Strike a Chord

by Salsbury, JB

  He offers me his arm, and I slip my hand in the crook of his elbow, hoping he doesn’t feel how badly my hands are shaking.

  “You ready?” he asks.

  “Yes—oh!” I snag the black silk clutch off the dresser, only big enough to hold my phone and an assortment of touch-up makeup I don’t even know how to use. “Now I am.”

  He must sense my nerves because he squeezes my hand. “You’re going to be fine. I promise.”

  * * *

  “You’re doing great.” Bethany, Jesse’s wife, stands close to me, her face slightly less made up than mine. Her black lace dress gives off a sexy lingerie vibe without looking trashy. “No one cares about us. It’s easy to disappear into the background.”

  We stand side by side off the red carpet as Jesse, Ethan, Ben, and Ryder are the focus of every camera lens in the vicinity.

  “Thank you.” I try to remain calm, but it doesn’t feel as if I’m blending into the background at all. I feel as though I’m under a microscope, all eyes on me as they search out every single flaw.

  This isn’t the first time Ethan’s brought a date to the Music Awards, but according to Jesse, it’s the first time he’s had his date walk the red carpet with him, and that caused a semi-catastrophic media frenzy when we walked up together. The flashes, the questions—I may as well be standing here naked for the entertainment world to pick apart.

  “Don’t feel like you have to answer their questions,” Jade says through a smile as if she’s a ventriloquist. “Pretend you can’t hear them.” She’s so beautiful she’s hard to look at. Her pale blue sequined bustier and flowing straight-cut slacks make her look fresh off the runway in Milan.

  “Or,” Ashleigh says with a shrug, “answer them and give them something to talk about.” She winks with an evil smirk. With her leather mini dress, tall heels, and platinum hair, she looks the epitome of a rock star's wife. “I love feeding the gossip circles with bullshit.”

  Bethany shakes her head, but she’s laughing. How does she look so calm, as if we’re all standing around at Starbucks sipping coffee and having girl talk while the inside of my stomach crawls up my throat?

  “You look hot, by the way.” That compliment came from Ashleigh, and the other two women agree.

  “I feel like I’m dressed up for a costume party.” I smooth my hands down the silky fabric. “I’d be a lot more comfortable in my sweatshirt and a hat.”

  A warm hand slips into mine and Ethan slides up beside me. I breathe a little easier when he’s close.

  “We’re done here. Ready to go get our seats?” he asks.

  “Sitting would be great.” I shift on my heels-for-beginners.

  First obstacle down and I haven’t made a fool out of myself yet.

  I’ll take that as a win.

  Ethan

  “You’re handling this like a pro,” Ryder says to Taylor as we all head to the cars that are waiting to take us to the Arenfield after-party.

  She thanks him with a smile that looks bashful, but I know better.

  I bring her knuckles to my lips. “You okay?”

  “This is exhausting,” she says, leaning in close for only me to hear. “I’ve smiled more in the last few hours than I have my entire life combined.”

  “We’re almost done.”

  For as nervous as she was, she couldn’t have been more incredible tonight. I owe Bethany, Ash, and Jade for some of that, but the rest is Taylor and her ability to adapt in a room filled with the most powerful people in the music industry. I suppose being raised on the road, surrounded by musicians and egos that are bigger than the arenas they played in prepared her well.

  We ended up winning the award for song of the year for “Face the Music,” a song Ben wrote when he was falling in love with his wife. We performed the song and I watched Taylor sing along to every word. The night was perfect, and most of that is because of the woman I now have squeezed to my side.

  “It’s all downhill from here,” I say as we climb into the blacked-out SUV. I pull Taylor close and she settles at my side as if she was designed to fit there.

  A ten-minute drive and we’re at the Arenfield after-party in the Los Angeles Arts District. We file out of the car.

  I put my lips to Taylor’s ear as we walk into a transformed warehouse. “We’ll be quick, okay?”

  “Sure.” She smiles at me, but I see the flicker of nerves behind her calm mask.

  “Do you want something to drink?” I brush my lips along the shell of her ear.

  “A glass of champagne sounds nice actually.”

  “I was thinking along the lines of a soda.” I lift a brow. “I thought you were never drinking again?”

  “One won’t hurt, right? Besides, I’m with you.” The trust in her gaze almost undoes me.

  I kiss her temple, unable to get enough of the feel of her against my mouth, and mumble, “Contributing to a minor. You’re a bad influence on me.”

  We’re taken inside and led to a VIP section where every face is an Arenfield artist or exec. Jesse gets surrounded immediately. Ben and Ryder are next. They cling to their wives as there are also opportunistic women dressed to the nines and well practiced in the art of seduction. I keep Taylor close, snag a couple glasses of champagne, and get caught up in the chaos of congratulations and back-pounding hugs.

  I keep a firm grip on Taylor as I’m passed around for photos and mostly meaningless chatter. I’m on my second glass of champagne when Neil Allen approaches me. He’s one of the lawyers on Arenfield’s staff, and after our most recent business handlings, my stomach sours with his presence.

  Ever the professional, he doesn’t openly bring up business, but that doesn’t keep the nerves at bay when he approaches Taylor and me.

  “Congratulations on the win,” he says, one hand in his pocket and the other wrapped around a short glass of top-shelf booze. Neil looks like every other old guy in the room—gray hair, receding hairline, gold watch, and designer suit. “You guys have really made a turn around since Jesse got sober.” Neil eyes my beautiful date and offers her his hand. “This must be the young woman I’ve heard so much about.”

  Taylor tenses at my side. I rub her knuckles with my thumb, hoping to soothe her.

  “Taylor,” I say, reluctant to introduce her to the bloodthirsty attorney for no good reason other than he represents the ugliest part of my life and I want none of that touching her. “This is Neil Allen, our lawyer.”

  “And friend,” he says, shaking Taylor’s hand for a few seconds longer than I’m comfortable with.

  She reaches for another glass of champagne from a passing waiter, and I bite back an overprotective response that she’s had enough. I trust after her experience with Paul, she knows not to overindulge.

  “How are you enjoying the lifestyle, Ms. Marsten?”

  She flashes him a forced smile. “How do you know my name?”

  He leans in. “It’s my job to know all aspects of Ethan’s career.”

  “I wasn’t aware I was part of Ethan’s career.” She frowns and sips her drink.

  “You’re dating a famous musician. Everything he does is all part of the business, sweetheart—”

  “Neil.” I shake my head, sending the message to cut the shit ASAP. I release Taylor’s hand to wrap my arm around her shoulder, grateful to feel her arm follow suit around my lower back. I grind my teeth, wishing like hell I could think of a good diversion from the direction of this conversation, something subtler than telling Neil to fuck off. “She knows exactly who she’s dating.”

  He sucks his teeth and nods. “Can you believe the talent in this room?”

  I appreciate his effort at a subject change and plan to make our excuse to leave. He waves at someone over my head. I turn to tell Taylor we’re out of here when a man comes up beside me.

  “There you are,” Neil says, his gaze flickering to Taylor as if to gauge her reaction. “Have you had the pleasure of meeting Taylor Oakley?”

  My entire body goes atomic
when I turn and see Taylor Oakley with an appreciative grin aimed at my fucking girlfriend.

  “No, I haven’t,” my Taylor says, not even a shake in her voice. She doesn’t offer to shake the man’s hand, but gives him a smile that looks genuine to everyone but me. “It’s good to meet you.”

  The music legend looks a lot like Glenn Frey, RIP. Taylor Oakley has a reputation with women, although he’s been married for twenty-five years. Neil’s house in the Hamptons and his two-hundred-foot yacht were purchased with money he made by handling all of Taylor Oakley’s extra-marital affairs.

  “Good Lord, honey.” Oakley takes in my Taylor from head to toe. “You’re even more beautiful than your mom.”

  She looks at him with disgust and mumbles, “Gross.”

  Pride swells in my chest at her strength and character. Her boldness is the first thing I fell in love with when I confronted her about sending dudes to my dressing room. Guarantee that’s the first time Oakley’s compliments have been swatted away publicly.

  “Baby.” I kiss her on the head and speak into her hair. “Why don’t you go grab a seat at the bar, get a Coke or something? I need a minute with Neil.”

  Her worried eyes meet mine. “Are you sure?”

  Translation: Are you sure you want to make a scene in front of all these people?

  Here’s my chance to be reasonable.

  “I’ll come find you in a few minutes.”

  Her gaze swings between Taylor and Neil as they man-talk about who the fuck cares. “Thank you.”

  She hands me her champagne glass that I’m surprised to find empty. Two glasses? I guess that’s not a ton, but there’s no way she’s not feeling a buzz.

  “Stay at the bar, okay? I’ll just be a minute and then we can get out of here.”

  After a quick kiss, I watch her disappear through the crowd, an angel in white in a sea of darkness. Although I know her courage, she appears vulnerable.

  “You’ve got yourself a prize with that one,” Oakley says, his gaze on where Taylor disappeared into the crowd.

  “I’m well aware of what I have.” I lean in to speak quietly to the man. “You’d be mindful to stay away from her.”

  His eyes light with something dark, and he chuckles in a way that makes my skin crawl. “Her mother tried to convince me she was my daughter.”

  “I know all about that.”

  He runs a finger along his lower lip. “She’s not.”

  No shit, asshole. I’m about to say as much when he turns to Neil.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” Oakley says and walks away.

  I turn to the lawyer as soon as Oakley is out of earshot. “What the fuck is your problem? What the hell were you thinking? You know Taylor’s history. Why would you throw that fuck in her face?”

  “Jesus, you can’t possibly be that clueless. I spend all my time cleaning up the mess from your last girlfriend—”

  “She wasn’t my fucking girlfriend.”

  “While you’re out here making a new mess.” Neil’s eyes spark with anger. “I was hoping Taylor would spook her. You’re aware of who her mother is?”

  “Of course.”

  He laughs, but the sound is mocking. “And you’re still fucking her?”

  I ball my fists at my sides. “Watch it—”

  “She’s after your money. Just like her mom, she’ll end up pregnant and drag you through every court system in California, dirtying your name and reputation, all for a buck. If you thought Danielle was a problem—”

  “Taylor is nothing like her.”

  “Whatever you say.” He holds up his hands. “Stay with this girl if you want, have your fun. You’re keeping me in a job.”

  “I’m not listening to this shit.” I move to walk away from the prick, but he snags my arm.

  His whiskey breath is close to my face when he says, “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  I remove my arm from his grasp. “We’re done here.”

  I push through people, not giving a flying fuck who they are. I’m getting Taylor out of here, and after I make sure she’s okay, I’m going to kiss her. Hard.

  To erase her experience with Neil.

  To demolish any memory of Oakley.

  To remind myself that she’s mine and nothing will change that.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Taylor

  I bypass the bar and find the closest bathroom. Thankfully two of the three stalls are available. I relieve myself and feel dizzy as I go from sitting to standing. Two glasses of champagne on an empty stomach wasn’t the best idea.

  I sit back down on the toilet and take a minute to regain my composure. My hand is shaking and my heart races still from the face-to-face I just had with my namesake, Taylor Oakley.

  He’s a handsome man who uses his charm to get what he wants. I’m not surprised my mom could’ve been attracted to both him and my dad. They look nothing alike. Taylor is blonde and spindly, my dad a brunette behemoth. But they both have a presence about them that sucks up all the air in a room.

  The thought of Prophet causes a tinge of sadness in my chest. I miss him. I wonder what he’d say if I told him I met Taylor. I imagine the string of expletives and I smile, the thought only making me miss him more.

  Sick of the distance between us, I resolve to call him in the morning and squash all the silence between us. He’ll just have to get used to the idea of Ethan and me, and I believe he will, in time.

  I take a deep breath, try the standing thing again, and manage it just fine. When I go to wash my hands, there’s another woman—I assume the occupant of the stall when I came in—fixing her lipstick in the mirror. I smile at her, and seemingly surprised by my kindness, she smiles back.

  “I like your dress,” I say while squirting soap on my hands.

  “Thanks.” She smacks her lips together and grins. “I like yours too.” She eyes me for a second. “You’re Ethan Crow’s date.”

  “Yeah.” I dry my hands. “Taylor Marsten.” I hold out my hand awkwardly. Do women shake hands in the bathroom? I don’t even know.

  “Hailey Arenfield.” She laughs and shakes my hand, the whole exchange a little weird.

  Whoa… Arenfield. She looks too young to be married to the music mogul, then again, this is Los Angeles.

  “My first Music Awards. Can you tell?” My cheeks heat, but I hope the layers of makeup hide my blush.

  She sighs. “I’ve been to a million and I never get used to all the suffocating egos in one room.”

  “Any advice?” I grab my clutch, ready to head out.

  “Keep a smile on your face.” She grabs the door to leave. “There will be a million photos out there tomorrow and you don’t want anyone to catch you frowning—or worse, yawning.”

  “Good point.”

  She smiles and walks out, the door closing behind her—a foot stops the door and Taylor Oakley walks into the woman’s bathroom.

  I assume he stumbled into the wrong bathroom. “You’re in the women’s room.”

  His eyes come to me, and they’re full of pity and something darker. More sinister. Is he drunk?

  “No shit?” His greedy gaze crawls up my body, making me shiver.

  Dread fills my chest and my flight instinct tells me to run. “Suit yourself, I was just leaving.”

  I try to step around him, but he moves quickly to block my path.

  “Before you go, there’s something I’d like to do.” He drags his knuckles down the outside of my bare arm.

  “Don’t touch me!” I dart away from him, but the only place to escape is farther into the bathroom. I tell myself to remain calm and straighten my shoulders. “You should leave before someone catches you in here.”

  The corner of his mouth lifts in a smile that would probably come across as endearing if it weren’t for the circumstances. “My security is outside. This bathroom is temporarily out of service. We have all the time in the world.” His gaze lingers on my breasts.

  I swallow hard, forcing ba
ck a wave of champagne and stomach acid. “Time for what?”

  “You’re nervous. I like that.”

  “Why should I be nervous?” I size him up, wondering if I could out muscle him if he tried to grab me. Probably not.

  “Your mom was never nervous.” He moves closer slowly, silently, like a snake. “She was a tenacious little thing. So eager to please.”

  “I’m not my mom.” Please, don’t look at me like I’m her.

  My phone vibrates in my clutch and I go for it only to have him smack my bag from my hands and send it spinning across the floor.

  “Oh, I know you’re not.” He’s so close now I can smell the liquor on his breath. He runs his nose along my cheek.

  My muscles tense to fight, but I can’t find the strength to move. I turn away, my opposite cheek pressed against the wall, and a cry escapes my lips. His hand grips my hip in a brutal grasp that makes me whimper.

  My eyes fill with tears. “Please, don’t.”

  “You’re so beautiful,” he breathes against my skin.

  My vision blurs and I blink to clear it, sending a tear racing down my cheek.

  He moans and licks the moisture from my face. “Your shyness turns me on.”

  “Stop.” The word is barely a whisper as fear grips my vocal chords.

  He grabs my hand and presses it to his groin. “Feel how hard you make me. Tell me you want me inside you.” His hot breath pants against my neck before his hand grips my throat and squeezes. “Beg me to fuck you.”

  Panic zaps through me. I push at his chest, but his slender form is immovable. I try to kick him, but the fitted skirt of my gown makes it impossible. The expensive silk is my own straitjacket.

  “Yes,” he says, lust heavy in his voice as he tightens his hold on my neck. “Your pulse gives you away. You want me.”

  I gasp for air, the edges of my vision going dark. I know I have to stay conscious if I want to have a chance of getting away. Against my body’s demand for escape, I force myself to go slack, my muscles to relax, and my arms to drop to my sides.