“You’re not seriously going to run off? After that?”
You squeeze the water from your ponytail and wrap the robe snugly around you.
“I’m not running off,” you say lightly. “I just have a lot going on tomorrow. I should get back to the hotel.”
“Okay . . .” Han’s face falls. “Was it that bad?”
Now you feel terrible. You certainly didn’t want to give him the impression that you didn’t thoroughly enjoy what just happened. “God, no!” you reassure him. “It was great. It’s just—” you hesitate, not sure how much to say. “It’s just kind of an odd feeling, being back with you. There’s a lot of history. A lot of memories.”
“Good memories, right?” he asks hopefully. “Mine are.”
You decide to be honest. “Mostly. But things ended kind of awkwardly. You know that.”
“Awkwardly?” Han looks thoroughly affronted. “Honey, you totally broke my heart.”
You are stunned into silence by the look of genuine despondency on Han’s face. “I’m sorry,” you say after a moment. “It was a weird time in my life for a lot of reasons that didn’t have anything to do with you.”
“Yeah, I know,” Han says. “But they had everything to do with Crispin Hershey.”
“It wasn’t like that, Han. I’m sorry if it seemed that way, but honestly you seemed to recover just fine. As I recall, not two minutes after we broke up, you were photographed all over the country with every wannabe actress in town. Plus, if I remember correctly, you spilled some pretty personal details in a million tabloid tell-alls. That didn’t look like heartbreak to me.”
“Well I’m sorry,” he says, a look of genuine pain in his eyes. “I was hurt, Honey. What was I supposed to do?”
“Really?” You sigh, feeling the pull of the familiar argument spiral. It’s one you and Han could never seem to escape, and it’s exhausting. Verbally or via text, this is the way it always went. And somehow you always came out looking and feeling like the bad guy.
You take a deep breath and step back into the suite. “Han, thank you for tonight. I hope your new show is a success.”
“Seriously?” Han asks, following you inside. He grabs another towel to quickly dry his hair. “Is this really how it’s going to happen?”
“What’s that saying?” you ask. “‘Those who do not learn from history are doomed to repeat it.’ ”
“Right,” Han scoffs. He leans against the kitchen counter and looks at you coolly. “Guess I should have seen this coming.”
“Han, don’t,” you say.
“Don’t what?”
You blow out a breath. “Nothing,” you tell him, disappearing into the bathroom to change. You give Han a quick hug before you leave. “It really was good to see you,” you tell him. It’s the truth. The night gave you clarity—and closure.
“It’s cool,” he says as he closes the door behind you. “Good to see you, Honey Noble.”
* * *
As the tour bus pulls away from the Max and you watch the Strip disappear like a mirage in the rearview mirror, you feel a surprising sadness, as though you’ve left something behind in the glittering desert. You pull your little notebook from under the dashboard and begin to jot down a string of lyrics.
A few hours into the drive, Sasha pulls into a roadside Quick Mart to refill the gas tanks and your Red Bull supply. As usual, he comes out with a haul of unhealthy snack options, crunching Corn Nuts between his teeth.
This time, though, he’s walking with an unusually urgent pace and holding his phone in front of him. He looks both ways before climbing back into the bus, as though afraid someone might catch him in the act.
“I have to show you this,” he says, kicking shut the door of the bus. “But I don’t want you to freak out.”
“About what?” you ask, your heartbeat intensifying in response to Sasha’s muted panic.
Sasha plops the plastic bags of snacks onto the seat and hands you his phone. It takes only a second for the cover story to resonate: HONEY NOBLE TOPLESS IN VEGAS! the TMZ headline reads.
“What the hell?” You quickly skim through the brief article. There’s a hugely enlarged, extremely grainy photo of you in Han’s hotel hot tub. Two blue banners block your breasts from view. Still, you can clearly see that it’s you, that you are indeed topless, and that it’s Han sitting a few inches away from you, bathed in the balcony’s blue-green light.
“Shit,” you say. “Shit, shit, shit!”
“I tried to warn you, Henrietta,” Sasha begins.
“Please,” you snap. “I do not need an ‘I told you so’ right now.” You pace back and forth in the narrow bus and try to think. “This is a total disaster!”
“It could be worse,” Sasha says.
“How exactly?”
Sasha is uncharacteristically silent. “I’m trying to think. I can’t think of an answer right now. But I’m sure it could be.”
“That little bastard,” you seethe.
You can see Sasha is dying to say something, but he graciously remains quiet.
You tear your eyes away from the screen and hand the phone back to Sasha. “I guess I should have expected this.”
“You gave him the benefit of the doubt,” Sasha says, graciously. “It’s a good quality, thinking the best of people.”
You pick up your phone and start composing a text. Should have listened to my instincts, you type, you never fail to disappoint. Don’t ever contact me again. You pause over the Send button.
Sasha gently pulls your hand away. “He’s not even worth it,” Sasha tells you.
“You’re right.” You hit the backspace key until the text disappears.
* * *
Six months later, you’re lounging by the pool in Orlando, the seventh-to-last stop of your tour. At last, you’ve become accustomed to the rhythms of the tour and you’ve learned to take these moments to relax. Freddie is busy working on a plan for a world tour. You don’t even want to think about that now—although you have to admit it’s pretty exciting.
You flip through a stack of tabloids, amazed to find that blurry photos of that infamous night on Han’s balcony still appear in the magazines’ glossy pages. Must be a slow news week, you think, laughing a little to yourself. Your anger at Han has dissipated. Considering the hugely increased media coverage, the solidly sold-out tour, and the extra buzz the photo has created, maybe you should thank him. Maybe you will, one day.
You laugh out loud as you read WE’s latest story about you, linking you to a “mystery man.”
“What’s funny?” Sasha asks from the chaise next to yours.
“Listen to this: Honey Noble and her tall, dark, and handsome date were seen leaving the Tropicana last week, you read. The pair looked cozy as they walked arm in arm to their waiting car.”
“Let me see that,” Sasha grabs the magazine from you and holds the page close to his face. “I look good!”
“Yeah, yeah, tall, dark, and handsome. Now will you do my back?”
“Roll it over,” he says. He gives the bottle of high-powered sunblock a shake and expels a sizeable squirt onto your back. The cold liquid is shocking against your warm skin.
“That’s freezing!” you squeal.
“Baby,” Sasha teases.
You flinch as Sasha spreads the lotion over your lower back.
“Those costumes won’t sit well against a sunburn,” he says.
You relax and let him finish.
Sasha wipes the excess sunscreen on your thighs, and lies back on his chaise with a satisfied sigh.
“Don’t you want me to do your back?” you ask him.
“Maybe when I’m ready to turn over,” he answers.
“Well whenever you’re ready, I’ve got your back, Mystery Man.” You smile.
“I know you do,” he tells you. “And I’ve got yours.”
You take his hand, close your eyes, and enjoy your moment in the sun.
THE END
To take Honey
on a new Bedventure, go back and choose a new path.
From page 109 . . .
It’s Honey. Show’s wrapping up. Would love to get together if you’re still free
Jett returns your text instantly.
Absolutely. What did you have in mind?
You up for a night in?
Sounds great to me. Your place or mine?
Ha ha. Same place, isn’t it?
Pretty close. Let’s check out your suite
Meet you in the lobby in 30
Can’t wait
“After you,” Jett says, holding the elevator door open as you glide into your suite. With Freddie and Sasha out for at least a few more hours with Carlie, you have the rare luxury of privacy.
“What can I get you?” you ask. “The bar’s fully stocked.”
“I don’t really drink. Not anymore,” Jett tells you. “But I’m dying for some water. I’m parched. Too much time in the DJ booth.”
“One water, coming right up,” you tell him, refreshed at the thought of a man who doesn’t drink.
Jett settles into the corner of the huge leather sectional that takes up most of the living room. You join him with two tall glasses of water.
“Water for you, too?” he asks.
“I’m pretty parched myself. Must be the desert air.”
“Could be,” he agrees. “You need to stay hydrated here. You don’t want those pipes failing you in the middle of your tour.”
Jett takes a sip of water and swipes the back of his hand across his mouth. You have the sudden urge to reach out to touch the blonde stubble beginning to show just above his jawline.
“So,” he stretches out his other arm across the back of the couch, just behind you. You ease back slightly, willing your shoulders to touch his arm. The distance is a little too great. “What brings a nice girl like you to a place like this?”
“You know,” you say, “work.”
Jett laughs, a lovely, low sound that makes you smile even wider. Something about this man makes you feel instantly comfortable. Could it just be because he feels so familiar from TV?
“No,” he says, “I’m serious. I want to know about you. How did you get to be Honey Noble?”
You stretch your legs out in front of you.
“It’s a very long story,” you laugh.
“I’d like to hear it,” Jett says.
You look at him for a moment to gauge whether he’s being serious. The earnest look in his eyes tells you all you need to know.
“Well, to begin with, my real name isn’t Honey.” The moment you say it, you regret it. Why would you tell one of your most closely-held secrets to a complete stranger?
“You’re kidding,” Jett says with a faux shock and you see that he’s kidding, too.
“What, you knew that already?” you ask.
“Well, I assumed,” Jett tells you. “I suppose it could be one of those trendy Hollywood names like Apple or Jellyfish.”
“Jellyfish?” you ask.
“Maybe they only use that one in Australia.”
“Maybe.” You laugh. “No, mine is a stage name. Sort of. I mean, my parents did call me ‘Honey’ growing up.”
“So, what is your actual name?”
You look at him for a long moment, not sure whether to tell him.
“You’ve got to tell me!” Jett says. “You started the story, now you’ve got to finish it.”
“It’s not something I tell a lot of people,” you explain. “Or any people for that matter. In fact, Sasha’s really the only other person—besides my parents—who knows.”
“Sounds like a deep, dark secret,” Jett says.
“It’s pretty awful.”
Jett reaches out to take your hand, sending a cascade of sparks up your forearm. “Your secret’s safe with me,” he promises.
You take a deep breath. “Okay,” you tell him. “Brace yourself.”
Jett sits perfectly still and raises his blond eyebrows.
“It’s Henrietta,” you mutter.
“What?” he asks. “I didn’t catch that.”
“Don’t make me say it again.”
Jett leans close and looks you in the eyes. “Just whisper it to me.”
You lean in and whisper, “Henrietta.”
Jett watches your lips as you say in, then leans in and kisses you, a long, deep kiss that makes your head swirl.
“Henrietta is a beautiful name,” he says.
“Now I know you’re not telling the truth,” you tease. “Which makes everything else you’ve just said feel kind of suspect.”
“I am telling the truth,” Jett argues. “Henrietta is kind of a famous name in Australia. There’s a city called Henrietta in Tasmania. And have you ever heard of Henrietta Dugdale? She was an Aussie women’s rights pioneer. Look it up if you don’t believe me.”
Jett is so adorable in his earnestness. “I’m impressed,” you smile.
“Eh,” he says. “Not that impressive. Things every Aussie school kid knows. But I do know one thing,” he tells you. “I’d really like to kiss you again. If it’s okay with you.”
You smile and lean into him. “Totally okay with me,” you say.
His kiss is sweet and insistent, sending your head spinning again as he swirls his tongue against yours. You return his kiss completely, enjoying every moment of his embrace. He moves his hand to the back of your neck, squeezing and massaging as you kiss. You feel like you could kiss him forever.
You reach up to tangle Jett’s fingers with yours and break away from the kiss for a moment. “Come on,” you whisper. As he stands, you can’t help but notice his erection straining against his jeans. He sees you notice and blushes.
“Sorry,” he says. “Can’t quite help myself.”
“No need to apologize,” you assure him, and lead him to your bedroom.
He stops at the doorway and lets you walk in ahead of him. “Nice,” he comments.
“It is,” you say. “A little more luxurious than the tour bus.”
“I wasn’t referring to the room,” he says, and you look over your shoulder to see his eyes glued to your backside. He closes the door firmly behind him. Jett leaps onto the bed. “I have a secret to share with you, too. Only fair, since you told me one of yours.” He pats the empty spot next to him.
You sit on the edge of the bed. “Okay,” you tell him, a little anxious about what he is about to say.
“I know this will also come as an immense shock, but Jett is a stage name, too,” he confides.
“Really?” You smile. “I actually thought it could be some kind of cool Australian name.”
“No, sadly not. I’m going to tell you my real name, and I promise to never tell anyone yours if you promise to never tell anyone mine. Deal?”
“Deal,” you agree.
“My real name is Jethro.”
“Jethro?” You stifle a little snort as you try not to laugh.
“It’s okay, it is funny. Which is precisely why my manager promptly changed it to Jett the minute I signed on with him. My parents were huge Jethro Tull fans. Hence the name. So, now we’re even.”
“It’s still not as bad as Henrietta,” you laugh.
“So, have I lost all appeal now that you know the truth about me? Or can I convince you to join me?” Jett asks, taking your hand.
“I have to take these off first,” you say, sitting on the edge of the bed and unstrapping your shoes, which are killing your feet.
“Ahhh,” you say, as you toss each strappy, black torture device to the floor. The straps have left indented, red welts on your feet.
“Ouch,” Jett says. “Let me see those.”
“Not very pretty,” you warn him. “Dancer’s feet. I was in toe shoes for a few years. No pedicurist can seem to undo the damage.”
Jett smiles. “Let me take a look.”
He gently picks up one of your aching feet in his hands. “Hold tight,” he tells you, then races off to the bathroom. You hear the water ru
nning for a few moments. Jett returns with a two steaming towels plus a dry bath towel. “Lie back,” he tells you, rolling one of the towels and placing it under your ankles. Next, he wraps a warm, damp, towel snugly around each foot. The sensation is heavenly and you immediately feel your sore feet begin to relax.
“That feels amazing,” you tell him.
“Just wait,” he answers.
After a few minutes he finds a bottle of lotion in the bathroom and removes the heated wrap from one foot. He uncaps the lotion and pours a generous dollop into his hand, rubs his hands together, then begins to work on your foot. The cool lotion is a perfect counter to the residual heat from the towel.
“Ahhh,” you sigh.
Jett starts at the ball of your foot, squeezing gently and massaging, working his thumbs against your sore muscles as he rubs the lotion into your skin. You close your eyes and give in to the relaxation completely, allowing yourself to enjoy every sensation. He finishes the first foot and re-wraps it in the still-warm towel before he moves onto the other.
When he finishes with your other foot, Jett’s hands move up to your calves, slowly relaxing the muscles there, then he moves to your lower thighs. His touch ignites a smoldering burn in your core. When he moves to your shoulders, you are slightly disappointed, but his fingers work magic there, too, rubbing the tension away.
“Turn over,” he tells you.
You do, managing to keep the towels precariously balanced on your feet as you turn. Jett pauses for a moment then moves his hands back to the top of your shoulders, down your back, and then to your thighs again.
“You are a man of many talents,” you tell him.
“A few,” he allows, sliding his hands down to your buttocks, massaging each in slow circles.
He emits a low, “Mmmm,” as he does.
He finishes with a light stroke up and down your back, then places a single kiss at the nape of your neck, sending shivers down your spine.
“How’s that?” he asks. “Better?”
“You have no idea,” you tell him. “I’m going to sleep like a baby.”
“You’re tired? I can let you rest.”
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