“Oh. My. God. I can’t believe I ever went out with you. You have turned into the biggest asshole.”
“Ms. Gray?” a female voice calls out over my shoulder, capturing my attention.
I turn and watch a stick-thin blonde wearing a bright red coat and seven-inch heels totter toward me with a microphone in hand. A big, slovenly, hairy guy with a camera hoisted over his shoulder trudges behind her.
“Oh, shit,” I mumble, brushing past Cole as I make my way toward the front door.
Cole makes a grab for me. “Wait, Kotabear.”
“Get lost, Cole! This is all your fault. I meant what I said before. Leave me alone.”
“Ms. Gray. Is it true Shawn Lucas was in a relationship with you?” I race up the steps, blood pounding in my ears. “Dakota!” she screeches. “Are you his midnight dancer?”
I burst through the doors into the building and race up the stairs. I’m panting by the time I reach our empty dorm. Sagging to the ground, I hold my head in my hands as I attempt to recalibrate my breathing.
Renewed resolution mixes with anger inside me. Screw this shit.
I’m done with guys and their attempts to mess up my head.
It’s time to take back control.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Shawn
It’s been a week, and Dakota is still refusing to reply to the hundreds of text messages I’ve sent her or return any of my calls, and I’m getting desperate. I get that she’s pissed, and Devin said she needed time to work things out in her head, but nothing will get resolved if we don’t communicate. I just need to talk to her. To try to get through to her. To make her realize how much I love her.
And I miss her so fucking much.
Midnight Dancer is an instant hit, my most successful release in years, and the reaction to my new direction has blown my mind. My fans and people in the industry have accepted this new side of me without question, and there’s already talk of a Grammy nomination, but none of that means anything without the girl who inspired the song by my side.
All the shit with the cops this week has compounded my stress; although now they have the stalker in custody, I should be sleeping easier at night.
But I’m not.
Turns out, one of the employees of the security company I hired to install the new system in my house was a rotten egg. He was using his position to try to steal from a few high-profile celebrities, although I was the only one he took a shot at.
Guess he just didn’t care for my music.
I should be delighted the threat has been put to bed, but, to be honest, I’ve barely given it a passing thought. Every part of my heart and mind is consumed with the girl I love.
My insomnia has returned with a vengeance, and I spend most nights unsettled and fidgeting on crumpled sheets. I hadn’t realized how much my sleeping patterns had returned to normal with Dakota curled into my side. Every single thing about her made my life better. And now I’m terrified I’ve lost her for good. Luke has been true to his word, and he’s scheduled a day off in a couple weeks so I can fly to Iowa to speak to my baby face to face.
In the meantime, I need to up my game. Swallowing my fear, I pull up an app on my phone and order one hundred roses to be sent to Dakota. I’ve never sent flowers to any girl who wasn’t my mom before, and usually Calista organizes such shit, but I don’t trust her not to send one hundred black roses to the love of my life. Although she was professional that first day back, Calista has returned to her manipulative ways, offering me false sympathies, while attempting to paw at me, and telling me I’m better off without that gold-digger in my life.
The barrage of questions hits me like a bullet the instant I step outside the radio station after my latest appearance. Bodyguards shield me from their grabby hands, but they are less effective at shielding my ears.
“Shawn! Is it true Dakota Gray is your mystery midnight dancer?” a reporter screams, her question reaching me across the sea of questions.
My only instinct in that moment is to protect Dakota. I turn to face the reporter, and her face lights up like a glow bug. She eagerly thrusts her mic in my face. “No, it isn’t true. She isn’t my midnight dancer. She’s no one.”
I’m still fuming by the time I reach Mom’s house in Malibu a few hours later. I’ve decided to hang out here for a while until all the furor dies down. I’m in the gym, pounding my fists into the punching bag when Devin materializes at my side. Luke had said he needed to talk to me, but I hadn’t expected him to show up in person.
He holds the bag for me, while I continue to slam my fists into it, releasing my pent-up aggression. After a while, he tosses me a towel and a bottle of water, and we wander outside, walking down toward the beach. Although it’s late November, and the temps have definitely dropped, it’s still pleasant. We drop down on the sand, knees elevated, watching the lapping of the waves against the shore.
“How is she?” I ask, in between swigging from the bottle.
“She seems fine. Her mom is back in the facility and she’s doing well. Apart from visiting her and going to classes, she hasn’t stepped foot outside her dorm.”
“She won’t talk to me. I think I’ve lost her.” I’m expecting words of encouragement, but I’m met with empty space. I turn and study him. “What do you know?”
He drags a hand through his hair, sighing. “Look, she said she needed time to think, and I believed her. That’s probably why she hasn’t called you back, but …” He wets his lips before removing his cell from his inside pocket and handing it to me. The screen displays a new article from a well-known entertainment site, and I instantly know I’m not going to like what I read. “You know better than anyone how the press twists things, so I’m sure this isn’t how it looks, but you need to see it anyway.”
The headline alone sends shards of pain lancing through my heart.
“She’s No One,” Lucas claims as his midnight dancer cheats on him with her ex.
But it’s the accompanying photo that nails the final dagger in my heart. Dakota is wrapped up in Cole’s arms, and her head is resting on his chest. His smug grin makes me want to hop on a plane and do permanent damage to his face. He’s wearing a Hawks scarf, and I recognize the outside of Dakota’s dorm so I know the photo is recent.
“Fucking awesome.” I grab tufts of my now-blond-again hair. “I just sent her one hundred roses.” I stand up, striding toward the shore. Devin follows me. “I’m a fucking idiot.”
“Wait up. You don’t know what this is until you speak to her. Don’t write her off yet.”
“She won’t speak to me!” I yell. “Now at least I know why.”
“You just—”
“Don’t. I don’t want to talk about her anymore. I’m sure you didn’t travel all this way to speak to me about my messed-up love life.”
He rubs a hand behind the back of his neck. “Technically, you no longer require my services, so I wanted to find out how you intend to wrap things up.”
“I’d like your firm to provide my personal protection going forward. I don’t want any future dealings with Denning Security, not after Aaron Hunter—their fucking employee—was the one stalking me. I’ve lost all faith in them.” I shove my hands in the pockets of my gym shorts as we walk by the shore. “I know you don’t have a permanent operation out here, but I was hoping you might consider setting up a division in L.A. I could introduce you to tons of new clients.”
“I can’t pretend I haven’t considered it. Are you sure you’ve given this enough thought?”
“I have. There isn’t anyone I trust to do this but you.”
“Thank you.”
I nod. “Thank you. You helped bring this to a close, and I won’t forget that.”
“What about the protection on your mom and Dakota?”
“Mom hates having a bodyguard, and Dakota seems to have found a replacement, so you ca
n pull both.”
“Don’t make a knee-jerk reaction you might later come to regret.”
I shrug, still heartsore. “There’s no need for it anymore. My stalker is out of the equation, and I’m out of her life, so she’s no longer in danger. She doesn’t need me or my protection anymore.”
“Okay, if you’re sure.”
“I’m sure.”
“Just one other thing. I know the police have done their job and they’ve found plenty of motive to justify Aaron’s actions, but I’d like to continue digging a little. I’d like to find out exactly why his MO was different when it came to you. I know he had huge gambling debts and an expensive coke habit, but I’d like to finish the investigation and wrap up all the loose ends.”
“Do whatever you need to do, man. You know I’m good for it.”
“You seem down, honey,” Mom says later on that night after I’ve gotten back from taping my appearance on Jimmy Kimmel Live.
“It’s nothing,” I lie.
She squeezes my shoulder. “I know it’s not nothing. Talk to me. You used to tell me everything.”
“When I was ten,” I deadpan. “I’m not a little kid anymore.”
“I know that, honey, but it doesn’t mean we can’t talk about the deep stuff. Is this about Dakota?” she correctly surmises.
“You want to talk about girls?” I inquire, amusement coloring my tone.
“I want to talk about this girl. You’ve never mentioned any girl to me before, so I understand the significance of you telling me about her.” She sighs, looking troubled.
“What’s wrong?”
She rests her head on my shoulder. “I’m so very proud of you, Shawn. I hope you know that. And not just for all you’ve achieved in your career, but also for the way you’ve matured this last year and how you’ve worked to refocus your life. I can’t thank you enough for this life you’ve given me, but I worry you missed out on so much. Everything changed so fast for you, for us, and you were thrown into that lifestyle and forced to grow up. I hate that you haven’t had a chance before now to meet someone special. To have a normal relationship.”
She lifts her head, twisting around to face me. “And I know you. I know you’re pining for her. Don’t bottle up what you’re feeling. Talk to me.”
I don’t need any further encouragement. “Dakota has gone back to her ex,” I glumly tell her.
“Did she tell you that or you’re assuming it based on that article?”
I shrug. “Does it matter?”
“Of course, it matters, sweetheart. You, of all people, know how the paparazzi twist things. Unless you’ve heard it from her mouth, you can’t presume to know the truth.”
I glance at my cell, for like the thousandth time tonight. “She won’t return my calls, and I sent her flowers today, and I’ve still heard nothing.” I sigh, picking up my guitar and strumming it. “I don’t need to hear it from her mouth. Actions, or inactions, in this case, speak louder than words.”
Mom circles her arm around my shoulder. “If you love her, don’t give up without the mother of all fights. Don’t walk away until she tells you to your face that she has given up on you. All the ‘what-ifs’ will only torment you later.” She stands, ruffling my hair like she used to when I was a kid. “True love is always worth fighting for. What have you got to lose? Either she’ll tell you she still loves you or you’ll get the closure you need to move on.”
As I stay up into the early hours, fighting the craving for a drink, I watch my cell like a hawk while playing each and every song I wrote with her in mind on my guitar.
With every hour that ticks by, and with every second my cell remains silent, another little piece of my soul dies. But Mom’s fighting spirit lingers in my DNA, and, maybe, just maybe, she was right.
I won’t know unless I put her theory to the test.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Dakota
The following morning, I stare at the headline on my cell with a sort of numbed awareness. My eyes float to the picture of Cole and me, and I almost puke at how deceptive it looks. I wonder if Cole is behind this too. If he sold me out to that skanky reporter to make a quick buck. Nothing he does surprises me anymore.
I sure have a habit of choosing men I end up knowing nothing about.
My nostrils pick up the floral scent swirling around me, and I skim my eyes over the roses adorning most every surface in the room. Daisy almost keeled over when she returned last night to find me surrounded by bunches of the stuff. My finger hovered over my cell for at least an hour while I debated with myself. It’s rude not to thank Shawn for the gesture, yet, at the same time, if he thinks this lets him off the hook, he’s sorely mistaken. These must have cost him a fortune, but I’d much rather have had five minutes of his time.
It’s too easy to pick up the phone and ask someone to send some flowers.
Picking up the phone and giving me honest answers obviously takes more effort than he’s prepared to expend.
“She’s no one.” That’s what he told the reporter in the article when she asked about me.
If I’m no one, why is he sending me flowers? “Ugh.” I slam the palm of my hand into my forehead. I’m going to give myself a brain aneurysm overthinking this stuff, and I don’t do this. When Cole and I broke up, I was upset for about two seconds, but I’ve spent all week nursing a broken heart over Levi, or should I say Shawn, and he still occupies far too much of my head space.
Thing is, the article has totally misconstrued what happened last night with Cole, so it isn’t unrealistic to believe they have manipulated Shawn’s words either.
I guess there’s only one way to find out. Determination races through my veins, and I don’t waste any more time pondering this, pulling up his number and pressing the call button.
If he doesn’t have the nerve to call me, then I’m calling him.
I refuse to spend another week mulling over all the what-ifs. I need to hear what he has to say for himself.
“Shawn’s cell,” a throaty female voice says as someone picks up the other line. I’m thrown off guard for a second, and I don’t say anything. “I know who this is,” she replies, “and you’re wasting your time.”
“Who is this and where is Shawn?”
“You know who I am, so don’t play cute.”
The voice clicks into focus. It’s the redhead assistant of Shawn’s who showed up at his place a couple weeks back. I wrack my brain for her name, but I can’t remember it. “You’re the assistant,” I say, knowing it will piss her off.
“And you’re the ex,” she retorts, clearly gloating.
“I don’t have time for this. Put Shawn on.”
“I’m afraid he’s a little … indisposed right now.”
My stomach heaves. “What do you mean?”
“I’ve always been an advocate of show versus tell,” she purrs down the line just as my phone pings.
I open the media attachment with shaky fingers, almost throwing up when I see the photos of Shawn in the bed, lying flat on his stomach, out for the count. He’s bare from the waist up, and the sheet is twisted at a certain angle across his lower back which shows enough to confirm he’s completely naked.
I can’t stop the errant sob that rips from my throat.
“Aw, now don’t act like that. You should know better. As if some hokey small-town girl could hold the attention of a famous rock star. I tried to warn you, but you wouldn’t listen.” Her tone turns nasty. “He’s mine. He always has been, and he always will be. If anyone is getting a ring on her finger, it’s me. So, do us all a favor and fuck off.”
The drone of the dial tone greets me as she hangs up. I hold the phone in a daze, confused, upset, and feeling a million other things.
I wish Daisy was here.
I wish any of my friends were here, but they’ve all gone
home for Thanksgiving break. I’m spending tomorrow with Mom in the psychiatric facility, but today I’m all alone, and I can’t stand it a second longer.
I get up, taking each vase of flowers to the window and lining them up. Then, one at a time, I dump the roses on the ground below, before hurrying to my room and hastily packing a bag.
Ignoring the throng of reporters swarming my car, I get in and rev the engine. So help me God, but if they don’t get out of my way, I’ll mow each one of them down.
Fucking parasites.
But, obviously, the ferocious look on my face, and the furious revving of the engine, has stirred their survival instincts into gear, and they all jump out of my way when I floor it, tires squealing as I head out of the parking lot and into the flow of traffic.
The farther I get from Iowa City, the more I calm down. By the time I pull into the driveway of my family home, I’m somewhat composed. I’m heartbroken but determined to wash this guy right out of my hair.
In a surprising move, Dad signed the house over to Mom a week ago—proof of a guilty conscience if I ever saw one—so I know I’m safe returning here and that I’ll find the solitude I need.
The house is dark and quiet when I step foot inside. I spend the next couple of hours dusting and cleaning, trying to ignore the extra pang in my heart when I see Dad’s side of the closet devoid of his belongings. With all my own personal drama, I haven’t taken time to mourn the demise of my parent’s marriage and the destruction of the family I used to think was unbreakable.
Slowly, I walk into Layla’s room and close the door. It’s exactly as she left it.
The pretty pink and purple comforter matches the drapes, and the light pastel color on the walls is a perfect complement. My sister always liked things that matched or were in an orderly fashion. I was the type of child to roll out of bed and grab mismatched clothes and odd socks while Layla looked on in abject horror as I traipsed out of the house like an eccentric without a care in the world.
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