Revenge: The Complete Series (Erotic Rock Star Suspense Romance)

by Mimi Strong

  Amanda calls out from the leather couch, “We can get you a sheet, Jess. It would be a lot cheaper.”

  Riley clamps a hand over her mouth before things get more awkward.

  I turn to Mrs. Hale. “I don’t want a sheet, of course. But I do want a simple gown. On my wedding day, I want the focus to be on the people there, not the clothes.”

  She presses her lips together for a moment, then says, “You mean for the photo shoot, right? You are buying a pretend dress for a music video or some nonsense, aren’t you?”

  I can feel my cheeks getting hot as they redden. She’s on to me, I can tell.

  “I want a simple dress,” I say, letting my irritation put grit into my voice. “Get me three of your simplest dresses. Please.”

  She runs off quickly, her high heels clattering.

  Chapter Four

  “Wow,” Riley says. “My baby sister is turning into a bridezilla.” She turns to Amanda. “We should take video of her being a bridezilla, and sell her out to the gossip sites for big bucks.”

  Amanda tips back another glass of champagne, giggling. They would never sell me out, but they like to joke about it.

  Riley says, “I can see the headline now. BLUE SHOES BRIDEZILLA.”

  I want to laugh along with them, but I can’t. The secret wedding is coming up so soon, and I have a million things to worry about. There’s so much going on at work, with the music deals in Europe, and I do take my job almost as seriously as this wedding.

  Dylan teases me sometimes about my career. He says he makes more than enough money, and that I could shop all day if I wanted to. I think shopping all day would be fun at first, but I’d miss my job. I like working, and I like being good at my job.

  There’s another reason I’m still with Morris Music. I don’t talk to Riley and Amanda about this, but I worry about money. Even when Dylan tells me not to, I do. Maybe it’s because I grew up with so little. I just don’t take it for granted that good things will keep coming to me.

  Plus there’s the issue of Dylan’s spending. He does earn a lot, but he has extravagant taste, especially in cars. I fear that one day the cars will get repossessed and my income will be the only thing keeping us afloat.

  I glance around the fancy boutique. These dresses are all small fortunes. Weddings aren’t cheap, that’s for sure.

  I wish I could stop worrying about everything, but this secret wedding has me on edge. I want to tell my best friends. I hate keeping secrets.

  I take a seat on the leather sofa across from the girls.

  They keep teasing me about turning into a bridezilla, but I can hardly hear them.

  I look down at the shoes I’m wearing today. They’re the blue suede shoes I was wearing the day I met Dylan. He was just a street busker then, a nobody. He wanted to get my attention, so he made up a song about my blue shoes.

  The song, and the video of us meeting, went viral, but not in a huge way. His really big hit was a song called Where You Belong.

  I don’t know how many millions of dollars that song will have to make before I stop hating it. The song is about Dylan dumping me, when he found out I lied to him. Every word in the song is like a knife in my heart.

  “Jess?”

  I look up at Riley and Amanda. They’re both wide-eyed, worried about me.

  Amanda hands me a tissue. I don’t know what it’s for, so I stare at the tissue blankly. Then I feel the wet tear on my cheek. I can hear the clip-clop of Mrs. Hale’s shoes, so I quickly dab away the tear.

  I’m always imagining the worst. First I think of us going broke, then I think of him dumping me. It’s like my brain has a full-time job torturing my heart.

  My tears slow down. This is crazy. Just thinking about bad things has made me cry. The wound from that night he hurt me is still there.

  I think I’m always afraid—afraid it might happen again—that he’ll get angry and leave me with no warning. That’s why I don’t always tell him how I’m feeling.

  I hope this insecurity goes away once we’re married.

  The girls keep asking what’s going on.

  “Talk to us,” Amanda says.

  My voice comes out in a croak. “I’m fine. Honest.”

  “We can come back another time,” Riley says. “If this is too overwhelming to do in one visit. Even a pretend dress is still serious.”

  “I’m okay,” I tell them with forced cheerfulness. “There’s a lot of heavy perfume in this room, don’t you think? It’s really triggering my allergies.”

  They nod slowly. I’ve never mentioned allergies before, because I don’t have any. They smile back at me, assuring me they’ll go along with my lie about allergies.

  I can’t tell them that for a moment, I was looking at all the wedding dresses and getting an awful image.

  I could see myself in a dress, alone at the altar. Alone forever.

  It’s such an awful thought. I dab my eyes and blow my nose. I keep looking down at my feet, in their blue shoes. Whenever people back out of a wedding, it’s called cold feet.

  I need to stop wearing these shoes and tempting fate.

  Mrs. Hale returns with dresses in her arms. She’s breathing heavily.

  “Sorry it took me so long,” she wheezes. We wait as she draws another ragged breath and fans her face. “I had to escort some photographers out of the store. Don’t worry. I’ve locked the door. You’re safe in here.”

  My heart starts to race as I imagine the paparazzi outside.

  How could I have been so stupid?

  The taxi driver must have tipped them off. I should have told him to drop me off at a nearby restaurant, not at a bridal shop.

  No wonder he was asking me all those questions about whether or not I was famous.

  Mrs. Hale gives me a nervous look. She’s worried I’ll have her fired.

  “It’s totally my own fault,” I tell the three of them. “My nosy taxi driver must have called in a tip.”

  Someone’s phone starts to ring. It’s my phone, and it’s Dylan calling.

  When I answer, I put on a brave smile so I won’t worry him with nervousness about the photographers in my voice.

  “The beach was boring without you,” he says.

  “Sure it was.” I let out a laugh. “You won’t believe this, but the paparazzi has us trapped. Inside a bridal boutique.”

  “That doesn’t sound so bad. Do they have champagne?”

  I look up at the girls. “I think Riley and Amanda left a few drops.”

  “Did you pick out a dress yet?”

  I answer in a whisper, “No.”

  He growls, “Then we’ll have to get married naked. The whole thing will be naked, and then we’ll throw a blanket on the ground and I’ll take you under the moon… and fireworks.”

  I giggle. “That sounds kind of elaborate.”

  “Are you really trapped inside a store? Like a princess inside a castle?”

  “Yes,” I say, giggling. “That’s exactly what’s happening. Are you my knight in shining armor?”

  “Yes. Here’s my plan. I’ll come pick you up in one hour, then we’ll go home to practice getting married. Naked.”

  “Don’t you dare come here. The photographers will go crazy.”

  “They sure will. And I’ll distract them. Trust me. This is a great plan. Your brave knight won’t let you down.”

  Chapter Five

  What do you do when you’re trapped in a bridal boutique?

  You drink champagne and try on dresses.

  Mrs. Hale finally brings me some simple, elegant gowns. She holds them up in front of me, and I actually like what I see in the gilded mirrors.

  The next step is for me to actually try the dresses on. With some reluctance, I do this.

  Most of the dresses are the same size, and they don’t fit my body. These are all samples, because the gowns here are custom made and take weeks to order in.

  I keep trying on dresses, trying to hide my disappointment. Even if I pick
one, it will still take weeks and multiple fittings before I have my dress. How could I have thought this was going to be simple? Nothing is ever easy.

  “What about the dress I saw in the window?” I ask Mrs. Hale. “What size is that one?”

  She gives me a suspicious look, like I’m planning to walk out of here today with a sample dress and never come back. That’s exactly what I’m going to do, if the dress fits.

  She doesn’t answer. She just clip-clops out of the showcase room and returns a few minutes later with the gown from the window. My mood brightens up when I take a look at the bodice. This one might fit me perfectly.

  “This one was… a return,” Mrs. Hale explains. “Not that we take returns, but it was… complicated.”

  Riley gives the dress a skeptical look. “Sounds like bad luck,” she says.

  “Don’t be grouchy,” I tell her.

  She scowls and shakes her head. I’ve never known Riley to be superstitious, but her worry is getting to me.

  We’re all quiet for a moment, and while the song on the stereo changes, the sounds from outside of the store drift in. We can hear people arguing with each other and bumping into the glass windows. For the second time today, I’m reminded of zombie hordes. Ugh, this city.

  Mrs. Hale clip-clops out to check on the door, then comes back. “There’s now twice as many photographers out there,” she reports. “My evening client has rescheduled.”

  Riley scowls in the direction of the noise. “They sound restless.”

  Amanda jumps up from the leather sofa. “I shall go and play a concert for them, on the white piano.”

  Mrs. Hale shrugs. “You may as well enjoy the piano.” She’s got a glass of champagne in her hand, which explains her relaxation.

  I give her a look to let her know I understand. The photographers drive me crazy, too. What bugs me the most is they treat me like I’m just another party girl ditz. They shout questions and try to get my reaction on video. They ask what I think of various actresses who are hot at the moment. They’re always trying to start feuds, between me and girls I’ve never even met.

  Sometimes I want to take their cameras and smash them on the sidewalk. I want to scream that I have a job, a career. I get up and go to work in the morning. I work hard. I don’t chase after people and invade their privacy.

  Badly-played piano music floats into the fitting room. That would be Amanda and Riley, banging away on the grand piano.

  Now I have to smile again. This is just one of the reasons I love my girls. They always remind me that life is for fun. They’re the perfect antidote to fame, work, and Dylan.

  Mrs. Hale finishes her champagne and tells me to try on the dress from the front window. She unzips the back and helps me slip it on.

  I hold my breath as she zips it up.

  This one fits me perfectly. Even the length is perfect. Whoever returned this dress could have been my clone.

  I don’t dare open my eyes and look in the mirror. I can already tell without looking that it’s beautiful.

  The silk bodice feels cool and smooth on my skin. The shape hugs my chest and waist. It caresses me down to my hips, then it follows the curve of my legs to the floor and ends in a small flared train.

  I open my eyes and take the sight in. The dress is simple, but not plain. A layer of intricate lace clings to the entire dress, giving it an antique feel. The neckline accentuates my chest, and tiny sparkles woven into the cloth make me look like I’m glowing.

  I’m actually glowing.

  I step onto the stage in the middle of the showcase room.

  Mrs. Hale calls the girls back in.

  I anxiously await their opinions.

  Is the dress perfect? Do they like it as much as I do? I’ve never thought of myself as very fashionable or having a personal style. I wear skirts and suits to work, but around the house, I’m usually in jeans.

  Dylan’s always trying to get me to be more adventurous. He says I’m better at picking out costumes for our Morris musicians than I am at dressing myself. Last week, I brought home some samples for a trio of backup singers, and he went crazy. He thought the short dresses and matching stilettos were actually for me.

  “It’s perfect,” Mrs. Hale says. She’s on another glass of champagne, and stumbling in her clip-clop shoes. “That dress will bring you good luck. All eyes will be on you.”

  “Hah! That’s why I’m so nervous. I get so awkward when I think people are looking at me.”

  “Relax, honey! You only get married once or twice.” She starts to cackle, then stops herself. “I mean once. Sorry.”

  The girls finish their concert and come running back in.

  Amanda looks at me up on the stage, opens her mouth to say something, then closes it again. Oh, no. If Amanda’s speechless, it’s really bad.

  I shrug. “Oh, well. It was worth trying on.”

  “Oh, Jess,” Riley says. Her voice chokes up and she fans her face with one hand. “It’s gorgeous. It’s the one. And not just for your photo shoot. You should get married in this one, whenever you guys get around to that.”

  “For real?”

  “Poor Nan,” Riley says, referring to our grandmother. “She’s going to cry so hard.”

  I look over at Amanda. I won’t know for sure if the dress is good until I hear from her.

  “Let me try it on,” Amanda says. “With the ring.”

  “No way,” I say, laughing.

  And that does it. I love the dress. My girls love the dress. Never mind that it was a returned gown with bad karma. This is the one.

  I quickly change out of it, because Dylan will be here soon and he can’t see the dress. I want him to be surprised and speechless.

  Once I’m back into the skirt and top I arrived in, I go to work on Mrs. Hale. The dress is one-of-a-kind, and they want to use it as a sample gown. She really wants me to wait and order a custom-made one, even though the sample fits me perfectly.

  “How long for the custom order?” I ask.

  “Seven weeks.”

  I press my lips together to keep from smirking. My secret wedding is in six weeks, and I’m not getting married naked.

  Mrs. Hale’s steely blue eyes drill into me. “But you haven’t even asked about the price, Miss Rivera.”

  I reach into my purse, get my wallet, and pull out my credit card. It’s a new card, and has a special color to let people know I mean business.

  Mrs. Hale immediately brightens up and begins packaging the dress—my dress—up in a box.

  Amanda and Riley squeal and hug me.

  I try not to show that my hand is shaking when I sign the credit card bill. This gown costs more than most people’s entire wardrobe. But it is a once in a lifetime expense. The look on Dylan’s face will be priceless.

  “Don’t crush our new dress.” Amanda tries to grab the box playfully. “Respect the gown. Don’t make me take it away from you.”

  I hug the dress box closer. “Never.”

  Once the bill has been settled to a very happy-looking Mrs. Hale, we take turns watching the front door for signs of Dylan.

  He pulls up in the bright blue Maserati GranTurismo.

  The photographers go crazy, as expected.

  Dylan tries to lure them down the street, away from the boutique.

  They’re too smart for his tricks, though. Some run after him, but a few stay stationed at the boutique’s front door, waiting for me.

  Mrs. Hale checks the back door again and comes running back to report that nobody’s waiting in the alley.

  My skin prickles with warning. Earlier, some of the photographers had been waiting back there. Sometimes they’re sneaky and hide behind dumpsters. Alleys are the worst.

  Riley and Amanda start grumbling about being hungry. They’ve had nothing but champagne and want some food.

  I send Dylan a quick message to let him know we’re going out the back door, and then we head out.

  We step out of the air-conditioned boutique, into t
he alley. The heat of the city hits me. I feel weak suddenly. I guess I haven’t eaten in a while.

  The three of us turn right and walk through the alley, past open doors and prep cooks sitting on white buckets, having their smoke breaks.

  Everyone stares at me, with my pristine white dress box that’s almost as tall as I am.

  I check my phone and see a message from Dylan: Starbucks.

  “Riley, Amanda, hold up. Which way is the Starbucks? Dylan’s meeting us there.”

  “This way,” Amanda says, nodding toward the street ahead.

  I have a bad feeling this isn’t the right direction, but she seems certain, so I follow her.

  The box in my arm is getting heavy. I had no idea a wedding dress weighed so much.

  We step out of the alley, and are ambushed by photographers.

  Flashes go off in front of my eyes. Voices rise and people crowd in, yelling my name. “Jess!” “Jessica!” “Miss Rivera!”

  “Back off,” Riley warns them as she grabs my hand and pulls me along the sidewalk.

  The voices get more insistent. “What have you got there? Another farm girl outfit?” “Jess! What was it like on the farm? Did you milk the cows?” “Do you and Dylan play cowgirl and cowboy?” “I bet you ride him hard, Jessica!” Their rude laughter turns my stomach.

  Some of the photographers aren’t so bad. They’re just trying to earn a living, and they’re respectful. Those are the ones our PR department at Morris Music prefers. We’ll call those guys and let them “discover” our artists having dinner with sexy actresses, for example.

  These guys, though, are the rough ones.

  These guys are hungry. And desperate.

  I clutch the dress box to me like a shield.

  There are more flashes and red recording lights around me. The paparazzi is crowding in like an army. I lose my grip on Riley’s hand.

  Someone says, “Aww look, she’s wearing her blue shoes again. Couldn’t you get another pair so Dylan can write a new song? Can’t you afford new shoes?”