by Eden Butler
Will had stopped texting, eventually. He’d stopped trying to get me to open my front door after the night when he banged on it for an hour straight and all I did was turn off the lights and huddle under the duvet on my bed until he went away. He stopped leaving silly, stupid messages on my phone when I never returned his calls. If we ever did run across each other, I pleaded being busy with this, that or the other thing, and wish him well and beat a hasty retreat. Stupid, yes. Childish, absolutely.
But that’s what happens when you’re in love with your best friend. When a line gets crossed, sometimes, you can’t uncross it.
There was a track of dust on the bookshelf; the paint was fainter there. All of those pictures of my best friend, of us, had hidden the wood from the direct sunlight. But they were gone now.
Maybe I’d take Drake Reynolds up on his offer to star in his new sci-fi film that was causing so much buzz. Neil Blake was attached as the male lead and the premise was promising: Regency England. A clever, gutsy spinster woman hunting and killing demons for a bounty. I liked Neil. We’d worked together on an HBO miniseries a few years back when I was on break from Clockwork Castle. Could be fun, and the six-month shoot in London would guarantee I’d keep clear of Will for a good, long while. My agent Lynn had begged me to do it. She wanted to keep the momentum from the end of Clockwork going.
Being in London for that long would help with the letting go, which I kept reminding myself was a necessity. Pull the plug. Strip off the bandage and let him go.
Now.
Forever.
There would be no more Will and Raine. I wouldn’t text. I wouldn’t call. I sure as hell wouldn’t see him, not ever again if I could manage it.
It was over and done.
Or so I thought.
And then my phone rang from its refuge on the couch. When I answered it, heard the whispered, labored voice on the other end, all thoughts of Will, Ellie, my broken heart and my bruised ego disintegrated. If I thought that leaving Will behind was breaking my heart, I knew nothing of sorrow. It would be a bitter lesson to learn.
CHAPTER TWO
Ten Years Ago.
Los Angeles, The Karaoke Cabaret
“If that bitch pukes on me, I swear to Christ, Rainey, I will cut her.”
Jack James wasn’t nearly as threatening as he tried to be, never mind that the man had legs that went on for miles and miles and broad shoulders and a face that would not stop either. It was the suit. Pink didn’t scream “back the hell off” no matter who was wearing it. “I don’t care if she’s your best friend or not.” He waved a hand over his ridiculous linen suit, down to his shiny black shoes. “This fine stylin' cost me last month’s rent. I will cut a bitch…”
“I heard you, J.J., trust me.” Behind him and through the throng of drinking, dancing karaoke freaks, I spotted my best friend Ellie slumped against the wall, eyes wide as she watched the light throwing flashes of silver and red across the cluster of disco balls at the center of the club. “She won’t puke, I swear.”
“Huh. So you say.” J.J.’s attitude had more to do with one particular table set at the back of the club, one that had a handful of special guests clustered around it, and not with Ellie’s drunk, newly laid-off ass as she nursed yet another discounted strawberry daiquiri. “Are they looking?" he asked nervously, yet again. "You think they’re bored?” J.J. grabbed my shoulders, navigating me to stand in front of him. The aviator glasses he made me wear for the performance gave him a perfect view of Cooper Vilmont and his wife, Jojo.
“You can see them, right?” I asked, only getting a small jostle that had me grabbing for J.J.’s forearms to keep myself steady. “Woah.”
“Sorry. Shit, I’m sorry, girl. I’m just so nervous. Jojo said she wanted to see my show, but I didn’t think she’d bring Coop! That bitch is crazy.”
“Yeah, well, I wouldn’t call your new boss a bitch.” His shoulders lowered when I adjusted his tie, but I still felt the tremble of his hands when he squeezed my fingers. “At least give it a month before you start calling her a bitch.”
“I call everyone bitch.” J.J. leaned back, nodding to one of the new waitresses tugging a full tray of drinks toward the bar. “Hey, bitch.” She didn’t smile or nod at him and J.J. didn’t seem to mind. He kept applying his pet name to everyone that passed. The couple at the end of the bar: “Hey bitches.” The four sorority girls likely too young to down the shots on their table: “Hey bitches!” They called after him, “bitch!” but were likely too lit to even know what they were saying. J.J. even eyed the burly bouncer, Earl, who looked like a WWE reject as he passed. He managed a “hey bi…” before I stomped on his foot.
“Quiet,” I told him, moving us both back behind the bar to help out Micah, the bartender. “I’m just sayin…”
“I know, honey. The mouth,” he said, pointing to his full pout, “sometimes she gets away from herself.” For at least the hundredth time that night, J.J. eyed the clock, popping his neck like a nervous fighter about to have a match.
I had met J. J. when I had reluctantly taken a waitressing gig at the Karaoke Cabaret in order to make rent. We hit it off right away—the over-the-top, loud, flamingly gay and incredibly talented bar shift manager/entertainer and the young woman who could go toe to toe with him. The waitressing job didn't need to last long, thankfully, but I still came in on the nights J.J. was performing if he asked, to help him out and to lend a hand if the floor got busy.
In me, J.J. had found a friend who could compliment his style, be his straight guy, and give him room to shine. In return, he was a valuable contact in the business, one who did more than gossip, one who gave me tips and gave me leads and gave me support when I most needed it.
But tonight, it was J.J. who needed support. Tonight, the stakes were high.
“You’ve got to relax.”
“Girl, please.” He fussed with a couple of drinks, ignoring the special request the customer leaning across the bar gave him. “That shit is impossible.”
J.J.’s gaze went back to the table where the Vilmonts sat. They weren’t alone, though I had no idea who the guy sitting at Cooper’s elbow was. I didn't recognize him but he obviously was in the business; that sexy, kinda dangerous, Tom Hardy vibe screamed leading man material. The blonde with him looked like every typical L.A. starlet wannabe: I wannabe rich. I wannabe connected. I wannabe famous.
Blonde, big boobed, spray tanned and fake Chiclet teeth seemed to be the wannabe uniform and the girl at Coop’s table was in full regalia. She seemed out of place in the wake of the writer/director/producer who was famous for being able to play the game while often deciding to ignore it all together. The fellow she was with didn’t seem all that into her: he kept removing her hand from his arm, his shoulder, his leg. But his smile seemed genuine; even from this distance, his enthusiasm was infectious. But then again, who wouldn't be stoked to be hanging out with Cooper and Jojo Vilmont?
The Vilmonts sat close together, smiling, drinking, seeming to enjoy the drunk idiots up on the stage doing their level best to impress the crowd with their dubious karaoke skills. But that wasn’t why the crowd was so thick tonight. It was J.J. and his “show” who filled the seats tonight, and every night that he performed.
J.J. knew every Broadway number, every vaudeville joke, every show tune regardless of its “cool” factor. He could tell stories, he could riff on current events, he could even do a few scattered impressions. Yes, he could do it all, but damn, did he ever have the chops for the songs. Once J.J. started singing, inhibitions fled the crowd and everyone soon found themselves singing along. It also helped that he was the funniest human being I’d ever met (and most everyone I came across at the club agreed with me). Oh, yes, the crowds came to the cabaret to be entertained and J.J. was just the man for the job.
Jojo Vilmont would soon realize that her new PA was so much more than a pretty face and biting sarcasm.
“Cooper Vilmont isn’t God, J.J.,” I said, hoping that my flippant at
titude would relax him. For a second, I thought maybe he hadn’t heard me but when I glanced to my left, I spotted J.J.’s wide eyes and shaking head. “What?”
“Bitch…he is in this town.”
He nudged me, laughing when I shrugged, helping Micah as best I could as the crowd started to get even thicker and congregate around the stage. “It’s almost time,” I told J.J. and he nodded, taking a second for a deep inhale before he left the bar, ducking backstage to get ready for his intro.
It wasn’t unusual for celebrities to pop into the cabaret. Sometimes the place was thick with them. Other times karaoke would go out of fashion for a bit or some catty bitch who couldn’t get a good seat for J.J.’s show would spread around social media how passé and stupid the club was and then the place would be deader than spiral perms.
That would last a few months, then J.J. would up his game, go a little bluer, switch up his set list or pull in his friends for a few numbers—something I was supposed to help out with tonight—and then the whole of L.A. loved him again.
Squinting across the club, I spotted Ricki, a veteran waitress who looked thoroughly unimpressed by the Vilmonts or the company they kept. She’d been in California for twenty years and still had only managed regional success as an actress. No one impressed her anymore, least of all Cooper Vilmont, no matter how many studios were begging to work with him. Rumor was Coop and Jojo had started out as staff writers on a few modest sitcoms ten years back and had slowly built reputations for great writing and wicked senses of humor to compliment their “get it done” attitudes.
“Raine, can you get table four, please? I haven’t had a break all night.” I nodded to Tina, the petite waitress with a pixie cut and huge fake boobs, then hustled to grab her table’s orders.
“Two shots of Patron and two Miller Lites,” I told Micah coming back to the bar, leaning against it while I waited for the order.
“That Coop Vilmont?” he asked me, as he followed my gaze.
“Yeah. J.J. got a gig as his wife’s PA, if you can believe that shit.”
“You’re kidding?” Micah kept his attention on me as he loaded up another waitress’s tray. “He’s leaving us? What about his show?”
“I don’t think he’s going anywhere immediately,” I told him, wiping down the bar when a customer bumped against the tray. “He’s doing the PA gig to earn extra cash and maybe, network a little.”
“Please.” He handed me my now full tray, laughing when I tilted my head to the side, trying to hear him better. “Sweetheart, the second J.J. opens his mouth, Vilmont’s world will change. He’s casting some big sci-fi show and that chick from Fox that lives above me told me that they’re having trouble finding an alien to fill out the cast.”
“Okay. So?”
That earned a louder laugh from Micah. “You think anyone could watch J.J.’s show and not think he’s from another planet? Darlin’, you’ve been here six months. You can’t tell me you didn’t think that dude wasn’t completely human.”
“Funny,” I told him, taking the tray back to table four to deliver the drinks just as Marni, the club manager, came to the stage.
“Ladies and gentlemen…”
She did this whole bit that was over the top and a little embarrassing. It was all “the greatest performer this side of the Pacific” or “a queen among men,” or “the bawdiest bastard you’ve ever had the pleasure of hearing…”—a long, stupid intro she thought was hilarious. J.J. hated it and as I inched closer toward the stage and caught his big, round eyes and how quickly he rolled them, I got that J.J.’s irritation at Marni endured.
And then, J.J. hit the stage in a thunder of light, confetti, smoke and attitude. The crowd went manic and cheered and bellowed like he was the second coming of Elvis. There, he was in his element, throwing out insults where they were deserved, making jokes, roasting the rich and the influential and the vain, and finally breaking out into song with a voice so powerful, so fluid, it felt like something out of an older, classier era.
All around us, the clinking of glasses and ice went quiet as J.J. sang. Smoke from the dry ice machine clouded around J.J. and then drifted across the crowd, as the swirl of colored lights flashed and twisted over the stage and out onto the tables. A quick smile tugged at my mouth as I glanced at the Vilmonts, seeing how rapt they were, how riveted they were to the performance.
The couple nodded and laughed in the right places, whispering to each other when J.J. performed some impressive vocal aerobics, right along with the rest of the crowd. My friend was indeed making quite the impression.
Cooper wasn’t a big guy, but he was impressive. His build was slight, but cut, his medium height making him seem approachable. But his black hair was buzzed and his dark eyes were deep set and fierce, something I’d heard he’d used to his advantage when someone got under his skin. It was also during those irritated moments, rumor has it, that his Haitian accent unearthed itself from years of Southern Californian assimilation. You hear all sorts of rumors about celebrities after they make it, but Cooper’s family fighting their way out of Haiti to settle in California? His working two jobs to put him and his siblings through college? His being a PA for every up and coming director in the 90’s? All that, I’d learned, had been true.
Tonight he sported a vintage Marvel t-shirt under his sports jacket, one that matched Jojo’s casual jeans and Avengers hoodie. I smiled to myself, impressed that they seemed so laid back and eager to laugh and have a good time no matter how many films or shows they had in production or under their belts. And how unconcernedly they let their geek flag fly.
I was staring at Jojo, zoning out really, examining her pale skin and thinking how remarkable it was that both she and Coop were in their mid-40’s yet still managed to look so young, when Micha nudged me in the back.
“Watch it. Your time to be in the cross hairs.”
“Um, earth to Raine,” J.J. called from the stage and I sputtered into action, pulling off my apron and beelining it to the stage. “She’s slow, you guys.” J.J. leaned forward, holding the mic closer to his mouth, mimicking a whisper. “You know, she's from Texas or something. Everything’s ... slower ... in…oh, hey, bitch!” he called brightly, stopping his insult when I reached the stage and punched him in the shoulder.
“Freaking hilarious, J.J.” I grabbed the mic from him, pushing him behind me as he laughed as if enjoying my carefully planned audacity. “Welcome, everyone. I hope you’ve been enjoying the show.”
“They have,” J.J. quipped, receiving a few giggles when he exaggerated an eye roll. “Where have you been?”
“I have to apologize for the opening act,” I went on, ignoring my friend who pretended to yawn and egg on the crowd. “Such an amateur, that one. You know,” I copied J.J., leaning forward to whisper into the mic, “I hear he’s from California or something.” The boos came loud and quick before I amended. “Sorry, not here, no…my God, you know, I think I remember him admitting he’s from New York!”
“Oh my God,” J.J. interrupted, resting one hand on the stool next to the mic. “Really, I…I don’t think I can…no, I can’t breathe.” He took another dramatic pause, being ridiculous as he waved to the crowd. “No…it’s just too funny for words.”
The air in the club had become comfortably stuffy, but no one noticed as we fed from the energy the crowd gave us, J.J. and I side by side bouncing insults and jokes back to each other so that the energy buzzed sharper, kindled by the laughter filling the room.
Finally, when the laughter had ebbed slightly, I elbowed J.J., nodding toward the waiting crowd. “Are you gonna stand there all night acting like an amateur or are we going to sing? Look!” I pointed at the Valmont’s table and Cooper laughed as JoJo tried to stifle a yawn. “That woman is falling asleep!”
“Okay, lady. What do you suggest?” J.J.’s face went cool, but it was an expression that was forced and fake; a small clue we’d worked out between us that gave the head’s up to move forward with the act.
> Playing along, I got serious, fanning the long, ginger hair from my forehead as I held the mic between both hands. “Something ancient.” Eyes closed tight, I could literally feel the energy from the crowd sinking into my skin. “It’s an old, trusted song from the backwoods of the boondocks, something that came here along with my folk from the old country.”
“Florida?” J.J. said, laughing.
My eyes shot open, blazing, before I shook my head, as though burdened by disappointment. “Anyway…I told you about it, I believe.” J.J. went along, nodding and flapping his hand at me to hurry it along, but he kept his gaze on my face, as though he was more than a little curious. At least, he played that way to the crowd, shifting his focus to them and back at me as though I’d intrigued him. “Just a beautiful melody and such haunting words, I don’t think anyone in the room will recognize it at all.”
“Oh, wow,” J.J. said, slipping onto the stool with his arms folded and the mic hanging loosely in one hand. “Well, go for it, lady.”
I took a breath, focusing on the sounds around me, mouth twitching as the slow, rhythm started, violins and horns soft, sweet and then, I opened my eyes and sang, high soprano strong, loud as the melody took over and the words sounded like poetry from my mouth. Well. Gangsta poetry. “I…like big butts…”
The crowd immediately roared with laughter and J.J. stood next to me, filling in the bottom as I lifted my voice up top. We harmonized, kept our voices in perfect pitch, our expressions completely serious until, of course, the chorus, when the music shifted, the bass line amped right up and J.J. and I took off through the crowd.
“Dance, bitch. Shake that ass!” J.J. said to a mousy-looking girl who clearly was out of her element. Around her table, her friends all donned the same work badges as she did but with very little encouragement, J.J. had her out of her chair and shaking her butt.