by Lauren Rowe
She’s clearly holding back tears.
“I’m talking about the joint as a metaphor, Alessandra. I’m not the bad guy in an after-school special.” I smile, but she’s not even close to being able to return the gesture. “Look, I’m trying to do you a favor here. You get that, right? You’re hiding behind your music, rather than revealing yourself through it. Fix that, and I think you could have a shot. But, as it is, until you get real, and get the confidence boost that will come from that, I can’t imagine you’d be able to command a coffee house full of people as an artist, let alone an entire stadium.”
She swallows hard, fighting to keep her emotions from seeping out her eyes. And I momentarily feel bad to see my words make her want to cry. But I’ve come too far to stop now. I’m helping this girl. Giving her the keys to the kingdom, actually. And I’m not going to stop now, without saying everything that needs to be said. The truth hurts. But it also sets you free. And this girl, most definitely needs to be set free.
“If I’m full of shit, then prove me wrong.” I point toward the house. “Go in there, grab one of the acoustic guitars onstage, and sing the shit out of one of your songs the way I’m telling you to do it. Be you, not a Laila knockoff. Show me you can reveal yourself through your music, rather than hide behind it, and maybe today will turn out to be your lucky day.”
“I couldn’t possibly do that,” she whispers.
“I get that it’s an intimidating room. But so what? They’re just people. They were in your shoes once. Grab this opportunity I’m giving you. Get up there and knock me out. This is the chance of a lifetime. Grab it.”
She looks down at her hands and shakes her head.
“If you’re too nervous to play solo, then pull Fish onstage with you. He plays acoustic guitar and sings. You two could sing anything together. ‘Hey, Jude’ or ‘Stand by Me,’ for all I care. All that matters to me is you have the balls to get up there and grab this shot I’m giving you. Show me you’ve got what it takes, Alessandra. Prove me wrong.”
I get up from the bench, praying she’ll follow suit—hoping she’ll rise, literally and figuratively, and square her slender shoulders and march her shy little ass straight inside and onto that stage and knock it out of the park with a performance she didn’t even know she had inside her.
But, no.
She’s crumbling before my eyes.
Her chin trembling and her eyes pricking with tears, she stammers, “Thank you for taking the time to explain all this to me.” Before lurching off the bench and sprinting away into the night.
“Alessandra,” I call out after her. But only half-heartedly. Shouting at her isn’t going to make her stop running away. And I’m certainly not going to physically chase her. If she’s intimidated by me, then hunting her down is the last thing I should do. Plus, fuck it. I’m not here to hand out participation trophies. I tried to help her, but some people can’t be helped. Yes, I was honest with her. But if she can’t handle honesty, then she can’t handle the music industry. And that’s a fucking fact. My heart pounding, I sit back down on the bench, grab my empty glass, and take an ice cube into my mouth. Fuck.
“Where’s Alessandra?” Fish says, appearing before me with two water bottles. He looks around. “Did she go inside?”
“Yeah, I think so,” I reply. “I’m not sure.”
“She didn’t say where she was going?”
“No. But I can tell you where she hopes I’m going. To hell.”
Fish’s face falls. “What happened? What does that mean?”
“It means I said something that upset her, apparently. She ran off, on the verge of tears.”
Anger flashes across Fish’s usually congenial face. “What’d you say to her?”
“I told her the truth, without sugarcoating it. I told her I listened to her demo and, basically, that she’s got to get past the bullshit if she wants any shot—”
“Goddammit, Reed!” Fish booms, shocking the hell out of me. “Why are you always such a prick, man? Before you came out here, Alessandra and I were having the most amazing conversation! She was telling me how she got into music after her dad died when she was a kid. She was telling me about her stage fright. Asking me for tricks to overcome it. And then you had to come out here and tell her she sucks and her music is bullshit? Goddammit, Reed! Fuck you, you fucking prick.”
With an angry wave of his hand, he turns on his heel and sprints away, presumably to find Alessandra, his lanky body moving faster than I’ve ever seen it move it before.
“Well, that was unexpected,” I mutter to myself.
Shaking my head, I gaze at the sparkling view for a long moment. Fuck. That sucked. I must say, though, I’m thoroughly impressed with the way Fish just told me off. Not because he’s right, of course. I wasn’t a prick to Alessandra. I was actually being kind to her. Cruel to be kind, as they say. But kind, nonetheless. I’d swear to that under oath.
But, still, it was cool to see Fish climb aboard his white horse. That dude hasn’t raised his voice to me once in the entire time I’ve known him, let alone called me a prick. Well, not to my face, anyway. I think it’s now obvious he’s called me that, and worse, plenty of times behind my back. But that’s fine. He’s not the first person to think I’m a prick. He won’t be the last. If, somehow, me being the bad guy lets him be the good guy with this girl, then I’m happy to oblige.
Although... Shit. I suddenly realize... Georgina.
When she hears Alessandra’s version of this story, will she assume I treated Alessandra the way I treated that blonde at the bar? Because I didn’t. Yes, I was honest with Alessandra, but I took special care to be gentle with her. I flashed her several reassuring smiles, which is something I never do. I was careful to use a calm and soothing tone of voice. Also, not my typical MO. But will Georgina understand any of that, or will she hear some disjointed, emotional version of the story from her stepsister and immediately assume I’m the devil incarnate?
My heart pounding, I rise from the bench, intending to head back into the party to find Georgina. But I’ve no sooner taken two steps than Isabel appears from around a corner.
“There you are!” she says.
“Not now, Isabel.”
“Yes, now. It’s important. A matter of life or death.”
“I’ve got something important I’ve got to do,” I say.
“It’s an emergency,” she says. “I need five minutes.”
I exhale in frustration. “Five minutes. Not a second more.”
The sound of people laughing nearby wafts toward us, emanating from the other side of a hedge.
“Not here,” Isabel says. She grabs my hand. “Come on, love. Let’s go somewhere we can talk in private.”
Chapter 32
Georgina
Where the heck is Reed? I’ve been looking for him for the past ten minutes, but I can’t find him anywhere. And I can’t find Alessandra, either. I’m guessing she’s off in a quiet corner, chatting with Fish. Or maybe even smooching Fish. Which, of course, would tickle me pink. And would also provide a damned good reason not to be answering my texts. But Reed is a different story. This is his party, so, why has he disappeared?
I’m bursting at the seams to talk to Reed—to tell him the news that I landed the interview of Isabel. And, also, yes, to try to get to the bottom of the lies I think he and Isabel have both been telling me. Does it matter to me how they met? No! But it sure as heck matters to me they both seem to be lying about it.
Thus far, I’ve done two laps around the ground floor areas, including the patio and pool, in my pursuit of Reed. And now I’m doing a lap of the entire upstairs, too—even though I can’t fathom Reed would have come up here while his party raged on below. But, again, I’m coming up empty. Crap.
I descend the staircase, feeling more and more frustrated with every step I take. At the bottom of the stairs, I run into Aloha Carmichael. She’s with Barry, Reed’s head of security. Getting a piggyback ride from him, actually. An
d when she sees me, she calls my name warmly.
“Reed told me to talk to you,” she says.
“Have you seen him recently?”
“Not recently. I saw him at the bar a while ago.”
“Which one?”
“The one by the French doors.” She points. “That one.”
I feel deflated. I passed that bar, not too long ago on one of my laps, and Reed was nowhere to be found. “Did Reed say where he was going, from there?”
Aloha purses her lips. “No, but while I was dancing after that, I saw him head out those French doors over there with Keane and Zander. Which can only mean one thing.”
She puts her index finger and thumb to her lips, like she’s smoking a joint. But I don’t think she’s right about that—because when I did a loop outside, not too long ago, I didn’t see Reed out there. Not with Keane and Zander or anyone else.
“So, about my interview,” Aloha says, laying her cheek on Barry’s broad shoulder from behind. “Daxy told me he and the Goats are going to give you a tour of Seattle. And Laila told me she’s going to make pottery with you. And Savage told me he’s taking you ATVing... “
I force myself to look into Aloha’s emerald green eyes, rather than looking around the party maniacally for Reed. “Yeah, the idea is for the interviews to be fun and different and really personal. I’m hoping getting a glimpse of you guys doing something that’s meaningful to you, that’s outside of music, will inspire a different kind of conversation than the typical interview.”
“I love that idea.” She pauses. “I go to children’s hospitals quite a bit, to cheer up sick kids. Would you maybe want to tag along on a day like that?”
“Sounds great. Let’s also make sure we talk about the success of your documentary. And I don’t mean the financial success. The impact it has had on mental health awareness.”
“Oh, absolutely.”
“Someone told me Reed helped get distribution for that film?”
“He sure did. Some people have said Reed only threw his weight behind the documentary for business reasons—you know, because a hit film would lead to more music sales, which, in turn, would line his pockets. And a few years ago, I probably would have believed that narrative. But the last few years, I’ve started to think there might be an actual beating heart inside Reed’s chest. I think he genuinely believed in the movie’s message and cause.”
“Of course, he did,” Barry says.
“I know Reed comes off as all business sometimes,” Aloha says. “But, behind the scenes, he’s pretty generous with a bunch of charitable causes.”
Ping.
That cotton ball from earlier today turns into a stone.
Behind the scenes, Reed is pretty generous with a bunch of charitable causes.
“Do you know if Reed donates to a charity that helps families affected by cancer?” I ask, my heart racing.
“I’m not sure,” Aloha says. “But I wouldn’t be surprised. I know for sure Reed donates to several cancer charities. Of course, he’s extremely involved with The Superhero Project. And then there’s also...”
But I’ve stopped listening. Because, all of a sudden, that cotton ball that turned into a stone has now turned into a motherfucking brick.
Crash.
In rapid-fire succession, my brain connects the dots between several comments made by Kat, Aloha, and Reed himself.
Reed likes pulling strings.
Reed likes playing star-maker behind the scenes.
Reed secretly pulled strings to help Keane get the auditions he wanted.
Reed pulled strings to get Zander a job interview with Big Barry.
Reed pulled strings to help Hannah get a job interview at a movie studio.
Everybody’s got a price.
I clutch the banister on the staircase, feeling faint. Reed had something to do with that cancer charity paying for my salary! If there’s a cancer charity at all. Did he pull strings to get me my internship... because he wanted to fuck me?
But how could that be? CeeCee hired me, because she believes in me. She told me so herself, and she wouldn’t lie to me.
I’m so confused. Why would CeeCee hire me... but Reed secretly pay my salary? Why the secrecy? Am I crazy? Paranoid? Oh, fuck. Did Reed find CeeCee’s price? Did Reed offer CeeCee unparalleled access to his entire roster for the special issue, plus, an in-depth interview of himself, if only she’d hire the fuck buddy of his choice?
No. I can’t believe CeeCee would have gone along with that! I simply won’t believe it. But my mind is reeling. My insecurity is raising its ugly head. Did I get this internship solely because some asshole—in this instance, Reed—wanted to get into my pants?
“Excuse me,” I say to Aloha, cutting her off mid-sentence. “I’m sorry. I just remembered I have to talk to Reed about something important.”
“No problemo. Just get my number from Reed or Owen.” She pinches Barry’s ear. “Come on, Big Barry! This cowgirl wants to dance!”
Practically hyperventilating, I sprint toward a set of French doors leading outside. But when I get outside and race around like a chicken with my head cut off, I still don’t see Reed anywhere. Not on the patio. Not by the pool. Not in the area just outside the garage where some of the members of Fugitive Summer and Watch Party are playing a rowdy game of corn hole. Frustrated, I turn around, intending to march back toward the house... but freeze on a dime.
The garage.
It’s the only place I haven’t looked for Reed.
But what the hell would he be doing in there, with the party raging on out here? Oh! Maybe he’s showing someone his car collection! Yes, that must be it. Reed is giving some buddy or VIP a tour of his beloved cars.
My heart exploding, I turn around again and head down the path, telling myself the whole time I’m being paranoid—that there’s no way Reed had anything to do with my salary or CeeCee’s decision to hire me. CeeCee would never betray me like that. And neither would Reed. He’s a liar, for sure. But only about highly personal things. Also, small things, sometimes, as well, for reasons that elude me. But he would never lie to me about something so important. But if he did, he certainly wouldn’t continue lying to me, after I told him about Mr.—
The side door to the garage opens, and to my shock—and heartbreak—Reed and Isabel step through the doorframe, exiting the garage.
I’m standing, frozen, about ten feet away from them. And the minute Reed and Isabel see me, they freeze, too. And, instantly, from Reed’s stiff body language and the guilty expression on his face, I know he’s just been caught red-handed. Remorse washes over his guilty face. Followed immediately by barely contained panic.
I shift my gaze to Isabel, hoping whatever I see there will make everything okay. But, no, Isabel’s face only makes matters worse. Her lipstick is smeared. Her hair disheveled. In short, she’s a hot mess—a woman who just got fucked. She wipes her mouth—apparently trying to remove the evidence of Reed’s mouth on hers—and a cavalcade of emotions flood me. Rage. Hurt. Rejection. Heartbreak. And then nothing but rage, rage, rage, rage, rage. But, somehow, I manage to disassociate from my white-hot emotions, long enough to get through this mortifying moment.
“Hello, Isabel,” I say calmly, like a sniper looking through a scope. I shift my gaze to Reed, my eyes like lasers. “Reed.”
“Hello again!” Isabel says, sounding nervous. Is she worried I’ll run straight to her billionaire fiancé and tell him what I’ve just seen?
“Reed was just showing me his cars,” Isabel blurts.
“Oh, yeah?” I say. “I’ve heard about them, but haven’t seen them for myself. Are they pretty?”
“Very pretty.”
I return to Reed, my nostrils flaring. “Would you be willing to show me your pretty cars, Mr. Rivers? I’d love to see them. Maybe I could feature them in my article about you.”
Reed’s Adam’s apple bobs. “Sure.”
“I should probably find Howard,” Isabel says, walking bris
kly past me. “I’m sure he’s looking for me.”
When Isabel is gone, Reed steps toward me, his palms raised. He whispers, “Georgina, I know how this looks.”
I point toward the garage. “Turn your lying, cheating ass around and get into that fucking garage. I’m not going to do this out here.”
Chapter 33
Reed
My heart crashing, I close the garage door behind me and turn around to face Georgie’s wrath. “I know how this looks, baby, but—”
“Don’t you dare call me baby!” she seethes, her eyes like meteors. “When your dick is still wet from another woman’s pussy!”
Oh, Jesus. “I didn’t fuck her, Georgie.”
“Liar. I saw her flushed face, Reed. Her smudged lipstick. Her tousled hair. That look in her eye like she just got fucked. You not only fucked her, you fucked the living shit out of her!”
“No. Calm down and listen to me.”
“Why? So you can tell me I’m crazy and paranoid? So you can look me in the eye and lie through your teeth?”
“I’m not lying to you, Georgie. I didn’t fuck Isabel.”
She crosses her arms over her chest. “You expect me to believe you and Isabel came into your garage, while your party was raging in your house, for who knows how long... because you suddenly felt the need to show her—a woman you’ve known for ten years—your car collection?”
My stomach twists. Shit. Fuck. Shit. Fuck. I run my hand through my hair. Fuck!
Georgina’s eyes are wild. “If I hadn’t stumbled upon you two at exactly the right moment to catch you red-handed, would you have come clean about what you did? Or would you have taken me to your bed after the party, and fucked me right after fucking her? Would you have at least done me the courtesy of showering before you fucked me, to get her off your dick and lips?”
“You need to listen to me. Isabel asked me to talk in private, about something important, and the garage was the only place I knew nobody would barge in on us.”