Praise for Lilah Suzanne
BROKEN RECORDS
“TOP PICK! This excellent take on the celebrity-and-normal-person romance moves at a fast clip while satisfying at every turn.”
—RT Book Reviews
“Hollywood style meets Nashville charm in this sweet, sexy fling turned romance.”
—Publishers Weekly
“4 1/2 Stars…The entire book has a dream-like quality that flows and ripples and it’s the atmosphere of the book that stayed with me after the last page.”
—Joyfully Jay Book Reviews
Spice
“… Completely laugh-out-loud funny and the underlying romantic plot is the perfect backdrop for its sparkling characters, Simon and Benji, who are bound to induce a book hangover… Fresh, fun fiction at its best!”
—RT Book Reviews
“Suzanne keeps the humor warm and the sex real.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Five Stars… The story is funny and sweet and almost painfully well observed. I loved it.”
—Inked Rainbow Reads
Pivot and Slip
“4.5 stars… Balancing laughter with touching emotions, this novella is a great first effort”
—Carly’s Book Reviews Blog
Copyright © 2016 Lilah Suzanne
All Rights Reserved
ISBN (trade): 978-1-941530-99-3
ISBN (ebook): 978-1-945053-00-9
Published by Interlude Press
www.interludepress.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and places are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real persons, either living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All trademarks and registered trademarks are the property of their respective owners.
Book Design by CB Messer with Lex Huffman
Cover Illustration by Victoria S. with CB Messer
Cover Design by CB Messer
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Interlude Press, New York
“Storms make trees take deeper roots.”
—Dolly Parton
Contents
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
BLENDED NOTES (Excerpt)
1
“The key to a long-lasting relationship,” Gwen says, hunched over on her knees to crawl beneath the gossamer folds of Clementine’s dress, “is that you have to think of yourselves as a team.” She grasps Clementine’s ankle to secure the silk ribbon of her peep-toe, five-inch cork wedge shoe, just over the delicate protrusion of bone. “You have the same goals. You’re working together, not against each other.”
Gwen sits back on her haunches and hauls more of the dress over her head; the world goes a muted red with silky, gossamer fabric sliding and shimmering and catching with static on her neatly coiffed, platinum blonde hair. A garter belt strap dangles loose on Clementine’s long, toned thigh. Gwen read once that Clementine’s legs are insured for three-hundred K per leg, but she’s never gotten more than a dismissive laugh in response to her questioning. They are quality legs. Certainly worthy of at least a general liability policy, protecting those at risk from the tight knot of her calves and the lithe power of her thighs. Gwen clips the first strap to Clementine’s sheer thigh-highs and reaches around behind her to grab blindly for the second one.
“Thank you, oh relationship guru,” Gwen hears clearly from under the dress; no amount of silk is enough to muffle Nico’s sarcasm.
“Now wait a sec,” Grady drawls in response. “I kinda like that. Sorta like a tandem bike ride?”
Gwen moves to the other leg and clips one strap, then the other. She fights her way out of the dress. “More like... a three-legged race, I think.” She quickly combs through her short hair and runs a finger under both eyes to check for any bold black liner smudging. As she stands she adds, “There’s a dirty joke in there somewhere, I just know it.”
“Spare us,” Nico snipes, and next to him on the plush king-sized bed, Grady grins.
They’re gathered in a room in one of the high-rise hotels downtown; hair and makeup people have gone, leaving behind a vacuum of sounds and smells and gossip. Just a few final touches left on Clementine’s outfit before her manager bangs down the door. Gwen nods to the mirror for Clementine to see the final product, then helps herself to some pistachios from one of the baskets on the table.
Clementine spins in front of the mirror; the dress flares out in a trumpet shape and her caramel-colored hair cascades in glossy waves over her exposed shoulders and down her back. When she walks, the folds of fabric part in a slit designed to go high up on her thigh and reveal the garter belt. Just a peek. A tease. An invitation to look, but not for long.
“Perfect,” Gwen decides. “Nico?” She took the lead on Clementine’s look for her new album and the upcoming tour’s launch party concert, but Nico has such a keen instinct for what works. It’s why she wanted to go into business with him in the first place; she may have the knowledge—years and bookshelves full of it—but Nico has vision. That can’t be taught.
Nico doesn’t reply. Clementine makes a face at them. Gwen turns and—
“Should have known better than to let them on the bed.”
Nico and Grady are reclining now, dropped sideways in the center of the bed with their bodies curled and curved together, kissing: soft pecks with smiling lips that would be cute, sweet even, if it weren’t for the location of Grady’s left hand. Gwen exchanges a bemused look with Clementine.
“Hose ‘em down or leave ‘em?”
“The ice bucket would probably work,” Gwen says. Then a pounding boom comes from the door. Nico and Grady spring apart.
“Showtime, Ms. Campbell.”
Gwen gives Clementine an encouraging nod as she glides to the hotel room door.
“Wait, wait, wait.” Nico hustles over, then stands with his feet planted wide, back straight, chest forward, shoulders set as if his spine were made of steel. Tipping his head to the left, he presses his thumb to his bottom lip. He hums, then tips his head to the right.
“Is it too much?” To hide the nervous wringing of her hands, Gwen tucks them behind her back. This is a major televised event focused on Clementine and Clementine alone, a big job for Gwen to have taken on by herself. “Not enough? I brought that silver and black diamond arm cuff, but I thought with the red dress and garter and those shoes—”
Nico holds up a hand. She closes her mouth. He lifts one perfectly arched eyebrow. “It’s fantastic, Gwen. Well done.” He sidles past her with a waft of expensive cologne and a nudge to her shoulder. “Have a little faith in your own abilities.”
Call it imposter syndrome, or core wounds, or the ever-present yet impossible-to-achieve pressure to have it all. “I try to,”
she tells him.
There’s urgent knocking on the door again; another call for Clementine to get to the stage right away.
“It’s different,” Clementine says, moving away from the door, “for women. We have to work twice as hard to get anywhere at all. And if you slip up, take a moment to breathe or be human, take your eye off the prize for one second—bam.” She chops the air like the swing of an axe. “You’re done.”
Nico holds up both hands. He certainly isn’t unaffected by prejudice and gatekeeping. But Gwen does enjoy how Clementine can deliver a pointed rebuke while she looks like pampered fairy-tale royalty. And she’s not wrong: Most days Gwen can barely juggle relationship and career without failing at one or the other, or sometimes both.
“Not gettin’ your pretty little behind on stage will probably end your career, too.” Grady jerks his head toward the door just as more pounding thunders through the room.
Grady is in a gray suit, with the coat open and the collar of his white shirt undone and tie-free: casually, carefully disheveled. He’s there as a guest, not the star of the show, so it makes sense for him to be understated. The fact remains that Grady Dawson is just one of those people who makes an entire stadium of people stop and stare. That can’t be undone by a subtle outfit.
“I adore this dress. See if you can get more from this designer for me?”
“Well, Gwen did all the legwork, really. And the designer’s based in Paris; I just got lucky when I was there on a family trip. But I’ll see what I can do.”
Clementine tugs Grady up from the bed and hooks her arm through his. “Was that the surprise family trip that Grady cooked up, when he flew everyone on a private jet—the one that secured his status as the favored son?”
Grady beams. “Yep.”
Nico takes Grady’s other arm. “I’d be jealous if I wasn’t so happy to see my insufferable brother usurped.”
“Aw, look at you guys,” Gwen coos. “Aren’t you a stunning threesome?”
Classic beauty Clementine, with her elegant, shapely body and perfect, shining hair. Grady, every bit the heartthrob and noted sex symbol, strong-jawed and blue-eyed, with his tousled golden curls. Nico, dark and striking, with sharp edges and hard angles to his features and body and something regal about the way he holds himself: confident, imposing, and sure. They really do look good together, the three of them.
“But enough about my fantasies.” Gwen’s wink is exaggeratedly salacious. “Get out of here before they resort to using a battering ram.”
Clementine gives one last check in the mirror. “I always have them fetch me early.” She runs her tongue along the front of her teeth, then dabs at the corners of her mouth. “You know what they say: ‘On time is too late.’”
She air-kisses Nico, then Grady, then stops in front of Gwen and makes physical contact, pressing her satin smooth cheek to Gwen’s. She hums a run of notes in Gwen’s ear. Two years now Gwen has worked with her, and she has learned that Clementine is sweet and sharp and tremendously hardworking. She’s also very private and nearly impossible to read.
Gwen is still shaking off the enchanting yet confusing moment between them when Clementine disappears from the room in a magnificent sweep of red satin dress and silken locks.
Nico frowns after her. “Who says that? No one says that.”
Trailing Clementine down the hall is a group of people with clipboards and headsets, speaking frantic instructions, as well as Clementine’s giant security guard and photographers and journalists jockeying to get closer.
Clementine calls to Gwen over her shoulder, “Sure you won’t come along backstage, too? You can be my date.”
“Nah, I’ll clean up here, and catch some of the show from the wings like usual. But I should get home before Flora falls asleep. I haven’t seen her all day.”
“All right,” Clementine says with a pouty little frown. “Be sure to tell that pretty wife of yours I said hey.”
They say their goodbyes, the door closes, and Gwen packs away the unused jewelry and lingerie, the shaping undergarments, the sewing kit and steamer, the other dresses they’d had as backup, several pairs of shoes, and the discarded paper backings of the tape they used to keep everything in place and protect tender skin from blisters.
Gwen packs her car, flashes her industry badge to get back into the venue, and then watches from the VIP balcony area with a crowd of people she vaguely knows: other country stars and their entourages. She finds a spot near the railing. Clementine is a lot of fun onstage; she knows how to put on a show. Everything is in sync: the band behind her, the backup dancers, the blue and red and pink and yellow sweeps of light. She uses the whole stage, dances and shimmies and jumps and sings. She looks amazing, and the crowd clearly adores her.
Gwen watches one more song, a slow, emotional one. Melancholy for people and places left behind. “Burning Tracks,” the host calls it, and reminds everyone that the concert is streaming online and to be sure to use the hashtag #burningtracksreleaseparty when they tweet or Instagram.
Gwen does neither, but she does text her wife.
OMW. Wait up for me?
2
Their house is that bland style known as foursquare, and looks like a cube with square windows, an idyllic, flat, square yard, and a wide, square front porch. Gwen had been drawn to Victorian architecture: the gingerbread houses with fairy-tale spires and brightly colored exteriors. Or the new, modern condos downtown, like the one Nico bought: upscale, urban, right in the heart of all the action.
But in the end, they liked the huge amount of square footage after being crammed in overpriced apartments in L.A. for so long, and Flora loved the charming, historic family neighborhood, the proximity of a farmer’s market and good schools, while Gwen liked its eclectic collection of turn-of-the-century houses. The house seemed like a blank canvas, too, like a spiral-bound notebook with heavy textured paper just waiting for her to fill the pages.
And that gorgeous claw-foot antique bathtub in the master bath.
Mostly, though, it was the price tag. Gwen is still convinced they robbed the sellers blind and then rifled through their pockets just to shake them down a little more. Tennessee real estate prices are a unicorn-prancing, rainbow-hued dreamscape compared to California. Or: really fucking cheap.
She pulls into the driveway, parks behind Flora’s four-door hybrid sedan, cuts the headlights and the engine, and leaves the jewelry and extra dresses and shoes in the locked car instead of hauling it all inside and then out again in the morning. It’s a safe neighborhood. Safe to the point of tedium.
It’s dark inside; the yellow glow of the porch light falls on the wide wooden staircase in the foyer, and a sliver of light comes from beneath the door of their bedroom upstairs. The front door creaks closed.
Gwen heats up leftover pesto tortellini, gives Cheese—their giant, lazy orange tabby—another serving of food that the cat really does not need but begs for anyway, and then creaks and squeaks her way out of the kitchen and over the old oak floors past the living room, dining room, and foyer—all politely and quietly set in their respective corners—and up the stairs.
“Hey, you’re up.”
“You said to be.” Flora looks up from her book. Raven-black and thick as velvet, her hair is unbraided and twisted up onto the pillow behind her. “A reminder, however, that I’m used to getting up at six a.m.” She yawns so wide her jaw cracks. “I can’t educate twenty-seven second-graders and keep up with your schedule.”
Gwen leans over the bed for a quick peck. “I know. I’ll be quick, promise.”
She washes up, brushes, flosses, and changes into a slouchy T-shirt and bikini briefs. Then she checks her phone while still in the bathroom: reminders for tomorrow, meetings to attend, emails to be sent. Hand on the doorknob, she thumbs open a brief social media indulgence.
On Instagram, Clementine has just posted a pict
ure of herself at a burger place, flanked on either side by Nico and Grady, giant, messy chili-cheeseburgers heading toward their open mouths. The caption reads: After-party grub with my two favorite boys! Yummy and yummier.
It has a wealth of likes and comments. Thousands and thousands.
Gwen feels jealous—not stabbing, chest-clawing jealousy, but a pang. Jealous of the burgers or the boys or Clementine, she’s not sure. Once upon a time, this hour on a Saturday night wouldn’t mean a face scrubbed clean and a schlubby old T-shirt and bedtime.
She tells Flora as she climbs into bed, “Clementine invited me to be her date.”
“Oh?” Flora doesn’t look up from her book. “Does that include a goodnight kiss?”
And because she tells Flora everything, Flora gets to mercilessly tease Gwen about her former silly, harmless crush on Clementine. Gwen flops on the bed and groans into her pillow, “No.”
“It’s a good thing I’m not the jealous type, hmm?”
Gwen spent quite some time under Clementine’s dress to fiddle with her underwear, so yes, it probably is a very good thing. “I don’t even know what her deal is. If she’s even dated any of those people the tabloids say. If she likes girls or boys or both or neither. Maybe she’s only into people dressed in furry animal costumes. I’d never know.”
Gwen flips onto her back, and Flora finally sets down her book: Ina May’s Guide to Childbirth. It goes on top of the ever-growing stack of books about pregnancy and babies on Flora’s nightstand.
“Her deal?” Flora asks. From this angle the light falls just right, casting contours and shadows over her full, plush lips, big dark eyes, and round, short nose. “Naturally beautiful” is a term that was made for Flora.
“Gosh, you’re pretty,” Gwen says, craning her head back to flash a playful grin.
Flora looks down and away, as she always does when someone compliments her. “Thank you. And what does that have to do with anything?”
“Just noticing.” Gwen walks two fingers up the gracious curve of her hip and sets her hand where Flora’s waist dips in. “Right. Clementine. You know, what she’s into. What’s her deal?”
Burning Tracks (Book Two: Spotlight Series) Page 1