And there he was. Vicious. I winced, looking away.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I don’t know why I said that.”
Because we were a mess. We were the kind of mess there was no fixing.
I pushed the dressing room stool back from the table and stood up, pulling the hem of my skirt down. “We’re on soon.”
“I’m sorry about Max,” he said. “I fucked up. I’ve tried to tell him the truth.”
Max was the lead singer of Talking Trees. We began dating eight months ago and I got his band on this tour with us. He was sweet and artistic and quiet. Being around him was soothing and safe and he had this ability to calm my mind to all the crazy stuff that came with fame. He was the kind of guy who I knew with certainty would never let the fame part compromise the art. I didn’t know if I’d been in love with him, but I was happier with him than I had been in a while.
Until Micah started his drama, filling Max’s head with insecurities about us. The final nail in the coffin was Micah kissing me and making out to Max that it was mutual. Even believing me, that I’d pushed Micah off, Max still broke up with me, sick and tired of the drama. And who could blame him?
So now I was stuck on tour with my ex-boyfriend because Micah was a giant man-child.
“It’s not about Max anymore.” I brushed past him, heading for the door when his next words drew me to a stop.
“You think I don’t see how sad you are, but I do. I know you better than anyone, Sky.”
I knew he knew . . . and that was why I really hated him. Angry tears flooded my eyes as I glanced back at him. “Do you even care?”
He sighed, expression regretful but resolute. “Honestly, I’m afraid of what it means for the band, so I try not to.”
My chest ached at his selfishness.
I turned to leave when my cell suddenly blared to life. Planning on ignoring it, I opened the door to leave when I was abruptly halted by two men in suits blocking the way.
They wore resigned expressions that made my stomach plummet. “Skylar Finch?” the tallest of the two said, flashing me his police badge. “I’m Detective Rawlings, this is Detective Brant. May we come in?”
Wondering what the hell had happened, I stumbled back, silently gesturing for them to come into the room. They frowned at the sight of Micah, who’d positioned himself protectively at my side.
“Perhaps we should speak alone, Miss Finch,” Detective Rawlings suggested softly.
The way they were looking at me . . . like they had news they weren’t looking forward to imparting.
“You can say what you have to in front of Micah.”
“Then . . . Miss Finch, I’m afraid we have some bad news . . .”
The detective spoke but in retrospect, I can’t remember his exact words, something about “your mother,” “stepfather,” “armed robbery,” “shot,” “too late.” “Gone.” “I’m sorry.” “Come with us.”
Perspective.
For some strange reason, it was the only thing I could think of in that moment.
I was being punished for not having perspective.
* * *
Present day
Glasgow, Scotland
O’DEA STARED AT ME, HOLDING the fruit cup and Danish pastry he’d brought with him hostage.
It was only pure physical exhaustion that caused me to find sleep the night before. After O’Dea had left, my brain felt like a hive of bees had been let loose inside it. I kept going over and over my options. Memories I’d worked so hard to bury were coming back to the surface. It was his fault.
I glared at the Scot. He was pushing me to move on, no matter what. That was a difficult concept for me to grasp because up until a couple of days ago, I’d completely given up on my old life. I didn’t care at the time how that made me seem because it meant I didn’t have to make difficult decisions anymore. That was freeing.
However, as much as I hated to admit it, O’Dea had held a mirror up to my behavior. It was clear he did not approve of the fact that I hadn’t stayed in the US to face my grief. And for some reason I couldn’t understand, that bothered me. I didn’t want to think of myself as a coward. I’d never thought of myself as a coward before.
I just . . . I was trying to survive. Sometimes pain was just too much, you know.
Weren’t we all just trying to survive?
“Well?” He stared at me impatiently.
As much as I feared fame, as unhappy as it had made me in the past, it was my only option at this point. After six months of no new leads in finding the armed robbers who had broken into my mom’s house and shot her and Bryan, I decided I was done with that life.
I hadn’t seen Micah, Austin, or Brandon since, and that was eighteen months ago. Facing them was a worse prospect than losing respect for myself at this point.
They were too much a reminder of my selfishness, of my stupidity and regret.
If I signed this contract with O’Dea, if I released an album with him, Gayle would definitely reach out. The guys would too. I wasn’t sure about Micah. There was a possibility he would never forgive me for disappearing. Or the letter and voicemail I’d left with Gayle so they wouldn’t report me as missing.
“I want creative control over the album,” I demanded. O’Dea’s eyes warmed and were far too appealing in that moment, so I continued before he could respond. “I also want it in the contract that I don’t have to talk to the media about my family. And that I get to choose which media outlets I talk to at all. Also, if my manager or band members try to get in touch, I will need you to field that interaction, as in make sure that they aren’t allowed to interact with me at all.”
He sighed, sounding exasperated by the notion. “The world is going to come buzzing back around as soon as we announce this solo return. I can make sure the topic of your family is strictly prohibited by interviewers, but I can’t guarantee they won’t try to broach the subject with you anyway. Also, there is no way I’m putting it in a contract that you get to pick and choose media outlets. That would be legally allowing you the choice not to pick any. Furthermore, keeping closemouthed about your family and your disappearance from Tellurian and the public eye will only incite the media’s interest.”
I opened my mouth to argue and he held up a hand to stop me. “But . . . I can keep your old management, your record label, and your band at bay.” O’Dea scratched his chin in thought. “Don’t you have an aunt?”
“Pen?” I shook my head, surprised he knew about my mom’s little sister since I had a nonexistent relationship with the last living member of my family. “Pen won’t be a problem. She didn’t even come home for the funeral. I doubt she cares about my disappearance. She’s not really all that big into facing reality.”
“Family trait, it seems.”
I grimaced. “Well, I walked into that one.”
He smirked. “What about the nutritionist and therapist?”
“There’s no point in me going to a therapist if I don’t want to.” I shrugged. “I’ve got to want to. First rule of therapy.”
“No therapy, no deal.”
“Well, that’s your prerogative.” I stared him down, refusing to budge on the subject.
“Skylar.”
“O’Dea.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Fine. No therapy.”
Delighted, I pushed. “And I do get to choose media outlets. I promise that I will choose some.”
“A promise isn’t good enough.”
“It will have to be. I’m not signing that contract unless it states I get to choose media outlets.”
Killian turned red with frustration. “Fine!”
Triumphant, my expression was overtly condescending. “I could see how painful that was to let me wrest away control from you. Maybe you really should see a therapist. An obsessive need to control the people around you is cause for concern.”
He ignored my teasing and said, “My suggestion came only from the genuine belief that it would help you.”
“There you go acting all noble, taking the sarcasm out of my sails.”
“Not even a hurricane could knock the sarcasm out of you.”
I nodded. “You’re learning.”
“So, we have a deal?”
“And what about Gayle? Will she be a problem?”
“Like your label, you’re only under contract with Gayle as part of Tellurian. We can find you new management if you want, or we can ask Gayle to manage you as a solo artist.”
“No. If I’m going to hell again, I want a new tour guide. Fresh eyes and all.”
“So much melodrama.” He shook his head. “New management. Fine. We’ll get a contract written up.”
I gestured to him, puzzled. “I thought there would be more excitement. If not actual jumping up and down, perhaps a lengthier smirk, a maniacal laugh, a proverbial sinister twist of an oversized imaginary mustache. You disappoint me, O’Dea.”
He stared blandly at me. “I’m squeeing on the inside.”
Amused despite myself, I smiled and then winced at the sting from my lip.
O’Dea’s gaze lowered to my mouth before rising to assess the rest of my face. “At least the swelling in your eye and cheek has gone down.”
“True, but the bruising still makes me look like a watercolor painting.”
“It’ll fade. Which takes us to the next order of business. You need new clothes and a trip to the hairdresser.”
The thought of stepping out into the public looking like this made me shudder. “Unless you want people to think I’m your battered wife, I think we better put a delay on the whole hair salon business.”
“Charmaine is coming to you. Tomorrow at noon. A haircut will make you feel more human and Charmaine knows how to be discreet.” He frowned. “But no rainbow hair.”
“If I want rainbow hair, I’ll get rainbow hair, okay. I don’t, but if I wanted it, I would.”
“Can I assume you’re going to be this difficult about everything?”
“Can I assume you’re not going to stop being a giant pain in my ass anytime soon?”
“Nutritionist,” he said, ignoring me. “My sister Autumn will be by tomorrow morning before Charmaine gets here. She’ll be letting her friend Brenna into the apartment. Brenna’s a nutritionist and she’ll be handling your dietary needs. Day after tomorrow, I have you booked into a private clinic for a health check. I’ve got a makeup artist booked for Friday morning. She’ll do your makeup so the bruises are hidden and then we’re going shopping for new clothes.”
Dazed, it took me a moment to find words. “You made appointments already? You assumed I’d say yes? And shopping? You’re taking me shopping?”
“We’ll have a personal shopper with us. But yes. And yes to your first question.” He gave me a quick, humorless grin. “I always get what I want.”
“Oh, really? Do you want a swift kick to the junk? Because I see that in your imminent future.”
He squinted as if he was considering it. “Nope,” he finally shook his head, “can’t say that I do. Not one of my kinks.”
I raised an eyebrow. “He jokes.”
“I’m giving you today to rest.” He pushed the fruit cup and pastry toward me. “There are some DVDs in the hall cupboard if you get bored. I’ll be back tonight with groceries but I have to get back to the office now. I see you’ve already found the washer/dryer so you’ll make do for clothes until Friday?”
I hated to ask, but . . .”I only have one pair of jeans. The other pair got ruined.” Grass stains. I tried not to flinch as an image of Johnny holding me down flashed before my eyes.
I blinked it away, taking a deep breath.
O’Dea didn’t notice my distress. “I’ll ask Autumn to bring you a new pair tomorrow. Size?”
I tore open the fruit cup, playing with it in my hands so I didn’t have to look at him. “Um, I used to be a four but I’m probably between a two and a zero now.”
“UK size?”
“Oh right. Then I’m between a six and a four. I used to be a UK eight.”
O’Dea was silent so long, I glanced up at him.
His expression was grim with understanding. “Brenna will get your weight and strength back up before you know it.”
Pride pricked, I scoffed, “Pity doesn’t suit you, O’Dea.”
“Funny. Because self-pity doesn’t suit you.” And on that irritating parting shot, he left the apartment. I almost threw the pastry at the doorway he’d been standing in but he wasn’t worth the loss.
I MUST HAVE BEEN TRULY exhausted because, despite having so much to worry about, I slept after I ate. And I mean I slept.
The next thing I knew I was blinking open my eyes to the feel of being rocked and a familiar masculine voice calling my name. When the blurring cleared from my hazy eyes, I tensed in bed at the sight of O’Dea sitting on it next to me. His frown disappeared as I became more cognizant.
“What time is it?”
“Seven o’clock. You slept all day?”
I pushed myself up and O’Dea abruptly stood from the bed. “I guess so.”
“I put some food in the fridge. Dinner is ready.”
“Dinner?” I shoved off the duvet and got up, the room spinning a little.
“You okay?” he asked, and I felt his warm hand grasp my arm to steady me.
“Got up too fast.” I grimaced. “I guess the attack took more out of me than I thought.”
O’Dea let me go and shook his head, something like anger tightening his features. “It’s not just the attack. It’s months of sleeping rough. You’ve exhausted yourself. And never mind what damage you’ve done to your back sleeping on a cold ground for weeks on end.”
Rolling my eyes, I followed him into the kitchen. “Can you not lecture me right now?”
He threw me a look over his shoulder but refrained from answering. He slid onto one of the stools at the counter and dug into a plate of food. He was staying for dinner?
I stepped closer to the plate next to his, my stomach gurgling in hungry protest at the sight of the steamed salmon, baby potatoes, and mound of salad. Food. Real food.
“You cooked?” I asked as I gingerly got onto the stool next to him. My body was so stiff that the aches and pains distracted me from how close we sat together.
“You were sleeping when I got in with the groceries. I’d have to cook my own dinner anyway so . . .” He shrugged, not looking at me.
Confused by his contradictory nature, I studied him, curious. “Do you always look after your artists like this? So personally?”
“Only the ones who can’t look after themselves.”
And there he was. “I can look after myself.”
O’Dea grunted. “Oh aye, and a bang-up job you’ve been doing so far.” He pointed to my plate with his fork. “Start eating.”
“You are so bossy,” I grumbled but did as I was bid because I wanted to.
The food tasted so fresh, I couldn’t help a little moan of satisfaction.
“Good?” he asked, sounding amused.
I nodded and swallowed. “Everything I’ve had in the past year has been fried or processed. I used to be an incredibly healthy eater. I had to be. We toured a lot. You need strength and energy for that.”
“You don’t think you need strength and energy to survive homelessness?”
“Of course you do. But unfortunately, fast food is cheaper than salads and a home-cooked meal. I ate what I could afford.”
He nodded, getting my point.
For a little while we ate in silence. To my surprise, it was. . . . well, it was a comfortable silence. Which suggested I couldn’t care less what O’Dea thought of me. I always used to care what people thought about me. Too much. You can’t do fame when you care that much because the public will destroy you. Even when most of the comments were positive, it was the negative that stuck with me. Ate at me. And then there were the posts that were filled with vitriol.
The worst incident was on Instagram. I posted a photo o
f Max and me together. Austin had taken it and I’d loved it. We were all hanging out in a hotel room and I was sitting on Max’s lap while we tried to play my guitar together. Austin had snapped a photo of us laughing into each other’s faces. We looked in love.
At first the photo got a lot of likes, a lot of love.
But Micah decided to post a photo of himself sitting solo with his guitar, looking forlorn. I didn’t know if it was deliberate or if he wasn’t thinking, but the fans saw it as a response to my photo with Max. The comments on my photo turned nasty fast.
I was a heart-breaking bitch.
I should burn in hell.
I should kill myself for being such a bitch.
Why people thought it was okay to post things online that they would never dream of saying to someone in real life, I didn’t know.
But back then, having my life become public property wore on me.
It made me depressed.
“I don’t care as much now,” I said.
O’Dea looked over at me. He swallowed the bite he’d taken and asked, “About?”
“What people think. I used to care too much. Maybe the publicity stuff won’t be so bad now that I don’t care.” It would help me to think so.
He was quiet a moment as his gaze returned to his plate. And then he delivered a swift verbal punch to the gut. “If you didn’t care as much what people think, you’d be ready to face your band.”
I glowered at him, anger making my skin flush hot. “I meant about people I don’t know.”
“Well,” his expression remained aloof, indifferent, “I guess we’ll find out soon enough.”
Any gratitude I’d been feeling toward him for the dinner turned to dust in my mouth. I pushed my half-eaten plate away and slid off the stool.
He sighed. “Where are you going? You haven’t finished eating. You need to eat, Skylar.”
“Eat shit and die.” I slammed the bedroom door behind me and leaned back against it, trying to calm down.
Loneliness overwhelmed me. A horrendous, black, gaping hole of complete aloneness appeared, readying to swallow me.
As Dust Dances Page 8
