Famously Mine: A Contemporary Romance Box Set

by Roxy Reid

  Except that it does, because she’s at the heart of the song. She’s at the heart of everything.

  Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck. I’m even thinking like a cheesy pop-song.

  I shake out my hand and start marking my way through the chords to our normal opening song, when I hear shouting outside my dressing room.

  “Sir, you can’t be back here!”

  “Where is she? Where is that little bitch De Luca?” It’s a man’s voice, angry and belligerent.

  I charge out of the dressing room, and in an instant I’m backstage, eyes searching the room until I find a man being held back by Owen and a security guard.

  “Get your hands off me, or I’ll sue every one of you,” the man snarls. He reminds me of a used-car salesman gone feral. His suit is rumpled, and his slicked back hair is falling out of place. “I’m just. Trying. To get. What’s. Mine,” he hisses.

  “And what’s that?” I ask.

  “I just want my photos,” he says.

  Owen notices me. “Oh good, you’re here. He’s saying horrible crap about Charlie, and he won’t believe us that she’s not even here.”

  “Of course she’s here!” the man barks. “Why else would she leave me, unless you offered her something better? But I hired her first, and those photos are mine.”

  He makes a move to break free. I get a twisted pleasure out of watching him struggle, but I’m worried Owen will hurt his hand, so I motion to Owen and the security guard to let him go.

  They do, and the man tumbles into ground.

  “Let’s try this again. Who are you?”

  “Shaun Coleman. False Prophet. I am a member of the press.” He climbs to his feet, brushing the dirt off of his shins, “Last I checked we still had free press in this country.”

  “That entitles you to write whatever you want. It doesn’t entitle you to trespass.”

  Shaun sighs, and he suddenly looks old. Old and mean. “Look kid. I don’t want to be here any more than you want me here. Charlie doesn’t want to see me? Fine. But you have her send out her damn photos on a flash stick or whatever. Or I will make sure she never fucking works again. I will sue her into bankruptcy, and ruin her reputation and by the end of it she’ll wish she never heard your name—”

  “Shut up.” My jaw is tight with the effort not to punch him.

  “Oh, you think I don’t recognize you? You’re the dumbass who got seduced by the woman I hired to take you down. And now, what? You’re going to go all chivalrous on me? You lay a hand on me, it goes in the article. You threaten me, it goes in the article. Finn Ryan, Violent Thug.”

  My blood is boiling. This is the man who had Charlie under his thumb? Charlie got rid of Zane for me, but this whole time she’s been dealing with this … this scum.

  “Careful, Finn,” Mariana says behind me.

  Shaun grins. “Face it, Finn. You’re out of options. So you go be a good boy and tell your girlfriend to get me my fucking photos. Or she’ll wish she was dead—”

  I slam him against the wall.

  “Finn!” Owen shouts.

  I lift Shaun higher, so that his toes barely touch the ground. “You print whatever the hell you want about me. But you are done with Charlie De Luca. No more stalking, no more threats, no lawsuits. And if you so much as think about hurting her professional reputation, I will bury you alive. Do you understand me?”

  “Finn, stop!” Mariana says.

  “I said, do you understand me!” I shout at Shaun.

  He grins, and there’s a whiff of alcohol on his breath. “You can’t do anything to me.”

  “Wanna bet?” I shove him up higher, so his feet are all the way off the ground. And then I lean in next to him and I hiss, “You’ve got all your business friends. But I’ve got every musician you ever did a hatchet job on. And I will personally fund every one of their lawsuits. I wonder how many endless lawsuits before that magazine of yours decides you’re just not worth the trouble. We might have to move on to suing you after that, instead of the magazine. How much is your house worth?”

  “You’re a horrible person,” Shaun croaks. But he’s looking at me in fear, which is all I need.

  “FINN,” Bridget says. Apparently, Mariana and Owen brought in the cavalry.

  I release Shaun, and he stumbles sideways as his feet hit the ground, clutching the wall for balance.

  “You’re right. I am a horrible person,” I say. “But I’m her horrible person. So don’t. Fucking. Touch. Charlie De Luca. Understand?”

  Shaun nods frantically.

  I nod to the security guard, who escorts him out.

  I realize my hands are shaking from the adrenaline. There’s a burst of applause, and for a second I think it’s for me, but then I realize the warm-up band just wrapped up their set. They’re filing off the other side of the stage, while the crew quickly flips the setup for us.

  Mariana hands me my guitar, then slaps me on the back. “Ok. Enough heroics. Time to get your head back where it belongs. Don’t forget to make that signal clearer at the end of Owen’s second solo.” Then she pulls out her drumsticks, cracks her neck, and strides on stage to adoring applause.

  Owen gives me a thumbs up, but it’s a little nervous, like maybe he thinks I need anger management counseling. But, also, like he supports my journey and would personally drive me to each counseling session.

  I glance over at Bridget, but she just raises an eyebrow. “Add an extra zero to the year end bonuses you’re giving me and your P.R. agency, because you just made our jobs ten times harder. You’re lucky Sienna’s the best.”

  “Yeah, yeah, you disapprove. I got it,” I say, looking out at the stage.

  “I never said I disapproved,” Bridget says.

  I snap my head over to her.

  She gives me a small smile. “What? I do not approve of Miss De Luca lying to us. That doesn’t mean I don’t hope it works out for you. And it certainly doesn’t mean it wasn’t satisfying to watch you dispose of that toadish man.”

  I grin. I guess I’m not the only one who’s feeling a little more honest today.

  I take a sip of water, roll my shoulders back, bounce on my toes.

  And stride out into the roar of the crowd to play the most terrifying concert of my life.

  17

  Charlie

  We get stuck in traffic, a situation aggravated by my dad’s distrust of Google Maps, and arrive a few songs into their set. No one will let Jim and me anywhere close to backstage, so we file into the stadium.

  “We’ll catch him afterward,” Jim says, trying to cheer me up.

  I’m also realizing, as I look around at other women in makeup, or in cute outfits, or hell, just recently showered, that I’ve been traveling for over twenty four hours at this point, and probably look like hell. I’ve got day-old make-up, and my leggings and sneakers aren’t exactly attire that makes men swoon.

  At least my leather jacket makes me feel tough.

  We find our seats, which are dead center, about twenty rows up from where Finn’s light guy is running the projections.

  Jim looks around in wonder. “These people are really here to see him.” Jim looks down at me. “Can you believe it?”

  “Absolutely,” I say, as Finn steps up to the mic. “It’s Finn.”

  Jim rolls his eyes. “There’s an unbiased opinion.”

  “So, uh, I’m going to play something new tonight,” Finn says into the microphone, and the crowd cheers.

  “I wouldn’t cheer yet. You haven’t heard it.”

  There’s some good natured laughter, and Finn grins, before letting his voice get a little more unguarded. A little more sincere.

  “Seriously, this one might sound a little different than what you’re used to. I wrote it for this woman, who’s, uh, way out of my league.” More good natured laughter. “And I used to care about that. But now, frankly, I don’t give a fuck. I just want her back. So, naturally, you have to suffer through acoustic guitar.”

  There’s some
murmurs from some of the die-hard fans, and I frown in confusion. Finn never plays acoustic in concert. It’s what he writes on, but he never brings it out on stage anymore.

  Finn starts playing, and the arena hushes. It’s a beautiful tumbling of golden notes. It wraps around me like a song I already know, and then I remember: this was the song he was playing by the window, in the hotel, after we had sex for the first time in ten years.

  I don’t know what he’s done to it, but it feels more hopeful. Fragile, yes, but hopeful. His voice is rich and strong as he begs this woman for another chance.

  But it’s not just the beauty of the music that has my throat aching and my heart racing. He’s filled the whole song with us. Every line laced with memories and jokes and promises. It sounds like typical artsy lyrics to everyone else listening, but to me it’s a description of the first place we kissed, of my favorite song, of the first time we said I love you.

  It’s beautiful.

  It’s like he’s highlighted every lyric with a note: This song is about you, Charlie.

  It’s a gorgeous ode to everything we were, and I feel my eyes heat with tears.

  But then Finn keeps going. He doesn’t stop at the past. He’s singing about now. About my photo stopping him dead on an ordinary day, about seeing me in the airport, about fighting in the streets of New Orleans.

  About falling for me and trying not to. About realizing he was still in love with me, and not saying it, because he didn’t want to scare me off. When he gets to the part about thinking I was playing him, that I didn’t want him at all, his voice pierces the silence, and I wrap my arms around myself to ward off the pain.

  I think the song is going to stop there—where we stopped—but he’s still singing.

  And now my heart is pounding with a new weight. Because it feels like he’s asking me something. Something big and important and real.

  You said I had until dawn

  And I grabbed what you gave

  But here’s the thing about dawn

  It comes every day

  Give me chance after chance

  Until death do us part

  It’s always a lie

  If I say you don’t have my heart

  Here’s the thing ‘bout ‘till dawn’

  It can come every day

  The guitar notes fade a second before his voice does. And for a moment the whole arena is dead silent.

  And then everyone erupts in cheers.

  The applause is so loud, Jim has to lean into my ear to yell, “You know that was about you, right?”

  I nod, choking back tears.

  Finn loves me. He really loves. And I think maybe he always has. And always will.

  He can’t say it to my face, because it’s Finn. But he can tell a crowd of thousands.

  “Anyway, thanks for putting up with that. I wrote most of it today. I’m flying out to tomorrow to see her.” Finn gives the crowd a wry smile. “I’ll let you know how it goes.”

  “Why doesn’t he look happier?” I shout to Jim. “They loved his song.”

  Jim stares at me for a moment, then closes his eyes like he’s praying for patience. “You two are such fucking idiots.” He opens his eyes. “He’s not happier because he doesn’t know your answer yet. You just got his. But he doesn’t have yours.”

  I look at Finn, standing there alone on stage, putting his performance mask back on, sliding smoothly into the next anthem like the cocky rockstar he is.

  I look at the table down below, where they’re running the projections.

  I think of the flash stick in my pocket, with all my favorite photos from the tour.

  It’s not a love song, but it’ll have to do.

  I start heading down.

  “Charlie, where are you going? What are you doing?” Jim asks.

  “I’ll be back in a sec!”

  It ends up taking more than a second, to persuade the projections guy to cue up my photos to run before and during their encore, since he’s one of the few people on tour I don’t know very well, but he finally agrees on the condition that I lobby for him to get one of Owen’s kittens.

  I climb back up to Jim and watch the rest of the concert with butterflies in my stomach.

  Finally, Finn and the band finish their big number, take their bows, and walk off stage.

  The stage lights darken, and the first of my photos go up. Murmuring and pointing sweeps through the arena like a lazy tidal wave.

  I bite my lip, and pray Finn takes this the way I think he will.

  18

  Finn

  “Well, would you look at that,” Bridget says from somewhere behind me.

  I take the towel and water Karmine offers me and strip off my shirt.

  “Finn, I think you should see this,” Mariana says.

  “What?” I say exasperated. I like performing, but it’s been a long day, and, honestly, I just want to finish the performance, crash for the night, and go to Charlie.

  Wordlessly, Owen points to the stage.

  Or more specifically, the scrim behind the stage, where they’ve been projecting video of the concert.

  Only now it’s not video. It’s still images.

  Beautiful vibrant shots of all of us on tour. There’s Mariana and Owen and me on stage, working like a perfect unit. There’s shots of us with our backs to the camera, facing a sea of fans and stage lights. We look like fucking legends.

  Powerful. Charismatic. Untouchable.

  But the photos don’t stop there. They’re mixed in with personal ones. One’s that show the sweet, sharp, human side of everyone on tour. There’s one of me, sitting in a hotel room, working on a song …

  And that’s when I realize.

  These are Charlie’s photos. And she’s really fucking good.

  Out in the crowd, people are laughing, and cheering, and wolf-whistling, and giving audible awwwwwws. It feels like looking at a friend’s family album. Warm. Intimate. An inside joke.

  There’s more photos of me. Me singing to empty auditoriums during rehearsals. Me playing backstage. Me writing. Me glowering at Charlie in the airport that first day.

  And then the final photo, the one Charlie said was just for her. Standing on the banks of the Mississippi, wild and alive from being up all night, but also relaxed and quiet in the early morning light.

  Waiting for dawn.

  I swallow. My throat is tight, “She sent this in? Even after I fired her?”

  “No,” Bridget shakes her head. “She never sent it to me. And I don’t think she has anyone else’s email.”

  “But that would mean …” Mariana trails off.

  “She’s here,” I say.

  I can’t believe it. I’ve been pouring out my heart and she’s here? Just watching?

  I stalk out onstage and grab the microphone.

  “Charlie De Luca,” I growl, “get your ass on stage now.”

  19

  Charlie

  I gape. Finn is standing shirtless on stage, fiercely staring down the crowd, and demanding I join him on stage in front of thousands of people.

  Nope. Nope, nope, nope, nope, nope, nope.

  “Charlie,” Finn growls, and it sends a thrill up my spine.

  “Who’s Charlie De Luca?” someone in front of us asks.

  “It’s her!” Jim says, enthusiastically, pointing straight at me. “THIS IS CHARLIE De Luca.”

  I scramble to cover his mouth, but it’s too late. People all around us are looking at me.

  I look at Jim, “Traitor.”

  He winks, “You’ll thank me one day.”

  Before I know it, I’m getting helped and guided and shoved toward the stage. It is both terrifying, and the perfect metaphor for loving Finn: overpowering and sweeping, with a hint of danger, and a beautiful man waiting for me on the other end.

  Hands lift me onstage, and I have the presence of mind to be thankful I’m not wearing a skirt, before I’m dumped unceremoniously on stage in front of Finn.

&nbs
p; For a moment, we just stare at each other. The stage lights turn my peripheral vision into a haze of bright light, and the roar of the crowd feels strangely distant. His chest is rising and falling, and his hair is a mess, but his eyes are intense, fixed on me, and it’s like everything I want, everything I feel, is coming into focus. I’m a tuning fork, and I’m tuned to him.

  It’s just me and him. No songs. No photos. Just Finn and me.

  And I’ve got something to say. I take a deep breath.

  “I’m so sorry, Finn—”

  “Charlie, I was a fucking idiot—”

  We stop, and smile, and oh, his smile is enough to send me to the moon and back.

  “I love you—” I say.

  “God, I love you—” he says at the same time.

  This time I laugh, delighted. I can’t help it. Against all odds, after all this time. I love Finn Ryan. And he loves me back.

  He takes the first step toward me, but I get to him first, and as I rise up on my toes, he kisses me soundly, in front of everyone.

  And I kiss him back, my palms holding his gorgeous, gorgeous face in place. We’re losing ourselves somewhere in a land of endless dawns, and I don’t think we’re ever going to stop.

  The band must think the same thing, because behind us Mariana counts off with her drumsticks, “1, 2, 3, 4!” and starts in on the lighting fast drum solo that kicks off the encore, with Owen picking up the melody.

  “That’s your cue,” I say, shoving Finn away.

  He gives me a look that tells me I’ll be paying for that shove in bed later, then he steps up to the mic and belts out the encore song. He’s perfect and powerful and fills the whole arena, because, of course, he does.

  I don’t know what to do on stage without my camera, so I start to back away, but Finn looks back at me, and there’s so much joy on his face, I can’t leave.

  For once in my life, I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.

  20

  Charlie