by RH Tucker
It’s not like I haven’t been shot down before. Any guy who puts themselves out there has, even rock stars. But the way she did it. Her attitude. Not to mention, her words. That I didn’t know who she was. It’s been making my brain spin in circles for the last three days.
“But who is she?” I ask, yet again, to Adam. He responds with another chuckle. “I know I’ve done a lot of interviews and TV shows, but how in the hell don’t I remember her? Damn it, if I just would’ve seen her eyes, maybe then I would’ve known.”
Shaking his head, Adam reaches into his pocket, inspecting his phone. “Hey, I’m gonna dip out early tonight. You cool?”
“Aw, what?” I get up, heading over toward the door. “We aren’t doing anything at the house tonight?”
He lifts his shoulders with a paltry expression. “I think tonight I’m just gonna chill out for a bit. Hit up Jules.”
“Dude, you can invite her over to the pad if you want. We don’t have to have a huge party every weekend.”
“Yeah, I know. Maybe next time.” He opens the door, but before he leaves, he looks back at me. “Use the force, padawan. Remember, do or do not. There is no try.”
I scowl with a smirk. “Very funny, jackass.”
Chuckling to myself while he leaves, I turn around and make my way back to the stage. The crowd erupts into cheers, and I slide my headphones back on, adjusting the levels on my table. Then, I’m off.
I love playing music with my band. Sitting behind my drum kit, slamming away on the snares, and executing a nice transition, or hitting my solos we have during our concerts. Being on stage with my family is the best. But deejaying is another level for me. I won’t say it’s better, but it’s different.
I’m not hurting for lack of music to play in clubs. Occasionally, I’ll record some tracks in the studio, but most of the time, I try to find obscure artists out there. Stuff people might not know. I like being able to not only shine a spotlight on lesser-known artists but also create something wholly unique.
Standing on stage, working the controllers, mixers, and every other device I use to create this music makes me feel like I’m sitting behind my drum kit. Like I’m free. Even with hundreds of people in the building, I’m in my own world, filled with an art form I’m creating and sharing. I’m a rock star, the King of Bad, and hell, I can’t deny some of the gossipier magazines out there that call me a manwhore. But when I’m behind my DJ stand, I’m an artist, and I forget the rest.
The crowd cheers as my second set of the night comes to a close. Walking backstage, I drop down to the couch in my room, tearing off my sweat-drenched shirt. After downing the water bottle in front of me, I grab a second and start guzzling. My phone chirps, and I pull it out to see a text message from Jenny.
Jen: I’ll be in town tomorrow night. U free?
Chuckling, I reply back that I am and that I’ll see her soon. Jenny’s a good girl. We have our fun, and for a moment I thought she could’ve been my Jules. But the last couple of times we’ve hung out, I’ve been getting the feeling that while she’s fine with having fun, I think she wants to try and establish something more serious between us. I’m not opposed to a genuine, monogamous relationship. What I am opposed to is having one of those right now. I’m living the life: fast cars, long nights, and good times twenty-four-seven. I see no need to try and switch things up at the height of everything right now.
I throw on a clean tank top, slide my hat and sunglasses on, and exit the backstage area. Checking my phone, I send a group message out to let everyone know there’s a party about to be going down at my place. I call them friends, but I don’t consider any of them real friends. Sure, we’re friendly with one another, but it’s not like I trust them or would depend on them for something like I would with Derrik or Adam. I know which circles are the fake ones who show up for parties, and the real ones who care about me as a person.
Getting in the private elevator, I hit the button to head down to the parking garage. Mavin International is, for lack of a better phrase, one hell of a hotel. I’ve stayed at places all over the world, but the design and ambiance of everything in this building is head and shoulders above anything I’ve seen.
Take this elevator, for example. First of all, it’s a private elevator. Some hotels have private elevators for catering and other needs, along with employee-only stairwells and hallways. Mavin International has that, too. However, this elevator is specifically for the higher-up personnel and talent who perform at Luxe. The floor is a dark mahogany woodgrain, the walls are lined with gray marble, and there’s a two-way screen above the floor buttons, just in case. Just in case of what, I have no idea, but it’s crazy.
Before Luxe opened, I’d seen some artist rendition of what they wanted the place to look like. Last weekend before my first set, I finally got to see the extravagance of it all. The lights from the ceiling emit a soft glow of yellows, reds, purples, and greens. Like any dance club, there’s the large dancing area, lined with more wood flooring. Encompassing the dance floor are spots for people to sit, but they aren’t individual tables. No, they almost remind me of little cabanas with enough room for four people. There’s a soft, sheer curtain that gives people some privacy.
The second floor serves more of the same, with the private sitting areas and a secondary bar as well. The second story looks down at the dance floor, but there’s a section where you can walk out into a wide-open deck that overlooks part of the city and the beach the hotel sits on. Whoever designed this place knew exactly what they wanted, both in terms of styles, fashion, and making it a destination people not only want to come to but need to.
I’d like to think my name alone is why there’s a waiting list a mile long of Hollywood’s who’s who to get inside. While I do have an ego, I’m not stupid. Maddox Barkley may be playing great music, but the “it” crowd wants to take in Luxe and see what all the fuss is about. And once they’re in, I’ve seen the faces as they dance away, gazing up at light shows that play over them. The hype is real.
The elevator dings, and I look up from my phone. My eyes widen behind my glasses, as Designer Sunglasses walks in. She’s not wearing her sunglasses on her, and I can see her eyes are a light caramel brown. She’s dressed in a midnight blue skirt that goes down to her knees. Her hair is still done up with slight curls. The lipstick is more of a dark burgundy than the cherry red I remember, but I still don’t recognize her.
Her eyes lift for a moment, meeting mine, but she looks away and hits a button on the panel. There’s no reaction from her. Nothing that says she even remembers me from the deli. She knows who I am, but she’s practically ignoring me.
I will not be shot down twice by the same girl.
“Hey,” I call over to her. She doesn’t even look up. A standard pickup line is probably not going to work. Instead, maybe it’s better to play it cool and calm down on the rock star vibe. “The sandwich shop, remember?”
She finally faces me and nods. But it’s almost indifferent. “What’s my name?” she asks.
“I’ll call you whatever you want me to,” I tell her, stepping closer.
Smug? Maybe even a little douchey? Sure, but I know my game, and that line works. At least, it usually does.
“Sorry, I’m not one of those girls you can hit on with a cheesy line, and I’ll drop my clothes for you.”
“No?” I smirk. “Well, we don’t have to talk at all if you don’t want to.”
She turns to me and puts a finger on my chest. There’s a tiny smirk on her face, and I think I’ve finally broken through her shield. “Really?” she whispers, stepping closer. Her finger travels up from my chest to my chin. “You don’t want me to say your name?”
Finally. “Maybe we can make an exception for that.”
“But what if I want you to say my name?” Her words are soft. Her gaze stays on my lips, and it’s enough to make me want to start kissing her already.
“Like I said, I’ll call you whatever you want.”
; “In that case,” she whispers again, only this time, her eyes lock on mine, “just make sure you do your job, Maddox. As long as you do that, I’ll keep signing your paycheck.”
My head jerks back and the realization hits me. “Shit. You’re Baby Mavin.”
“I hate that name.”
“My bad.” Backing up a step, I straighten out.
“I manage Luxe, which makes me your supervisor. As a matter of fact, I was in the meeting with you and your manager when you wanted this gig. So do me a favor? Don’t hit on your boss.”
The elevator dings, and she steps through the doors. She doesn’t look back. My jaw drops and stays there, completely dumbfounded, and even though I hate to admit it, a little embarrassed.
6
Cece
Stephanie is trying to calm her laughter. “You should’ve gone further!” she yells through the phone as I make my way toward Miyamota’s. It’s the restaurant I’m meeting my father at for lunch. I didn’t call her to relay my moment of glory—it’s what I’m calling my face-to-face with Maddox Barkley—but I was anxious to tell her, nonetheless.
“Any further and I would’ve had to kiss him, Steph.”
“Exactly!” She breaks into laughter again. “If you’re gonna play him like that, at least get something out of it for yourself.”
I giggle at her comment. It’s not like the thought didn’t cross my mind, it just didn’t cross it while I was putting on that performance for Maddox. At the time, I was both annoyed and flabbergasted at Maddox’s lack of knowledge of who I am. And not the socialite girl that’s made the headlines—complete with my hated, press-assigned nickname—but as his boss.
I was in the meeting with him and both Leslie and Tina while his manager negotiated his contract. Of course, I shouldn’t be that surprised because he only said a handful of words during the meeting, and the rest of the time he was on his phone. I can’t even be flattered that he was hitting on me because it’s Maddox Barkley. That boy hits on girls before, during, and after his performances at Luxe.
Still, seeing that shocked expression on him was humorous. And it eased the annoyance I was feeling. Knowing he can’t get what he wants made me feel a little better. I have half a mind to actually mingle a bit longer on the club floor tonight just to rub it in a little. Maybe even ruin his fun and approach him while he’s hitting on yet another girl. It’d be hilarious to see his reaction then.
“What are you doing right now?” Stephanie asks.
“What I’m doing right now is the reason I’m calling you. Remember that lunch my father wants me to go to?”
“Mm-hm.”
“I’m about to meet up with them. I need you to call me in twenty—”
“Cece, come on. Give the guy a chance.”
“Steph, I’ve met with him twice already. The first time was out of the blue when I gave him my number. Then, the second time, he practically grilled me. Where’d I go to high school, why I’m not in college, what’s it like being friends with a YouTuber—”
“He asked about me? You didn’t tell me that?”
“Stephanie, that’s not the point. It was like he wrote down a list of questions and memorized them to ask. If I’m gonna go out with someone, I want a real connection, not an interview. This whole thing is just a dumb setup by my father anyway. I know his family has money, but this isn’t the eighteen hundreds. Arranged marriages should be outlawed.” She laughs. “So, call me in twenty minutes. Okay?”
“Fine,” she replies with an exaggerated tone.
Hanging up, I wait at the intersection on Starlight Way. Miyamota’s is a sushi restaurant right around the corner from Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills. The luxury shopping destination is one of my favorite places, so I’m a little upset I can’t just shop for a couple of hours. I’d much rather be browsing Chanel handbags and the latest offerings at Jimmy Choo than sitting with the guy my father’s picked out for the rest of my life.
I love that my father is thinking about me and my life, but this is something I don’t know if I can force. Which makes the things Stephanie says all the more guilt-inducing. Winston seems like a decent guy. He’s focused on school to take a position in his father’s company once he graduates. He’ll definitely have a high-paying job, which I know is something important to my parents. But I’ve gone out with guys for money.
Wow, okay, that didn’t come out right.
What I mean to say is, I’ve dated guys who are wealthy. I’ve dated celebrities who’ve starred in major motion pictures, the newest pop star sensations, and even other socialites that my circle crosses over with. Sure, the money is nice. I’m not going to say I’m ungrateful for the money I have. I know I have it better than most people around the world. But love is something you can’t buy. I may be young, but I’ve been around enough to at least figure that out.
Besides, I’m almost positive I’m not leading Winston on. Aside from his twenty-question list, he doesn’t seem oblivious to that fact. However, I may be leading on my father if I keep doing this and don’t put my foot down that this isn’t going to happen. That’s why I’m using Stephanie as my out today.
Crossing the street, I enter the restaurant and immediately see my father, along with Winston and his dad, in the corner. It’s a beautiful sushi place, with soft lighting, marble floors, and crystal-clear windows that display the shopping area that laces the street.
All three men look over and get to their feet. My father in his charcoal gray suit, Mr. Thornhurst in a black one. My father’s is Dolce & Gabbana. I know because I picked it out for him. Thornhurst’s looks like it could be Gucci. Winston’s definitely is because it’s a dark sienna with the Gucci logo in light print over the lapel of the suit.
“Cece, honey,” my father calls to me, waving to the seat next to him.
“Hi, Daddy,” I greet him with a hug and kiss him on the cheek.
“Ms. Mavin, lovely to see you again,” Mr. Thornhurst says, extending his hand to me. Giving it a firm shake—something my father told me from an early age to do—he smirks. “Still got that handshake, I see.”
“Yes, sir,” I reply, smiling.
“Cece.” Winston offers me his hand.
Shaking it with the same strength, he simply smiles. “Winston.”
“Sit, sit,” my father tells us, taking a seat. “I took the liberty of ordering your plate already.” Glancing at him, I give him a small nod. “So, how’s this week been with Luxe?”
“Great,” I reply. “You and Mom should really come by.”
“I’ve been there, Cecelia.”
I roll my eyes with a smirk. “You saw it a month before opening. We still hand plastic up in parts.”
He blows me off with a small grunt that tells me it’s inconsequential.
“Chester says you’ve really put your all into this endeavor,” Mr. Thornhurst says.
His first name is Winston, like his son’s, but I can’t bring myself to call him that or even refer to him like that in my own mind. He comes off even more business-like than my father, and from the first meeting, I’ve gotten a cold feeling around him. My father can be severe at times, I’ll give you that, but Mr. Thornhurst seems like a man his employees talk about behind his back. It makes me wonder what his son thinks of him.
A tall glass of water sits in front of me with a lemon slice floating in it. Taking a quick drink, I nod to Mr. Thornhurst. “Yes, it’s my baby,” I say. My father reaches over, giving me an approving hug. “I know it’s still early, but all indications are that the location is going to be even better than what my initial business plan proposed. I already have ideas about what we might be able to do in Miami and New York.”
“You certainly are a go-getter, aren’t you?” he says, letting out a hardy chuckle.
It could be a nice compliment, but the moment he says it, he looks over at his son, smirking. Thankfully, Winston doesn’t reply with anything other than a friendly nod toward me. It’s not that his dad wants him to take notice, but it�
��s so dirty-old-man-checking-out-young-girl. That leering smile he gives Winston, he might as well be saying, “Get a load of her, son. She could be a great trophy wife for you.”
“I know what I want,” I reply. And because I really want to hopefully get my point across, I sit up a little straighter in my chair, keeping my gaze on him. “Luxe has my complete and undivided attention. I don’t have time for anything else right now.”
He catches my obvious passive-aggressive comment. The ogling leer morphs into an annoyed stare. The same one guys get when they think I’m a bitch because I don’t want to give them my number. Like I said, dirty old man.
“The headlines are calling it the best parts of Studio 54, Copa, and XS,” Winston finally chimes in with a thought of his own. It surprises me, especially after our last two interactions. “By all accounts, you’re the talk of the town.” He offers another friendly smile.
“Thank you.”
I’m actually caught a little off guard by the compliment, and the fact that he’s not far off from what I was going for. Glitz and glamour, mixed with prestige, while trying to draw the eyes of the celebrity class.
“XS was actually a big influence. And I want everyone to talk about it like Copa or 54.”
“Then you’re doing your job.”
This brief conversation is the most real connection we’ve had. It almost makes me double-guess my decision to have Stephanie call me. Almost.
“Here you are,” our waitress says, putting a long plate that holds salmon rolls and what appears to be spicy tuna down on the wooden table. “I’ll be right back with the sashimi.”
“Thank you,” I tell her.
Each of us grabs a pair of chopsticks and reaches for the sushi. I take a piece of the spicy tuna and stuff the whole piece into my mouth. “What are you going to school for again, Winston?” I ask with a mouthful of sushi.
“Cecelia,” my father scolds me, delivering a sharp stare.
