by Jess Bentley
“You tried to sabotage his career and get him imprisoned just to split us up?” Chelsea asks, incredulous. I guess I never told her about the time Kandy came on to me and I rejected her. I thought it had been amicable. I thought she was still capable of being a professional about it, but clearly my judgment still isn’t the greatest.
“I did it because I wanted him to suffer,” she screeches. “No one rejects me. No one. And if you think you can get away with it, I will bury you. I’ll make it so you never work in this industry again. No one will touch you with a ten-foot pole when I’m through with you, Ian Monroe. Mark my words.”
“I think that’s quite enough of that,” Merrill says, stepping in from behind us, his phone recording the whole thing. “I’m sure the authorities would like to have a listen to your attempts to frame my client. Not to mention your admission to possession yourself, Ms. Florin.”
“Think they’d like another angle of the action?” Serge asks, crawling out from behind a pile of luggage. “Man, I thought flying private would be way cushier,” he adds, tilting his neck to either side.
Kandy’s so red she looks like she might explode, but there’s nothing for her to do now. She’s been caught red-handed. She tries to plead her case, changing her tune, saying it was just a prank or she never meant anything to actually come of it, but the damage has been done. We all heard her plans to ruin me and my career.
Serge and Merrill force Kandy into a seat and guard her the whole rest of the flight, but the whole time Serge is waxing poetic about how great this plane is and how he might just need to get back in the biz. I know there’s nothing to it though. He loves working with those kids.
“You know you can hitch a ride with me whenever,” I say.
“As long as you two stay out of trouble,” Chelsea adds with a playful warning.
“Where would I even go?” Serge laughs. “This is nice for a return trip though. If I ever have to take a red-eye to bail a friend out of his stupidity again, I’ll be sure to keep this in mind.”
I just flip him off and he laughs at me, all while Kandy’s in the background glowering.
Merrill took her laptop before she could get back to it and found the newest article she’s been writing about me. About how I was caught with paraphernalia on the plane, arrested, and abandoned by everyone that ever had faith in me. It reads like a sick revenge fantasy or some weird fan fiction online. But I know how easy it would have been for things to turn out differently. I know how badly things could have gone if Chelsea didn’t take my side. If Serge wasn’t here to record everything. And I’m grateful. I don’t know what I ever did to deserve such amazing loyal people at my side, but I’m so, so grateful.
Rosa wakes up from her nap confused at the extra person on the plane and the way we’re all glaring at Kandy.
“What did I miss?” she asks, groggy as the plane starts to land.
Chelsea fills her in on all the details of our deception and shows her the video, and by the end of it, I think Rosa might be the angriest of us all. The moment the pilot gives her the okay, she’s on her phone with the local police. When the plane touches down, they’re waiting for us on the tarmac, ready to take Kandy away.
She’s screaming and kicking the whole time, but Chelsea and I stay behind on the plane, sitting on the bed. I don’t know what’s going through her mind, but I know I’m relieved. I didn’t expect any of this to go this well, and now I feel like the whole mess is well and truly behind me.
“I can’t believe she was so petty,” Chelsea says, shaking her head. “She’s probably thrown her whole career away for this.”
I wrap my arm around her and pull her into my chest, inhaling the sweet scent of her shampoo. “I definitely don’t think I’m worth it,” I laugh. “There are a million other rockstars she could be obsessed with.”
Chelsea turns to me, her eyes locked on mine. “I think you’re worth it. I almost feel sorry for her that she’ll never know how great it is to be with you.”
“Careful, you’re going to give me a big ego,” I tease.
She grins. “Can it really get bigger?”
“Is that a challenge?”
“God, no,” she groans, rolling her eyes with a grin.
We sit like that for a little while, cuddling on the bed on the plane, forgetting the rest of the world exists. But at some point, they’re going to want us to get off and I have something I need to say before that happens.
“Chelsea?”
“Yeah?”
“I was thinking… What if you came home with me?”
She shrugs. “Why not?”
I shake my head, realizing my mistake. “I mean… forever.”
She grins this teasing little grin that makes my stomach flip-flop. “In that big soulless mansion of yours?”
My heart sinks. “We can find something else.”
“How about you come home with me? You liked my place better anyway, didn’t you?”
“You mean it?” I almost don’t want to get my hopes up. I don’t want to risk falling apart if I’m wrong.
She kisses me, and it’s the sweetest, tenderest kiss I’ve ever felt. “Of course. But you should bring that mixing board with you,” she teases.
“Like you’d convince me to leave Mackie behind.”
Chelsea rolls her eyes and leans her head on my chest. “Of course you’ve named it.”
“Come on,” I say, standing, holding my hand out to her. “Let’s go home.”
Her hand slips into mine, fitting perfectly. I vow then and there to never, ever let her go again.
Epilogue
Chelsea
2 years later
Three albums in two years and more shows than I can count, and I still get the same thrill performing with Ian that I got that first night, every single time. There’s just something about that man that makes me melt, makes me lose my mind, and makes my heart swell with love.
We still do the odd solo show here and there, but the other is always waiting in the wings. There’s nothing like a good performance to kick the libido into high gear and neither one of us wants anyone else answering the call. And when we tour, it’s always together.
Sure, some promoters are annoyed by the insistence, but we don’t care. That’s what we are. Even after all this time, we can’t stand to be apart from each other for very long. And it doesn’t hurt that the fans love it.
Ever since the video of Kandy was released, the whole perception of Ian changed. Everyone that had been crucifying him before turned heel and praised him for his accomplishments and struggles. But Ian never lets it bother him. He knows there will always be fair-weather fans, but he also knows that there are some of us who will be on his side, always, no matter what.
Kandy barely got more than a slap on the wrist for the conspiracy, possession, and defamation charges. We didn’t really expect much from the justice system, but her career is over. She’s writing bitchy pieces on her blog that no one goes to and working at a gas station. No one really feels sorry for her.
The crowd cheers as we finish our last song—of the last performance we’re going to have for a while—and Ian takes my hand and holds it up high, the rings on my finger sparkling in the spotlight. No matter how many songs we write, how many tours we go on, Ian always wants to close the show with that first song we wrote together.
I’m not complaining. It still turns me on like nobody’s business. And at this point everyone knows it, so it’s a great closer. Even after canceling that first tour early, the album made a ton of money for Wish Givers and they invite us back year after year for more. And we love giving back, so we never miss an event if we can help it.
“Can we get another round of applause for my gorgeous wife?” Ian shouts, holding the mic out to the audience. They roar and I’m giggling, trying not to shrink back from the wall of noise coming at me.
“I know you might be sad that this is the last time we’re going to be on stage for a little while, but I have so
mething that might cheer you up,” he says, grinning at me.
I roll my eyes and shrug. I told him he shouldn’t, but I know he’s going to anyway. It’s not like I’m angry about it—more exasperated. But that could explain half of my interactions with Mr. Monroe. It doesn’t make me love him any less. I’m just worried one of these days my eyes are going to get stuck from all the exaggerated rolling they do.
He wraps one arm around me from behind, settling his hand on the swell of my belly that no amount of optical illusions in dress form have been able to conceal.
“We had the ultrasound! It’s a girl!” he says brightly, and the crowd goes nuts again. There’s nothing I can do but laugh, and then Ian’s sweeping me into his arms, dipping me low, and kissing me with everything he’s got.
“I love you,” he says, for only me to hear.
“I love you too,” I answer, my heart so full with love it might burst.
I know we’ve had our ups and downs, and I know the kind of life we have will never be easy. We’ll always be under public scrutiny, we’ll always have our every move on display for the world, and our daughter is going to have to face the same thing. I know that the traveling and the industry parties give Ian ample opportunity to fall back into his own ways, but I trust him. I know the man I married isn’t the man that he used to be. And I know that this guy is here to stay.
Some might call me naive or foolish, but I don’t care. They don’t know what it’s like to love Ian Monroe, they don’t know what it’s like to have him make you feel like the only important thing in the world—okay, so now there’s another important thing, but I’m willing to share the spotlight with our little girl.
“ONE. MORE. SONG,” the crowd chants, over and over again.
Ian’s still holding me, dipped low over the stage so we can actually hear each other over the roar.
“What do you say?”
“I guess we should give the people what they want,” I laugh, kissing him quickly before he sets me back on my feet.
“What should we sing?” I ask into the mic, waiting for the suggestions to come flying at us, but Ian shakes his head and holds his hand up to the audience.
“I know just the thing.”
I tilt my head at him and he grins that devil-may-care grin that shoots desire all the way to my toes. Yeah, this is how we made this baby and if he’s not careful he’s going to find himself on the way to making another.
Okay, I know that’s not how it works, but what’s wrong with practice?
“‘Emma’s Song’?” he says, naming the latest tune we’ve been working on. Of course no one knows it, no one’s heard it except the two of us. But leave it to my rock-and-roll husband to debut a new song at a secret show that’s our last performance until the baby’s born and old enough for us to leave her.
“That one’s not even finished yet,” I say into the mic for the audience’s benefit.
“Don’t you think they’d like a little window into our creative process?”
“Ian, this is a family show!”
The crowd bursts into laughter, but it’s not long before they’re cheering again, chanting for “Emma’s Song.” I sigh, shaking my head.
“Okay, but don’t judge us too harshly, it’s a work in progress,” I say, waving a stage hand out to bring me a stool. Ian gets one too, along with an acoustic guitar. He’s still rock and roll, but I’ve worked a little country into his act. It suits him, especially with this song.
He leans in to the mic and adjusts it to his new position, taking a deep breath. “This is a song we’ve been working on for our little girl. Our Emma. We can’t wait to meet you, baby girl.”
He strums the first chord and the whole crowd goes silent as Ian’s voice starts out soft and smooth. It’s not like other things he’s done. Generally, I do the melodies and he offers the edge, the rough gritty vocals that send tremors down my spine. But the first time I heard him singing softly to my belly, I knew there was something more in there. Something the whole world needed to see. The soft gooey center of the man I love more than anything in the world.
At the bridge, I join him, our voices intertwining like they’re made for each other. And after everything we’ve been through, I’m not convinced they weren’t. There’s magic every time Ian and I sing together, every time we’re on stage together. It’s a magic that doesn’t come around very often and I feel extraordinarily lucky to have it in my life.
The song is a sweet lullaby, promising our daughter that we’ll always be there for her, we’ll always cherish her, and when the world hurts her, we’ll be there to lift her back up. I know it’s silly to think she can hear or understand anything, but every time she hears her Daddy singing in that sweet voice, she goes nuts, kicking and flipping and squirming. I’m already convinced she’s going to be a dancer. Ian just hopes she’ll love music as much as we do. Not that I think there’s any chance she wouldn’t.
By the time the song ends and the lights fade, the whole club is still and quiet. My heart is filled with so much love for this man that I can hardly contain it and I desperately need to drag him backstage and do unimaginably dirty things to him.
Then the lights come back up and the crowd erupts. We thank them again, take our bows, and exit off the stage hand in hand until I’ve got him in the wings, pressed against the wall, kissing him like my life depends on it.
“I love you so fucking much,” he says, breaking away, gasping for breath. “And I promise I always will.”
“I love you too.” I grin, and kiss him again. I have no reason to ever doubt him. I know his promises are good.
Thank you for reading! On to your exclusive bonus novella, Obsessed by Zoey Oliver.
Copyright © 2018 by Zoey Oliver
All rights reserved.
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Chapter 1
“Please pick up, please pick up, please pick up!” Ayla Murray muttered softly, shifting her weight nervously from one foot to the other. When the voicemail picked up instead of her neighbor, Sam, Ayla slammed her fist down on top of the pile of packages outside the truck she was supposed to be loading.
“Shit!” she exclaimed.
Once Sam’s recorded voice was done reciting instructions, Ayla left her message. “Sam, this is Ayla, I had a favor to ask. Huge favor, actually. I’m still at work, and my roommate just called to tell me she has to leave for work soon, and our babysitter hasn’t shown up yet. I had to leave early once last week and I missed that day when Preston was sick. Anyway, I really can’t mess up this job… I’m sorry I’m rambling. Never mind. I’ll… figure something out. Bye.”
Ayla looked around, hoping an answer would appear. When none did, she wiped her nose with her sleeve and then blinked back her tears and got back to work, trying to get as much done as she could before the last possible minute when she’d have to go.
She had to leave work early. Again.
“Come on, Murray, get back to the belt! You’re missing packages!”
Ayla’s face burned hot with rage. Her supervisor, Jeff, subscribed to the drill sergeant school of management. Lots of screaming, yelling, and intimidation, with very little in the way of any positive reinforcement or compassion.
She hustled in and out of the two trucks she was charged with loading, ripping packages off the conveyor belt in front of her and setting them up in order on the shelves. She was one of only two women who worked the overnight shift at the “South Center” in Las Vegas for National Parcel Express. The other woman, Lynn, had more muscles than most of the men who worked there. Ayla was athletic enough, but lean and feminine. She seemed completely out of place among the crew of sweaty Neanderthals who made up most of the NPE truck-loading fraternity.
But the position came with excellent medical and d
ental insurance, despite it being part-time work, at no cost to her beyond her modest monthly union dues. She had a full-time day job in a call center, but the insurance there was very expensive, so she’d picked up the overnight shifts to both supplement her bank account and to provide health benefits for her six-year-old son, Preston.
She received no financial assistance from Preston’s “father,” since she didn’t even know the man’s name.
Ayla no longer felt the shame that once plagued her because of the one-night stand that blessed her with her son, but her parents had never forgiven her. Coming from a church-going family with roots in the Deep South, appearances were everything, and having an unwed, pregnant teenage daughter— despite her being an honors graduate from a good high school and on her way to college on scholarship— didn’t fit the narrative they wanted to portray to the world. They still had Ayla’s older sister, Amy, and her little brother, Allan, both of whom stuck to the straight and narrow.
So, Ayla had been cast aside, more or less disowned by her disapproving parents. Her brother Allan, still living at home, couldn’t express his opinion, but her sister Amy, away at college herself in California, championed Ayla in secret, mostly moral support, with a few dollars thrown her sister’s way when she could spare them… which wasn’t often.
Through a combination of good friends and a tireless work ethic, Ayla managed to keep a roof over her head, food on the table, diapers on Preston, and to keep her head above water.
Life was a struggle, but the reward of her silly, sensationally smart little man made it all worthwhile. He had Ayla’s green eyes, but everything else— the thick dark hair and stocky build— came from his Dad.
Whoever he was.
Chapter 2
Ayla rented a house in Henderson which was southeast of the Las Vegas Strip. She shared it with a roommate, Desiree. Desiree was a high school friend who worked in public relations for a small downtown casino, and she had to leave for work by just after 7:00 AM.