Famously First: A Second Chance Romance

by Roxy Reid

  I wonder who she’s smiling at.

  Nope, no you don’t wonder that, I tell myself sternly.

  Why did she apply? Is it just the money? Because including that photo of Ryan’s Irish Pub feels like a challenge.

  I exit out of her website. It doesn’t matter why she applied. All that matters is she did.

  Bridget’s tapping her foot impatiently, “If you aren’t sure, I recommend—”

  “I want this one,” I say, passing the tablet to Bridget. This decision may blow up in my face, but if there’s even a chance I can avoid working with Zane, I’ll take it. “I want Charlie De Luca.”

  3

  Charlie

  If you’re flying out of New York on a private jet, you don’t go to JFK like a normal person. No, you go across the river to a private airport filled with finance bros and men in suits worth almost as much as my camera equipment. I’m trying to figure out which direction to go—how do you even enter an airport when there’s no TSA to yell at you? When an amused voice behind me says, “To your left.”

  It’s his voice. I know it instantly, even if it’s gotten deeper and bossier since I last heard it.

  “Charlie,” he says, and I swear I can feel his voice running through me, making every hair on the back of my neck stand up. And suddenly I remember a really, really crappy fact.

  I was never very good at lying to him.

  “It’s ok to look at me,” Finn says mockingly.

  I turn, nerves jangling in my stomach.

  The sunlight slants through the glass walls, highlighting him like some kind of angel.

  Well, maybe a fallen angel.

  Now it’s a different kind of nerves running through me, because holy crap, Finn is beautiful. More than beautiful. Hot. Handsome. Sexy. For the first time in my life, I understand the urge to throw my underwear at a rockstar.

  Even though I know how bad he is at oral.

  Well, 18-year-old Finn was bad at oral. It’s possible 28-year-old Finn is a different story.

  He’s definitely broader and stronger than I remember, with new tattoos twining up his arms. He still wears jeans and a t-shirt, but now they’re expensive, hanging on his body like a dream. His nut-brown hair is stylishly cut, but it’s messy enough that I know he still runs his fingers through it when he’s thinking.

  His green eyes are exactly the same though, as they look me up and down. The guitar case in his left hand is the same too, if a little more beat up, and a little more covered in stickers.

  And the tiny smirk, in the corner of his mouth? The smirk that could make a girl think she’s special, that she’s the only one in on the joke? That’s still there too.

  Only now I know what that smirk means.

  Right. Time to practice lying. I sigh heavily, “Well, that’s a disappointment.”

  “How so?” Finn asks, cocky. He knows I’m faking.

  “I wouldn’t want to hurt your feelings,” I say. “Not before your big concert. I know you get sensitive before a show. Someone says something mean, and it gets in your head and then you can’t … perform,” I finish suggestively.

  “I do not have issues performing.”

  This time it’s my turn to smirk, “If you say so.” I turn on my heel and run straight into a towering, angry looking man who stumbles backward, spilling coffee on his suit.

  “SHIT. FUCK. What the hell?”

  “I’m so sorry—”

  “Do I look like I care? This is Armani, and I’ve got a meeting in ten minutes. Bitch.”

  Suddenly Finn is next to me.

  “Back off,” Finn growls, advancing until he’s physically standing between me and the man.

  “She just fucked up my meeting, and maybe a major business deal—”

  “If your deal depended on a suit, you were already fucked. But here,” Finn holds up a fifty, “for dry cleaning.”

  The man reaches for it, and Finn flicks it off to the side, “Oops. Fetch.”

  The man glowers, before checking his watch, swearing, and storming past us.

  Finn watches to make sure the man leaves, before turning back and realizing I’m staring at him.

  “What?” Finn asks, suddenly self-conscious.

  “You didn’t have to do that,” I say, irritated. “I can take care of myself.”

  “Oh, that’s cute,” Finn says. “You think that had something to do with you? Nah. I just hate bullies.”

  He walks past me, guitar swinging jauntily.

  I hurry after him. Partly because my job is to get dirt on him, and this seems like as good a time as any to start digging, and partly because I’m still not entirely sure where we’re going.

  As soon as we round the corner, Finn is swarmed. There’s a guy with spiked hair explaining they have to change the bass solo because he sprained his finger, and a woman in black telling Finn she’s booked press interviews in New Orleans and there will be no arguing. There’s a bald man saying something about projections and another who keeps opening his mouth to speak but can’t get a word in edgewise.

  It’s weird to see. Finn was a little bit of a loner in high school. Not a creepy loner, he just didn’t have time for anyone who bored him. Every now and then he’d stand up for a kid being picked on, but other than that he slouched in the back of class and doodled in his notebook. We probably would have stayed strangers, except that his parents’ pub was across the street from my parents’ Italian restaurant, and we both worked at our parents’ places. Sometimes we’d end up walking the same way after school, and after a certain point it seemed less awkward to just talk to him.

  And hadn’t that been a mistake. High school me had never met anyone like Finn Ryan. Rude, smart, defiant, passionate. Of course, you had to wade through a heavy layer of sarcasm and defensiveness to get there. But I was young and optimistic, and he smelled good, so wade I did.

  I guess in some ways I thought of Finn as my secret good thing. No one else noticed how talented he was. How kind he could be. How magnetic he was, when he was looking into your eyes and telling you something he was passionate about.

  Of course, then he broke my heart, and I trained myself not to notice any of those things. Which, ironically, was exactly when the rest of the world started noticing all of those things.

  “Who’s she?” a young woman with an asymmetrical haircut and a lot of garment bags asks, looking at me.

  Finn throws me an inscrutable look, “This is our new photographer, Charlie De Luca. Don’t be too much of a dick to her.”

  “Charlie De Luca?” the guy with the spiked hair asks. “Isn’t she—”

  But a pretty Latina woman I’m pretty sure I recognize as Finn’s drummer elbows him, so neither Spiked Hair nor I get the answer to that question.

  “I’m Mariana Alers, drummer,” she says, coming forward with her hand outstretched. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Nice to meet you too.” We shake hands.

  One by one they all introduce themselves. The guy with spiked hair is Owen, the bassist. The woman with the garment bags is Karmine, who handles wardrobe. The mildly terrifying woman in black is Bridget, Finn’s manager. The bald guy is Terry, who handles lights and projections. The guy who can’t get a word in doesn’t actually manage to get his name in either, but I do find out he does the audio stuff.

  They’re so open and teasing and welcoming, I feel a little twinge of guilt. It’s one thing to fuck up Finn’s career. But what about the ripple effect it will have on everyone else’s jobs?

  Not your problem, I tell myself. If Finn’s doing something that puts everyones’ jobs at risk, that’s his fault, not yours.

  I extract myself from the welcome wagon and go sit in an overly plush chair by floor to ceiling windows overlooking the runway. I’m not going to get Finn to confess anything while he’s surrounded by employees, and I”m not going to get any of them to badmouth their boss when he’s standing right there. I might as well get a moment of peace to pull myself together.

  I pu
ll my smallest camera out, the one I use most often for city photography. I stare at the screen on the back and start clicking through the photos I took in the taxi on the way over, wondering if I got anything good.

  “Whatcha doing?” Finn asks by my head, and I jump. Finn’s leaning his forearms on the back of the chair next to me, smiling down at me. Like he’s trying to be friendly.

  As if we could ever be friends.

  “Enjoying a view without you in it,” I bite off.

  He staggers back, a hand over his heart like he’s been shot, “I’m wounded, wounded I say.”

  “As if anything I do could ever hurt you,” I say.

  The mirth leaves his green eyes, and he looks away, out the window. His profile is moody, beautiful, complicated, and the urge to capture him in my camera surprises me.

  It’s an old urge, and I almost press it down, but then I remember this is what I’m here to do. For both my real job and my cover. So I silently lift my camera, focus on Finn and click.

  He scowls at the camera, and I click again, just to be a brat.

  “What was that for?”

  “Just doing my job,” I say sweetly.

  “About that. Why did you take this job?” he asks with repressed casualness.

  I don’t know why the question takes me by surprise. Finn’s not stupid, and he knows me. He was going to ask it at some point.

  I start packing up the camera, futzing with the lens cap as an excuse to avoid looking at him, “There’s this thing called money, and you’re paying me a lot of it …”

  “So it’s just the money?”

  Finally I look up at him, keeping my expression guileless, “Oh, that’s cute. Did you think I took this job for you?”

  He narrows his eyes, all traces of friendliness slowly vanishing.

  Just then someone comes over to tell Finn that his jet is ready for us to board. Finn nods, like this is normal information to hear.

  He signals everyone else, “The jet’s ready.”

  There’s a general shuffle as everyone collects suitcases and garment bags and musical instruments.

  Finn catches me shaking my head as I grab my own bags.

  “What?” he asks, scowling.

  “Do you even hear yourself? The jet’s ready,” I mimic. “You used to hate rich crap like this. Said it was killing the planet.”

  “It’s efficient,” he says, stiffly.

  “Is that what comforts you when you’re lying awake late at night?”

  “Oh honey,” Finn’s smile is sultry. “That’s not what keeps me up at night.”

  Heat hits me as I remember all the ways he used to keep me up at night. He wasn’t great at oral but there were other things he was very, very good at.

  I think he’s remembering too, because his smile vanishes and his green eyes go dark.

  I used to find it exhilarating, how quickly Finn’s moods could change. A small part of me, a very small part of me, still does.

  “Right,” Bridget claps her hands together, startling us both, and it’s only when I break eye contact with Finn that I realize everyone is staring at me with expressions ranging from curiosity to horror.

  When I’m settled on the jet next to Mariana, I lean over and ask quietly, “Did I do something wrong? Back in the airport?”

  She shakes her head, signaling the flight attendant for two mimosas, “No. It’s just no one talks to Finn like that.”

  My investigation ears perk up, “Why? Is he mean?”

  “Not mean, just … cutting. You know at dog parks, when there’s a dog that’s faster than all the other dogs, so after a while the other dogs won’t play chase with him, because he’s too fast for it to be fun for them?”

  “… Yes?”

  “Finn’s the fast dog. No one wants to trade barbs with him, because he’ll skewer you alive, and it’s just not fun for us anymore.” Mariana accepts the mimosas from the flight attendant and passes one to me, “But it looks like he just found a bitch fast enough to play with.”

  Mariana raises her mimosa, “To keeping men on their toes.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” I say and toss back my mimosa.

  But as the jet takes off, I wonder, what have I gotten myself into?

  4

  Charlie

  The crowd is screaming. Chanting and cheering for Finn Ryan.

  I’m standing backstage at the New Orleans concert, my pulse pounding. I think it’s the first time I’ve been in a venue this big, and it’s definitely the first time I’ve shot anything in a venue this big. While Finn and the tech team spent yesterday running the show in a new location, I spent hours testing the space and trying to figure out the best lens and camera settings to use. I don’t want to get in the way of the actual concert, so until I get a better idea of how the show flows, I’ll be shooting from the wings and the side of the stage.

  I tried to get a few candids yesterday too, to supplement the concert stuff, but mostly I just ended up with Finn ruining perfectly good shots by crossing his eyes and making faces at the camera.

  It would serve him right if I gave one of those to False Prophet.

  My phone buzzes. I’ve got a text message from Shaun Coleman. Anything good yet?

  Just that no one’s heard any of the songs for the new album yet. But I’m still getting them to trust me, I text back and shove my phone into my pants pocket.

  Someone claps me on the shoulder, and I jump.

  “Easy there,” Finn says in my ear. “Why are you nervous? I’m the one going out there.”

  “I’m not nervous,” I say.

  “Kai got most of his best photos from over there,” Finn says, indicating a spot farther downstage.

  “Well, I’m not Kai,” I say.

  He gives me an irritated look that would normally have me scrambling to appease a client. But it’s Finn. He’s not a normal client. So I raise my chin and hold my ground.

  And I’m gonna be honest. It feels good to just flat out tell a client they’re wrong. Maybe I’d like my photography business better if I stood up for myself more.

  Of course, then I’d like my bank account less. For all his faults, Finn doesn’t seem to fire any of his people for pushing back.

  The crowd’s shouting crescendos, and Finn rolls his eyes.

  “They love me. They really, really love me,” he says sarcastically, and it almost surprises a laugh out of me.

  I’d forgotten that as often as he turns that sharp tongue of his on the rest of the world, it’s sharpest of all when he’s mocking himself.

  He rolls his shoulders back and strides on stage with Mariana and Owen following.

  I raise my camera in time to catch the three of them silhouetted against the stage lights, and then we’re off and running.

  The concert is a blur of sound and light and the snap of my camera shutter, while Finn’s voice soars over everything, wrapping around me. He’s electric on stage. It’s like he’s singing with his whole body, with his whole soul. It’s easy to see how someone who just met him would get swept away and only see his power, talent, and charisma.

  But through the lens of the camera and long-ago years spent studying his every expression, I can see the work he’s putting in. The way the corner of his mouth tenses a little bit before a difficult harmony. The way his seemingly natural, unplanned movements around the stage mean he can always signal his band mates before a shift in a song.

  Finn has worked hard at this. I’ve been telling myself that he lucked into his success. That it’s just another case of the arts industry rewarding charming assholes.

  And of course there has been some luck to it. There are plenty of talented, hardworking musicians who don’t make it, especially if they don’t fit neatly into our cultural assumptions of what a rockstar should look or sound like.

  But Finn hasn’t wasted an inch of his luck.

  “Drink this,” a woman says, and I look up from the camera to see Karmine from Wardrobe shoving a bottle of water at me.
It breaks my concentration just enough to realize my arms are exhausted, and I’m crazy thirsty.

  I accept the water gratefully. “So how long have you been with Finn and the band?” I ask.

  “Since their first Coachella performance,” Karmine says proudly.

  “So you must like working with Finn,” I say, finishing my water.

  “Oh yes,” Karmine says. Then she laughs, “Well mostly. When he transforms into a bitchy perfectionist during the final month leading up to a tour, I kind of hate him. But then we hit the road, and I’m as proud as I’ve been of anything in my professional life. Plus, there’s the security factor.”

  “The what?”

  “The music business can be … well. When you’re starting out, you’re scared to ruffle feathers. So if there’s someone you’re working with who’s doing something that’s not ok, and they have higher standing than you …” Karmine shrugs.

  I feel a little sick. Please God, let that not be the scandal False Prophet heard rumors about. If stuff that bad is happening on Finn’s tour, then I really don’t know him at all.

  I lift my camera so I don’t have to look her in the eye, “You’re saying you need the job, even if the workplace is unsafe.”

  “No! The opposite.”

  I look up from my camera, surprised.

  “I keep coming back because I don’t have to worry about that kind of crap. Finn fires people in a heartbeat if they’re doing something that puts other people at risk. Whether that’s getting handsy, or showing up high to operate heavy equipment, or just blaming their crappy work on someone else instead of owning up to their mistakes. He even fired Zane Wright, his producer, and that man’s pretty much a legend.” She glances at the stage. “Finn makes you work hard, but he works hard too, and he never turns a blind eye to what’s going on during his tour.”

  I feel a swell of pride. Completely misplaced, obviously. Finn is not mine to be proud of.