Unfaded

by Julie Johnson

  “Would you like the sugar-coated version or the cold hard facts?”

  “No sugar necessary.”

  “Just like your Gran.” His smile has a sad edge. “Route 66 is suing you for breach of contract.”

  “How can they do that? I delivered the album, as promised.”

  “The album, yes. However, according to this document, you promised them quite a bit more than that.” When I don’t answer, his voice goes soft. “Specifically, a six-month Wildwood world tour.”

  “But that’s— I didn’t think— No.” I swallow. “No, that can’t be. They can’t possibly expect me to go on tour! Not after everything…”

  “Look, Felicity… I don’t know what happened that made you leave this life behind. I don’t know why you’ve been hiding out these past two years or what you’ve been running from. All I know is what this contract says, and what the financial weight behind it implies.”

  “Which is what, exactly?”

  “It boils down to this: they have your signature, agreeing to a world tour with the band after completion of the record. You haven’t delivered on that part of the bargain, so they’re coming after you — with considerable force, it would seem.” He studies me carefully. “Labels like Route 66 have a lot of money and they don’t like to lose a penny of it, if they can help it. Which makes you walking out, destroying their plans for a highly lucrative string of shows all across the globe, a real thorn in their sides.”

  “I don’t understand — how can they hold me accountable for a tour that never even happened? I didn’t lose them any money! They didn’t have to refund venues or fire roadies…”

  “It doesn’t matter. All they see is the potential money you could’ve made — money they expected in their pockets that, instead, went up in thin air when you walked away. Between the ticket sales, merchandise, and revenue from additional album exposure… they’re out tens of millions of dollars. And, in their eyes, you’re the one to blame.”

  The blood drains from my face. “What are my options?”

  “You can either fight them in court, hope and pray a sympathetic judge sees things your way after hearing both sides of the story… or you can go back.”

  “Back?” My voice cracks.

  “To Los Angeles.”

  “You mean… agree to do the tour.”

  He nods. “Or, at the very least, go talk to your people at the label. See if you can work something out before this goes sideways. I’m happy to represent you, to advocate for you in court, if it comes to that. But if I were in your position, I’d explore every other option first. In my experience, most lawsuits and legal disputes are entirely preventable with bit of compromise from both parties. You’d be amazed how much ground you can reclaim with some open communication.”

  I’m silent. Still. Remarkably calm on the outside, considering my world is coming apart at the seams.

  Again.

  “The tour is only six months,” Jerry says gently. “Perhaps you could even negotiate them down to a shorter stint. Then, once you’ve fulfilled your contractual obligations, you can walk away — for good, this time. They’ll have no further grounds to come after you.”

  This can’t be happening.

  My head is aching, my pulse is throbbing. It’s too much to process all at once. I try to channel some of the icy calm I’ve kept so effectively around my heart these past two years, but it’s splintering with each pounding beat against my ribcage, an animal breaking free of frosted chains after a long, numbing hibernation.

  “No,” I breathe, barely audible. “I won’t go back there. I can’t go back.”

  Not to the label. Not to that life. Not to him.

  “If you decide to fight this, I’ll do my best to represent you. But, as your attorney, having seen the way these cases generally play out… I’d be remiss not to advise against it.” He shifts in his plush armchair. “I can see how much the idea of returning to Los Angeles affects you, Felicity. But they have you bound in an iron-clad contract. Fighting them will not only be messy and public… it will be hugely expensive. They could easily take everything you have in restitution.”

  My mouth opens, prepared to tell him there’s nothing I have worth taking… but the words dissolve on my tongue. An hour ago, that was true. I had nothing except a single-bedroom shack on a seaside cliff, so outdated even the cheapest of tourists wouldn’t touch it. But now, with the inheritance…

  I wouldn’t be losing the meager coffers in my own checking account. I’d be losing the estate Gran left me. Not just her fortune, but her land. Her guitar collection. And, above all, her hopes and dreams that I’d take that money and use it for something better than court cases and legal battles. If she’d wanted her life’s work to go into lawyers’ pockets, she would’ve let her daughters fight to the death over every last penny.

  My stomach turns to lead as I realize I have no choice. I’ve been backed into a corner, outmaneuvered and outgunned by players far more deft at moving pieces on this chessboard. Jerry must recognize the defeat on my face, because he leans forward and takes my hand with a gentle squeeze.

  “You’re Bethany Hayes’ granddaughter. You can handle this. You can handle anything.”

  I don’t say a word. I just cling to his fingers like they’re the only thing left tethering me to the earth.

  “Just a few months,” he murmurs. “Then you’ll have your freedom. Forever.”

  “A few months,” I echo hollowly.

  As if that’s any consolation at all.

  Last time I stepped foot in that city, a few months was plenty long enough for Los Angeles to destroy everything I held dear. Last time, all it took was a few months for my world to spin out of control, for me to lose my grip on the life I’d built, brick by brick, on a foundation of young love and starry-eyed naivety.

  I want to cry.

  I want to scream.

  I want to rage against the fates laughing down at me as they drag me back to the broken fragments of that shattered dream, its shards already drawing blood from the flesh of the wounded organ beating too fast inside my chest.

  I do none of those things.

  I am Bethany Hayes granddaughter.

  I will not dishonor her legacy.

  Scarlet lipstick still perfectly intact, I set my shoulders and look straight into Jerry’s eyes. “Can I borrow your phone? I need to call the airline and change my flight.”

  Chapter Four

  felicity

  Francesca Foster is rarely taken off guard.

  A Type-A control freak with a penchant for numbers and a reputation for success in the music industry, the acquisitions agent was the driving force behind Wildwood’s first album. In her early thirties, she often seems much older due to her serious, ever-scientific approach to life’s many problems. Since I first met her, I’ve never seen so much as a single auburn hair out of place in her sleek asymmetrical bob, never witnessed her angular features assembled into an expression of anything except cool, unwavering composure.

  …Until the moment she steps into her glass corner office and finds me sitting in her chair with my feet up on her impeccably organized desk.

  “Felicity!” Her wide eyes scan my face, saturated with shock. There’s a hand thrown over her chest, as though I’ve nearly given her a heart attack. “What on earth are you doing here?”

  Carefully, with studied slowness, I pull my feet off her desk and lean back in her chair, pinning her to the spot with a glare.

  “What am I doing here, Francesca? Really? You have the nerve to ask me that?” My voice is cold. Almost unrecognizable. “You sent your flying monkey to my grandmother’s funeral and served me with a lawsuit.”

  “I am not a wicked witch, despite what you might think.” She sighs deeply, a line of concern creasing the smooth skin between her perfectly plucked brows. “I regret the timing of it, but you left me with little choice.”

  “I suppose I should be grateful you had him wait until thirty seconds after she
was in the ground, rather than interrupting my final goodbyes on the side of the grave, huh?” My laugh is brittle. “Big of you.”

  She takes a few slow steps into the office and sinks elegantly into the chair across from mine, the definition of posh in her tailored teal dress. “As I’ve already said, I regret the timing. But the funeral yesterday was the first time in two years I knew, with absolute certainty, where you’d be — considering you walked away without so much as a word to anyone, let alone a forwarding address.”

  “You could’ve called my family attorney. He knows how to reach me.”

  “Tell me — if I’d called, would you be here right now?”

  My chin jerks higher, but I don’t respond. We both know nothing short of a court summons would’ve been enough to bring me back to this city.

  “I thought as much.” Her lips purse. “Felicity, I am not your enemy.”

  “Well, you’re certainly not my friend. Friends don’t sue each other.”

  “That’s correct — I’m not your friend. Technically, I am your boss, for lack of a better term. And while I have always liked you, I also like my job.” She leans forward, voice intent. “What I do not like, is failing to deliver on promises I make to my superiors. Do you realize the position you put me in, when you left? The damage you caused? Not just to the band, or to yourself—“ Her gaze flickers to my blonde hair and scans down my scowling face, searching for a glimpse of a girl who no longer exists. “—you also left me to explain to my bosses why the most popular Route 66 act in well over a decade wouldn’t be touring around the country, making good on that triple-platinum album they funded.”

  “I didn’t—” I break off, sparks of shame kindling into flame as her words penetrate the angry fog that’s been surrounding me since her henchman shoved that lawsuit into my hands. When I speak, my tone is significantly less hostile. “I didn’t realize. Okay? When I walked away… I didn’t realize it would affect anyone else. I didn’t think about the repercussions. I just…” My eyes lock on hers, pleading for a shred of understanding. “Francesca, I had to get out. You don’t understand—”

  “No. I do not understand. Perhaps because you never took the time to explain it to me.”

  “I apologize. All right? I apologize for leaving. I apologize for disappearing without any explanation.” I cross my bare legs, picking absently at a loose thread at the sleeve of my sage green sundress. “What else do you want from me? Besides, apparently, all the money I possess and a lengthy legal battle over the breach of my contract?”

  “Don’t be dramatic. I just needed a way to get you back to Los Angeles — I have no intentions to sue you, Felicity, nor do I want to.”

  “What do you want?”

  “No more than what you promised to deliver when you signed your contract.”

  My eyes flash to hers, jaw locking. I don’t ask — I already know what she’s about to say.

  “The tour.” She clasps her hands together in her lap. “I want you to go on tour with Ryder.”

  I flinch at the sound of his name. If Francesca notices my reaction, she ignores it.

  “Six months. Thirty cities. That’s what we agreed on two years ago.”

  “Things were different two years ago.”

  “Your hair, for starters.”

  My eyes narrow. “Was that a joke?”

  Her lips twist. “Merely an observation.”

  “Observe all you want. You won’t change my mind. I’m not doing this tour.”

  “Then you give us no choice but to pursue legal action against you.” Her eyes soften slightly. “Felicity, if it were up to me, I’d let you walk away. But it’s out of my hands. These orders are coming straight from the top. My boss’s boss’s boss. There’s nothing I can do.”

  My jaw clenches and unclenches rhythmically.

  “Have you seen him?” she asks after a moment of tense silence. “Since you left, have you spoken to him at all?”

  “No.” I force out the world like poison from my lips.

  “So you don’t know about—”

  “Stop.” I hold up a hand, cutting her off. “I don’t know anything about Ryder Woods, and I don’t want to know.”

  “But—”

  “Francesca. I mean it. One more word about him, I’m walking out that door.”

  Her lips clamp shut and a frosty silence descends. I can tell she’s angry with me, but I don’t care. After I left Los Angeles, I made the mistake of looking at the tabloids one too many times. I saw all I ever needed to see about Ryder’s activities once I left Los Angeles behind — the DUI arrests, the drugs charges, the court appearances. The girls hanging on his arms like party favors as he stumbled, bleary-eyed, from one club to the next, his hotshot new A-list friends by his sides.

  Every article I read, every picture I saw, every headline I memorized was just another nail of validation in the coffin of my choices.

  It was right to leave.

  I had to walk away.

  There was no other option.

  “You know, I don’t recall you being this stubborn, before.” Francesca’s head tilts. “Or this… cold.”

  “You mean back when I was eighteen and naive enough to sign away my future to a label that cares more about their bottom line than their artists’ happiness?” I snort. “People change.”

  “They certainly do,” she says carefully, her eyes flashing with thoughts I can’t decipher.

  Blowing out a long breath, I stare at the woman who I once considered, if not a friend, at least an ally. As much as I’d like to hate her, to blame her for all of this… I can’t. None of this is her fault. It’s mine. My mess. My bed to lie in.

  Despite my objections, despite my defiance… we both know it’s an empty facade. I have no choice but to do this tour. I accepted that fact the moment I picked up Jerry’s phone and changed my flight destination from Boston to Los Angeles.

  But that doesn’t necessarily mean I can’t negotiate the terms of torture in my favor…

  “Four months,” I say finally, making her brows lift. “Four months, not six. No overseas shows. Plus separate travel accommodations, so I only have to interact with—” I swallow harshly. “—with the band when absolutely unavoidable, while we’re actively on stage performing or in the studio rehearsing. If you can make that happen, I’ll go on the tour. If you can’t… you can call my lawyer and deal with him instead.” I lean forward, eyes narrowing in what I hope is a threatening look. “Based on his track record, I wouldn’t suggest that.”

  It’s a bluff, of course. The in-house Route 66 legal team could crush a sweet family attorney like Jerry Perry faster than a baseball bat would a cantaloupe. But Francesca seems to take it seriously enough, her expression somber as she turns over my offer in her mind.

  “Four months…” she murmurs.

  I nod sharply.

  “We’ll have to accelerate the schedule. Rearrange the entire tour route. Maybe even drop several smaller cities from the lineup…” She tilts her head in contemplation. “You’ll be doing multiple shows a week. Tours are grueling enough when you’re getting proper amounts of sleep and not pushing your vocal cords to the limit. The timeframe you’re talking about here… It’ll be rough on your bodies, even rougher on your minds. Frankly, it’ll be hell.”

  “It’ll be hell either way.” My voice is hollow. “The way I see it, four months of burning is better than six.”

  “I’ll have to run it by my boss. And his boss. And probably his boss. But… there’s a chance I can make it work.”

  “I thought Francesca Foster could make anything work.”

  “Within reason.”

  Reaching out, I grab a heavy fountain pen that probably costs more than my entire outfit off her desk and scrawl a series of digits on a nearby notepad. “Here’s the name and number of the hotel I’m staying at. Ask for Joy Winters at the desk, they’ll connect you.” I glance up with a grim expression. “I’m only staying there tonight. If I don’t hear from yo
u by tomorrow, I’m heading home. And I won’t be back until your lawyers fly their asses to my front doorstep and drag me kicking and screaming.”

  “That won’t be necessary.” Francesca’s lips twist. “I’ll have an answer for you by the end of the day.”

  “Great. Then we’re done here.” I push to my feet and start walking toward the door.

  “Felicity, wait.”

  I freeze in the frame, not looking back.

  “If I can make this happen… if I can get my bosses to agree and put together a tour at lightning speed… ” She sucks in a sharp breath. “You do realize you’ll have to see him. Sing with him. That, even if I get you your own tour bus, book you in separate rooms at the hotels… some interaction will be necessary.”

  My eyes press closed. I don’t want to think about that part yet — the Ryder part. I can’t. I’m barely able to process the fact that I’ve agreed to go on this blasted tour. It’s too much to contemplate who I’ll be going on it with. Too much to consider what it’ll be like to see him again… to make music with him again…

  “Felicity? Are you listening?” She clears her throat awkwardly. “Your fans want to see Wildwood. That includes Ryder, both on stage and off. No matter what personal hangups you two have, the world wants to see you together.”

  When I speak, I barely recognize my own voice. “I know.”

  “And… you’re okay with that?”

  I glance over my shoulder at her. Whatever she sees on my face makes her go pale.

  “I haven’t been okay for two years, Francesca. Today won’t be the day I start.”

  I don’t wait for her to respond as I walk out the door.

  Face hidden behind a set of huge sunglasses, I tug the brim of my hat lower over my face as I walk along the boardwalk. The lights of the Santa Monica pier pulse neon-bright in the distance, the ferris wheel making slow rounds over the water as twilight slowly gives way to shadow. When it gets too dark to see, I tuck my sunglasses into my bag and hope to God no one recognizes me.

  These very well could be my final hours of anonymity. I revel in them, knowing every second of freedom is numbered. As soon as Francesca arranges the tour — which she will, because that woman has never yet faced a challenge she couldn’t conquer — this life I’ve spent so long running from will start all over again. The press circuits and the interviews. The late nights and the screaming fans and the music.