by Elaria Ride
Even Sabrina remarked on it back at my apartment when she’d dropped off my herbal sleep tea. In a low, conspiratorial voice, she mentioned that Luke’s eyes are always on me… even on the parts of me he doesn’t strictly need to surveil. I rolled my eyes, but her outsider perspective makes the whole thing harder to ignore.
Still, Luke and I come from different worlds. We’re supposed to be friendly with each other — at most. His job is surveillance. My job is putting on a show. He’s about to get a whole new look into what I do, and I’m not sure he’ll like what he finds.
You see, my brothers and I have been in character for over an hour. The cameras aren’t rolling yet, but Amanda Blevins, the reporter for this segment, is already here — so naturally, we’re hamming it up in our respective roles; the twins are finishing each other’s sentences and taking nothing seriously, Miles is flirting with the reporter, I’m acting like an idiot, and Mark is providing the actual information. Easy peasy.
I wish I had a chance to center myself in my dressing room beforehand, but particularly hellish Nashville traffic hadn’t permitted the time. Oh, well. My ring-slash-Linus-blanket would be nice, but I’m a big girl now. For the next hour or so, I’ll make it work. This interview is part of the mandatory Country Soul Tour press package. It’ll air on a few local stations and get a brief stint on a country music TV channel between much more interesting music videos.
Which means it’s essential for me to perform — for all of us to perform.
“Going live!” announces a bustling cameraman as Amanda gives her coiffed blonde hair a final peek. My brothers and I sit up a little straighter, scoot a little closer. We’re pros at hitting those perfect angles.
“Three… two… one… aaand action!”
“Welcome, country music fans!” announces Amanda, her impossibly white teeth glinting in the overhead light. “We’re here today with the Matthews Family Band, or as you may know them, MFB!” My brothers and I supply fake smiles as she plows on.
“This may seem like a blast from the past, but these folks are preparing for their Country Soul comeback! After… how many years, exactly, away from the stage?”
Mark grins at the camera. “Thirteen years away, ma’am! But you'd better believe that we’re just itchin’ to start again!”
We giggle appropriately in our seats.
“I bet you are!” replies Amanda. “But it seems you folks have kept busy in the meantime, no?”
She sends an exaggerated wink down the line. Clearly, this woman expects us to make her famous through some never-before-heard tell-all exposé of our antics. Sorry, Amanda; we’re trained better than that.
Predictably, Miles fields that comment. “Well, you know what they say, ma’am…” He cracks a flirtatious grin. “Boys just wanna have fun!”
All five of us laugh again, adding in a playful eye roll or two for good measure.
“That’s what I hear!” she exclaims. “Remind me, what were y’all in the papers for most recently? Stealing a yacht?”
Mark raises a hand, chuckling. “Oh, no, ma’am. It’s been a while since we were that crazy. These days, most of us have settled down away from the spotlight, happy to make new generations of Matthews! Only a few of us are… stubborn in that regard.” He ends with an exaggerated wink and elbows me in the ribs.
I give a girlish giggle, not pointing out that Michael isn’t married, either. It’s not part of the performance, after all.
“And why is that?” asks Amanda more seriously, focusing on me. She leans forward in her chair until her bright red pantsuit rides up around her heels. “What’s different about you, Mariah?”
Well, that’s a loaded question if I’ve ever heard one.
I stare at her, my face scrunched in mock consideration. “Hmm! Well, I guess that’s obvious!” I reply, batting my eyelashes. Then I drop my voice to a stage whisper. Amanda leans in even closer.
“I’m a girl.” I finish with a wink, hoping that conveys what I can’t say: I’m not a moron, so please don’t treat me like one.
My brothers chuckle beside me, but Amanda isn’t done. “Well, I’d expect nothing less from America’s favorite country spitfire!” she declares. “But after a quick commercial break, we’ll discuss the one thing that might force this little spitfire to lose her spark… a stalker, of all things! Stay tuned, folks!”
A buzzer sounds as the feed cuts.
My brothers and I have a split second to exchange uncomfortable looks before the production team swoops in to reapply makeup. I know we’re all thinking the same thing: we were told this interview would focus solely on music. I scan the house, trying to catch a glimpse of Russ. Or my dad.
But with a sinking sensation in the pit of my stomach, I remember the entire point of hiring Luke in the first place: to bring more publicity to the tour.
Mark gives me a little nudge from his seat beside me. When he speaks, his voice is resigned — like it pains him as much as it pains me. “You know what you have to do,” he mutters from the corner of his mouth. “You’ve gotta play it up. Act like a scared little girl. That’s why we’re here.”
Rage flares behind my eyes at the thought, but Mark’s already raising a placating hand, his eyes still focused in front of him. “I know, Mare… I know,” he pleads. “I fucking hate it, too, but that’s how it goes. One last hurrah of the MFB — and then we can have actual personalities.”
The cameraman announces our imminent return from the break. I shudder, but I know Mark’s right. We weren’t prepped for this, but it’s pretty obvious this was the whole point of the interview: to bring as much intrigue as possible to the situation. To make us look more interesting. I feel sad and hollow at the thought. Does no one think we’re interesting on our own?
“Aaaand five, four, three, two!”
Intro music fills the auditorium. Amanda turns back to the camera, that fake grin back in place.
“Welcome back, folks! For those just tuning in, we’re here in Nashville with the MFB! But right now, our attention is on Mariah — who’s been going through a tough time lately! There are lots of rumors flying around,” continues Amanda, leaning in again, “but I think all of us at home would appreciate hearing it straight from the source. So tell us, Mariah… what’s been going on?”
I push aside my feelings of disgust. Mark’s right; I’m just selling a character. We all are.
“Well, I’ve been getting threats,” I admit, my voice shaking. “It’s all… it’s all so scary!”
Amanda drinks me in, her brown eyes thirsty for gossip. “Tell me more, dear,” she says, breathless. “One day, this will be a great chapter for your memoir. What were the threats like?”
I give the camera my best terrified pout. “They started a few months ago. Just some creepy pictures and cut-out letters. But that’s when my nightmares started, too,” I whisper, staring at my empty finger. I’m more surprised than anyone that I’m actually telling the truth. Fortunately, no one save for Sabrina will know.
“Poor dear,” Amanda murmurs, patting me on the thigh. “How scary! And they haven’t caught him yet, right?”
“No. But I’m in such good hands. The Nashville PD has been excellent — they really just care so much. Nothing like the small-town feel in a big city to make a girl feel safe!”
I give her a brave smile, hoping she picks up on my cue to mention Luke. I feel his eyes burning from his position in the wings. It’s a small miracle that he’s working and thus unable to be filmed. Even someone as soulless as Amanda wouldn’t violate security protocol.
“Well, I’m glad you brought that up!” she says coyly. “Because what’s this I hear about your involvement with a… Mr. Luke Carter?”
I bat my eyelashes and heave a dreamy sigh. “Yes, ma’am… I can confirm the rumors are true. Carter is every bit as manly and protective as they say!” I give my fakest girly giggle, but it isn’t loud enough to mask the sound of Luke snorting from offstage. Typical.
I grin even har
der, suppressing the desire to announce that he’s also arrogant and demanding and —
“We all know you’re very popular with the menfolk around this town!” continues Amanda, winking at me again.
Oh.
I cock my head, both glad for the change of topic and concerned with where she’s heading. Surely Amanda knows that significant others have always been a hard limit on what we’re willing to discuss. That’s something the entire family decided way back when we first got famous: we don’t talk about relationships. Period.
“Most recently,” continues Amanda, glancing at her page of notes, “you were involved with some of country’s up-and-comers! Colt Waverly. Brannon Pierce.”
There’s a pause. My fist clenches at my side, but somehow my fake smile remains. No fucking way. She’s actually going there. And from the look on her face, she knows she’s not supposed to. Mark wraps an arm around my shoulders under the guise of offering brotherly support, but I know what he’s doing: telling me to cool it.
Amanda leans in again, dropping her voice. “I guess it’s a good thing you have Mr. Carter to protect you, isn’t it? Like I said, you’re quite the spitfire, Miss Matthews.”
Mark gives an awkward chuckle. “She sure is! And we wouldn’t have our baby sister any other way!”
There’s a smattering of fake laughter from down the line, but Amanda disregards it. “Have you thought that maybe this stalker is someone you know quite well? Maybe he’s one of the men you’ve — I don’t know — written a song about?”
She wiggles her eyebrows expectantly. I stare back at her with that same shit-eating grin, even as my stomach floods with cold betrayal. Where the hell is my dad? Or Russ?
“We’re certain that’s not the case,” chimes in Michael, his voice uncharacteristically serious. “And if it’s ok with you, we’ll leave the police work to—”
“—No, I’m happy to answer her question,” I interrupt, still grinning. Mark groans, but I draw a deep breath, summoning a response that won’t put me in jail. Or make me look like an even bigger diva. But my willingness to stay in character only goes so far. I’ll act like an airhead, sure — but this bitch threw me overboard. Hard. No one could blame me for at least trying to paddle to shore.
“I’m glad you mentioned that, actually!” I start, batting my eyelashes. “I’m always happy to discuss the double standard for male and female songwriters. Did you know that men have written songs about women since the music industry started? Take your name, for instance!” I thoughtfully tap a finger on my chin. “Tell me, Amanda — have you ever gone by Mandy?”
There’s a pause.
Amanda clears her throat. A little thrill races through me. She hadn’t expected this, but she knows where I’m going… and she can’t stop me.
“Well, yes, actually!” she allows, sounding flustered. “It’s what my father called me, and—”
“—of course,” I croon with a soft smile. “Now, I know a lady never reveals her age, but there were a lot of baby girls named Mandy in the early 70s. Any idea why?”
Amanda’s face pales. I suppress a smirk. Perhaps I’m taking too much joy in this, but in my defense, she literally implied that I deserved death threats. And sure, my songs make occasional, vague references to the loser exes I’ve amassed over the years… but I’ve always been discreet. Some songwriters aren’t so respectful, maybe — but I am. If we’re being real here, it’s not like Colt and Brannon were important enough to deserve songs. Not even close.
Much unlike…
“Hmm!” I start a moment later. “Could it be because of the song? You know the one, I’m sure.”
Amanda nods stiffly.
“It was a chart-topper, one of the catchiest tunes of all time!” agrees Mark, his voice jovial. “Say, why don’t we perform one of our songs from our tour? Ya never know, maybe someone will name their baby Evermore!”
There’s another smattering of forced laughter. Amanda opens her mouth, perhaps to end the segment… but I’m not done. I’m fired up.
“Evermore would be such a funny name!” I acknowledge with a laugh. “Such a sweet story behind it, too. My father, Earl Matthews, wrote it about my mother — may God rest her soul. But you know what’s even funnier?” I bat my eyelashes again. “When men write songs about women, it’s romantic — but when women do it, they're begging for a stalker!”
I cover my mouth with a fake giggle. “Isn’t that funny, Mandy?”
There’s a prolonged silence. Amanda and I stare at each other, our gazes locked. We’re each wearing a shit-eating, our faces stretched to the breaking point in the world’s strangest game of chicken, even as the cameras continue to roll.
I guarantee she’ll edit this segment to make me seem like the world’s biggest diva. By the time this airs, she’ll have the public eating out of her hand. But right now, my biggest concern is how to end this weird stand-off without admitting defeat.
Fortunately, Miles does it for me.
The first few bars of Mandy suddenly pierce the silence, hummed in beautiful, perfect pitch. I glance down the line to see him swaying to as he continues to hum… and then, as if they’d planned it, the twins join him in perfect harmony. I smile to myself. Say what you want about us, but the Matthews stick up for their own.
Well, most of us do, anyway.
I glance uncertainly at Mark, unsure of what he’ll do. Then — as if he can hear my thoughts — his soft hum joins in, just in time for the chorus. I squeeze his hand gratefully. Thanks.
A few bars later, I begin humming, too, and then before I know it, an intrigued-but-puzzled production crew is focusing every camera straight on us. I don’t make eye contact with Amanda again, but I know I’ll pay for this, in one way or another.
The second the song ends, this prediction comes true. My brothers and I humbly wave and bow from our seats as the production crew cheers around us.
“What an impromptu and gorgeous rendition of that amazing song!” Amanda gushes, clasping her hands in front of her. She turns to the camera again. “When we return from the break, we’ll be treated to even more songs from the Matthews clan!”
Then Amanda’s face splits into the fakest grin yet… but the vindictive glint in her eyes has already told me what’s coming. Mark steels beside me, gripping my hand again. He knows it, too.
“Right now, though, I’m sure the boys want to make sure their favorite little spitfire has the chance to gobble a snack before they sing again!” Amanda declares, gesturing up and down the line.
An uncomfortable pause fills the auditorium, but I’d never give the satisfaction of letting that grin slip from my face. Fuck her.
Amanda finishes with a satisfied wink into the camera. “Please rejoin us after the break for another musical treat, straight from the MFB!”
12
Mariah
Fifteen minutes later, I’m pushing through the stage doors as fast as my feet can carry me. My jaw is set in a firm line, my mind completely focused on breathing. On getting the fuck out of the studio. On pretending that whole thing never happened. I did well enough, but I felt like a robot… one only programmed to smile and perform.
It’s not until I’m leaning over the railing and breathing in the humid evening air that I embrace the disgust and betrayal that’s been threatening to shatter my composure since the interview started.
Unfortunately, I've forgotten something much more important: my own damn safety.
The stage door slams open, hitting the brick wall behind me with an angry thud. I startle, freezing at the sound — but then the heady scent of Luke’s cologne fills the air around me.
Oh. It’s just him.
I blink and turn around, prepared to greet my hired stalker… but not a single part of me could have predicted what I’d find. Not a single part of me could have guessed he’d express not only anger — but rage.
Luke’s chest is heaving, his eyes unfocused, his flannel sleeves pushed up his muscular forearms. He’s less
composed, more furious, more emotional, than I’ve ever seen him. Ever.
Shit. My breath hitches in my throat. Why is that turning me on?
“What. The. Hell,” Luke snarls, his fists clenched, “are you doing out here on your own?”
I freeze, a little ashamed of what this side of him is doing to my body. I clear my throat, more out of need for distraction than anything else. “I’m, um, getting some—”
“—That was not,” Luke roars across me, his eyes almost feral, “a fucking rhetorical question, Mariah!”
For several moments, his breathing is the only sound in the thick air. I kick my boots against the concrete. Could I get away with diverting the conversation by pretending I don’t know what a rhetorical question is?
A second later, Luke lets out a deep, humorless chuckle from above me — and even before he says a word, I have my answer.
“And please…” he growls. My eyes snap up to his. There’s something primal and raw glittering behind his expression, something that both frightens me — and dampens my panties.
Luke sucks his teeth in disgust. “Please don’t insult your own intelligence around me. Not ever. We both know you’re aware of what a rhetorical question is. That I’m-an-idiot shit might work on people who don’t know you, but we both know it’s never worked on me.”
Oh.
I look away, my face flushing, but Luke’s question still stands: what the hell am I doing?
“I’m — I’m sorry,” I stammer to my boots. Luke lets out a swear, slumping against the door. “I just… I didn’t think about it. About you. I was overwhelmed after the interview and the song and —” I wave my hand, hoping I won’t have to explain the rest.
He sighs from above me, but it’s a softer, more forgiving sound. “It’s… well, it’s not ok,” Luke supplies, his voice still deep and rumbling. “But it’s understandable that you’d want some space. I guess.”