
I open with a slow, jazzy version of “Joy to the World.” I’m taken immediately back to my sophomore year of high school despite how many times I’ve practiced for this concert. It’s the first time I’ve performed the song in front of anyone other than the mirror since…well, since the end of the last century.
I kill it tonight, though.
I sing all the songs on my setlist and manage to include a few of my chart toppers in strange Christmas mashups that seem to work. I watch from behind the stage as the crowd of over eight thousand people stand on their feet and cheer for more. A tear brims over the edge of my eye, and I’m grateful for the dark.
Maci Dane doesn’t cry.
Dani Mayne might’ve, but she’s buried in the past, dead to the world, and now I’m a multi-platinum-record selling artist bent on revenge.
And in just a few weeks, I’ll finally, finally be able to make him feel the same way he made me feel all those years ago.
*
“Harder,” I grunt, digging my heels into Griffin’s ass. “Harder, harder, harder.”
He hammers away at me, not really going any harder, but it feels good anyway. He comes before I do, as usual, and I’m left to rub furiously at myself until my muscles tighten and the spring bursts into a blast of shooting stars behind my closed eyelids.
We both lie back for a few quiet beats.
“Was that better than usual?” Griffin asks.
I lift a shoulder. “Sure. I need a cigarette.”
I stand up and walk naked across the room, stepping over the pants lying in a pool next to my shirt. I find a pack of cigarettes on the end table and light one with an unsteady hand.
“This is a non-smoking room,” he says.
“Ask me if I give a fuck.”
“What about your throat, Maci?”
I end the conversation before he starts badgering me to quit again. The relaxing high nicotine provides is one of the few things I can rely on these days. “Go back to your room before someone catches us and starts talking shit.”
He sits up in the bed. “Would that really be so bad?” he asks.
“If roadies found out I’m fucking my manager-slash-bodyguard-slash-assistant? Yeah. It’d be bad.”
“Why?”
I roll my eyes. “You know where I’m at on this.”
He nods, his abs somehow rippling as he does. I still don’t regret choosing someone with abs of steel as my manager, but I do sort of regret getting casually involved with him.
“Yeah. I know.” He looks disappointed, but I made my intentions clear. I told him from the start we’d never move on from casual screwmates.
I release a heavy sigh. “Are you really going there? A-gain?”
“Sorry,” he mutters, somehow making me feel like the bitch here when he’s the one constantly trying to break the rules.
“I need a fifth of whiskey and another pack of smokes,” I say.
“Yes ma’am.” He gets up from the bed and pulls on his clothes while I stand near the window, looking out over Chicago, Illinois.
It’s where I grew up, but it’s also the place I couldn’t escape fast enough, and being here again dredges up the memories I’d long forgotten—especially considering my performance tonight.
As I sang “Joy to the World,” I was transported
right back to that night. Maybe because it’s the same date today—December 17.
Ethan Fuller’s words are still fresh in my mind. They still sting. I still look in the mirror and see the talentless pig he saw all those years ago. The millions of records I’ve sold and the praise from both peers and critics alike do nothing to diminish the one negative comment that still sits heavy in my heart.
I should visit Dad while I’m here in town. I haven’t been home to see him since the night of Mom’s funeral. I can’t do it, though. There’s still a little girl inside of me who’s one part desperate for his approval and one part full of anger, and tonight the anger appears to be winning.
“Grab me some pancakes while you’re out,” I tell Griffin once he’s dressed and almost to the door. “Whole wheat.”
“Sugar free syrup?” he asks.
“A ridiculous question,” I answer, and he presses his lips together before he disappears out the door. “No syrup,” I mutter to the empty room. I’ll only have a bite or two of pancake. It’s all the calories I can afford. I need to be able to fit into all the clothes I’ve already purchased for the upcoming tour.
With a ton of hard work and a massive stroke of luck, I’ve managed to score myself the spot as Vail’s opening act.
Fucking Vail.
Vail, as in the band Ethan Fuller and Mark Ashton are part of, the same one whose albums always shoot to the top of the charts. These men command the entire industry, and they chose me.
The tour kicks off on New Year’s Eve in Las Vegas, but I need to get back home to Los Angeles in a few days to meet with the band.
Every time I think about meeting with them, a rush of fear twirls through my chest. Will he recognize me after all this time? Have I done enough to bury my past and become this completely new person? Somehow I doubt he even remembers little Dani. The names are so close I’m surprised no one has figured it out yet, but I was careful about erasing Dani from the past.
I won’t know for sure until I see him in the flesh again.
I’ve tracked his career, mostly through tabloids and gossip sites, which, as I too well know, are full of lies. But I also know every lie has an angle of truth to it.
I know Ethan Fuller on a level many people don’t because I know his history. I know how to hit him where it hurts, and I won’t hesitate to do that.
Because, in the end, every single thing I’ve done to get to this point in my life has been because of one comment he made nearly twenty years ago.
I should probably thank him. I owe my success to the fact that I was bent on finding a way to make him feel the same depths of hell I did when the boy I thought I loved said something horrific about me behind my back.
But I won’t thank him.
Instead, my goal is to ruin his life.
After all, that’s what he did to me back when I was fifteen.
CHAPTER NINE
ETHAN
As soon as December hits, so do the holiday parties, and there’s nothing Penny loves scheduling more than private parties. They have their advantages, not the least of which is the ability to find drunk and horny women while we make a ton of money.
There’s one final holiday party before I fly to Chicago for Christmas, but it’s a celebration where I don’t have to work. It’s the first annual Ashmark Records Christmas Spectacular. The wives planned it, and they’re brimming with excitement as I walk into our office where the party is being held.
The place has been transformed into a winter wonderland. A band plays jazzy instrumental music behind the reception area, greeting people as we make our grand entrance. I’m probably out of place in my blue jeans and black shirt with a small rip near the shoulder, but I’m a fucking rock star and I’ll wear whatever the hell I want.
There are only a handful of private offices on our floor; one is Mark’s, one is mine, and others belong to some executives. The middle of our space is usually filled with large work tables and open seating for employees, but everything has been moved and the expansive space is wide open and covered in fake snow and Christmas trees. Waiters walk around with hors d’oeuvres and a bar has been set up in one corner of the room. I head there and grab my first tumbler filled with whiskey for the night.
I spot Mark talking to Rush Kendrick across the room, and I stay put. I don’t need to run into the guy whose daughter I banged last week.
What could be worse than chatting up the CEO of the company I have a huge stake in?
Running into the daughter I fucked last week.
“Ethan Fuller, we need to talk.” She appears in front of me, hands on her hips and a snarl on her lips.
Anna? Emma? Emily? Fuck if I can remember her goddamn name right now even though I recognize her as Rush’s daughter.
Definitely a vowel sound, but I don’t know which one.
That night flashes back to me—the minute I told her I had to go and I was heading out on tour so I couldn’t get into anything serious right now, she burst into tears. “I just don’t know how to do this. Relationships. I don’t know what I’m doing. I’ll never find anybody to love me.” The words were broken up between sobs, and that was my cue to leave.
I don’t know what to do when women cry around me. My mother might not have been the strongest woman in the world, but I saw her beat down and I never saw her shed a tear. My sisters are the same. Zoey didn’t even cry at our mother’s funeral. We’ve all been through some tough times together, but we’re Fullers. We’re strong and stubborn. We’re not heartless or unfeeling—there’s always a heart in there somewhere, feelings at the root of everything—but we keep that shit to ourselves.
So, when a woman starts crying, that’s the signal our time here is done.
“What can I do for you, baby?” I ask the vowel-name girl. Baby seems like a good substitute for the name I don’t know.
“First, I’m not your baby. Second,” she says as she sidles up a little closer to me, “I had fun the other night. I was hoping I’d see you again.”
My brows furrow together. That was fun for her? The sex was good, I guess, but sex is pretty much always good.
“I told you, I’m going on tour soon,” I say, thinking quickly.
“I know, but,” she runs a fingertip flirtatiously down my arm, “that doesn’t mean we can’t have some more fun before you go.” She leans in closer. “Besides, I heard you’ve got some of the good stuff stashed in your office.”
I chuckle as I start to wonder if she’s playing me. “I don’t know what you’ve heard, but I don’t do drugs.”
She laughs. “Right. And I don’t fuck guys in bands.”
“Even if I did, I wouldn’t keep it in my office. I’m smarter than that,” I say.
She’s standing too close to me and I want to get out of this situation, but I need to handle this with care. Her father’s in the same room as us right now, after all. Normally I wouldn’t care, but Penny’s warnings echo in my head. I’m just about to point out the fact that her dear old daddy is here when we’re interrupted by his booming voice.
“Erin!” Rush says, striding over to us. “You made it.” He kisses his daughter’s cheek, and relief wells up in me like he just saved me from some danger I don’t even know. “I see you’ve met Mr. Fuller.”
“I have, Daddy. He’s super nice.” She gives her dad an innocent smile, and I can only imagine what a handful she’s been for him.
“That’s so wonderful to hear,” he says. He gives me a meaningful look and I smile then take an awkward sip of my whiskey. “But let’s keep one thing clear. I know his reputation, and even though I’m certain he wouldn’t mess with a seventeen-year-old young lady, perhaps we should let him get on with his night.”
Whiskey sprays out of my mouth at his words, and Erin freezes in shock for a second before she wipes the moisture from her cheek and runs a finger under her eye in a move that’s quite reminiscent of our night together.
Seventeen-years-old?
I fucked a minor?
God, I really need to start vetting my conquests.
I don’t even notice whether Rush reacts to my whiskey spray because I’m too caught up in the fact that I’m twice that little girl’s age.
She’s only two goddamn years older than my little sister. A ball of disgust forms in my stomach as bile rises to the back of my throat. I take another sip of whiskey to try to wash it down, but it’s still there after I swallow.
Fucking seventeen?
Fuck.
“Daddy, I’ll be eighteen in a couple weeks. I’m an adult now, and it’s time you started treating me like one.”
“In a couple weeks, I will.” He tosses his arm casually around his daughter’s shoulders and leads her away from me, but not before he gives me one more meaningful glance.
Does he know? Is he going to press charges?
I shouldn’t have even come to this party tonight. Now I’ll spend the whole night avoiding the two of them and feeling like a royal asshole. Ignorance isn’t a defense, but I didn’t know. I picked her up at a bar, for Christ’s sake. I assumed she was legal because she was there. She had to show her ID to get in.
Then she took me back to her house! What fucking seventeen-year-old has her own place?
God, I’m a real idiot.
And apparently a law-breaking one who fucked a goddamn minor.
I shake it off and decide tonight I’ll be going home alone. Not even Amber, one of my regular friends with benefits. It’ll just be me, alone, as penance for my bad deed.
I make my rounds, say my hellos to the influencers in the music industry, avoid the shit out of Erin and her father, schmooze some executives, talk to a few new artists who we’ve acquired, spread some general holiday cheer, and then I make an early exit. I’m just not in the partying mood.
CHAPTER TEN
MACI
I ride the elevator up to the top floor, dragging in a deep breath through my mouth and exhaling through my nose. Griffin says something to me in my periphery, but I’m not paying attention. I’m focusing on inhaling and exhaling.
