I study my reflection, wondering if Klein finds me attractive. Hardly. Good grief, he could have pretty much his pick from women far younger than me. Far hotter than me. Forget that. I turn on the shower, wait a few moments, and then step under the spray, letting the cold water wash the heat from my cheeks.
Once I’m done, I decide to go ahead and get dressed, not wanting to go back into the bedroom on the off chance that Klein has decided to take a nap before the show.
I blow-dry my hair, taking the time to straighten it with a flat iron and then spending way more effort on my makeup than I usually would. Call it vanity, but knowing that I will be among Klein’s throng of adoring fans makes me want to try a little harder anyway. I’ve been in the bathroom for an hour or a little more when I’m finally ready and decide to stick my head out to see if Klein is awake. He is, and standing by the window, hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans.
He turns when I fully open the door and says, “Hey.”
“Did you get a little bit of a nap?”
“I did. Should help tonight.”
“Is everything all right?” I ask, cautious.
“Yeah,” he says. “There are just times when I know I do better not being alone.”
Well, I can certainly identify with that. Klein looks as if he wants to elaborate, say more. I instinctively wait.
“I don’t know if you heard about my stint in rehab. Or if you knew I had a drinking problem.”
The shame in his voice ties a knot in my heart. “There were rumors. I didn’t know if any of them were true.”
He laughs a short laugh. “I imagine most of them were.”
“Are you okay?”
He looks at me then, and I can see in his eyes that he is surprised I’ve asked. “I am. I mean I think so. To be honest, the reason I came to your room is because I was tempted to pour myself a drink. I know it will temporarily make me quit thinking about things I don’t want to think about.”
“But that’s only temporary, right?”
“Right.”
“What can I do?” I ask, wanting to be the shoulder he needs to lean into right now. And then I find myself confiding, “My dad was an alcoholic.”
His eyes widen. “Oh. I didn’t know that.”
“Yeah. It’s not something I let myself think about too often. He died when I was four. In a DUI accident. That he caused.”
I feel Klein’s shock. He looks as if he has no idea what to say to this. “I’m sorry, Dillon,” he says.
“Me, too. I’m sorry he never got help. Or that no one in his life gave him that ultimatum. It was one of my mother’s biggest regrets.”
“Alcoholics can’t be helped until they want to be helped,” Klein says quietly.
“There’s guilt nonetheless,” I say. And then, “You did get help, Klein. That’s the part that matters. Not what came before. We’re strongest when we turn our back on our weaknesses. That’s what you’ve done. But when you need someone to talk you down from that ledge, you can always call me. Anytime at all.”
“Thank you,” he says, his gratitude evident in the two words. We hold each other’s gaze for a couple of long seconds, and I feel the clicking of a connection between us. Understanding of something that can only happen when two people have experienced a similar pain.
Klein shakes his head a little and says, “I guess I need to head on over. Would you like to go with me now?”
“Yeah,” I say, realizing I’ve been hoping for this all along. “I’m ready, actually.”
“You look beautiful, by the way,” he says, his gaze again settling fully on my face. I feel heat flood my cheeks, drop my gaze like a high school version of myself, and say, “Thanks.”
“No. Really,” he says, “you do.”
I settle on the option of silence, because I can’t think of anything to say that would make me sound less than awkward.
“I’ll go ahead and get us a car,” Klein says, waving his phone.
“Great,” I say, “let me just grab my purse and a jacket.”
He waits for me by the door, and as I walk past him, I notice his cologne, how good it smells, and how perfectly it matches my sense of him. I imagine pressing my face to his chest and breathing in that heady scent.
Okay, where had that come from? I give myself a mental swat and head for the elevator, pressing the down button and waiting with my back to him.
“I hope this goes well tonight,” he says softly.
I turn then to see the worry in his eyes. “It will. Do you always get nerves before a show?”
“Sometimes more than others,” he says, “but playing in a place like this for the first time is a little newly intimidating.”
“I can understand that,” I say, “but you’ve got this.”
“Thanks, Dillon,” he says. He glances off and then back, his eyes direct on mine. “I’m happy we ran into each other here, that it worked out like this.”
“Yeah,” I say, unable to deny the thrill his words send through me. “Me, too.”
Dillon
“Don’t we all wish to be seen? Truly seen?”
—Unknown
I AM AT ONE END of the front row. The ticket price for this seat would have been at least six hundred dollars. I’m surrounded by mostly French teenagers, although I hear some native English mixed in with the conversations taking place around me.
“He is so hot.” And, “What do you think he would do if I threw my bra at him?” Then, “I don’t know, but I might throw my thong.”
I nearly laugh at this one, picturing Klein with a pink thong lassoing his guitar.
I try to remember what it was like to be seventeen and within reach of a star as well-known as Klein. I’m pretty sure I never was, but if I had been, I would not have had the confidence to throw my bra or underwear at him.
But I can certainly understand that level of desire to get his attention.
He’s wearing faded jeans that fit him like they’d been made specifically for him. They hug his hips, his legs in a way that draws the eye to him and demands that it linger. His shirt is light blue, open collar, and is a near-perfect match to his eyes. Even if Klein hadn’t been blessed with a voice that froze a listener into mesmerization, his looks alone would do it.
That’s where I am right now. Klein’s voice is nirvana. I’m pretty sure I could stand here listening to him forever.
The song is one he wrote. It’s one of his number one singles. There’s no mystery as to why it hit the top of the charts. All around me, women are standing entranced, no longer chatting and plotting about ways to get his attention. I imagine they’re feeling what I’m feeling. Complete captivation. And the undeniable wish that I was the only woman to whom he was singing.
He makes it seem that way, even if it’s so obviously not true.
I absorb every word of the song, every note of the melody.
It is utterly beautiful.
Because Top Dog published the song, I know the story behind it. It’s about a first love, and just hearing the way Klein sings the words of heartbreak, it’s impossible to believe it isn’t about Klein’s first love. I feel the loss in his voice, see the longing in his eyes. And I wonder what it would be like to be loved by him, with that intensity, that passion.
The last notes of the song fade into silence. There’s a full, weighted moment in which the floor area is entirely still.
I stare at Klein, and then his gaze swings to me, deliberate, full of something I don’t have the courage to identify.
Surely, I am mistaken. Something in my stomach goes liquid and melts inside me. The woman standing next to me looks at me and says in an awestruck voice, “Lucky you.”
I feel myself blush, hot, and flaming. I force indifference into my voice when I say, “I’m sure that’s all part of the show. Give a girl what she paid for.”
“Ah, no,” she says on a knowing laugh. “I’m pretty sure that one was all for you.”
When Klein finishes his last s
ong, I leave my seat, needing to get outside into the fresh air. I feel as if I have been infused with heat from the very center of my being. I make my way down the aisle to the exit doors, sweat beading between my breasts and across my forehead. I push them open and then all but run down the corridor past the concession area to the doors that lead outside into the blissfully cool night air.
I walk past a couple of teenagers smoking and find a spot in the shadows to lean against a wall with my head back, pulling in a few deep breaths.
What. The. Heck.
It had to be precisely what I’d said. Part of the show. He’d just chosen me as the target tonight.
He should be an actor. That was Academy Award caliber stuff. Totally believable. As in, I had believed it. Bought it hook, line, and sinker.
Good grief. Maybe I’m just lonely. Maybe it’s the rejection of being tossed aside for a younger model that is finally getting to me. A younger, thinner, more up-to-date model.
Is Klein feeling sorry for me? My cheeks flare in new mortification.
My phone dings. I glare at the screen.
Come backstage. I left word with Mike at the door.
My heart does a ridiculous gallop against the wall of my chest.
I want to.
How could I not want to?
Do I think it’s wise at this point?
No. I don’t.
I stare at the screen for another moment, then type.
Your show was truly incredible. I’m exhausted. I think I’ll catch a cab back to the hotel.
Thank you so much for the incredible seat.
I hit send.
Why don’t you just write a book, Dillon?
I stare at my phone while he types.
Are you sure?
I hesitate, feel myself leaning into the pull to change my mind. Klein Matthews just asked you to join him backstage. What are you doing, Dillon?
Exercising common sense. Reluctant as I am to do so. I really want to be young and foolish. Except I’m not that young. Old enough to know where foolish will get me.
I’m an old fogey. Beauty rest and all that. Good night.
His reply is several seconds coming.
Okay. Good night.
Regret washes over me in an instant wave. I choke it back and stalk down a taxi. It takes several minutes, and when I finally sink into the back seat and manage to murmur, “Ritz Paris,” I don’t even care that the driver gives me a suspicious glare, as if he thinks I’m coked up or something.
I ride most of the drive with my eyes closed, trying not to conjure up that moment at the concert when Klein had directed those lyrics at me.
That night we met
I should have made you mine
Not now, not yet
Like I had all the time
In the world, girl
In the world, girl
I sigh and turn my gaze to the window and the city flowing by. The old me would have accepted that invitation backstage. But the new me is a coward.
Riley
“The tip of the neighbour’s iceberg often looks very nice.”
―Roy A. Ngansop
SHE KNOWS IT is a gamble, but then, what does she have to lose?
She’s already lost Klein. There are only a couple of keys with the potential to unlock the door to his wanting her again. One, guilt. And two, rejection.
She’s learned enough about Klein’s past to know they are his Achilles heel. She sees no point in wasting energy on any efforts that will not get her what she wants. And what she wants is Klein.
She turns the leased G-Wagon onto the rural road that leads to some of Nashville’s biggest mansions, the area where every home is occupied by some recognizable country music star name. She intends to live here one day herself. Klein has so far avoided buying in this section, and she knows the reason why. It’s not that he can’t afford it yet. He can. And then some. It’s more about the fact that he doesn’t see himself as one of these people.
But she considers it her personal mission to change that, to help him see himself as she sees him, as the rest of the world sees him, really.
It hasn’t proven as easy as she had first imagined. And no, she hadn’t anticipated the breakup. That stint in rehab had opened Klein’s eyes to things he had once seen very differently.
Sometimes, she wishes he had never stopped drinking. Not for his health, of course, but she had liked the Klein who drank. He’d been fun and a little reckless, a combination that worked for her. She had fit in his life then. Sober, he saw her as a connection to all of that and a temptation he couldn’t handle.
It wasn’t like she’d been trying to pull him down into the dregs of alcoholism, but what was wrong with having a little fun now and then? They’d had great times together. All those nights on the road, not going to bed until the sun was about ready to come up.
The truth is she misses those days. She’d known that Klein. Known how to handle him. How to make him want the same things she wanted.
He’d been an easy sell, really. Klein had a lot of holes in his soul. Most of them came from his early beginnings. She had gotten enough out of him at times to see that he didn’t remember a lot of the bad things that landed him in foster care. The scars were there nonetheless, and he had learned at some point along the way to use his songwriting and alcohol as mutual friends in his quest to permanently erase those scars.
Only, they never went away. And she supposes they never will. One thing she does know for sure. They are a lot more bearable for Klein under the haze of alcohol than they are under the stark reality of sobriety.
She glances at the GPS on her phone. Notes that she’s only a couple of miles from the Ashford house. She’s been invited to an industry party being held at the home of Holden Ashford and CeCe MacKenzie. The country music stars who have long been Klein’s idols.
Because she works for one of the biggest labels in town, Klein’s label, in fact, Riley was invited to tonight’s party. She wonders if she would have been invited had Klein been in town. Knows in fact that the higher-ups would have made sure she wasn’t. First and foremost, they care about keeping Klein happy. Once word of their breakup had gotten around, she’d been called into the label head’s office for a not-so-covert grilling on whether she and Klein would be able to operate in the same orbit. The real question had been whether Klein would want them to fire her.
But Klein would never have asked for such a thing. If they thought so, they didn’t know him very well.
Even so, Riley has no desire to push buttons that don’t need to be pushed. She had assured Sam Parker, the label head, that she was a big girl, and there would be no reason for Klein to worry about her making him uncomfortable.
Apparently, she’d turned out to be a pretty good actress because Mr. Parker had bought her version of things. She recalls now the aggravating smirk on the label head’s face, as if he had known all along that a girl like Riley would never keep a catch like Klein.
She can’t wait for the day she can personally hand him an invitation to her wedding to Klein. And it will happen. There is no doubt in her mind.
She presses a hand to her belly. And wonders why so many women in this world allow themselves to be told what their destiny will be by people who have decided they no longer want them.
It’s really just a matter of finding the weak spot of the person you need to see things differently. And everyone has a weak spot. She knows Klein’s, for sure. Knows the thing that had defined him, despite all of his success.
And that is the fact that he had not been wanted by his parents. Some might consider it cruel to let him suffer the way she knows he is suffering now.
But on some level, it seems appropriate to her. Klein has caused her suffering without a doubt. By the time she gives him what he wants, he will be so grateful to be relieved of his pain that he will have no problem forgiving her.
She’s reached the driveway to the Ashford estate. A security guard stands at the gate, ducks his he
ad to her lowered window, and says, “Good evening. May I have your name, ma’am?”
“Riley. Riley Haverson.”
He scans the list on his iPad, finds her name, taps the screen, and says, “Yes, ma’am. Go ahead. Enjoy your evening.”
“Thank you so much,” she says, noticing the guard’s envy for her vehicle and then driving forward. She is spending nearly her last penny each month to keep up the lease on the G-Wagon, but appearances are everything. If you don’t look like you can afford the world, no one is ever going to consider you worthy of having it.
In a quarter mile or so, she reaches the circular entrance to the front of the enormous house. It is lit up floor to floor, light streaming from every window. Two more security guards stand at the front door, double-checking guest names on their own lists before letting them in.
A valet walks up to her vehicle, opens the door, and greets her. “I’ll park this for you, ma’am.”
“Thank you,” she says, unfolding her long legs and getting out. She notices the way his gaze drops to the hem of her short dress. She could mind his impertinence, but Riley never discounts evidence of her beauty in the face of men, regardless of their age or occupation. She flips her blonde hair over her shoulder and walks with complete certainty on her four-inch Prada heels to the front door. She presses a hand to her belly, uncertain for a moment of the flowy dress she’d chosen to hide her condition. But then, she’d practically been starving herself to delay the visible evidence, and so far, it has worked. She’d read enough about pregnancy to know the baby will pull the nutrients it needs at her expense. A flash of resentment scorches through her, but then she blinks it away. This baby is her ticket, after all. Hardly makes sense to resent it.
She waits for her name to be rechecked before stepping inside the house. It’s even more incredible than she had imagined, and it is all she can do to contain an audible sigh of envy. This is the life she wants. This is the life she’s determined to have.
Raising her chin, she walks through the foyer, following the noise of conversation humming beneath the music coming from strategically placed Bose speakers. She reaches an enormous room where several large, beautiful leather sofas are scattered around, the size of the room easily handling them.
That Weekend in Paris (Take Me There(Stand-alone) Book 3) Page 6