I slapped a button on the wall, and the curtains opened, letting in shades of blue and purple.
Not giving myself another minute to wimp out, I played Brant’s message.
Nothing could have prepared me for when his voice filled the room. “Betsy, it’s Brant.”
He called me Betsy. Tears filled my eyes, and I scooted back on the bed until I was against the headboard and I could rest my phone on my knees. Not even Steven called me Betsy. Once we’d decided my persona, he’d started calling me Betty and introducing me the same way.
That’s who I was now: Betty Belle. Not Betsy. Never again.
“Seeing you was—I never imagined—” He laughed, the sound so familiar. I could see him when he laughed. His hazel eyes closed and he would throw his head back, face lifted to the sky. Sometimes the sun would glint off his stubble. Those times he’d forgotten to shave, he gave me beard burn.
Used to.
Used to give me beard burn.
I touched my lips, remembering the heat that would stay on them and on my chin and cheeks after we’d spent hours grinding and clutching each other.
“I haven’t dialed this number in eight years, but I never forgot it.” That made my tears dry up fast. No shit he hadn’t dialed that number. He never forgot it? So his phone wasn’t broken. He hadn’t lost all his contacts. He hadn’t had a brain injury. Or memory loss.
It hit me again: the boys had never wanted to call me. They hadn’t wanted to respond to my calls and texts. They’d purposefully ignored me.
They’d ignored me.
I’d been dying, and they couldn’t be bothered to check, even just as old friends or acquaintances—or shit—as human beings, that I was okay.
Then came his apology. “I’m sorry, Bets. You can’t believe how sorry I am.”
Anger filled my chest and my blood boiled. Before I knew what I was doing, I’d opened up my messages and scrolled way way down to his name.
My thumbs flew across the screen. “You’re right. I don’t believe you.”
Send.
Some kind of catharsis took place after I sent that message because I fell asleep. Steven and my team didn’t give me long. We had rehearsal, and I had a radio interview to do remotely with National Public Radio.
That’s right. Even the super smart people wanted to talk to me.
I went through my day as focused as possible, but every so often Brant’s voice would pop into my head and I’d stumble. I missed more counts during rehearsal than I ever had before.
This didn’t work. I couldn’t be wrapped up in my past. This was the kind of thinking that messed a person up, made them get off-track.
My manager shot me knowing looks. His gaze was hard and focused, and I had a feeling that he wasn’t going to let me get away with leaving out any of the nitty-gritty details anymore.
This guy wasn’t going to be satisfied with the abbreviated version of Betsy Lauren Belle Bartlett. The retelling would suck, but if I owed the truth to anyone, it was Steven.
He found me later, stuffing quinoa and broccoli into my face during that short period of time I had to eat and rest before my performance.
Flinging his tablet onto the sofa, he sat across from me at the dining room table and stared.
I swallowed, ready to start when he spoke. “I owe you an apology.”
Shocked silent, I asked, “Why?”
“For yesterday.” He folded his hands on the table before sliding forward. He let his head fall a little and shoulders slump. “Betty. I should have been honest with you. Instead, you were blindsided.”
Placing my fork on the plate, I shook my head. “Steven. It’s fine. You did the right thing.” I reached across the table and took his hand in mine. “I’m not mad at all.” I glanced at my meal, thinking about what I planned to tell him. It made any appetite I had disappear.
“You don’t owe me an explanation,” he suddenly said.
Jerking my gaze to his, I froze.
“I can see you struggling with it. But you told me as much as I needed to know.” He chuckled and lifted his eyebrows. “Don’t you think that after four years, I know you? I can read these faces you make, and you were way off in rehearsal today.”
I glared. “I wasn’t that off.”
“The point is,” he waited for me to dial back the attitude, “I know what I need to know. If you want to give me some names, that would be helpful. But I’m not going to ask you to unpack all the things that are fucking with your head right now.”
My chest opened. I could finally take a deep breath. I didn’t want to tell him everything.
“It sucked,” I said. I picked up my fork, stabbing at a spear of broccoli, but didn’t take a bite. “They looked so different.”
“I’m sure you do, too,” he replied unhelpfully.
“Are you saying I look old?” I raised one eyebrow, trying not to smile.
Steven pushed his glasses up his nose. “No. Though at twenty-six, you are pretty advanced in age.”
Twenty-six. I didn’t feel twenty-six. Twenty-six-year-olds were just starting their lives. They graduated from college and lived in crappy apartments. They had brunch and made bad decisions.
I never had a chance to do that. Studying my surroundings, I wondered if I’d be happier in a crappy apartment.
“Nope. Don’t like that face.” Steven frowned. “This isn’t a bad life.”
“I know,” I replied. This was a really good life, but it wasn’t the life I imagined. I danced, but not with American Ballet Theatre. I figured out a way to live and a way to live with myself. “Landry Shaw. Brant Grafton. Josh Derry. Westin Morehouse.”
“And I assume anyone from Shawville?”
I nodded. I didn’t want to see anyone from my hometown. There was absolutely no one who cared about me. Any reason they wanted to see me wouldn’t be because they wanted to catch up.
“I wanted to talk to you about something else,” Steven said, cheeks turning pink.
Leaning back, I smiled. Steven acting awkward? This would be good. “Oh, really? Do tell.”
He grabbed a piece of broccoli and flung it at my face. “Just listen, brat.”
I picked up the broccoli and popped it into my mouth. “Out with it, wanker.”
“Your insults are worse than your accent.” He gave me deadeyes, and I only smiled innocently.
“You should be more respectful. I am your boss.”
“That’s it.” He pushed back his chair and started around the table. Laughing, I jumped out of my seat.
Steven was the brother I never had, and he teased me the way I imagined a brother would. I really enjoyed my role as annoying little sister in these moments. It made me feel like I had a family.
A knock on the door stopped my retreat. Steven pushed up his glasses and walked to it, checking his watch. “Aucoin is early,” he noted as he opened it wide to allow my makeup artist to get himself and all his tools inside.
But it wasn’t Aucoin at the door.
At first, I didn’t know who it was. The person who stood there was unfamiliar in his leather jacket. Tattoos covered his hands and his neck. Blue fingers of ink reached toward his jawline, but didn’t touch his perfect, pale face. Thumbnail-sized gauges in his ears, bright blue, matched the color of his eyes.
“Can I help you?” Steven asked, moving his body between me and the man.
But the man didn’t answer. His gaze swept the room, stopping only when it met mine.
I stumbled back. “Westin.”
Steven’s size was hidden in his suit, but when he heard the name I whispered, he seemed to bulk up. He straightened his shoulders and tensed. “You’re not welcome here.”
Westin didn’t spare him a glance, nor did he speak. He stared at me like I was the only thing in the world that he saw.
I picked up my phone and hit the button that would connect me to Mike. There was only one reason I’d be calling. “On my way,” he said.
The line stayed open as I
placed it on the dining room table. Westin’s eyes flicked toward the phone and then back to me. “I want to talk to you.”
“No way,” Steven said, answering for me. “Betty doesn’t want to talk to you, and before you say something stupid like, ‘We’re old friends,’ know this, she gave me your name specifically as someone she doesn’t want to talk to.”
“I rode from California.” Westin didn’t bother to respond to the other man. “I want to talk to you. If not now, then after whatever you have going on. I’m not going anywhere.”
Even his voice was different. Gravelly, like he wasn’t used to talking. Who was this man with the messy black hair and tattoos? I didn’t know this Westin. I didn’t recognize his icy gaze and the anger that seemed to surround him.
“Hey!” Mike’s voice boomed down the hall, and in seconds, Westin was pulled away from the door. Mike had brought backup and soon I couldn’t see Wes at all.
“You okay?” Steven hurried toward me, and I nodded, then shook my head, then nodded again.
“Eight years.”
He didn’t misunderstand me. His mouth turned down and his blue eyes narrowed. “I’ll follow Mike downstairs. Figure out how the bloody hell someone got past security.”
There was a scuffle and a grunt, and Westin appeared again, red-faced and messy-haired. “Jesus Christ, Betsy. I need to talk to you!” He struggled against Mike’s hold, got an arm free and threw a punch that had me crying out. Mike was my security guard, but he was also someone I cared about.
“I don’t want to talk to you!” I yelled.
From the way everyone’s eyes went round, I’d shocked the hell out of them. I never yelled. Never showed any emotion, except bland pleasantness.
But I was pissed.
“I don’t want to talk to you, Westin. You can’t just show up and make demands after eight years. Eight years!” I wanted to puke. Steven tried to stop me, but I pushed past him until I was toe-to-toe with Wes. He wasn’t struggling anymore; he’d frozen when I yelled. Now he watched me like I was a wild animal about to leap for his throat.
Good instincts.
“I don’t want to talk to you,” I said for the third time. “There’s nothing to say.”
“There is,” he replied hotly. “Let go of my fucking arm,” he spat at Mike. I nodded and Mike let him go. Westin stumbled, shrugging his arms to get his jacket back up on his shoulders. “I have to explain. You don’t understand.”
“I don’t understand,” I said. This close, I could see that his jacket was worn, and there was grit, like sand, in his hair. His eyes were bloodshot, and purple circles bruised beneath them. He looked like shit. Gorgeous shit. Exhausted shit. “But the time for explanations is long gone. I told Landry I didn’t want his explanations. I told Brant I don’t believe his apologies. Your appearance now is so…” I searched for the word. I didn’t trust them. Their appearance was suspicious. “I don’t know what y’all want from me, but you’ve already gotten everything I can give, and some things I never should have—” Someone shifted, and I remembered we weren’t alone. “Go on home, Westin. Go back to your people, because you’re not one of mine anymore.”
“Bets.”
There it was again, the name they used to call me.
“That’s not my name,” I said, turning my back on him. “Escort him out, please, Mike.”
“Betsy!” Westin yelled for me, but I ignored him. I went back into my room, Steven following me and closing the door behind us.
He went right to the phone, chewing out whoever answered and demanding to see the hotel manager. I’d never heard him this angry before, but I didn’t stay to listen. I had a performance to prepare for and had to get my head on straight.
Thirty-One
Betty
Landry: Westin is coming to Vegas.
Delivered July 5th 8:00 pm
Thirty-Two
Betty
I tossed my phone on the vanity and Aucoin hissed. “Careful!”
“Sorry.” I tilted my chin toward him so he could finish applying gloss to my lips. Landry’s message was an hour too late. I bet he did that on purpose, left out details, let me know after I couldn’t do anything about it.
Classic Landry move.
Aucoin was weirdly quiet, and it had me on edge. Usually he was full of news or gossip, though he wasn’t sneaky. His gossip never had a mean tone.
Which made me wonder why he was being so dodgy.
“What’s going on?” I asked when the brush left my lips.
“What do you mean?” he said with wide, innocent eyes.
Too bad for him he was a shitty liar. “Aucoin.”
He cut a glance toward Steven and I knew. News about Westin had probably spread among my staff and the cast. And if it spread to the cast, then it was out in the news.
“How bad is it?” I asked my manager, who had the gall to answer, “Hmm?”
So the answer to my question was probably, “Pretty bad.”
“Do we talk to the press or not?” I asked.
“Look up,” Aucoin directed.
I stared at the ceiling as Steven sighed, unwilling to answer me. Or maybe he couldn’t. Maybe he didn’t know the right thing to do.
Finally, when my makeup artist had added the finishing touches to my eyeliner and mascara he answered, “I think we’re going to have to talk. I’ve got an offer from People for an exclusive, but they want to talk to those men, too.”
Those men.
I couldn’t picture Westin, Josh, Brant, or Landry talking to reporters, but I never pictured them leaving me either. I didn’t know them now.
And I clearly didn’t know them very well back then either.
“Where is Westin?” I asked.
Aucoin sighed, and Steven side-eyed him.
“Don’t keep things from me like I can’t handle them. Remember what we talked about? The shit’s hit the fan, Steven, Aucoin knows what’s happening, and he’s signed an NDA, so we might as well have it out.” When he didn’t answer, I turned in my chair toward Aucoin. “You have advice?”
“He’s sitting across the street,” Aucoin said, pausing from putting away his brushes. “Surrounded by paparazzi, but ignoring them. Smoking a cigarette. If it was me, I’d run downstairs and leap into his strong tattooed arms. He took off his jacket, Betty.” He made his eyes wide and pretended to faint. “Those arms.”
“Great.”
That seemed a little dramatic for Westin, but again, didn’t know the guy anymore.
“Let’s table this for now. People are buzzing, but you still have a show to put on. Can you compartmentalize?” Steven asked.
I was the queen of compartmentalizing. “Of course.”
Somehow, I got through the show without missing a beat. My audience roared, and I returned to the stage for two encores.
I bowed, ignored everyone who wanted to talk to me, and went up to my penthouse in my robe, Steven trailing after me.
“He’s on public property; I can’t have him arrested,” he said as soon as the door closed behind me.
Without responding, I went into the bathroom to remove my makeup.
“I can start the process for a restraining order,” he went on, “but I don’t really have a lot of cause. Actually—I probably do. He did punch Mike.”
“Is Mike okay?” I asked, which wasn’t the question that was really on the tip of my tongue. What I wanted to ask was, “Is Westin okay?” but that would have just shown how weak I was.
“He’s fine,” he replied. “Pissed. Turns out the guy slipped a hundred to the bellhop who gave him access to the floor.”
“Really?” A hundred dollars was a lot of money, but people in Vegas tended to be big tippers. The bellhop could have made way more than that in a few hours. There had to be something else.
“He’s been fired and the penthouse code changed.”
I wasn’t going to celebrate someone losing their job, but I also wasn’t a fan of having my privacy and safety put at
risk.
My phone dinged, and Steven glanced at it. “You’ve been receiving more messages than you have in all the years I’ve known you.”
It was a reminder that I hadn’t opened Landry’s message. I didn’t need to. It appeared on my screen. I made a mental note to be sure to turn off read receipts because the last thing I wanted was Landry thinking I was paying attention to what he had to say.
“I was thinking about what you asked earlier about the press, and I have some ideas I want to run by you. We should make a plan with everyone,” Steven went on, “all the staff, so we’re responding to press and to these guys similarly.”
He sat on the bench in the bathroom, and I sighed. “Not tonight.”
“Huh?” Pushing his glasses up his nose, he stared at me like he hadn’t heard me correctly. “But Betty.”
“Steven, I’m exhausted. I didn’t sleep last night, and in the past twenty-four hours, three men I used to love have barreled into my life. Let me sleep at least a couple of hours and then we’ll make a plan. I just need a little time.”
He studied me, cheek twitching by his ear. I’d made him clench his teeth, not a good sign. But he surprised me by nodding. “Okay, Betty. I’ll be back in the morning. Can we agree though that you won’t talk to the press until then?”
“Of course not,” I replied. I never did anything without checking with him first. But an idea had been going through my head since I saw Westin, Landry, and Brant.
One that was getting harder to ignore.
I had to stay strong and keep my head in the game. Fame was fleeting, and I hadn’t worked this hard to be a flash in the pan.
I wanted to build something. Belles of the Ball had potential. Right now, I was the draw, but I had no misconceptions about who I was. Just like Madame Giroux had said, there were a thousand girls just like me.
And if there were a thousand girls like me, then I could put those girls in my show and make it something spectacular. I dreamed my show would run in multiple cities at once, or have off-shoots, like a farm team—the AAA Belles who would one day be called up to the big show.
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