Burnt Sugar (ACE Series Book 2)

by Layne Harper

  Grace walks over to where I’m leaned against the wall and starts fiddling with my hair. I slap her hand away with a scowl as I make my way to the minibar.

  “Brush your hair. It looks like you’ve been dragging your fingers through it.”

  Ignoring her, I pull out the bottle of Jameson from the fridge. Fuck sobriety. Seeing MK has screwed with my head. The white quartz counter is littered with the tiny liquor bottles I pulled out to make room for the larger one last night. It was my “just in case” or back up plan.

  “What’s your problem?” my darling sister asks.

  Popping off the lid, I take a long pull from the bottle. The burn down my throat and into my stomach does its job numbing some of the pain in my right hand. My middle finger is curled in a C position. I can straighten it, but it feels like there’s a rubber band that’s too tight pulling it back into the awkward position.

  I debate if I’m honestly going to answer Grace’s question. Then I decide that Jude will probably tell her so I might as well beat her to the punch. “Saw MK today.”

  Grace’s eyes grow wide. “Oh God. Did you fuck her?”

  My face screws into the Jesus-Christ-do-you-hear-what-comes-out-of-your-mouth look that I’ve been giving my little sister for most of her life. I shake my head. “She was walking down the sidewalk. Do you think I asked Jude to hop out and get Daddy a soda while I banged MK in the backseat of a town car? God, Grace.”

  Her hand goes over her heart as she exhales a long breath. “Thank goodness. You should have told the driver to swerve.”

  My fist clinches and pain travels down my arm, reaching my fingertips with such force that my hand splays out as if I’ve touched something hot. I fight to keep from doubling over. “What did she ever do to you?” My lip curls. “Fuck, did she kill your puppy? Burn your house down?” I lean against the cabinet for support. “She was polite, respectful, and in no way fucked with your life. Whatever you have against her, you need to let it go. This kind of hatred towards someone will eat away at your gut and eventually kill you.” Shaking my head, I continue, “I’m so fucking disappointed in you.” I turn my back to her because she literally at this moment disgusts me.

  There’s a loud knock on the suite door. Instead of going to answer it, Grace rests her hand on my shoulder. In a soft, sincere voice, she says, “It’s hard watching your brother get his heart trampled on.”

  I should let it go. I should answer the door and let the interviewer in. Jesus, I’ve already forgotten her name. But I can’t not finish this conversation. Turning around, I say, “You were cold to her the day you met her. She’d done nothing. Why? Tell me why MK was such a problem for you.”

  Grace ignores me and walks to the door.

  My voice booms, “Don’t open it until you answer my question.” A thought crosses my mind. A terrible thought. One that I can’t even believe I have inside my head. Grace is jealous of MK. “Will you ever accept that one day a female may be more important to me than you?”

  She giggles but doesn’t turn around. “Of course. Jude is.”

  My bottom lip catches between my teeth as my head shakes back and forth. “No. Not Jude. And you know that’s not what I mean.” I pause for a second. “The reason you liked Viva is that you knew it wasn’t going anywhere.”

  There’s another rap on the suite door. The world shifts a bit more in focus. I turn around, grabbing the bottle of Jameson and head into the bedroom, slamming the door behind me. I need to think.

  That terrible last conversation with MK plays through my head. I didn’t know what to do or how to handle MK’s words. Having no relationship experience, I was like a teenager with my first broken heart. Grace was there for me. She told me I was lucky to see what kind of person MK really was. Grace said that MK had no idea how to stand by anyone when life got tough because she was a princess, raised by a wealthy family. She’s not like us, born poor as mice, struggling for every single dime we have. MK didn’t have to claw her way to the top. Her life has been spoon-fed to her. She thought she was using me to promote her site. She said that MK wanted my money and name.

  I sink to the beige carpeted floor in front of the king-sized bed.

  And I listened to every word.

  Because I took her advice, I believed that MK was the problem. Grace made me feel that I, once again, made a bad choice in who I decided to fuck. The woman who birthed Jude was probably the first girl that I could have possibly fallen for and look how horrible that decision was. Yes, I have a daughter, and I wouldn’t trade her for anything, but her mother was a terrible, sick person. I believed Grace because I don’t trust my own judgement when it comes to women.

  The blinders are off, and I see Grace for the first time as she really is. What does she know about love? She’s been married to my career. She’s afraid of losing me—losing what we’ve built. She has nothing to fall back on. I am her life. The band and Johnny Records is all she has.

  Pulling out my phone, I begin reading the texts MK’s sent since we ended things. Rubbing the shark tooth charm on her necklace gives me a strange sense of peace. It’s as if there’s a piece of MK’s soul imbedded in it. I’ve never removed it from around my neck, and I insisted that it be on the cover of Alis Volat Propriis even while Grace protested loudly.

  I read her last text first. It makes me laugh. I can picture her sending it: hair all in her face, pushing her bangs behind her ears. I can see her punching away at the phone screen as if it’s her mortal enemy. I love her typo ducking as she asks for her necklace back.

  “Not a chance, sweetheart,” I tell my phone screen.

  Another gulp from the bottle as I scroll down, reading her words of love. I love you. Please let me know you’re okay.

  Her messages from when we first broke up are too painful for me to read even when I’m getting self-medicated. That’s when I thought if I shared the album with her she’d see how much I loved her, and she’d just love me for who I am and not make me change. Not make me stop being Johnny Knite.

  Another slug from the bottle.

  That was never going to happen. She’s MK who wants her husband to fit in her perfect mold. A flawed, selfish rock star, who gets fucked up to deal with problems is like a round peg for a square hole.

  But you swim laps now instead of using. Am I strong enough to keep that up?

  More of her messages. More of my bottle.

  Then just to torture myself a bit more, I pull up the naked picture I took of her the night we made love for the first time. My nail traces the dress, like an ocean at her feet. I knew I already loved her. I knew I would ruin us. I warned her off. I told her I would fuck us up, and I’d die a bitter old man, and look at me. The pain in my hand reminds me of just how old I’ve become.

  “Fucking look at me,” I command myself. I’m sitting on the floor in a hotel room hunched over my phone reliving the two most perfect weeks of my life. I’ve become what I despise the most—weak and pathetic.

  I open the Find My Friends app. “Oh, MK,” I say to the phone screen. “You’ve got to be more careful with your personal safety.”

  Staring at her tiny profile picture, her broad smile cheering me up. It looks like she’s in a car moving toward a destination. I set an alert to let me know when she arrives.

  Standing, I walk into the bathroom and splash cold water on my cheeks to clear my head. Then I run a brush through my long hair just like my sister asked.

  I’m a rock star. It’s expected that I keep a reporter waiting. As my hand turns the knob, I push all thoughts of MK Landry away and slip into my alter ego, Johnny Knite.

  Two heads turn at the sound of the door opening. Grace rushes over to me with an apology written in her eyes. I brush past her, walking over to the reporter. She’s a pretty girl in that hot librarian sort of way. Her eyes are framed with thick, black, plastic glasses. Her hair is of a similar shade. It contrasts with her pale complexion. She’s dressed in a brown, flowery dress with a tie at the waist and black Dr. Mart
ens. Her hand goes out. “Mandy Jean.”

  I shake it before I sit down on the couch. “Pleasure to meet you, Miss Jean.” My interview voice is thick with my Texan accent. Tucking my right leg under me, I get comfortable for the forty-five-minute scheduled meeting. “Grace, please fix me a drink.”

  Out of my peripheral vision I see her scurry into the bedroom. Mandy takes the seat across from the couch.

  “You like LA?” she asks as she grabs her orange notebook and feather pen. Her iPhone is in her lap.

  “It’s all right. Never mind coming to play here, do a little business, soak up some sun, maybe catch a couple of waves, and then head back to Texas.”

  Grace says that I sound like Matthew McConaughey when I let my accent slip out. As I’m talking, I hear myself selling Lincolns.

  “But you’re not, are you? Halfway through your comeback tour.” She holds up her phone. “I’m going to record this interview. Mind?”

  Shaking my head. “It’s not a comeback if you’ve never really left. I’ve been doing my thing out of the spotlight in Austin. Running a record company. Signing acts. Writing music. I even opened a bar. Just because I haven’t toured in a while doesn’t mean I was home twiddling my thumbs.”

  “Raising your daughter?” Her eyebrow cocks in a way that tells me she’s reaching. “I do believe she’s nineteen now. You quit touring when she entered high school.”

  “I do not discuss my daughter in any interviews.”

  “She just completed her freshman year at Vanderbilt.” It’s a statement, and one I don’t feel the need to confirm. “I’ve heard she’s quite the equestrian. Makes good grades. From everything my sources have told me, she’s really a very normal girl.”

  And the reason she’s so normal is because she’s been kept out of my spotlight. “I’m sure your readers don’t care where my daughter goes to college or that she makes good grades and likes to ride horses.” Where’s that drink, Grace?

  “Look. This is off the record, but I’m curious why you don’t share more of the triumphant story of raising Jude. I mean, you’re a single dad who found a balance between rock god and diaper duty. From what I can dig up, she’s an accomplished kid in her own right. Equestrian team at Vanderbilt is nothing to sneeze at. You could be a real inspiration to our readers. Just think of all your single parent fans out there.”

  Grace enters to my right, handing me the glass before taking the other chair.

  I give Mandy Jean a pointed look. She’s not the first and probably will not be the last reporter who’s brought this to my attention. I smile. “Still off the record?”

  She nods.

  “Say it,” I demand.

  “Yes. Still off the record.” She leans forward as if she’s about to get the scoop of the century.

  “You know why she’s such an amazing human?” I pause for effect. “It’s because I’ve kept her out of the spotlight and raised her to be her own person. I’m lucky enough to have a mother and a sister that gave up their lives so I could follow my dreams and still be a parent. Most single fathers don’t have the kind of support that I did. Jude is not my triumph. She’s the product of three people who have devoted their lives to her and a band that didn’t mind having a baby, toddler, child, or teenager hanging around.” I swallow a gulp of my drink. “Now, I know you submitted questions to my publicist, and I know for a fact that my daughter was not on the topic list because if she was, I’d fire her ass. Now, shall we discuss the success of my new album, Alis Volat Propriis?”

  Miss Jean’s cheeks pinken just enough that I know I’ve made my point. She smiles and replies with a shrug, “Can’t blame me for trying. Just one more thing though. I really do admire you. I’m a single mother, and it’s a very trying job. I’d love to buy you a beer.” She looks at my high ball glass of whiskey. “Or a bourbon and get some tips.”

  “Maybe one day.” There’s no need to tell her that I have no advice to give. I think Jude is more of a product of my luck then any sort of parenting strategy.

  “Back on the record.” Her next questions are of the standard fare. What do I contribute my longevity in this business to? How have I kept the core members of my band? The same questions I’ve gotten asked in every city on this tour. I’m disappointed in Miss Jean. I thought a reporter for Rolling Stone would be a bit more creative.

  Then she asks the dreaded question. The one they all ask, yet I despise it all the same. “This album seems to be deeply personal. Much more than your others.”

  I take a sip of my drink as if I’m pondering the answer, but really, this has become boring. “As a writer, I’m influenced by the world around me. Even guys like a good, sappy love story every now and then.” I punctuate with my killer half-grin.

  She scribbles furiously in her notebook. Without looking up, “Yes, but it seems that the timing of this album coincides with your breakup with MK Landry. Was that planned?”

  Mandy Jean has done her research. It’s the first time I’ve been asked about this coincidence between the album release and MK’s break-up post. The public has a short memory. My relationship with MK made a few gossip mags. There was one week of speculation that I was the one who caused her injuries, but as soon as the police confirmed that I was not a suspect, and it was an accident, the public got distracted by a pop star pregnant with twins and a model over-dosing. The beauty with tabloid gossip is once you’re out of sight, you’re out of mind. “Pure coincidence.” A larger sip of whiskey slides down my throat.

  “Let’s see. Miss Landry posted the breakup news at . . .” She scans her notebook. “At six thirty-seven in the evening, and you dropped the new album and announced the tour at seven oh-four.” She takes off her glasses. “I’d say that’s a bit more than luck or coincidence.”

  Shrugging, I reply, “Not sure what else to tell you.”

  “Be honest with your fans, Mister Knite. If MK is the muse behind your most critically acclaimed album to date, they want to know that.” Her eyebrow cocks, “You do have a number one song on the charts that’s called Pink Cadillac.”

  I look to Grace. Her face is passive, but her eyes are wild, darting back and forth and blinking as if she’s trying to communicate via Morse code. The last thing she wants is for me to be linked publicly with MK Landry again. The allegations that I caused MK’s injuries caused a shit-storm for her and my publicist. “Artists don’t owe it to their fans to discuss why or who a song is written for. I think it’s best to let my fans decide—to let them imagine that my songs are written for them and about their lives. I wish there was a story here, but there’s just not.”

  Mandy Jean pulls a folded-up sheet of typing paper from her notebook. “We’ve reached out to MK’s manager. This is what her statement says, ‘Although Miss Landry and Mister Knite were a couple once, they haven’t been together for some time. Miss Landry has moved on, and it seems Mister Knite has also.’”

  What does that mean? MK has moved on? I checked her site a couple of days ago. There was no mention of a date or a guy in her life. I haven’t read anything about her seeing someone else. Suddenly, the whiskey isn’t settling right in my stomach. Sweat beads on my forehead. “Grace, can you open the balcony door?”

  A small smile appears on Miss Jean’s face.

  “The statement is correct. I’ve been publicly linked to Viva Valdez. Why aren’t you asking if the album is written about her?”

  A gust of wind blows into the suite sending a little chill down my back. “Because Viva isn’t associated with a pink Cadillac.”

  Leaning forward, I readjust, resting my elbows on my knees. “Look, you’re really barking up the wrong tree here. Do you have other questions, or is this interview over?”

  “Mister Knite, when you agreed to this interview did you not think these questions would come up? Rolling Stone is known for provocative interviews. I don’t want you to feed me the same answers that you’ve given every hometown newspaper. Our readers want something they can sink their teeth into. They
want details they can’t find other places. Just as you would never want to play a crowd and half-ass it, I don’t want my name associated with another fluff piece about how great it is that ACE is back on top.”

  She stands and begins packing her things. “Alis Volat Propriis was clearly inspired by your time spent with Miss Landry. The album is very different than your past ones. You invited your fans into your bedroom when you released it. They want more info. They want to know if you get the girl.” Her bag slips over her shoulder. “Your publicist has my number. If you change your mind and want to actually consent to a real interview, I’ll be happy to meet you anywhere in the world. But today has been a waste of both of our time.”

  Grace leaps to her feet. “Mandy, he’s very sorry. Would you like to try again tomorrow?”

  Now, I’m standing also. I address Grace first. “I’m not your puppet.” Then, I turn to Mandy Jean. “You’re absolutely correct. I’m not ready for this sort of interview right now. And I’ll not be ready tomorrow. Just so we’re clear, I’ll never discuss my daughter or about being a single father, but the album I will. I just need some time.” What I need is closure with MK. I either need to say the final words that I’ve needed to speak for a long time, or I need to fuck her brains out and remind her why she shouldn’t have ever given up on us.