by Bryce Oakley
Vero’s brow dipped for just a moment. “You are,” she said, leaning back in her chair. She sipped at her seltzer. “Why?”
“Because I have songs that don't fit my band, and you have an incredibly large audience,” Billie said calmly, watching Vero’s expression carefully.
Vero cleared her throat. “Oh,” she said, sounding slightly defeated — unless that was just Billie’s imagination playing tricks on her. “Is that all?”
Her question sounded too much like a dare.
Billie would die before confessing she was a fan of Vero’s father or that she had UltraViolet on her workout playlist.
Instead, she nodded. “Why me?”
Vero stared down at her feet. “You said yes,” she said, her voice low and cool.
Billie didn’t know why the admission made her stomach sink. What had she been hoping for? That Vero was a big fan? That Vero respected her?
She finished off the can of seltzer.
“Sorry, this is the hardest stuff I’m allowed to have,” Vero said.
“Well, didn’t you get out of rehab recently?” Billie asked, and immediately wished she could pull the words back into her mouth.
Vero smirked. “I wasn’t in rehab,” she said. “I was tired and needed a rest, that's all.”
Billie kept her face blank, not wanting to reveal her true skepticism.
“You don't believe me?” Vero asked, sounding slightly amused.
Billie shrugged, looking past Vero out to the grounds. "You don't have to tell me,” she said.
“I know I don’t,” Vero said. “And just for future reference, it's a real asshole move to ask someone about treatment, especially when your only source of information comes from TMZ.”
Vero stood, walking from the room in a flash.
Billie stared after her, blinking.
A tornado had just come through her room.
The door slammed behind her.
Not a fantastic first impression. Billie stared at her empty can, then set it on the table. It had been a huge mistake to ask about rehab, and she had even warred with herself about whether or not to mention it.
From everything she had read, Vero had spent about a month in treatment. Was she so wrong to assume that 28 days meant rehab?
Still, it seemed to have struck a nerve. Billie was caught between curiosity and empathy. She wanted to know, but she wanted to let Vero have whatever secrets she needed to keep.
Vero unsettled her, and Billie would have to draw from every ounce of professionalism to get through the next two weeks.
She strummed the guitar that had been sitting silently next to her, but gave up after hearing the dissonant, out of tune sound.
She stood, shaking off the feeling, and grabbed her seltzer. She would need something a lot stronger if she was going to write a song for Vero De Luca.
She wandered through the mansion toward the kitchen, or at least, where she thought the kitchen might be. She was surprised by how open and airy the great room was, with the kitchen island opening up to a large living room of sofas and chairs.
Elena was standing over the sink, washing carrots under the water. She looked up as Billie approached. “Need anything, hun?” She asked, setting the carrots in a colander and wiping her hands on the towel hanging at the waist of her apron.
“Six bottles of your hardest liquor and a how-to guide on Vero, if you’ve got one handy?” Billie joked, sliding onto a barstool across from Elena.
Elena laughed, rolling her eyes. “When you find where it is, let me know,” she said.
“I seem to have offended her already,” Billie said.
Elena slid a plate of crackers and cheese across the counter towards her. Billie thanked her, wondering how many snacks this woman had ready at all times.
“Vero is very… the word isn’t stubborn, exactly. Proud, you could say. I've known her nearly her whole life,” Elena said.
Billie nodded, staying silent.
“This past year has been really difficult on her. The breakup nearly killed her,” Elena paused, returning to rinsing the carrots under the water.
Billie tried to remember what the internet had said was her last relationship. Some actor from B-list movies? But she hadn’t been in a serious relationship for a while. Or, at least, not one that the tabloids had known about. “Leaving UltraViolet?” She asked.
A slow, sad smile crossed Elena’s face. She almost looked wistful for a moment. “No, that was the best thing that ever happened to her,” she said finally.
Jack walked into the room, interrupting Elena to ask about something from the garden. His hands were covered in dirt and he held them self-consciously against his chest.
Elena excused herself to help Jack, but called over her shoulder as she walked from the room, “Try the grapes in the fridge. They’re Vero’s favorite.”
Billie watched after her, wondering why the woman had said such a thing.
She nearly groaned when she realized that Elena was lobbing a softball of a hint at her.
She stood, reaching into the fridge for the container of grapes. She popped one into her mouth and noticed it tasted sweeter than usual.
Her eyebrows raised in delight, and she ate three more as she shut the fridge and started up the stairs to find Vero’s room.
Chapter Four
Vero
Vero glanced at the door when she heard a light, tentative knock.
“Who is it?” She called out. She had been sitting on her sofa, fuming over Billie’s intrusive and condescending questions.
“It’s Billie,” the voice said quietly. “I come bearing gifts.”
Gifts? Vero furrowed her brow in confusion, but curiosity got the better of her. “Come on in, Billie,” she said, trying to sound casual.
The door opened and Billie leaned on the doorway, holding grapes in her hand.
“Ah,” Vero said with a surprised laugh. “An unusual gift.”
“I’m sorry for asking about your treatment,” Billie said, not stepping into the room. Her voice was quiet and her cheeks were flushed, as if she was embarrassed.
Billie was just as cool in person as she looked in magazines. With her denim jacket and her long, natural hair, she exuded an air of effortlessness that drew Vero in.
“I forgive you. I know it’s no secret. It’s just really personal,” Vero admitted, not wanting to say too much about it to a stranger.
Billie nodded and a tense silence lingered between them.
“Want to talk about the song?” Vero offered.
Billie visibly relaxed. “Sure,” she said, glancing back into the hallway. “Want me to go grab my guitar?”
“No, it’s okay,” Vero said. “We can just chat about it first.”
Billie nodded, walking into the room. She looked around with wide eyes. “This is gorgeous,” she said, setting the grapes down on the end table near Vero. “A fireplace? In your bedroom?”
Vero looked around, taking in the room. It was in the same style as the rest of the house, but with touches of femininity like soft pillows and softer tones in the art hanging on the wall. An interior decorator had done it all to her taste, but she still felt a sense of pride when Billie was admiring it.
“Thanks,” she said, reaching for the grapes. She popped a few into her mouth.
“Do you have anything written for the song? Or a feeling or story you want to portray?” Billie asked.
Vero shrugged. “Not completely. I have a few ideas, but nothing that I’m clear on right now.”
“Where’s your lyrics journal?” Billie asked, relaxing into an oversized chair next to her. Vero noticed she held a journal in her own hands.
“I don't have one. I mostly write down snippets on my phone,” Vero admitted, feeling a bit foolish.
Billie shrugged, flipping open her book. “This may just be personal preference, but I find it easier to write things down on paper to get the right feeling. I start with writing about my day, especially anything impor
tant that happened, and then on the opposite page, I try to create a poem out of it. Sometimes the poem becomes a song, but sometimes it’s just bad teen poetry.” She showed Vero the scrawled narrative on one side, then the stanzas on the other.
“Oh, that’s clever, where’d you come up with that?” Vero asked, leaning in to get a better look.
“A mentor taught me,” Billie said, shrugging, trying to wave off the idea with a hand gesture.
“Who was it?” Vero asked, growing interested.
“Uh, Stevie Nicks,” Billie said, as though it pained her to appear as though she was bragging about Stevie Nicks as her mentor.
Vero laughed, partly at the fact that Billie was so embarrassed to be throwing around names, but partly at the fact that Stevie Nicks was her own godmother.
“That’s great,” Vero said, not admitting that her dad extensively toured with Fleetwood Mac.
“I don’t… I’m not just trying to sound cool or something,” Billie stuttered, looking up at her. Her dark green eyes looked vulnerable. “I hate it when people throw around their connections like that.”
Vero raised her eyebrows. “Oh, so all of LA, you mean?”
Billie smirked. “Yeah, you’re right. It is such an LA thing,” she said contemplatively.
Vero’s curiosity about the lyrics in Billie’s book picked at her. She wanted to reach for it and flip through the pages, getting a glimpse into the mind sitting before her.
But then again, why was she so interested? What was it about Billie that infuriated her one moment and then entranced her the next?
Billie cleared her throat and Vero realized she was staring again like the creep she was trying hard not to be.
“I’m thinking love song,” Vero said. “But none of that ‘I see you dancing at the club, I want to take you home and after our one-night stand we fall in love and live happily ever after’ shit.”
Billie looked as though she was holding in a grin as Vero explained it.
“I want to be honest about it. My last relat— well, the last person I dated… when I fell in love it was really complicated and I really didn’t expect it to happen. I want that in a song,” she said, the words pouring out before she realized she was being so open.
Billie nodded, looking slightly confused.
Vero cleared her throat. “I just want it to be real, okay?” She said a bit defensively.
Billie nodded again, watching her.
“I never got a chance to just be myself in UltraViolet. It was always this portrayal of who everyone else thought I was. I want this single to show the world I’m more than that,” Vero said, still feeling as if Billie was looking right through her. She was only being half-truthful. She still wanted to project an image of herself for the world, but she wanted it to be on her own terms.
“Well, who are you?” Billie asked calmly, folding her hands in her lap.
Vero stared out the window, trying to think of the best answer. “I’m… not sure,” she answered honestly.
* * *
The next morning, Vero opened her bedroom door to find a wrapped gift leaning against the doorframe.
She bent down and picked it up, weighing it carefully in her hands. A book?
She unwrapped the paper and turned the gift over in her hands.
A journal. It was sturdy, with a tasteful floral decoration embossed on the cover.
She opened it to the first page and a piece of paper slipped through her hands onto the floor.
She bent again, retrieving the fallen slip.
In sprawling, yet neat, handwriting, it read: To find out who you are.
She smiled despite herself. When did Billie even have the time to go buy a journal? Had Elena been a helper in the scheme?
Still, the thoughtful gesture tugged at something inside of her chest.
Vero walked back into her room and sat down on the sofa nearest the balcony. She cracked the front cover.
She was going to write her own song.
Sweet gestures wouldn't change that. She knew what she wanted, and she couldn't let anyone else hold her back. Again.
Chapter Five
Billie
Billie closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. Her fingers silently moved into the position for a C, shifting into a G as she imagined the melody in her head.
“Uh, are you going to actually play what you’re imagining or just mime it out all day?” Vero said through what sounded like gritted teeth.
Billie opened her eyes, her brow furrowing in confusion. “I just told you that this is my process. Why interrupt me?” She asked, exasperated.
“Because your process doesn’t work when I can’t read your mind,” Vero said, her eyes wide, inhaling slowly as if it calm herself down.
“I’m not asking you to read my mind,” Billie said, setting her jaw as she tried to restrain her frustration. “I’m just asking you to let me figure this part out.”
“Okay, here’s an idea. Why don’t you just write the song alone and let me know when it’s done then,” Vero said with mock sweetness.
Billie balled her hands into fists, narrowing her eyes at the tiny demon sitting in front of her. They had been “writing” — if it could be called that — for the better part of two days and had nothing to show for it. Every time she began something, Vero would shoot it down or interrupt her concentration. Every time she suggested something, Vero would wrinkle her nose.
What was the point? She was wasting her time.
She thought that giving Vero one of her favorite blank journals — of course she had packed four journals for a two week trip — would help cement their friendship, but Vero acted as if she hadn’t even noticed.
They sat in Vero’s bedroom, facing one another on the sofa and chair where they had spent their first afternoon together.
“Are you being an asshole on purpose or does it just come naturally to you?” Billie mumbled, glaring down at the neck of her guitar.
“That depends, are you being a pretentious gatekeeper on purpose or does it just come naturally to you?” Vero replied.
“Have you ever written a song before?” Billie asked impatiently.
“Yes,” Vero said, anger flashing in her eyes.
“Well, then play it for me,” Billie said, seeing if she could call Vero’s bluff. She handed the guitar to Vero, then leaned back and crossed her arms.
“I don't play the guitar,” Vero said, setting the instrument down beside her.
“Do you play any instruments?” Billie asked, throwing her hands in the air. How could this woman call herself a musician and not know a single thing about music? How had she grown up with Felix Lucas as a father and not know anything about writing or playing or the creative process?
“Yes,” Vero said flatly, but she didn’t move to get up.
Billie stared across the coffee table at her. “Go on,” she said, raising her eyebrows as she waited.
“I don’t think you deserve to hear it,” Vero said.
Billie looked upwards, as if speaking to the heavens. “Dear Lord, what have I done to deserve this?”
Vero stood in a huff, walking toward the door.
Billie watched, trying to seem unaffected by the display. Clearly Vero was a woman who often got her way. A spoiled child. Billie wanted to shake her by the shoulders and tell her to grow up.
“Well, are you coming?” Vero asked, looking over her shoulder.
“Where?” Billie asked.
“The piano is downstairs,” Vero said, as if it was obvious.
“Oh,” Billie said, a bit surprised.
She stood and followed Vero out of the room, down the hall, and down the massive staircase leading into the foyer.
Vero led them into a room that Billie hadn’t been in before. It was set off from the great room, but was fully enclosed.
“I didn't want to take you in here at first, but maybe this is what we need," Vero said cryptically, opening the door.
“Why didn't you want to
take—“ She paused, stepping through the threshold.
A music room.
Guitars lined the walls — some she even recognized from famous Fangs concerts — and a grand piano sat in the middle. A drum kit and other percussion instruments were set behind clear barriers for sound control.
“Wow,” Billie said, turning in a circle to take it all in. “Is all of this your dad’s?”
“And that's why I didn't want to bring you in here. Fan girl," Vero remarked.
Billie glared at the back of her head.
She slid onto the piano bench as Billie stared at the guitars along the wall. Some were signed, but others were clearly well loved, with scratch marks across their middle from thousands of hours of being played.
Billie turned as a melody filled her ears. She didn't know what she had expected — chopsticks, perhaps? — but Vero began to play something dark, haunting even.
“Bach?” Billie asked, and Vero gave her a quick shrug of the shoulders as the music continued.
“Warming up,” Vero said, closing her eyes as her fingers moved deftly over the keys.
It was the most alive Billie had seen her. Vero had closed off the second they began writing together, but now, Vero was very much in her element.
How many hours had she spent in that room, playing that very piano, surrounded by her father’s legacy?
Vero finished the piece and cleared her throat. Billie realized she was still staring at her with what must have been a shocked look on her face.
“That was…” Billie said quietly, feeling reverent. “Beautiful.”
Vero cleared her throat and looked back down at the keys. “Anyway, here’s a song I wrote. The lyrics are kind of vague in some parts.”
“Okay, let’s hear it,” Billie said, sitting back into a deep chair away from the piano.
Vero began to play another haunting melody, but something about it was distinct. It wasn’t Bach or anything Billie had heard before.
“Your eyes in the night sky,” Vero sang, her strong voice piercing through the music. Billie blinked, mesmerized. Vero’s voice had lost all of the nasally, high-pitched tone that Billie was familiar with from UltraViolet songs. Instead, it was rich and bold and sure.