Burning Tracks (Book Two: Spotlight Series)

by Lilah Suzanne

  She had to buzz in at the front gate, and now has to buzz in again at the front door. She gives a salute to the camera when it whirrs and chirps at her from above, and then she’s escorted in by Clementine’s mountain-sized security guard.

  “Thanks, Kevin,” she says, directing it up to the outer ozone layer where Kevin gives a perfunctory nod.

  She’s tempted, as always, to curtsy here in the marble-floored foyer, with its double-spiral staircase and ornate chandelier swinging from the cavernously tall ceiling. Instead she fidgets.

  Clementine saunters in, hair in a messy bun, wearing low-slung yoga pants and a tank top and eating butterscotch pudding from a plastic cup. “Hey, girl.”

  She still looks magazine-ready gorgeous, somehow, and she hasn’t even had hair and makeup done. “Hey.” Gwen hikes the garment bag up higher. “Ready to get started?”

  “You know I’m always ready for you, sugar,” Clementine says with a wink, sauntering up the stairs, narrow hips and toned ass swinging.

  Gwen trips over her own feet to follow.

  “So, I hear congratulations are in order.” Clementine eases down on the vanity bench in the second floor bathroom, which is done in marble and gilded mirrors and high arched windows. To the right is a large closet, and on the left a whirlpool tub, spa-style shower, and steam room.

  “Wow, word travels fast,” Gwen says from the closet. She hangs up the garment bag and unzips it to reveal the lace and tulle lavender gown.

  “You’re in the South now, sugar. Gossip is our native tongue.”

  “Yes, well.” Gwen goes back into the bathroom, sets her hands on her hips, and looks at Clementine, who is eating her pudding and humming. “Yes. Thank you. Uh. Go change.”

  While Clementine is changing, Gwen sits on the vanity and eyes the shower. It has one of those waterfall shower heads and massaging jets. It looks like bliss; she’d probably never leave. Of course, Clementine didn’t get here by lounging in the indoor salt water pool sipping merlot. Like Grady, she’s barely around at all. She works her ass off. Works her ass off to have that ass.

  “Zip me up?” The dress is artfully tiered with swaths of frothy tulle; it has a deep neckline of embellished lace and a nipped-in waist.

  “I love this gown.” As Gwen tugs the zipper up, her fingers brush Clementine’s smooth skin and angled bones. Clementine makes a vague noise of agreement. Gwen crouches to fluff the hem out, then pulls her bag over to find the double-sided tape. “No?” They’d agreed on it just two days ago, but she’s had clients do a total flip-flop on an item two seconds from stepping out on a red carpet or stage; two days is nothing.

  Clementine brushes her long, delicate fingers down the puffy skirt. “I know I sound like a jackass, but—” She pauses to scrunch her nose up. “Sometimes I get sick of fancy gowns. Not like…” She drops her voice, “Like, ‘ugh, gross, a designer gown again.’”

  “But maybe we could change it up a bit?”

  Clementine taps her forehead and points at Gwen. “See, this is why I like you so much, G. You get it.”

  Gwen’s stomach goes a little funny when Clementine uses Flora’s nickname for her, not that she knows or is doing it to be pushy. Hell, it’s on their business letterhead, so that’s why, she’s sure. Still. “Uh.” Gwen stands, plucks off a square of tape used to ensure everything stays where it should, and tugs the right strap over Clementine’s shoulder. “We could put you in a suit next time. I can schedule a fitting.” White, the pants tapered skinny and snug, nothing underneath the fitted blazer, which would be buttoned up to her sternum, showing just enough cleavage and skin. She’d look divine. Gwen goes a little woozy just thinking about it.

  She works on keeping Clementine’s dress in place, securing it over the ridge of her collarbones and along the firm round outline of both breasts.

  “What would Nico say about a suit?”

  “Nico is not here,” Gwen points out. She pulls the shoes from their box and opens earring and necklace cases. She has to believe in herself and her abilities with or without Nico’s approval.

  “Speaking of Nico not being here—” Clementine flaps her hands at the offered shoes, “Those look painful. I’ll put ’em on in the limo.”

  “I talked to him,” Gwen says, setting the pointy-toed pumps aside for now. “He’s pretending he’s too busy to think about anything but work.”

  Gwen moves back so Clementine can sit at the vanity and put on the jade earrings while looking up at Gwen through the mirror. “Sounds right. Meanwhile Grady is jumping out of airplanes and trying to drink his body weight in Mello Yello.”

  Gwen laughs, then frowns. “Wait, seriously?”

  “Yeah, he must go through a case a day. Gonna rot his perfect teeth at this rate.” She reaches for the necklace.

  “The other thing. Jumping out of an airplane?” Gwen helps her with the delicate clasp, lays it just at the nape of her neck.

  “Mmhmm. Skydiving instead of working in the studio. Talked to Billy and Brad from his band, and they said he’s been going on about rewriting the entire album, making it a concept album, which of course he doesn’t have time for and the record company is going to shit a brick about.” She turns the green jewel to face the right way, so it rests just inside the scooped hollow of her throat, then shrugs in an oh, well gesture.

  “Should we? I don’t know… do something?” What, Gwen has no idea. Get Nico back here, for a start. Make those two talk and stop being idiots.

  Clementine stands, and from the front of the house the buzzer sounds. Hair and makeup probably, the whole terrifying bunch. “Sometimes it’s best to let him get it out of his system for a while. As much as we may want to, we can’t make him be okay. He has to want it.”

  “I know. I just feel helpless, I guess.” Gwen gathers up her things, puts the tape away, and puts the empty garment bag, the shoe box, and jewelry boxes in an easy-to-reach spot for later tonight. “I’m just worried he’s going to do something stupid. Or Nico will do something stupid. God, love is stupid.” She huffs a laugh, shakes her head, and thinks about Flora at home, expecting her. Expecting. Her stomach lurches again.

  Clementine tugs the elastic band from her hair. Waves of soft brown cascade down, and the scent of honeysuckle fills the air. “Why do you think I stay the hell away from it?”

  Gwen wants to protest that she’s kidding, mostly. That love is wonderful, in fact—usually. She wants to ask if Clementine really stays away from love or if she doesn’t talk about it, and she wants to ask whom Clementine falls in love with. If she’s been hurt before, if she’s just afraid of getting hurt again. Or if she just really, really has no interest in romance at all.

  But her hair and makeup team descend upon the bathroom—three people, each louder and more demonstrative than the next—in a whirlwind of hairspray, curling irons, blending brushes, and gossip; so Gwen makes her escape, only quickly reminding Clementine with her usual parting words:

  “Call me if you need anything.”

  11

  She gets a blast of texts on her drive home, all from Nico.

  I miss him.

  I miss him so much Gwen.

  How do you just COPE with loving someone this much? I can’t cope with it.

  I’m such an idiot.

  The things I put up with for him.

  The tabloids and paparazzi and crazy fans and constant travel and of course I’m not taking off OBVIOUSLY.

  I’m such an idiot.

  Gwen only texts him back once he’s gotten out what he needs to say. She sits in her driveway in the dark to type: Probably time to come back then. And at the front door, with the key in the still-locked deadbolt, adds, I don’t know how to cope with loving someone that much. If I ever figure it out, I’ll let you know.

  Then she goes inside and feeds Cheese, even though Cheese has food in her bowl, but no, not that fo
od. She heats leftover shrimp stir-fry and eats it by the lone white light of the open microwave, then heads up the creaky stairs.

  Flora is awake, but not sitting against the headboard reading and waiting for Gwen, not lesson-planning or filling out her grade book, but curled up on her side, awake and slowly breathing in-out, in-out through her nose.

  “Hey, are you okay?” Gwen eases onto the bed, careful not to bounce too much. The slightest thing seems to set Flora off: strong food smells, moving too quickly, the sight of dirty socks. Even TV commercials with food make her face go ashen.

  Flora breathes, in-out, in-out. “Yeah.”

  Gwen rubs soothing circles on her back. “Can I get you something?” She hates being helpless to make things better, and doesn’t really know how to be okay with the way this pregnancy is making Flora so miserable. It’s normal, good even, the doctor says. She still hates it. Gwen rubs up and down and around the hunched bend of Flora’s back. Flora breathes, in-out, in-out, in-out. Then finally says, shakily, “I think it’s passing.”

  From her bag dropped on the floor, Gwen’s phone chirps with a text, then another. She glances at her bag, but keeps rubbing. It’s probably just Nico, but she is still on call for this event, all on her own out here.

  Flora gives a relieved gust of air, then flips over. “Hi.”

  Gwen’s chest floods with warmth from the sweet, soft look, from the way Flora’s hair fans out around her face with locks and strands covering her forehead and one eye. Flora tips her chin for a kiss, and Gwen brushes the hair aside. A chaste peck, then Flora’s lips part, inviting Gwen to pull the flesh of the bottom one between her own, and they are sucking and licking, mouths moving together. Flora whines, high and wanting, and Gwen slides her tongue against Flora’s. She’s just starting to think this is going somewhere wonderful—Flora’s fingers stroke and scrape her scalp, Flora wiggles beneath her, heat pulls and builds—when Flora pulls away suddenly, turning her head to the side and covering her mouth.

  “What?” Gwen blinks, hazy, and touches her own tingling lips.

  Flora says from behind her hands, “It’s just—you taste like shrimp.”

  “Sorry.” Gwen frowns, then covers her mouth to keep the lingering shrimp scent contained. “I’ll go brush.”

  Flora shakes her head, squeezes her eyes closed, and then bolts out of bed and into the bathroom. Gwen collapses onto the bed with a frustrated sigh, calling out between retching noises to make sure Flora is okay, though of course she can hear for herself that Flora is not okay. Fantastic.

  On her way back from getting plain crackers and a glass of water, Gwen digs out her phone to check the messages she missed.

  Clementine: Dress tore. Used some tape but not sure how long it’s going to hold up. I’m on in thirty!!!!!!!!!!!

  Clementine: Also Grady is MIA.

  “Fantastic,” Gwen says, out loud this time.

  Flora emerges, pallid and weak, taking the water and crackers with a shaky, “Thanks, G.”

  Gwen braces for impact, holding her phone up as evidence. “I have to go back out. Fashion emergency. Possible Grady emergency.”

  Flora perches on the bed and nibbles one tiny corner of a cracker. “It’s fine. I’m calling it a night anyway.”

  “Are you—?”

  “Yes, I’m sure.” Flora offers a wobbly smile. “I’d rather not have any witnesses to all that anyway.” She gestures to the door with her glass. “No sense in both of us suffering.”

  Gwen lifts her bag, deposits her phone inside it. “I hate when you’re sick. It kills me.” She would suffer for her if she could, and still a selfish part of her is so grateful she isn’t the one suffering.

  Gwen tries for a goodbye and goodnight kiss, but Flora holds up a hand.

  “Shrimp breath, right.” Gwen blows her a kiss instead, and Flora pretends to catch it and press it to her heart. “I love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  Back out again, circling the block outside the venue: a two hundred year-old pioneer feed store made of brick and ancient wood gutted and redone as an upscale restaurant and event space and decorated with wooden barrels, bales of hay, and old burlap sacks.

  She has to flash her industry badge and ID to the bouncer at the front, wind and duck and shove past a densely packed crowd of well-dressed, well-to-do patrons in the foyer, and then dash upstairs and through a crowd of local personalities, international music stars, and the entourages of international music stars, along with the lucky few regular folks who are goggled-eyed and mingling. Enchanting fairy lights are strung from the ceiling. Waiters in tailcoat tuxes and black bowties are carrying trays of hors d’oeuvres and fizzing flutes of champagne. The back wall is taken up by a long, cloth-covered table carefully arranged with auction items.

  Gwen gets her bearings and spots the stage: low, set up in the center of the room and currently occupied by an emcee in a cowboy hat announcing the next bid and the next artist to take the stage. Anxiously waiting in the wings is Clementine.

  “My hero,” Clementine says, miming a swoon, with her hand fluttering to her forehead.

  “I know you’re not serious, but I like it.” Gwen unearths her mini sewing kit, threads and knots a needle with purple thread, and fixes the strap right there in the shadows of the stage. She glances around to the group of singers and musicians milling around, all dressed to the nines. Some of them nod at her, or wave, or make aloof but intentional eye contact. She’s been in Nashville long enough now to be part of this group, to be recognized herself. A life has built up around her without her realizing it was happening.

  “Okay, crisis averted.” Gwen pats her shoulder. “Now, what’s happening with Grady?”

  “We’re on in ten now, and he’s still not here. We’re the final auction of the night: A duet serenade and meet and greet.” Clementine exudes calm as she says this; she seems unconcerned, and smooths the ruffles of her dress methodically. But there’s a crease between her eyes, and her mouth is pressed thin as she looks over to the entrance. “I called. I had my assistant go by his house, I—”

  They’re interrupted by Grady’s manager, Vince, a round, balding man in his late fifties, currently red-faced and frantic. He usually operates by phone, preferring to manage from afar. This must be serious. “Did you find him?”

  Clementine gives a curt shake of her head. The poor guy looks distraught to the brink of panic attack, or at the very least an ulcer.

  “I’m sure it’s fine. You know Grady when he gets his mind on something. Probably he’s in the woods writing his next chart-topper.” Clementine touches Vince’s elbow lightly and flashes a wide white smile, a photo-ready, smile-through-the-chaos look, but Vince buys it. He nods, frets, paces, then hustles away again.

  Clementine bends close, her voice low and her breath warm at Gwen’s ear. “Truth be told, I’m worried. He hasn’t pulled something like this in a long time.”

  Gwen’s response is lost because there’s a sudden flash of light, then several more in a blinding pulse. Clementine turns it up to ten, posing and smiling and shifting close to Gwen. Gwen shields her eyes and turns away, but Clementine pulls her by the hand and says through a plastered-on grin, “Smile, sugar. Don’t let ‘em see you sweat.”

  It’s insane, the lights from the cameras and the reporters calling Clementine’s name, asking her questions without waiting for an answer, demanding she “Look this way” or “Over here, Clem” or “Are you alone tonight, Clem?” and “Who are you wearing, Clem?”

  Serene and elegant and poised, she handles it all like a pro, all while Gwen clings to her hand and feels like a deer standing frozen in the oncoming headlights of a truck.

  “I’m blind. I’m actually blind.” Gwen blinks and blinks; spots of purple and white and blue crowd her vision. “What does the world look like? I’ve forgotten already.”

  Clementine laughs
and drops her hand. “Give it a few, you’ll be all right.”

  A stage manager gives Clementine her signal to perform. Still no Grady, but the show must go on. Gwen packs up her sewing kit, then slides back into the crowd to leave. She hesitates. Should I look for him? But where? That skeevy bar? The dirt bike track? No, it’s nighttime. She takes a tall glass of champagne and munches on polenta-mushroom diamonds, blue crab beignets, and goat cheese tarts. Who else knows all of Grady’s hiding places?

  “My good friend Grady Dawson sadly couldn’t make it tonight. He sends his deepest regrets and double the donation instead.” Clementine’s voice in the mic is honey-sweet and lilting. She flashes a smile into the harsh stage lights. “So I’d like to play for you all a song from my new, not-yet released album.” She pauses while the crowd cheers, surprised and delighted. “You can catch it on my Burning Tracks Tour. This one is all about living your life while you’ve got one to live. Hit it!”

  Clementine Campbell is at the top of the heap for two reasons: hard work and honed instincts. She’s talented, sure. A star on stage, that much is easy to see. Less easy to see is that she’s sacrificed everything to have the career she does, and how few people understand that. Gwen gets to be one of the lucky ones.

  So she stays and forgets about anything or anyone else and watches Clementine shine.

  12

  Clementine has to do the meet and greet, take photos, do interviews, and then mingle. Gwen is having fun, sipping her skinny flute of champagne and chatting and perusing the auction table. Whatever this Foster Hope organization is, they made out like bandits tonight. She picks up a pamphlet but drops it when Clementine pops up behind her, tugs her away by the elbow, and not-so-gently pushes her to the back exit.