by Virna DePaul
An agent just like myself.
I wince. A headache pounds in my temples, and the cut on my head that Kara had bandaged throbs. This is bad. Really, really bad. For one horrible second, I wish I could just quietly slip away and never see Kara again. She thinks I’m a beach bum, and I can’t imagine what she’d think and feel if she knew what I do for a living.
I mold people into stars.
I should try to slip away before she wakes. Or if she does wake up, I can make some bad excuse about why I’m saying goodbye. It’s not like she’s expecting anything else from me. We’d agreed this would be a one-night thing.
So why am I not moving? Why am I letting Kara sleep? How come I can’t stop staring at her beautiful face?
Simple.
I don’t want to walk away. There’s something inside me that is driven for more of Kara—more of her sassy attitude, more of her delicious body, more of her mouth against mine or wrapped around my cock…
I do not want to leave her side. I do not want to go back to the expensive beach house and be lonely for the rest of my forced vacation. I do not want to let her go.
She’d shove me out of her van the minute she found out what I was—who I was. But she doesn’t know who you are, a little voice whispered in the back of my head. That she hadn’t recognized my name and realized I was Declan Kiss of the Kiss Talent Agency said she’s totally out of touch with the music world. Anyone who’s anyone in music knows of my brother’s and my agency.
I had no clue what Kara Hester was doing driving around beaches in a beat-up old VW van filled with art supplies, pretending to be anyone but her real self, but maybe if she could pretend she’s someone else, so could I.
I mean, it’s not like I’m actually lying or anything. I’d told her my real name. I just don’t have to tell her what I do for a living.
Maybe, just maybe, she wouldn’t want me to leave. Maybe, just maybe, I could spend the rest of my vacation with this woman who’d somehow gotten past my well-reinforced defenses. And maybe, just maybe, this could be the beach vacation of a lifetime.
Because I want to spend as many minutes as I can with Kara—the tatted up sassy woman who’d rescued me when I thought I’d been rescuing her. And if I could have that time?
Kara may have regretted how her agent had turned her into some sort of an animatronic country-western facade, she may have regretted how the music industry had sucked the soul from her, but I’d make sure she never regretted being with me.
Suddenly a question pops into my mind.
What if I could convince Kara to return to music? She’d no longer be a teenage girl controlled by her agent, but a musician who has control over her image and music.
It would be better than her first go-around. Kara’s a true artist, a once-in-a-lifetime voice, presence, spirit. The world needs her voice. I know I’ve missed it. Needed it.
I want to know what music she’s writing now, and what she’s painting. I want to help her find a way to keep her muse while making it big once more. She deserves the fame and the money, and the world deserves her music.
I blow out a breath. This could be amazing—or a complete disaster. Then again, doesn’t that mean the risk would be worth it if it worked out?
I watch as Kara starts to wake up. She’s bleary-eyed, and she rubs her eyes as she yawns widely. When I see her pink tongue, I can’t stop myself from smiling. She looks like a sleepy kitten.
“You’re still here,” she murmurs and smiles, and I melt.
I pull her to me and place a kiss on her forehead. “Still here. That okay?”
She makes a small sound in the back of her throat. “Mmmm. More than okay.” She sits up and blinks, tipping her head from side to side. I hear crackles and pops. “Oh God, I have such a crick in my neck. Remember to tell me that wild sex in a cramped van is not the greatest idea.”
“Wild sex anywhere is a great idea. Wild sex with you is an even better idea. But it is awfully cramped in here.” My gaze lands on the art supplies again, and she notices. She moves to sit on the edge of the bed, looking for her clothing.
“What’s with all of the paints and stuff?” I can’t help but ask, wondering what she’ll say. I’m ninety-nine percent positive she won’t give me any indication that she’s the missing Kara Hester, but I want to give her that chance. Because if she comes clean with me about who she is, I’ll have to come clean with her about who I really am.
She shrugs, and I find I’m oddly relieved.
Two can play this game, Kara Hester. You pretend to be a drifter, and I’ll do the same. Let’s see where this takes us.
And in the back of my mind, I can already see where I want this to go—Kara, on a gigantic stage, surrounded by massive speakers and Jumbotrons, a throng of screaming fans, and me, taking in her music, her passion, her very essence as she croons into a microphone.
I’ve missed the brilliance that was Kara. And I aim to get it back.
6
KARA
When Declan asks me about the art supplies, I don’t know how to reply. Back when I was famous, people knew I loved art, too. I’d painted all the images for my album covers myself and other paintings of mine had been turned into posters and would be flashed up on the Jumbotrons when I performed. When I’d ditched it all, I couldn’t bear to leave behind creating art, though. And I’d loved having my art seen. Back in high school, before I’d been discovered as a musician, I’d painted a couple of murals on walls in my home town, and found I’d been driven to do that again. Running around incognito made it easy. I used email and a fake name to contract with people for large-scale murals, and used the money to live off of.
Wasn’t much, but at least I had an outlet for my creativity.
“I’m painting a mural,” I say, hoping he won’t keep pursuing the subject. “It’s just this thing I do. Gives me a chance to see the country.” There—that should satisfy Declan. A truthful answer, but not one that gave too much away.
A part of me wished I’d given him a fake name last night, but surely a beach bum wouldn’t connect this dark-haired, tatted up mural-painting vagabond named Kara with the wholesome blonde country western star with the super clean image named Kara from five years back. I only wish he hadn’t seen my guitar.
His eyes light up. “A mural? Of what?”
I hesitate in answering. Would he think I was lame if I said I wasn’t sure yet? I have tons of ideas floating in my head, of course, but I need to see the space—and the wall itself—before I’ll be able to choose what I want to paint. I’ve always been like that with my art. It’s not until I’m in the moment of creating that I have any idea how it’ll look or sound.
“It’s a surprise,” I find myself saying, hopping on one foot as I put on my jeans.
Declan stretches, and ruffles the bedding looking for his own clothes. “Now I’m definitely intrigued. At least give me a hint. Also, I feel like this is becoming a theme with us. You being secretive, me guessing.”
He glances quickly at me, and something flashes in his eyes, but I don’t know what it is. My heart does a little twist. Does he know why I have to be secretive? Has he guessed already? It would only take a quick Google search to figure out the truth. Photos of me are still all over the internet, even though it was five years ago. I look a lot different, and I know I certainly act a lot different than America’s Sweetheart the way I’d been ordered by Carter to act, but if Declan looked closely, he’d figure it all out. I’d read somewhere you can never become “unfamous,” and that’s certainly what happened with me. I’ll never not be Kara Hester.
As Declan busies himself putting on his clothing, I do the same, quietly, thinking, wondering. Does he know who I am?
But if he did, there’s no way he wouldn’t have said something by now. Every single person who’s found out who I am tries to get something out of me within the first ten minutes of meeting me. I don’t even say that cynically—it is what it is. I accepted it a long time ago.
; The dark hair, the tats, the living in the van thing, all were great camouflage. And that camouflage has stood for five years. I’m making too much out of nothing. Declan has no clue who I am, and it will stay that way.
My stomach growls again. “We’re dressed. Let’s go get something to eat. I mean…” It dawns on me that he could be getting dressed to leave. He may not want to stay, to hang around with me. Have I assumed too much?
“Not until you give me one tiny hint.”
Panic edges into my mind. A hint? Is he fishing for confirmation I’m Kara Hester? “About what?” I ask flatly.
He looks innocently puzzled, and nods to the art supplies. “About what your mural will be.”
Relief shoves away the panic and I find myself smiling. “Oh, that. Um, yeah. Sure. It’ll be a mural on a wall of a historical building in a beach town a little south of here. The town’s famous for harboring Union boats during the Civil War, helping the local resistance to the Confederates. The town council put out a notice, and a bunch of artists tried to get the contract, but the town council chose me. That’s why I’m on the road right now.”
Declan raised his eyebrows. “Impressive.” Then he gave me a look. “Um… can I help you paint it?”
I’m shocked. I’ll admit, it’s not the question I expected, whatsoever. He wants to come with me and paint a mural? Doesn’t Declan have a job? A life? Why would he want to travel to a tiny town that had a tiny part in helping the Union win the Civil War?
When he licks his lips and gazes at my breasts, it dawns on me. Oh, I got it. It’s not the destination he wants—it’s the person he’d be alongside.
I gulp. He watches me, assessing. He gives me a look that seems to dare me to say no. So, I call his bluff.
“Sure, you can come. I can’t pay much, though. And it will take quite a while.”
“Works for me.”
I frown. “You don’t have a job you have to get back to?” What did beach bums do, anyway?
“Consider me on vacation.”
I stop myself from rolling my eyes. Nice way to say he’s unemployed.
I should be more careful. Taking a stranger into my van on a journey where no one knows where I am or who I’m with isn’t smart. But then, neither was sleeping with him last night. Declan may not have much going for himself at the moment, but he’d been a true hero last night, trying to rescue me from a loud episode of Law & Order. I know I can trust him.
So when he holds out his hand, instead of saying goodbye, I take it and shake it. I can’t stop the smile that spreads across my face.
I’m almost ready to ease into him for another kiss when my stomach grumbles again, this time louder and more defiant, not to be ignored.
“So, yeah. Time to eat before heading out,” Declan says. Then he waggles his eyebrows and says, “I mean, eat food.”
I can’t help a soft laugh at his lame innuendo. “Sex sure does make a girl hungry,” I say wryly.
“Sex with me can make anyone starved, I’m that good.”
“Oh, good god. Keep that ego in your pants, at least until after breakfast.”
“Aye aye, Cap’n,” Declan says, saluting me and grinning like a gorgeous, gorgeous fool.
I drive us into the small town and park near a café. After we eat our weight in bacon, hash-browns, eggs and pancakes with at least a gallon of coffee between us, Declan tells me he wants to swing by his motel and get some stuff. I need to buy a few things—tampons, granola bars, a few more bottles of water—and he tells me he’ll meet me back at the van in a half hour.
After we’ve gone our separate ways, I hurry with my grocery purchases, and am back at the empty van, worry eating at my gut. What if he doesn’t show? What if he’s bailed? What if last night had been just a one-off, the way we’d originally agreed?
Why do I care? I ask myself. Does it matter if Declan Kiss never comes back?
The heavy darkness weighing down my stomach tells me it does matter. Somehow, in under twelve hours, Declan has come to mean something to me.
So when I see Declan turning the corner, an overstuffed backpack over his shoulder and a wide smile on his face, I’m more than relieved. I’m elated.
And when he goes to the driver’s side automatically, I don’t tell him not to.
I toss him the keys, instead. “I’m tired of driving,” I say, surprising myself when I realize it’s true. Five years of drifting is a long time to be taking the wheel. “You good for a while?”
He salutes me. “I think I can manage.”
I give him directions, although all we’re doing is getting back onto I-95 and following it south. Declan handles the clunky van like a pro, and I settle in. The drive is pretty, and I roll down my window and set my feet on the windowsill as we drive. We don’t talk, but I somehow know we don’t need to. Listening to music on my trusty cassette player that’s pretty much the most high-tech thing in this old car, we drive and drive.
For the first time in a while, I feel liberated. And—dare I think it? Happy.
All my life, I’ve played by the rules. I played by Carter’s rules until it almost broke me. I played by the industry’s rules, and by my parents’ rules, and by society’s rules. I did the right thing because I was convinced that it would yield rewards in the end. But as I grew older—and wiser—I realized that not all of the rules are worth following.
I was reckless last night to sleep with a man I’d just met, but I can’t regret it. It only fuels my fire to do it again. To keep being reckless, adventurous. I don’t want to stay safe behind metaphorical walls, doing what everyone else wants me to do.
I want to live my life by my own rules. And I think I know exactly who could be my rule-breaking partner in crime.
I glance over at Declan. He’s wearing dark sunglasses, his left arm hangs out his window as he drives, and he looks as content as he did while he fell asleep last night. I suddenly want to know everything about him. Why he felt the need to help a girl he thought was in distress last night. A lot of people would have run away from danger or called 911, not flung themselves over a bluff on a clumsy rescue mission. I want to know where he wants to go, what he wants to be. Why he would want to go paint a mural with me in the first place.
When Declan catches me looking at him, he smiles. I smile back. I’ll ask him my questions soon enough, but not right now. It’s such a gorgeous day, and I want to do crazy, awesome things. When I turn back to looking out the window, I realize that although I’ve traveled all over the world, this is the first time I’ve really been able to watch the world pass me by.
It’s that thought that I hold inside as we keep driving.
7
DECLAN
When we arrive in a town called Mudflat Landing, I can’t help but wonder if we’re lost. This is the town where Kara is going to paint her mural? It can’t have more than 500 residents, if that, tucked away at the end of a creek attached to one of the long, meandering estuaries off the Atlantic, somewhere—and who knows where—above Florida. About twenty minutes ago we’d exited from the highway and taken a back road for what seemed like an eternity before we arrived. The stores dotting Main Street are as quaint as apple pie, and the houses we pass are small and tidy and all old, as if this is a place time forgot about.
We’ve driven most of the day, and it’s now dusk, with few people on the sidewalks. There are a couple of businesses open—a pub, a small family style restaurant—but other than that, the town is quiet. Seems like Mudflat Landing isn’t known for its nightlife.
“Where’s this building of yours?” I ask. It can’t be far from here, considering Mudflat Landing is about as small as it gets.
Kara is looking around, squinting against the dying light. When we turn a corner, she points. “There it is!”
The building isn’t anything I’d call extraordinary: red brick, rectangular, and with nothing but a small sign on its east side that labels it as “Customs House.”
I park in a lot across the street. “You
’re sure this is it?”
She nods. “Been here since before the Civil War. Apparently the townsfolk had some elaborate ruse to make the Confederates think the stuff coming into the Customs Office wasn’t from up north. The guy I talked to, Donnie, said the County wanted to tear it down. But the locals got a provision to keep it up as long as they can make it prettier. So that’s where I come in.”
Kara hops out of the van and before I can yank the key out of the ignition, she’s pulled open the side door and is scrambling around in the back, pulling out her art supplies.
I glance at the time. With the light waning, soon it’ll be too dark to paint. I get out of the car, coming to her side.
“Shouldn’t we wait until morning?”
“I love painting at this time of day.” She shoves a bag into my hand. “Come on. Donnie said there’s a ladder we can use, too. Let’s get started.”
I’m not sure this is the greatest idea, and there’s something about this whole setup I don’t trust. Why isn’t Donnie here? Doesn’t Kara need to sign paperwork or something? Where’s her payment? Does she have a contract signed?
I’m itching to grill Kara to make sure she’s protected, but before I open my mouth to start asking questions, I stop myself. For years I followed the rules, pushing hard against them but never breaking them, fighting for what I knew my clients needed. I worked so hard I put myself in the hospital.
So now?
Now it’s time to relax and go with the flow. Stop asking questions. Stop analyzing the situation. Clearly Kara can take care of herself.
If I start pushing now with questions, I could make her suspicious. And besides, Kara’s so enthusiastic, it’s hard not to join in on her high energy.
I heft the bag of supplies over my shoulder and follow her around the corner of the building. “Just point me in the right direction,” I say. Then I grin. “And don’t give me a paintbrush. You have no idea what damage I’ll do.”
Kara chooses a wall that faces west, which helps give us a little more light as the sun sinks even lower. I can’t help but drink her in: her hair wild and free, her skin golden. Her tattoos seem brighter somehow, the one on her right arm a twisting set of vines interspersed with birds.