by Quinn Nolan
The meaning of her words finally registers. “Wait—you’re telling me there are people inside here right now waiting to take pictures? Everett’s not even here.”
She rolls her eyes. “Haven’t you been following this? You’re, like, this internet phenomenon. You know—plain, everyday girl lands hot rock star.”
My gaze drops to the floor. “Plain?” Like it’s not bad enough that’s how I always feel when standing beside her—she’s really got to point it out?
She knocks my shoulder. “You know what I mean. You’re every girl’s hero right now. Look up.”
I do as she says and she applies mascara to my lashes. When she’s done, she tugs my hair out of the elastic, sucking her teeth as my hair spills out.
“Ash, for real. What did you do—just roll out of bed?” Heat rises in my cheeks and her eyes go wide for a second before her face breaks out in a grin. “You’re kind of my hero right now.”
It takes her a few minutes to twist my hair into something acceptable before she lets me go clock in. When I get behind the bar, I can’t help eying the people sitting there as I tie on my apron. Usually, Sunday night sees a handful of familiar faces. While some of the usuals are there now, there are far more faces I don’t recognize—people whose gazes rest on me for a beat longer than is comfortable. But what can I do? I’m here to work, so I hitch on my best smile and get to it.
As the night progresses, I feel more and more paranoid. I’m constantly detecting movement out of the corner of my eye, like someone’s taking a picture every time I look away. Every time she comes back to get a drink, Teresa makes a point to check in with me—even if she only has time to squeeze my elbow reassuringly.
About three hours into my shift, five girls tumble through the door, flushed and giggling. At first I think they’ve already been drinking, but none of them look over twenty-one. They stop just inside the threshold, scanning the room for someone. When their eyes land on me, I realize with a start that I’m the one they’re looking for.
I search the dining room for Teresa, but she’s too busy with a table to notice what’s happening. As one, the girls surge forward, bubbling with barely contained excitement. Only the one in front—clearly the leader—is able to keep a straight face.
There aren’t five empty seats at the bar—just two. The leader and another girl sit while the remaining three hover behind the stools, bouncing slightly on the balls of their feet. Even though my face is tired, I hitch up my smile and cross to them. “Hey, ladies. What can I get for you?”
Four of the girls shiver with barely suppressed excitement, but the leader simply sits straighter. “How about...a beer?”
I don’t bother asking which one. Even without the hastily shushed giggle from one of the girls in back, I know this girl isn’t legal. “Could I see your ID?”
She actually opens up her purse and flicks through it for a moment before looking up and smiling. “Okay, you got me. I’m not twenty-one.”
No kidding. “Well, we have cream soda and some fantastic root beer, if—”
“Actually, we’re not here to drink. We wanted to talk to you.”
I choose to ignore her. It’s what I learned in countless teacher-ed classes about classroom management: If a student exhibits an unwanted behavior, ignore it; even negative attention is attention and can cause the behavior to continue. “We have a food menu, too, if you’re hungry.”
She leans forward conspiratorially—a gesture I don’t reciprocate. “Is he a rock star in bed, too? Have you met the band? Does Chase Whalen have a girlfriend? I mean, not like it matters. You think you could get me his number?”
She shoots each question rapid-fire; I wouldn’t have time to respond even if I wanted to. Behind me, the phone starts ringing, but I’m too dumbstruck by this girl to turn.
Teresa’s warm hand presses my back as she slides beside me. “Ash, how about you get the phone? I’ll cover you here.”
The faces of all five girls fall as I turn away, thankful for Teresa. I’m to the phone in three steps and as I pull the receiver to my ear, the smile is back on my face. “Shores Brewpub, this is Ashlyn.”
“Ashlyn Mackenzie?” The female voice on the other end holds a note of surprise.
I silently curse myself. It’s habit, answering the phone that way, but I should’ve known better. If they have my cell phone number, what’s to keep them from getting the number to the brewpub? “No, sorry. This is Ashley...” My eyes land on Teresa’s back. “Flores. Can I help you?”
The woman lets out a breathy laugh. She’s not buying my lie. I could hang up, but I don’t. As stupid as it sounds, I don’t want her to have a reason to complain to my boss about me being rude. “Miss Mackenzie, this is Trina Winters with the Celeb Gossip Blog, and I’m writing an article that really requires your input. I promise, it won’t take up much of your time—”
“I’m working.” Clearly. You called me at work. “I don’t really have time to answer any questions—”
“And what’s a time that would work for you? I believe your shift ends at midnight, and while that’s less than ideal for me, I’d be willing to set up something—”
“No.” It comes out sharper than I intend, but I don’t back down. “I have no interest in being interviewed. Please don’t call me again.” I slam the receiver down, tamping down the irrational, automatic tinge of guilt for not saying a proper goodbye. My heart is racing and I take in a few deep breaths before turning back to the bar. Relief swells when I see the five girls have vacated. Teresa winks at me before heading back out to the dining room.
The rest of the night is far less exciting. The photographers must have gotten what they needed, because one by one, they file out. By closing time, we’re ushering out only the usual regulars, and the parking lot is blissfully devoid of cameras. Maybe once it was clear Everett wouldn’t be showing up, they figured they may as well pack it in.
After the floors are mopped, the counters wiped, and the garbage taken out, we’re ready to leave. Bill, who works the kitchen, usually leaves around ten when the kitchen closes, but he sticks around tonight until Teresa and I are ready to go. I hate to admit it, but I’m glad for his presence. While I don’t really think that reporter lady might be out in the parking lot, ready to pounce when I leave, I can’t say for sure it’s entirely outside the realm of possibility.
Teresa hugs me when we get to my car, and Bill gives a short nod before walking her to hers. I get in my car and start it, but I don’t put it into gear right away. I pull out my phone before remembering I don’t actually have Everett’s number. Any time I’ve called him, I called the house phone—but I can’t do that now, not with other people staying there. Why didn’t we make plans before I left? I can’t imagine he’s spent the evening kicking around my tiny apartment. It’s after midnight now—he’s probably at the main house, asleep in his bed. I sigh. I have a key to the house. Is it wrong I’m considering sneaking in?
Someone knocks at the passenger side window and I scream, clutching at my chest. I scan the vicinity—Do I have anything that could work as a weapon?—but before I can panic, Graham’s face appears through the glass.
I roll down the window. “What are you doing here?”
He leans his forearms on the door. “I need to talk to you.”
Warning bells ring in my head. “After midnight? Why couldn’t you just call me?”
“I was afraid you’d hang up.”
My shoulders slump. Would I? Yes, I’m angry he’s using this situation for his personal gain, but I can’t help feeling a twinge of guilt when I think about him. For all intents and purposes, I cheated on him. While the two of us were solidly over in my head, it wasn’t official when Everett and I first hooked up. For that, at least, I owe him a conversation. “You wanna get in?”
He shakes his head and straightens, leaning against the car. I sigh. Least I can do, I remind myself as I open the door and get out.
The car’s engine purrs quietly as I walk
to the passenger side. Graham’s head is tipped back; he’s staring up at the stars. I cast a glance upward. There aren’t many to see. There are too many lights here. When I’m beside him, he looks down.
“I need you do to the interview,” he says without preamble.
“You what?”
“Trina Winters. She told me you refused to do the interview. You need to call her and tell her you’re in. I’ve got her number...” He pulls a crumpled wad of paper from his back pocket.
I shake my head, not sure I’ve heard him correctly. “Why would I agree to an interview?”
“Because I need you to,” he says, as if it should be obvious. “You owe me at least that.”
His words cut me. Do I really owe him? He’s clearly been twisting the whole situation in his favor. Still, he wouldn’t’ve had the opportunity if I’d waited to start things with Everett—hell, if I’d taken the time to shoot him a breakup text before Everett and I—
“It’s just one interview. I don’t see why it’s such a big deal. Everyone already knows who you are. Just go on the record and tell the truth—you and I were together when you started banging Ever Anders.”
His crudeness chafes. “Haven’t you already told everyone that? I saw your MyFeedMe yesterday when I was over. Tell me this: Did you tell your drummer to post that picture on your FeedLine?”
His lip curls, but he neither confirms nor denies. “Trina says she won’t run the story unless she gets confirmation from you. Otherwise, it just looks like I’m—”
“Attention-whoring?” I supply.
He raises an eyebrow. “Are we really gonna start talking about whoring now?”
I stretch out my hand to slap him, but he’s too quick, grabbing me around the wrist. When I struggle, he just squeezes harder, pulling me closer and leaning his face close to mine, a his lips pulling back to reveal a flash of white teeth. “You’re gonna do the interview because, if you don’t, I’m gonna run with a different story. I’m gonna tell anyone who’ll listen that you were in on it the whole time. You honey-trapped Ever Anders in order to get your boyfriend his fifteen minutes of fame.”
My stomach twists and I try to lean away from him. There’s no hint of wavering in his voice. He’ll do it—I have no doubt.
Part of me says to just let him. I’ll tell Everett everything. Graham will run with his story, but no one will listen. When people see Everett and I are still together, they’ll know Graham is lying...
Unless Everett believes him. If Everett thinks there’s even a bit of truth to Graham’s version of the story, I’ll lose him.
I close my eyes and release a slow breath. “Okay. I’ll do it. Just this one. Then you leave me—and Everett—alone.”
“So you’re protecting him now? Adorable.” He rolls his eyes but doesn’t release my hand. He pulls my arm downward and presses the wadded paper into my palm. “Call her first thing tomorrow.”
I nod. “I will.”
He holds my gaze a beat longer before releasing my wrist. I rub it as I turn. I have no interest in talking to him any longer.
I’ve taken no more than two steps when his hand closes over my shoulder, spinning me. His mouth is on me so fast it takes me a moment to react. I don’t kiss back, but a second passes before I push him away. “The hell, Graham?”
He shrugs, grinning. “What can I say? For old time’s sake.”
I have no words to respond, so I just jog around to the driver’s side door and get inside as quickly as possible. Without taking the time to roll up the passenger window, I throw the car into gear and speed out of the parking lot.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Everett
When I wake up in Ash’s bed, the sunlight is streaming through her curtains. Instinctively, I reach beside me, but the mattress is empty.
I sit up, my heart pounding. I came back to her place around eleven, planning to be here when she got off work. I must’ve dozed off waiting, because I don’t remember her coming in. Or maybe she didn’t come in at all. She’s not here now.
But then I hear it—likely the sound that woke me in the first place—the shower. Smiling, I kick the sheet off my legs and plant my feet on the floor. I could use a shower.
The bathroom door is ajar and I drop my shorts before easing inside. The shower stall is recessed into the wall, a translucent glass door obscuring her body. She’s humming and it takes me a second to place the tune: It’s “Invigorating Hope”—the song I played for her yesterday. The idea that the song has already stuck with her, after hearing it only once, fills me, warms me. And it increases my need to be with her.
I cross to the shower door and pull it open. For a moment, she continues as if nothing happened—she hums, her head tipped back, hands running through her hair. Then her skin erupts in gooseflesh and her posture changes. Her eyes snap open and when she catches sight of me, an expression flickers across her face. Guilt? No, why would she feel guilty right now? Embarrassment, maybe. Or surprise. The expression is gone before I can identify it for sure, and she smiles.
I take that as an invitation and step into the small stall, closing the door behind me. This thing certainly wasn’t intended for two, but she doesn’t seem to mind. I press close to her, sliding my hands around to her back, relishing the slippery quality of her skin.
At my house in L.A., the shower stall is easily four times this size with six heads that spray from different angles. These kinds of maneuvers will be much easier there, and neither of us will end up with a cold backside.
And just like that, I can see Ash there in my space, like she’s always been there. There she is, in my shower. And again, perched up on the granite counter top, sipping a beer and calling out directions while I cook dinner. Snuggled against my chest on my leather couch as we watch the newest episode of Soul Shift. Limbs entwined with mine as we lay in my bed making love.
Making love. The thought startles me so much my hands actually jerk against her body. She takes this as a hint that I need a turn directly under the shower head and the two of us shuffle around until my back is under the water. My eyes don’t leave her face. She’s beautiful, yes—but I’ve been with beautiful women before. Still, I can’t deny there’s something different with her. Could it be that easy? Am I falling in love?
Am I there already?
My dad always equated love with distraction—one more thing to demand time, money, energy; something to be avoided rather than sought. But Ashlyn isn’t a distraction—she’s an inspiration. I listened to the entirety of Toxicity’s first album last night, trying my best to listen with a critical ear. I heard what I was expecting—a really, really good record with a handful of stellar tunes. But not one of those songs is as good as “Invigorating Hope.” There’s something about it that’s both edgy and timeless, with a memorable hook that’s not too predictable. It’s the best song I’ve ever written, and I wouldn’t ever have thought of it without Ash. Already, more words and melodies started floating in my head. And it’s all because of her—I know it.
“I’m going over Somer’s head.”
Ash meets my words with a confused expression and I can’t help smiling. “Sorry—I was just thinking about the song. Somer doesn’t get it, so I’m gonna pitch it to the label execs myself.”
She presses her lips together, a crease forming between her eyebrows. “How’s Somer gonna react to that?”
I shrug, offering what I hope comes across as an easy smile. “I don’t care.” I say the words, even though they’re not exactly the truth. I know the label needs to hear the song, and I also know Somer won’t bring it to them. It really is the only way I can see, but one way or another, Somer will probably get in some trouble. If the execs love it, they’ll wonder why Somer wouldn’t bring it to them himself. And if they hate it, they’ll be pissed because Somer can’t keep his musicians within proper channels.
But I can’t imagine they’ll hate it. How can they? I’ll pitch the song along with my vision for the band—an evolving organ
ism making its next logical step.
Ash and I stay in the shower until the water runs cold. I do my best to pull her still-wet body to her bed, but she resists, her face conflicted. “I have so much work to do today,” she explains as she starts flicking through her clothes. “I haven’t done anything around the grounds since Friday. The grass needs to be mowed, the flower beds probably have to be weeded, I should wash the boat...”
I perk up at this last task. “Could you possibly wear a white tank top when you do that last one?”
She lobs a pair of shorts at my head, which I catch easily. When she turns back to her closet, she can’t quite hide a smile.
I watch as she selects a tank top—not white—and a pair of shorts, as she crosses to her dresser for a bra and panties and she slips each piece on. I never knew that watching someone get dressed could be as sensual as watching things come off. Her eyes find mine and she blushes, shaking her head. “You’re not making this whole being responsible and working thing any easier, you know.” She allows her gaze to travel down my still-naked body.
“You could always get started in an hour. Or two.”
Her body sways forward, like she’s contemplating doing just that, but before she can take a step, she throws back her head, groaning. “If I don’t get this stuff done, Leo’s gonna fire me. Rain check?”
I sigh, knowing responsibility has won out. “I should probably get in touch with the execs.”
At this, she finally crosses to the bed, bending at the waist to kiss the top of my head. “Good idea. If they don’t love that song, they have no soul.”
She straightens, but I tug her down again for a kiss on the lips. It takes her a moment to break it, and she immediately takes two steps backward, flushed. “You, sir, are walking temptation.”
I indicate my reclined position. “I’m laying down.”
She points a finger as she backs toward the door. “You know what I mean. I have to get out of this apartment right now or I won’t be able to leave at all.”