1984: Against All Odds
Love in the '80s: A New Adult Mix
Rebecca Yarros
Vol. 5
Contents
Copyright
Dedication
1. Hawke
2. Sabrina
3. Sabrina
4. Hawke
5. Sabrina
6. Hawke
7. Sabrina
8. Hawke
9. Sabrina
10. Hawke
11. Sabrina
12. Hawke
13. Sabrina
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Sneak Peeks
1980: You Shook Me All Night Long
1981: Jessie’s Girl
1982: Maneater
1983: Cruel Summer
1985: Careless Whisper
1984: Against All Odds
Copyright © 2016 by Rebecca Yarros
All rights reserved.
Including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form without written permission except for the use of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Cover Design by Regina Wamba of Mae I Design and Photography
Edited by Crystal Bryant of Plot Ninja
Formatted by Jeff Senter of Indie Formatting Services
Published 2016 by WaWa Productions
To Kate.
For curling irons, Mr. Big in the front seat, Warm Dr Pepper, and car pool mornings. You’ve always been the smart one, too. Everyone should be so lucky to have a best friend waiting when they’re born.
After playing twelve countries in thirty days, I felt jetlagged, exhausted, and more than relieved to be back in the US. I’d barely had time to sink into the couch of our hotel suite in New York City before Bianca straddled my lap. It had never mattered to her who was around, and in this case, our suite was packed with the other members of Birds of Prey and whomever Chad had invited up.
“Did you miss me?” she asked, her teeth grazing my earring.
“Sure, babe,” I answered, the same way I did every groupie, moving her mass of brown hair out of my face. The curls reeked of smoke.
“Do you want me to welcome you home properly?”
“Dude! Did you see?” Chad interrupted. He turned on the television, and I looked around Bianca to see MTV on the hotel’s cable. “They’re doing a top twenty countdown.”
Matt Goodwin’s voice rose over the end of Dan Folgerberg’s latest. “Coming up at number three, we have the resident bad boys on our block, the Birds of Prey. They’ve been tearing it up overseas on tour with Def Leppard, and they’re sitting at number three with ‘Too Young to Care.’”
Chad cheered, spilling his beer all over the floor when he jumped onto the chair. “Do you see that?”
“I got it,” I answered with a nod.
“We are gods!” he shouted, his arms flailing, his long blond hair flying with each movement.
“Not sure I’d go that far.”
Bianca turned her attention to my neck as our video played in the background.
“Dude. We’re twenty-two years old and the world is at our fucking feet. We’re sitting at number three on MTV and have another two-album deal just waiting for us to sign it.”
“Well when you put it that way,” I laughed, taking the beer he offered.
“Let’s go somewhere private,” Bianca purred.
“Up next at number two is the girl no one saw coming. After a year-long hiatus, Sabrina Caroline is back. I caught up with her recently when she was in attendance for the Grammys.”
Brie.
I whipped my head around Bianca’s at the first mention of Sabrina’s name, as equally starved for the sight of her as I dreaded it. Even the warning hadn’t prepared me for the utter kick to the nuts as she filled the screen.
She’d cut her blonde hair to just beneath her shoulders where it fell in beachy waves that were way too close the way she actually looked after she’d been in the sand all day. Her black dress hugged every curve—she’d never gone for the angular shit chicks wore lately. Her pretty pink lips parted in the sweet smile she was known for, but the tiny, nearly invisible lines of tension around her sea-blue eyes told me it was forced. She looked beautiful, touchable, kissable—the girl next door, yet completely unattainable.
But I’d had her. God, I’d had her…and then I didn’t.
“Oh, shit,” Chad muttered, finally sitting in the chair.
“She looks good,” Danny added as he came into the living room, a pair of drumsticks still lodged in his back pocket like he might need to play at any moment.
“Shut up!” Bianca said with a squeal. “Sabrina’s back!”
I used the opportunity to move her off my lap, my mediocre level of interest in her suddenly at zero.
“It’s great to be back,” Sabrina said, answering the question I hadn’t heard. Her voice sent a barrage of memories through my head, and suddenly I wasn’t twenty-two. I was eighteen, watching in horror as the best night of my life—our first sold-out gig in L.A.—somehow lost me my girlfriend of two years and became the worst.
She tucked her hair behind her ears—her nervous tell—and nodded at whatever Matt was saying. Shit, I needed to pay better attention. “Honestly, I’ve been so touched by the fans’ support. I never thought we’d have this kind of love for ‘Dance With Me.’ I’m shocked and so very grateful.”
Matt nodded, his pile of dark curls exaggerating the movement, and he reached for her shoulder. “We’re glad to have you back.”
“Thanks, Matt.” She smiled and turned back to the camera, angling her body so Matt’s hand barely brushed her bare arm before her lace gloves began. She doesn’t like to be touched, asshole.
“And, thank you, MTV!” She blew a kiss to the camera.
“We’ll get the rest of the interview tomorrow when Sabrina joins us at MTV for her first full-length interview in a year, but for now, here’s ‘Dance With Me’ at number two.”
The interview faded out to her new video, and I watched, entranced as she sang about needing the one she loved by her side tonight. The song was upbeat, flirty, and for lack of a better word…shallow.
She’s capable of so much more.
Hell, she’d help write almost every song on our first album, and now she was regurgitating shit she’d been spoon-fed. Was she even ready to be back after what had happened in Chicago last year?
The video switched to number one and I lost interest in it as Bianca found hers in me again.
“Hey, Hawke, that offer still stands,” she said, and seductively wiggled herself back into my lap.
I looked up into a pair of brown eyes that had seemed adequate a few minutes ago, but now…they weren’t blue. Her skin was too tan, her breasts too big, her voice too husky.
And by the size of those pupils…shit. “You’re high.”
“And?” she asked like it was no big deal.
“And the answer is no.” I took her by the hips and moved her off me as I stood.
“You’re an asshole,” she accused, pouting on the couch.
“Yep,” I answered as the phone rang. Chad answered it as I headed toward my bedroom. If I crashed out now I might be able to get my body back on schedule before we headed back to L.A. tomorrow.
My ass hit the edge of the bed in the dark and I rested my head in my
hands. Any minute now I’d get a grip on my shit. Any minute now I’d start breathing normally, my heartbeat would slow down.
Any minute now I’d stop missing her.
I’d just been waiting almost four years for that minute to arrive.
There was a knock at my door.
“Go the hell away,” I barked.
“Get over yourself,” Chad bit back as he opened the door, bringing another beer. We’d basically spent the last month drunk, what was another?
“Change of plans,” he told me. “Ram just called.”
“And what does our manager have to say?” I took a long pull of the alcohol, wishing it could instantly numb my frayed nerves.
“Our flight’s been pushed back a day. MTV wants an interview while we’re in town. Big time, brother.”
“Big time,” I agreed as we clinked bottles.
“You know Bianca is waiting for you out there. Want me to send her in?”
“No. She’s not what I’m looking for tonight. Just tell her…” That she’s not Sabrina.
As if he’d read my mind, he clapped my back. “Yeah. I got you. Sleep it off, and don’t let it fuck with your head.”
“What?” I asked as he stood and headed for the door.
“Seeing Brie. We’re finally there, Hawke, right where we’ve worked our asses off to be. Don’t let anything or anyone take that feeling.”
My answer was another swig, and he shut the door behind him. The bottle was cold as I rolled it between my hands, the condensation wetting my palms and grounding me to the present when the past wanted to suck me in.
I didn’t expect him to understand. The magazine spreads, the charts, the women, the parties, the music…Brie…they were linked, connected in a way he’d never get.
But I did, and there was an overwhelming part of me that hated her for tainting everything I had now, making it a little less shiny.
The love of the music. The love of that woman.
Having one had cost me the other.
And both of those choices were about to collide.
“Take a deep breath,” Heather reminded me, pulling her makeup brush back enough so I didn’t ruin my face as I did what she asked.
Right. Breathing was good. My foot tapped under the makeup chair, and I blinked at the bright vanity lights. I was going to crawl out of my skin at any moment. “What if I say something stupid? Or if I can’t speak? Or if he asks about Chicago?”
She tilted her head to the side, smacking her gum. With her dark hair and eyes, she always pulled off pink lipstick better than I ever could. “He’s going to ask about Chicago. You’re going to give him the practiced answer, and you’ll move on.”
“Can’t you just lie to me?” I asked.
“Nope,” she answered, popping the “p.” “I haven’t lied to you since the second grade, and I’m not starting that up again now.” She bent, focusing her brush on my forehead. She’d been functioning as my hair, makeup, and wardrobe team since I signed my deal. It had been my one demand—on top of Lenore’s thousand or so—and my one saving grace. In a world where everything was plated in gold, Heather was the only person who didn’t scratch to nickel a millimeter under the surface. She was true, through and through. “You’ve got this,” she promised. “It’s just you and Matt. They agreed to clear the sound stage of every person who wasn’t needed. You know the answers.”
“And I made it through the Grammys,” I said, repeating our mantra of the last couple weeks.
“You did, and one day you’ll be the one nominated—if that’s what you want.”
“It is.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“It is,” I repeated with emphasis. “I just want to do it on my terms with my songs.” But the label had already shot down my pitch to include some of the songs I’d written on this album. “It’s going to be a fight, and we both know I’ve never been a fighter.”
“That’s bullshit. You’ve fought harder than anyone I’ve ever known to get back here. Don’t sell yourself short when you’re this close to getting what you want.”
“The acoustic set.”
She nodded. “If you don’t want this huge summer tour, then you go out there and tell them that.”
“And you think they’ll hear me?”
She grinned. “It’s MTV, baby. The world can hear you.”
She flipped the boombox on. Phil Collins filled the dressing room and I let the music lift away some of my stress.
Focus on the music, that’s where this all started.
“This song is so depressing,” Heather said.
“Please don’t change it,” I asked. “I really love that song for some reason.”
She scoffed. “Someone lamenting that they’ve lost the love of their life and is basically pining for them to come back? Can’t think of why.”
“Don’t even start—”
The door to my dressing room burst open, and a giant vase of colorful lilies and roses came through the doorway before my mother. “Aren’t these gorgeous?” she asked, setting them on my dressing table before checking herself out in the mirror. “They’re from Epic.”
Heather pulled my face back to hers so she could apply my lipstick. “That was nice of them to send flowers,” I said after I blotted, the tissue coming away bright pink. “Nice of the label to stand by me, honestly.”
“Nonsense,” Mom said. “When your cash cow breaks a leg, you set and cast it. You don’t send her out to pasture and shoot her. They know what you’re worth.”
“I didn’t exactly break my leg, Mom.”
“Lenore,” she corrected with a tight smile, always insisting on the professional manager-client relationship in public. “And as far as the world is concerned, when you fell from that stage, you broke your leg and you’ve been recuperating. Do you understand?”
Heather looked away and I sighed. “It’s not like I got knocked up and hid a baby. I don’t see why we can’t tell the truth.”
“Because everyone likes their pop stars eccentric, Sabrina. Not insane.”
I sucked in a breath, trying to ward off the pain her words sent careening through me. Why did I let them get to me? It wasn’t like she hadn’t said the same thing a dozen times this last year. I should be immune by now.
“And you’re sure I’m ready for this?” I asked.
“You’d better be.” She raised her eyebrow at me like I was five and not twenty-one years old. Hell, she made me feel five, and she knew it.
She knew everything about me from my birth stats to the details of my last contract. The only thing she didn’t know was the fight I was about to start with my label—but she would as soon as we made it back to that shell of a house we called home in L.A.
“And if I’m not? Announcing a summer tour is bold, especially after Dr. Erickson—”
She waved me off. “That man has no idea what he’s talking about, or what it takes to save your career. I do. If I could handle Oscar Oswald, I can handle you.”
Oscar Oswald. Mom’s star client before I was born. Then she’d had to quit managing rock bands to raise me. The guy was pretty much a god now. She knew what she was doing, and announcing the tour would definitely perk up the fan base, but overly-excited fans were what had landed me with Dr. Erickson in the first place. “Beginning at Madison Square Gardens,” I repeated from memory. Instead of the more intimate venue you asked for.
I wanted an acoustic series, the kind that Epic had picked me up for right after high school. The kind where it was about the music, not the profit.
“All eighteen thousand fans will be screaming your name, again, honey. Just the way it was supposed to be.”
Oh God. The fans, the crowd, the lights focused on me, just waiting to highlight every one of my mistakes. Just thinking about it made me feel like all eighteen thousand of those fans I adored were currently sitting on my chest.
There was a soft knock at the door. “Miss Caroline?” A muffled voice came through.
“She’s busy!” Lenore snapped.
“Yes, ma’am. Five minutes?”
“I’ll be ready,” I promised, hoping my niceness would counterbalance Mom’s…well, not niceness.
The song changed and my heart stopped as a familiar guitar riff came through the speakers. I’d know his music anywhere. My eyes closed and I pictured his long fingers spanning the frets, ripping through the music like his soul demanded the performance.
He’d held me the same way.
“Birds of Prey,” I whispered. Three and a half years, and that longing was still there, ripping me open again and not giving a damn about the wreckage it left in its wake.
The boombox went silent and I opened my eyes. “Why?” I asked Mom.
“You sure as hell don’t need any more noise in your head. Now take a minute and let’s go. We can’t afford for you to screw this up. Heather, make sure that neckline isn’t too low. She’s America’s sweetheart, not Madonna for God’s sake.” She spun on her heel and walked out, the door shutting loudly behind her.
Did she have to control everything? Then again, I’d created my own monster when I signed away my freedom, opting for a big paycheck and bigger fame to save Mom’s house. Bye-bye Julliard and hello…whatever this is. My anxiety grew with my audience size—from nerves in manageable classrooms and showcases to full-out breakdowns in sold-out arenas. Mom had become Lenore, and the house I’d desperately wanted to save had been upgraded to one I didn’t recognize, yet owned.
Everything I loved about music had been electrified and synthesized until I was more of a product than an artist.
Maybe Mom had done that, but I’d allowed it to happen, losing little pieces of myself along the way. But her advice on love had kept me from losing my soul. I’d walked away from Hawke in the nick of time.
“Hey, you okay?” Heather asked.
“Hearing him play…” I shook my head. “You know, she’s right,” I said, looking at my reflection. “You did a great job with my makeup. Thank you.”
“You give me a beautiful canvas to paint. And no changing the subject—she’s not right. What you two had—”
1984: Against All Odds (Love in the 80s #5) Page 1
