“It hurts even worse when the other man has a sexier name than you. Trust me. Generic means you stand a chance.” He raised his eyebrows, waiting for me to explain. “Melody’s fiancé’s name is Marco.”
“Ah. Is that where you were last night? With Melody?”
“It’s not what you think. We stayed up late talking.”
“How middle school of you guys.”
The first time a girl let me touch her boob ranked up there with the thrill I’d gotten when I’d woken up holding Melody’s hand.
“Don’t knock it until you've tried it.”
“I have with Emma. Anyone else bores me to tears if we have a conversation longer than ten minutes.”
“Geez, thanks,” I retorted sarcastically.
“I meant with other women. Why else would I fuck them and leave them?”
“Because you're an asshole?”
Ash shed his sullen expression and laughed. “Touché.” Fishing his from his pocket, he swiped open the screen. “So Marco, huh?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Let’s see if we can dig up any dirt on him.”
I opened my mouth to stop him, but my curiosity about whether the name fit the image froze the words in my throat.
Ash’s fingers tapped the screen. “Do you know her last name?”
“Carmichael.”
I had sneaked a peek at her ID when she was in the bathroom—not my proudest moment, but her wallet had been lying on the table, just begging to be snooped in.
“Holy shit, she is accomplished,” Ash praised. “Listen to this, she's the president of New York Women in Film and Television, on the board of directors for Upstate Independence, and three IDA awards.”
My chest swelled with pride. “I believe it.”
“Okay, hmm this is interesting. In this article, it says her last film will be this year.”
“What?!”
I snatched the phone from Ash and scanned to the very bottom of the page.
“At such a young age, Melody Carmichael has managed to bewitch the documentary film world with her stunning raw imagery. According to various reports though, she will be taking an extended break to focus on the next chapter of her life, her upcoming marriage to Marco Ramos.”
Red dots exploded in my line of sight. “Son of a bitch!”
“She doesn’t strike me as the kind of woman who believes in a 1950s mentality.”
“She isn’t,” I growled. “Her career is her life. Marco has to have some kind of hold over her.”
Sean snorted. “He resembles a Disney prince.”
He turned the picture toward me and my upper lip curled—he was a Disney prince who looked like he had stepped off the stage of a telenovela: styled black hair chopped into layers framed a chiseled jaw line and a strong nose. Clicking the link under his headshot, his bio loaded on the screen. I wasn’t an aficionado of literature, but a second grader could put together the rhythms he did.
“I don’t understand. What else is there besides his appearance?” I asked.
Ash reclaimed his phone and scrolled through Marco’s portfolio of poems with a similar scowl. “Beats me.”
For a fleeting second, I considered the idea that Melody’s personality was as shallow as a wading pool and that she thought a man having good hair was enough reason to marry him, but our varied conversations during the past two weeks dispelled the absurd thought.
“We are idiots when it comes to relationships.” I sighed. “You let the love of your life go and I form a crush on a woman who is getting married.”
“Thanks for bringing that back up,” Ash said.
“Sorry but it’s the truth. We should run off and join a monastery.”
“I would miss sex too much.”
“Yeah me too.”
Ash continued to play on his cellphone while I went to brew a new cup of coffee. The lack of sleep was catching up to me. Resting my head against the upper cabinet door, my eyes closed.
“Dude, he’s illegal.”
“Who?”
“Marco.”
The excitement in his voice peeled my lids open. Ash jabbed at the screen. “He’s originally from Spain and he's here in the United States on a six-month student visa.”
“He’s a student?”
“At Columbia University, but that’s beside the point.”
“Then what is the point?”
“He’s marrying Melody to gain citizenship.”
“No…”
“Yes!” Sean waved his phone in the air as if he had struck gold. “It makes sense now why she chose this job instead of gallivanting off to Africa. Since she's marrying someone who isn’t an American citizen, she would have to prove they love each other in the eyes of the government. Also, it says it right here in this pompous literary journal.”
Reporter: Congrats on your rather quick engagement.
Marco: *laughing* What can I say? When you know you know.
Reporter: So it has nothing to do with your visa expiring soon?
Marco: After arriving in New York, my close friendship with Melody developed into love. I won’t lie and deny that the visa situation has hastened the progress of our relationship, but only because I can’t imagine spending another day apart from her.
Sean gagged. “How freaking corny.”
It struck me that Melody’s mother’s death hadn’t only smashed her heart into smithereens, it had also destroyed her belief in love so much that she was now entering the safest form of marriage she could possibly agree to: a business proposal.
SECURING MY HAIR INTO A high ponytail, I squeezed my legs into a pair of skinny jeans and slid a purple V-neck over my head. The mad dash progressed into the bathroom where lipstick and a light dusting of bronzer were applied to my pale features. I shouldn’t have gone back to sleep after Sean accidentally woke me up. With his hair smashed on one side and his eyes hooded, he’d looked dead sexy in the morning light. If our situation were different, I would have invited him to cuddle with me naked—although fully clothed cuddling was pretty spectacular too. I vaguely remembered the sensation of his arms encircling my waist, tugging me into the crook of his chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat lulling me into a dreamless slumber.
My smile collapsed when I saw Marco’s name flash across my phone’s screen. It was as if he knew I needed a reminder of the reality waiting for me at home and wanted to administer a heavy dose of remorse for my actions.
Sean and I needed to keep a strictly platonic friendship, meaning he wasn’t allowed in any of my hotel rooms from here on out. We had to stick to restaurants, parks, and other locations that didn’t have a bed present. Otherwise, I was at risk for losing my goddamn mind again and forgetting that Sean wasn’t my future, Marco was.
“Hello,” I answered.
“Hey! I’m so glad you answered. How are you?”
I nibbled my bottom lip as the guilt escalated a few notches. What could I say? I was freaking fantastic because last night I slept in a cocoon of hard muscle—not gonna work.
Less was better. “Fine. How are you?”
“Wonderful. I have penned three new poems. They are edgier than my others …”
Once Marco got on the topic of writing, I had to literally shout at him to shut him up. Otherwise, hours would pass. I threw my belongings into my suitcase and zipped it closed.
Marco paused for a breather and I jumped on the lull. “Is the apartment okay? Did you get the rent money I sent you?”
With traveling to various destinations for work, my home was my haven. I’d found my tiny studio with a sleeping loft on Craigslist and as soon as I had stepped inside, I had fallen in love with the pre-war architecture. Rugs woven by refugees from Africa decorated the scuffed wooden floors, a Moroccan coffee table salvaged from a dumpster acted as my desk, and an overstuffed yellow couch served as my writing chair. With my notebooks scattered around me, I came up with my best ideas in a spot near the window, hence why I’d refused when Marco suggeste
d we find a bigger place. It was tight with two people, but Marco spent the majority of the day and night in his uptown co-working space.
“The apartment is fine and yes, I got the rent money. Don’t stress babe, everything is under control.”
“What about—”
Marco predicted my question and a tender smile could be heard in his voice as he said, “Colette? I visited her yesterday for a second before I went to the studio.”
“Is she taking her medication?”
“She said she is.”
My lips pinched together in worry. My next-door neighbor Colette was an eighty-year-old former ballerina that suffered from high blood pressure. The stubborn old coot found modern medicine useless and if not for my persistence, she would have thrown away the pills long ago.
“You can’t ask. You have to give them to her with a cup of tea and a shortbread cookie,” I instructed.
“Mel, I don’t have time to play nurse. My gallery showing is in two weeks.”
“She doesn’t have anyone else.”
“Then she should go to a nursing home where there is around-the-clock care.”
“And leave her home?! She married her late husband in that living room.”
Marco heaved an exasperated sigh. “Fine, I’ll force the pill down her throat if I have to. Happy? “
“Yes, very. Thank you.” The shuffling of papers sounded over the line, and a vivid image of him in his studio surrounded by canvases, some leaning in stacks against the wall and others propped on easels and half finished, caused the corners of my mouth to tip upward. He seemed more at home there than anywhere else. “Can you send me photos of your new work?”
“Of course! I’ll send them as soon as we get off the phone.”
A quick peek at the clock showed how soon that would be. “I have to go now actually. I’m running behind.”
“Before you do, I have some news about our wedding venue.”
I slipped on my shoes, grabbed my suitcase, and hustled toward the elevator. “What is it?”
“We have to push the date up. They double-booked us and asked if we would be willing to change it to the first of May instead. They are willing to give us a fifty percent discount. “
My wayward attention snapped back into focus. The doors slid open with a ding and let out a family of five. I stayed rooted to the spot, unable to move. “I can’t leave in the middle of the documentary.”
“I figured you would say that. The ceremony is in the morning and we will hold off on the reception until you’re home for good, so you’ll only be gone for one day, maybe two.”
“But you’re talking about a week from now.” My pulse kicked up a few notches and I fought to remain calm. “What about the priest? And the floral arrangements?”
“They have both been generously flexible with their schedules.”
“We can find a new venue. We don’t have to change everything around.”
“I know you’re worried because you aren’t in control, but let me handle this. All you have to do is show up on May first in your gown—or hell, in rags even. I don’t care. You’ll be beautiful no matter what.”
I had seven days to banish my feelings for Sean, seven days before I committed to forever, ‘til death do us part, to Marco. Seven days.
Oh god, I was going to be sick.
MATTHEW’S ANNOYED GLARE GREETED ME when I entered the bus. “You’re late. We almost left without you.”
“Lay off her man.” Sean relieved me of my camera bag and set it on the couch. “She is three minutes late and guess what? The world is still spinning.”
My patience was limited after having hurled into a trashcan, putting a cherry on top of the freaking sundae that was my morning. “First of all, you don’t need to speak for me. I have vocal cords,” I said to Sean before setting my sights on Matthew. “And second of all, I’m sorry for being late. It won’t happen again.” They both gaped at me as if I had grown a pair of antlers. “Good? Great? Awesome. Do you mind if I lie down for a bit?”
Ash spoke up from his spot at the table where he was spooning cereal into his mouth. “You can use my bunk. It’s the bottom one on the left side.”
His kindness was appreciated and if I hadn’t heard about the sexual escapades that went down there, I would have gladly accepted. “Ummmm…”
Sean finally regained his sense of speech, saving me. “You can use mine. It’s above Ash’s.”
“Thanks.”
I wandered through the curtains that separated the sleeping area from the rest of the bus and Sean soon appeared behind me. “I want to be alone.”
“Not until you tell me what happened between when I left you this morning and now.”
“Nothing happened.”
He growled and spun me around so I was facing him. His blue eyes swept across the contours of my face with concern. “Why are you lying to me? You’re paler than the sands of Bora Bora.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It does matter if it’s upsetting you.”
Brushing his hands off my shoulders, I paced to the end of the minuscule room and back, my mind whirling like a cyclone about everything and nothing. I didn’t know what to say, think, or feel. As my mom used to say, I was a hot mess.
One thing was clear though: my friendship with Sean had to be cut off at the knees. We were fooling ourselves to think it could work.
“We have to end this—whatever this is—and return to being coworkers.”
Sean’s brow creased. “Why?
“What do you mean why?! Because we almost crossed a line last night.”
A thunderous cloud tightened his features as his gaze turned predatory. “Has my dick slid into your tight pussy yet? Have you screamed my name in ecstasy? Have I kissed you as if you are my salvation and my ruin?” An inferno erupted between my legs as Sean robbed the last bit of air from my lungs and stepped closer. He gripped my chin, forcing me look into his heated gaze. “Yes or no, Melody.”
“No,” I whispered.
Satisfied, he dropped his grasp. “Then I don’t see the problem.”
Planting my palms on his chest, I shoved him and growled at the unjustness of the situation he had placed me in. Why couldn’t he treat me like the filmmaker I was employed as? And why for the love of all that is holy did I ache—physically ache—to have him inside me? Sean remained in the same spot, regarding me with a look of amusement. I went to shove him again and he clasped my wrists together.
“Let go of me,” I said, my voice steely.
“Tell me what’s bothering you.”
My body flailed as I attempted to wiggle free of his hold, which proved impossible. After five seconds, I threw in the towel. “My wedding has been pushed up to May first.”
“May first, as in seven days from now?”
“Correct.”
My arms dropped to my sides as he released me. He ran a hand across his cheeks, which were shadowed with stubble, and frowned. “Why so soon?”
“Our venue double booked us and only had that date available. Marco said yes without consulting me first and was like surprise! You’re going to be stuffing yourself into a puffy white wedding gown and saying I do while fifty plus people watch in less time than you thought. Fifty!” I yelled, my chest tightening. “I don’t understand how that’s possible. I don’t know fifty people and neither does Marco. Who are these people? Strangers?”
“Didn’t you send out the invitations?”
“Marco did! He has orchestrated this entire event. That’s not normal, right? The bride is supposed to be invested!” My breath caught in my throat and the room spun like a merry-go-round; I was either dying or suffering from an anxiety attack.
“You need to sit down before you pass out.”
Sean guided me to the lower bunk. I sank down on the plush mattress and a glass of water was thrust into my hands. He had apparently fetched it while I was too busy freaking out to notice. Taking a dainty sip to please him, I concentrated on a
kidney-shaped stain on the carpet while my heart rate lowered.
“This isn’t a normal wedding, therefore, I don’t expect the same rules apply,” Sean said.
My eyes lifted curiously at his strange comment. “What are you talking about?”
“You marrying Marco so he can get his green card.”
Getting a handle on my emotions proved futile as they slipped back into panic mode. “How do you know about the green card?”
“Marco mentioned it an interview with a reporter.”
“What was the reporter’s name?”
“It started with a P.”
“Penelope?”
“Yes that was it.”
With his poetry slam show coming up, Marco had asked me to call in a favor with an old college buddy who worked for the arts section of the New York Times to drum up some press. Penelope had a hard-hitting interview process and liked to get the story from all angles. I had promised to call her on the condition Marco would leave our relationship private and out of the news.
“Shit!” I cursed.
“It’s not that big a deal.”
“It’s a huge deal!” I contended. “I know it looks like we are only getting married because of said green card.”
“Aren’t you?”
The hopefulness in his voice tore my soul in two. I wished I could give him the answer he wanted to hear, but lying wouldn’t do him any favors. “No. There are a million reasons why I’m donning the white dress and committing to spend my life with him. The green card isn’t one of those reasons.”
“You’re really expect me to believe you love him? You’re acting like you’re about to go to prison.”
“It’s just a case cold feet.”
“As your friend…” Sean spit out the word as if it was a sour cherry. “I’m here to tell you this is more than cold feet—way more. This is your gut telling you to run.”
SHIT. SEVEN DAYS. THAT WAS how long I had to convince her what a bad idea it was to walk into a marriage riddled with doubt.
I couldn’t say there wasn’t an ulterior motive at play. Giving Melody up to another guy sounded worse than selling off my prized vintage Gretsch drum kit—a lot worse.
Melody of Truth (Love of a Rockstar Book 3) Page 7