by Meg Ripley
“We’ve known that,” Alex agreed. He glanced at Mark and Dan, who I had to admit were looking less than thrilled. The label had offered me and Fran the chance to put out our own album—apart from the albums made by Molly Riot and Juniper Woolf—after the already-slated albums were done. “Personally, as long as you’re still committed to the band, it doesn’t bother me at all,” Alex said with a shrug.
“How can he be committed to the band when he’s doing side projects with his girlfriend?” Mark looked at me gloomily.
“You fill in for Mikey all the time,” Dan pointed out.
“This isn’t the same as that and you know it, Daniel,” Mark told Dan sharply. “He’s actually working on material and talking about putting an album out.”
“If you don’t want us to put it out, then we won’t,” I said with a shrug. “We really just did the recordings to do them.”
“So why did you even show them to the label anyway?” Nick raised an eyebrow at me. I took a drag on my cigarette and flicked the ash off the end.
“We thought if the label saw anything in it, it might be fun to do,” I told him. “I don’t want to quit the band, I don’t even really want a break from the band. I just wanted to do something different, so I did. Fucking sue me.”
“You’re sure that you’re going to be able to keep up with the extra commitments you’ve got going on?” I looked Nick dead in the eyes, and then looked at the other members of my band.
“I am having a really hard fucking time being philosophical about this,” I said as calmly as I could. “Alex hooks up with his damn sobriety coach from rehab and no one cares. Nick gets involved with the journalist who’s supposed to be blogging our tour—and starts a photography project with her—and no one the fuck cares. I get together with someone and suddenly everyone fucking doubts me?”
“It’s another musician, from another band,” Dan pointed out. “It’s different.”
“What’s different is that for once in my goddamn life I actually want to do the right thing with a girlfriend and all anybody here can say is that I’m betraying the fucking band.” I shook my head. “You guys were the ones who wanted me to play nice with her—I didn’t even want to do the fucking tour or the EP in the first place.”
“We didn’t mean fuck her brains out and form a side project,” Nick countered.
“Yeah, well, apparently, that’s where me playing nice with her led us, so either you guys decide to be okay with this, tell me what you want me to fucking do about it, or shut the fuck up.” I stubbed my cigarette out and blew the smoke out of my lungs. “Because personally I’m kind of done with making everything so goddamn complicated.”
“Jules is in love,” Alex said, grinning. I glanced at my other band mates; Mark was staring in shock, Dan looked like he’d just swallowed an entire hive of bees and was waiting for them to start stinging him, and Nick was smirking.
“Jules is in looooove,” Nick agreed. “Damn, son—about fucking time you found a girl who wouldn’t get tired of your shit.”
“Shut up,” I said, shaking my head. “That’s not even what we’re talking about right now.”
“It kind of is,” Alex pointed out. “I mean, if you’re in love with her than the whole side project thing makes sense. You’re not just humoring a steady lay.”
“It doesn’t make a difference why I’m doing it!” I grabbed another cigarette and lit it; at the rate I was going I’d hack up a lung before midnight. I didn’t care. “Look. Either you’re all okay with me doing this project, or you’re not okay with it, and we figure something out. That’s all there is to this situation. My relationship with Fran doesn’t fucking come into it, okay?” I took a drag from the cigarette and sat back in my chair.
“Let’s put it to a vote,” Alex said, still looking amused. “All in favor with Jules doing what he wants as long as it doesn’t interfere with the band?” Alex raised his hand; Dan and Nick followed, and I raised mine—obviously. Mark left his hand down. “Opposed?” Mark kept his hand down still.
“Jesus fuck, Mark,” I said, shaking my head. “You don’t get to fucking abstain this time.”
“Why not?” Mark half-scowled at me.
“Because if you’re against me doing this then you might as well be against it.”
“I want to know you’re not just using this as an excuse to try and put us behind you,” Mark told me, arms crossed over his chest.
“I’m not,” I said. “I love this band. I’ve been doing other music for as long as you’ve known me—when have I abandoned you guys when it counted?”
“So, we’re good?” Alex looked around the room. I looked at Mark for a little while longer in silence.
“We’re working on our album first, right? And the band still comes before—whatever it is you’re doing with Fran?” I nodded. Mark shrugged. “It’s whatever then. But if you start sneaking off…”
“I’m not going to,” I told him. “I haven’t tried to yet.”
“Then we’re good,” Mark said; he still looked doubtful, but I knew that he wouldn’t have agreed to it if he was really, truly skeptical of me keeping things separated.
We talked for a few more minutes, about the next album and rehearsal schedules, and then I left the rest of the band to drink a few beers and talk about me behind my back while I called Fran. She picked up after the second ring. “How’d your talk go?” I almost laughed as I stepped out into the afternoon sauna heat.
“Things are still stable,” I said. “They’re going to spend the next month making fun of me for actually being in love with someone.” Fran laughed.
“Are you now? That’s fascinating.” I rolled my eyes, sitting down on the curb outside of the rehearsal space.
“You know I am.”
“You’ve never told me that,” Fran said tartly. “Maybe that would have come in handy for my own conversation.”
“That I’m helplessly in love with you?” I laughed.
“Is your band worried that I’m going to lead you astray like some Yoko figure?” I nodded, even though I knew that she couldn’t see.
“Mark is,” I admitted. “I think probably Nick has his doubts, too. But it’s not like he has much room to talk. Alex is surprisingly cool with everything. Dan…” I shrugged. “Dan just wants to keep moving forward.”
“Sounds about the breakdown over here, too.” Fran paused for a moment. “You’re really sure you want to do this, right?”
“Yeah, I’m sure,” I said. “Are you getting cold feet?”
“In this climate? Impossible.” Fran’s voice rippled with amusement—but I heard doubt there, too. “I just want to make sure that you’re sure.”
“For the first fucking time in my life,” I said, smiling slightly. “I’m sure of everything. I want to stay in the band. I want to be with you. I can do both of those things. We’ll make it work.” It felt weird to say it out loud—to say it to Fran—but after we’d nearly let everything crash and burn, I’d made a kind of promise to myself that I wasn’t going to let things go the way that they had so many other times when I’d fucked everything up with a girl. I was going to make it work.
“I’ll see you in a couple of hours? We’ve got a meeting with the label to talk about the recording schedule.” We had a standing date to meet for drinks once we were done with whatever we had going on for the day; from there we’d either go back to Fran’s place or mine.
“I’ll be waiting for you at Bardot with a drink,” I told her. “We’re going back to my place tonight. I want to show you something.”
“I’ll try to keep the suspense from killing me,” Fran said dryly. We said our goodbyes, and I hung up, closing my eyes for a moment before I started back towards the rehearsal space. I realized I was smiling to myself like an idiot and I didn’t even care. Next month’s Florida Scene Magazine headline: ‘Fran and Jules Turn Rivalry into Beautiful Music’, I thought. The press were going to have a field day with the fact that Fran and I were not just t
ogether—but actually working on a project.
“Fuck it,” I told myself. I didn’t care how much crow I was going to have to eat: Fran was the only woman I’d ever met who not only put up with my shit but immediately got what I wanted to do with my own music. A million assholes could call her Yoko and I’d punch each and every last one of them. Don’t let them call her your Yoko. Make them call her your Meg White. The image made me grin again; that was exactly how we’d play it for the press. I stepped back into the building, thinking that maybe if I sweet-talked Mark I could get him to design a logo for the new act. There were too many details to think about—but if anyone was the perfect fucking partner-in-crime for what I wanted to do, if anyone could support me without trying to force me away from the band I loved, I knew it was Fran.
And that was all that mattered.
THE END
Secret Desires Of The Billionaire
Story Description
If you can become invisible, you can redefine your world.
Cassie Vine learned this lesson not long after becoming a private detective, and she’s been taking advantage of her relative invisibility ever since. In her five years of work, she’s exposed cheating spouses, slimy musicians, and even corrupt, high-ranking politicians; no one is exempt from her brand of justice as long as the client has enough capital, and nothing is too strange or shocking for her to take on.
Eric Riverston turns out to be more than just a handsome client: he’s an artist, a social activist, and the youngest billionaire in the tech industry. He’s also poised to introduce some of the most important software in years—as long as Cassie can figure out who’s sabotaging its development from the inside.
Eric is gorgeous, thoughtful, and charming enough to be a reward in his own right— and it doesn’t hurt that he’s as irresistibly drawn to her as she is to him. Cassie knows that appearances can be deceiving, but love is love, and a job is a job—until the saboteur is revealed, and Cassie’s world shatters into pieces.
“Big day?”
Cassie looked at Henry’s wry smile, trying to glare at him convincingly as he handed over her bag of muscle relaxing cream. As usual, she failed; the tough girl act never worked on the old Filipino man in charge of the corner store below her apartment.
“Yeah,” she said, sighing. She checked to make sure the tiny story was empty, her caramel colored ponytail whipping from side to side as her head turned. “I was sitting till for twelve hours yesterday tracking the wife of a politician. She turned out to have gambling problem. My butt aches like my mother kicked it.”
Henry chuckled. “I hoped you were paid well for your troubles.”
Cassie winked and shoved her hands into the pocket of her chocolate calfskin jacket. “You know it, Henry. What about you? Did you go fishing like you said you would?”
Henry’s eyes light up like lamps, and he nodded his head vigorously. “Yes! Sheryl and I took the boat out onto the bay and caught some very nice trout. We should have you over for dinner sometime.”
Cassie laughed. “I’d love to tell Sheryl about how we both catch bad guys.”
“Sheryl hasn’t been a policewoman for fifteen years,” Henry reminded her. “But I think even she would be surprised at some of the stories you have to tell.”
Ain’t that the truth. “I’ll have you see for yourself one day. Catch you later!”
Henry waved her out, turning to his newspaper as she exited the store. “Have fun! Be safe!”
It was his constant refrain, and sometimes she came in just to hear it. It was nice to feel fully engaged with another human being in a casual way—she was so used to being completely unnoticed that sometimes she needed the gentle reminder that she could still behave like everyone else.
Cassie dashed up the four flights of stairs to her loft, happy for the burst of activity after such a long day of sitting as still as a stone. But she’d been able to bill the politician for all twelve hours of her stakeout, and had gotten him more than enough information to justify that check that was nearly enough to cover a whole month’s rent. After five years, Cassie was so effective at improvisation and blending in that she got to pick and choose assignments often—and even worked pro bono regularly enough to call herself “in demand”; her work had even led to the imprisonment of several high-profile child abusers. Despite all this, Cassie maintained such a ghostly presence in the media that she was almost never recognized on sight, and dates often demanded to see proof that she was the famous Cassie Vine—at which point she usually feigned sickness and went home. More than anything, Cassie hated being pressured; it was part of the reason private investigation called to her so strongly. There was nothing like being your own boss and only having your own glass ceiling to break.
By the time Cassie had finished rubbing the mentholated cream into her lean calves and thighs, it was noon. She’d slept later than she meant to after being alert for twelve hours straight, and now she had to get started on her next assignment with virtually no prep. She slipped into soft jogging pants and a dark gray sweater, pulling her brown hair into a low bun at the nape of her neck.
Carter Hampton, she recited to herself. Twenty-six, six foot four, two hundred fifty pounds. Sandy blonde hair, green eyes, faint scar across the right side of his jaw. She’d memorized his picture and description straight from the file his father had emailed, right after he’d messengered over a cashier’s check of staggering proportions. Find my son by any means necessary, he ordered. He’s a danger to himself, and his safety is paramount. Please, no police—unless things grow dire.
Despite the note’s dramatic tone, Cassie wasn’t worried; this was typical for a tracking case, and she was positive the young man was going to be fine. The father had supplied enough information to find him, but when she noticed their medical and credit histories were oddly blank, she realized the man had given her fake identities, but a real picture and description—presumably in case she attempted to get the authorities involved. If it had really been a dangerous situation, he would have given her traceable information; this was almost certainly a case of a spoiled, immature brat leaving the nest after throwing a tantrum. The worst risk posed was maybe a night of binge drinking, or a coke-fueled bender—the father would likely know the risks to his son far better than she did. Cassie knew that these ultra-rich types often had close personal advisors working to make sure they didn’t inadvertently ruin their images over something as silly as a family member in peril. She didn’t approve, but pushing never got her anything but a closed door in her face. If something went wrong, she could leverage information then.
The father had told her that Carter liked to hang out in strip malls and used book stores. As she slid on her sunglasses and headed back out the door, she realized she was actually looking forward to this outing—it wouldn’t be hard to pretend to browse for books or household supplies, since it was actually something she had been meaning to do. Cassie drove to her first location, a book shop called Second Page that was fifteen miles from her apartment. It was listed as a frequented location, and Cassie could immediately see why: the store itself was enormous, and the shelves stretched from floor to ceiling. There were long mahogany ladders along each wall, hooked into the bookcase with a set of wheels so you could move smoothly from title to title. The shop took up two offices and was situated between a nail parlor and a car insurance agency, and she could tell it had been there a long time; its sign was dusty and yellowed, and the interior coat of paint was hardly any better. The hunched cashier barely acknowledged Cassie as she strolled in, and a second, younger employee wearing a faded apron far too baggy for her twiggy torso let out a monotone “Hi,” before returning to her leisurely task. The carpet had the sort of retro pattern you only see on fast food restaurant tables or bus seats—some ambiguous shade of blue or purple, crisscrossed with unbroken mustard yellow lines and jagged green slashes that intersected at odd intervals. It was more plush than it looked, and oddly comforting. Cassie wandered over to a section
at random and pulled a title from the shelf.
Cassie was browsing for ten whole minutes before the bell above the door tinkled. She waited a full minute and set her book down, turning in a slow circle as she reached for another spine and cast her eyes toward the front of the store. She felt her heart sink briefly as she saw that it was a woman with short blonde curls and bright blue eyes—striking, but not her guy. Oh, well. Cassie gazed down at the book she’d chosen and chuckled softly: The Joy of Sex. That was something she hadn’t experienced in a while.
The bell above the door tinkled again, but she only had to wait a few moments for the new customer to wander into view. Her heart skipped a beat—a tall man, over six feet, with light brown hair mostly hidden underneath a worn red Angels cap. He looked to be in his late twenties, but he was a great deal more muscular than the description suggested, as well having hair a few shades darker than she was looking for—but one of the drawbacks of Cassie’s job was that she was often surprised, and not always in a good way. Occasionally, people who were exposed because of her work tried to seek revenge, and she’d had more than a few close calls. This didn’t seem like one of those times, however—and, sure enough, the muscular man breezed past her without a second glance and stopped in front of the sports section.
The tension had finally drained from her spine when the bell above the glass door sounded again—and this time, the hair on her forearms stood on end as though someone had whispered in her ear. She waited a few seconds, then tucked The Joy of Sex under her arm while turning and gazing at the shelf behind her. Her eyes fell on the new customer, and sirens went off in her brain as she scanned the man and struck off every item on her mental checklist. Bingo: Hello, Carter Hampton.
Cassie opened her new book and watched him in her peripheral vision. He looked around nervously, as though looking for an entry way among the stacks her own eyes couldn’t detect. Then Carter headed for the furthest shelves to her right, disappearing behind the tall stacks without a sound. She burned his outfit into her brain in case he slipped out: a crisp, long-sleeved forest green button-up shirt with a pair of dark denim jeans that were old enough to look soft to the touch—or expensive enough to come that way fresh out of the factory. He wore black hiking boots, and they looked like they’d been used a few times, at least.