Two Hearts and a Lie (Offstage Book 2)

by Rica Grayson

  Two Hearts and a Lie

  Offstage Book 2

  Rica Grayson

  Copyright © 2020 by Rica Grayson

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to persons, living or dead, is coincidental. Any use of company or product names is only used for literary effect. All trademarks and copyrights belong to their respective owners.

  Receive updates about new releases, snippets, and more. Sign up to the mailing list at: http://www.subscribepage.com/ricagrayson

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Epilogue

  Also by Rica Grayson

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Prologue

  I know it’s impossible I’ll ever meet Ryan Carson, but I’d love to.

  I mean, dreams do come true, right?

  -Blaire’s Diary

  Blaire

  The first time I saw Ryan Carson on national television, I knew he was the one.

  I was smitten. He was handsome in that charming boy-next-door way—perfect teeth, magnetic almost-gray eyes. Even better smile. He had a voice to match his face, and a personality that made me feel like we could be friends… if only we’d meet.

  And instantly, I had grand visions of the way we’d meet. We’d unknowingly bump into each other at a cafe. It would be magical, like love at first sight. And I suppose it was for me. Time would feel suspended, and everyone in the cafe would simply melt away.

  I hang the most recent poster of him on my bedroom wall and stare up at it proudly. It’s my most recent one, next to the one I was lucky enough to get from a limited-edition magazine last year.

  I suppose he’s like my moon. He’s comfort when self-doubt creeps up and every time my parents tell me pursuing music is nothing but a dream. So I bought all his albums. I went to his shows. I can probably sing all his songs in my sleep, too. As far as I’m concerned, they’re pop perfection.

  Music. It’s the one thing I consider myself good at. It’s silly, but in the interviews I’ve watched f him, I’ve found something so comforting in his passion for it. His drive. It makes me feel like I could do anything—rule the world. Make music people love.

  My door pushes open and my brother bursts into my room. He opens his mouth and shakes his head, lost for words. He can’t seem to say anything for a while.

  “What is it?” I ask, bewildered.

  “I’m doing it,” he finally says, determination steeling his voice.

  I place a hand on my hip. “Doing…?” I prompt, brow raised in question.

  “I’m going to be Ryan Carson’s bassist on tour. And by the way... He’s coming over.”

  It feels like the room shrank the moment Ryan stepped inside our house. Like a coward, I’m hiding behind my bedroom door, partially open as I peek outside the hallway to take a glimpse of him. He’s sitting in one of our lounges. My breath catches. Wow. I’m so used to seeing him on television, posters, and even my phone’s wallpaper, but now he’s right here. Shelly, my sister, had just gone out with friends. She will be so mad that she missed this. She likes his music too.

  “Chris, who is that?” Ryan asks bluntly, looking pointedly in my direction.

  And I thought I hid well. I’m caught, like a deer in the headlights. For a moment, I forget to breathe.

  My brother turns his head and catches me staring at them.

  “Oh. That’s my sister,” my brother replies casually. He frowns when I still don’t move from my place. Then to my horror, he strides towards me. No, no, no. Don’t come here. But he doesn’t listen. He ignores my death glare, and then he takes my hand, trying to pull me out of my room. Just in time, I place my hand by the side of the doorframe and dig my heels in the ground, stopping him. I’m only half outside my room. Success.

  “I—I think I’m good right here,” I whisper in panic, eyes wide.

  The truth is, I’m terrified to meet someone so… so everything. Intensely charismatic. Sexy. Famous. I’m going to act really stupid around him and only embarrass myself more. I mean, I’ve dreamt about meeting him, but it feels too soon. Somehow I don’t feel like I’ll ever be ready. I’m gangly and too plain, and what on earth will we talk about?

  “Huh? But he can’t see you from over there.” Ignorant to my freak-out, he continues to pull my hand, and I feel my grip slipping.

  “Chris! I’m really fine where I am.”

  “Yes, but Ryan’s over there. How are you supposed to talk to him? Blaire, I thought you really like—"

  Realizing what he’s about to say with Ryan not too far away, I loosen my grip on the frame of my doorway, and since my brother is still pulling my hand, my body crashes into his.

  Ouch.

  His breath whooshes out in surprise. “Ow. What the hell?” He rubs his ribs. He then gives me a light push forward. “Here she is! She finally came out.”

  I force a smile, letting out a nervous laugh. I give my brother a sidelong look. I can’t believe he just did that. Somehow, it feels equivalent to throwing me to a den of wolves. Except it took form in the shape of one frowning, infuriatingly gorgeous man.

  He’s taller than me, I realize. I’m tall for being sixteen—something I’m often teased about. “Hi!” My voice comes out high pitched. Ahh. That didn’t come out right. It sounded much more confident in my head. “I’m—I’m Blaire.” I’m only introducing myself and I’m already stuttering.

  Ryan blinks, scratching his cheek. Our eyes meet, and I look away. I don’t want to make him uncomfortable by staring. But I notice, from a quick glance, that his lips quirk up at my awkwardness. My breath stops.

  He gives me a look like he can’t quite figure me out. “Ryan,” he says, holding out a hand.

  I take it, and the moment my skin brushes against his, I gasp, because it’s as if a current passes through us. My brother clears his throat and says that he’ll grab something from the kitchen. And as quick as Ryan held it, he lets my hand go. Did he feel it too?

  Now we’re all alone in the living room, and I have to remember to breathe. Do we even have anything in common? Then it comes to me. “Um. So I wrote this song… Want to hear it?” I regret the words soon as I ask. Oh my God. What am I doing?

  My question seems to take him aback. He shrugs. “Sure,” he answers, curiosity in his eyes.

  Why did I say that? As if I don’t have trouble performing in front of people already. But he doesn’t seem opposed to the idea. Well… How many teenagers can say they’ve had a chance to perform in front of Ryan Carson? No one I know for sure.

  I hurry to grab the guitar from my room, and like I’ve done many times before, I carry it with me. Suddenly, I’m conscious that the bottom half of my guitar is covered with glitter stickers. Maybe he’ll think it’s
terrible. No. Stop.

  Here goes. I strum my guitar, starting to play the song I just recently finished. It’s one of those songs where I couldn’t get the tune out of my head at midnight, and so I decided to just write it. It turned out to be about an old crush who wouldn’t spare me a glance in the classroom a year ago. I can’t look at Ryan, because if I do, I’m bound to make a mistake.

  It’s strange, singing something so personal in front of someone. Almost like pouring your guts out. And I immediately realize it’s a mistake, because I just skipped a couple of steps ahead in the getting-to-know-you stage—like baring my soul in front of a stranger. Is this how he feels every time he releases his songs?

  And yet without looking up at him, I feel Ryan’s eyes on me the entire time. My brother returns with glasses and a pitcher of a honey-orange drink. “Mom made some peach tea. Hey, what’s this song, Blaire?” he asks me, sliding next to me on the lounge. My voice fades off and my fingers stop playing, their scrutiny overwhelming.

  I shrug, embarrassed, looking down at my slippers. “It doesn’t have a title yet. I just wrote it.” My face heats up. Heart in my throat, I look up at Ryan, whose eyes now look more like a gunmetal blue. I wait patiently, a small, hesitant smile on my lips. “W-what do you think?”

  I watch him expectantly, the nerves almost making me want to run back to my room. But somehow, I muster all the courage I can and make myself stay.

  The indent on his forehead deepens, and then he opens his mouth to say, “You sound like a dying rat.”

  Overnight, my moon had died, taking all the stars with him. Someone who seemed so friendly and charismatic turned out to be an illusion. I admired him so much. It was a mistake.

  The more time my brother spent with Ryan, the more I did, too, and not through any fault of my own. And the more I learnt that he is the worst. With me, he isn’t like how he is with everyone else. He teases me all the time. I’m convinced he reserves all his mean and insulting remarks for me just so he can watch me implode.

  I don’t know if he was simply going through a rough patch that day he insulted my singing. Maybe he didn’t like my hair that day. Or maybe I looked at him wrong.

  But still, it hurt. And so around him, I can never let my guard down.

  “Blaire, don’t get mad, okay?” my brother asks me, guilt on his face, reminding me of that time on Halloween when he took my chocolate. It’s my seventeenth birthday and we’re holding a small party at home. I’m not one for large parties, so I only invited a couple of my close friends.

  Uh-oh. That doesn’t sound good. “What is it?” I ask cautiously. He hasn’t even been gone for too long. He left earlier to go pick up the phone he’d forgotten at a friend’s house, and now he’s back.

  To my surprise, Ryan walks in behind him, and it’s as if everyone in the room goes still. All night I wondered if he would come. Seeing him, my friends ask me about him all at once, talking over each other. I’m still in shock that he came at all. It’s no secret to the people around us that whenever we meet, they know to give us a wide berth. Because bickering ensued, among other things.

  Wanting to spare him from all the hushed whispers and staring, I decide to approach him instead. “You came.” It almost comes out as a question. This has to be some kind of mistake. “Sure you’re in the right place?” And even as the question comes off as a joke, I steel my heart against the possible jab to avoid disappointment.

  His lips quirk up. “Positive.”

  I don’t expect it at all, but he hands me a bouquet of flowers. They’re large red roses. A smile hits my cheeks immediately. Because it means he remembered, and he cared enough to give me something. A spark of hope fills me. It strikes me that maybe it’s an apology present.

  “Happy Birthday, Blaire,” he says, and he grins back at me. There’s no snide and there’s no teasing. It’s hard to ignore his charm, because he has it in spades. Much to my mom’s delight, she sees the flowers and announces that she’ll put them in a vase, and even with my insistence to do it, she all but pushes me out of the kitchen.

  We walk towards our deck in the back of the house in silence. He sighs audibly in relief. Maybe, just like me, he finds peace in the quiet. I wonder what it’s like to live with security around him all the time. In a way, it must feel suffocating. “Hope kicking me out isn’t in the cards,” he remarks.

  I snort. “I’d never hear the end of it if I did that.” From Mom, Dad, Chris, and even Shelly. I blow out a breath, looking at the dark sky, the clouds so thick I can barely see the stars. “Everyone’s probably talking about us,” I mutter. I bite my lip. I didn’t really mean to say that out loud. I ignore his questioning stare. “Thanks for coming.”

  I don’t know why I try to fill the silence with words. He still made it here, even though he never really liked me. He looks up at the sky, too. And it’s odd, being next to him, sharing the same view. “It really means a lot,” I add softly. I tuck a lock of hair behind my ear.

  I don’t know if he realizes it, but he’s holding my heart in his hands—fragile and guarded all at once.

  “Least I can do,” he replies, but the look on his face is pensive.

  It’s then that Darth, our dachshund, runs towards us, welcoming Ryan with excited yaps.

  “Darth, no,” I tell her. She doesn’t listen. Still, she barks at Ryan, planting her paws on his pants, and wags her tail in excitement.

  “It’s fine.” Ryan gives her a good rub on her back. She melts like a puddle under him. Gah. Traitor.

  It’s so strange that he’s being so agreeable. I can’t help but feel there’s a catch to all this.

  He raises a dark brow. “Darth?” he asks me. Humor dances in his eyes. “Did you name her that?”

  I roll my eyes. “Chris did. Actually, he wanted Darth Vader, but we reached a compromise. So Darth it is.”

  He chuckles, the sound rich and warm. Why? Why do I like the sound of his laugh? That it was me who caused it?

  “She chewed on everyone’s favorite shoes,” I explain. “I don’t think we were ever the same after that.”

  “I’m sure.” I catch a flash of teeth, and decide I like it too much.

  I shake my head. I glance behind us, to where everyone is gathered. I need to end it right here. “We should probably go back. Face the music and all that.”

  “Just for tonight,” he says unexpectedly, drawing my gaze to him.

  I blink, not really understanding.

  “Forget about everything else for tonight, Blaire.” His dark eyes see through me.

  He means forget all the fights. Everything he ever said. I don’t know if I can do that for tonight—because that would mean tomorrow, and after that, we would go back to before. So instead I say, “We should go.”

  As I start to move, Ryan stops me, his hand closing over mine. Something flashes in his eyes. It was brief, but I caught it. He wants me. Before today, I couldn’t imagine a universe where he did. It surprises me. Empowers me. The knowledge hums through my veins. Heady, almost.

  About to ask him what he’s doing, he leans close and kisses me. His touch is electrifying, my heart racing fast. I stand frozen for a moment before I melt into it. My lips part and he deepens the kiss, and when his fingers brush over the back of my neck, my knees go weak.

  Then I hear my brother’s voice calling my name from inside the house, and it’s as if a dash of reality hits us. We break apart. Dazed, I try to catch my breath. But when I see the look on his face, the bottom of my stomach drops like lead. Remorse is plain on his face, and the bubble we’d created shatters. “Ah, hell, I’m sorry, Blaire,” Ryan says, each word like a sharp stab against my chest.

  My cheeks turn hot. He regrets it. “Right. Of course you are,” I mutter softly. What else did I really expect?

  I start to turn away, but his hand grips my wrist. “Blaire. I really am.”

  He’s killing me with his words, because shame sweeps over me, like a living thing that consumes everything in its pat
h. My first kiss, too. A lump forms in my throat, my eyes getting wet, even when the last thing I want is for him to know how much he affects me. It’s not his fault, but I can’t help it. I didn’t know kisses make you stupid.

  I run off in a hurry, but even as he calls after me, I don’t look back.

  A day after the kiss, I unfollow him in all my fan accounts. I delete his music. I take my posters down. I couldn’t quite make myself rip them apart, but I stow them away in a few boxes. In the never-to-see-again part of my closet. Some part of me is grateful, even while a small part shrivels. He’ll never know that part of me. The part that adored him and his music so much. And I let go of the part of me that needed his attention. His validation. None of it matters anymore.

  I’m determined to forget all about it, and for my sanity, I think it’s what’s best. In hindsight, I should’ve done this a long time ago.

  I just start to put away some boxes from my collection when I realize my bedroom door is cracked open. I gasp in shock. Ryan stands inside, leaning against the wall in my room, beside my shelf. And he’s holding a book. It looks vaguely familiar, until I realize he’s holding something baby blue. My diary.

  “What are you doing here?” I demand.

  Startled, he turns around to face me. “Your brother let me in,” he answers dryly. “This yours?” He holds it up in front of me. To my horror, he starts to read out, “Dear diary, Ryan Carson—”