by Lisa Suzanne
My pulse beats in my neck as the elevator carries me closer and closer to the sixteenth floor—the floor where my past will collide with my present, the floor where a Christmas party awaits, but more importantly, a floor where Ethan Fuller will be.
The place where we’ll meet face to face after eighteen long years.
It’s hard not to allow the memories of that night to wash over me as I think of seeing him. His whispered words echo through my mind. Nerves get the better of me, and I almost hit the emergency stop button.
But I can’t. If there was an emergency go button instead, I’d press it to get me up there faster, to get me to the very goal I’ve been working relentlessly toward since the night he crushed me.
This is exactly what I wanted, and it’s the only way I can get even for what he did to me after all this time.
My big revenge plot after almost twenty years of stewing on it is to get Ethan to fall for me, and right when I have him where I want him, I’ll pull the rug out from under him. I’ll leave him wishing he’d never spoken those words. I’ll break his heart the way he broke mine.
There’s just one major wrench in my overly optimistic plan.
Ethan’s not going to fall for me. What the fuck was I thinking? Ethan Fuller doesn’t stick around for more than one night, and he doesn’t give a flying fuck if the attachment was made on her part, whoever she is. He bangs groupies, sometimes more than one on any given evening, and then he kicks them off his bus without so much as a backwards glance.
My big plan hinges on getting him to change who he is at his very core, and it’s never going to happen.
But what’s life without a little challenge?
It’s that thought that—strangely—calms my nerves. The idea that I can do this washes over me. I’ve never been one to give up, and I’m sure as hell not going to start now—not when I’m so close to giving the sweet little girl who died inside me long ago everything she has craved since she was fifteen, and not when the motherless adult inside me demands justice.
The elevator doors open to a joyful celebration, complete with a band playing instrumental Christmas songs as I walk in. The scent of pine is in the air and the Christmas music in my ears is a heady contrast to the revenge plot circling my brain.
It’s not my first visit to this office, but it does mark the first time I’ll be seeing Mark Ashton and Ethan Fuller since high school. I can’t help the fear that races through me even though I’m certain they won’t recognize me. I don’t even recognize myself anymore.
I spot Mark, and he comes barreling toward me, his face breaking into a smile as recognition dawns in his eyes. Nerves twist through my chest. Does he know? He steps toward me with an extended arm. “Maci Dane.” He grips my hand. “I’m Mark. It’s nice to finally meet you.”
“You, too,” I say politely, as if I don’t have a torrent of anxiety coursing through me so hard it might burst out of me. My knees are shaking and I need to sit, but I can’t. I force my gaze on his face, wishing with everything inside of me I could take a look around for Ethan. “This is Griffin, my manager.”
Mark nods at Griff and shakes his hand then turns back to me. “Thanks for signing on with Ashmark and for this upcoming tour. We’re thrilled to have you.”
“I’m honored to be working with you,” I say. He introduces me to his wife, a pretty brunette named Reese who stands by his side. He takes me on the rounds and introduces me to two of the other band members, Steve and James, and their wives.
I look past Steve after I politely shake his hand, but I don’t see Ethan.
“You just missed our drummer, Ethan, but you’ll meet him next week,” Mark says.
My heart drops all the way down to my toes.
Dammit.
All this make-up, the sparkly white dress, the extra time with my hairstylist…it was all for naught. He’s not even fucking here.
*
I stare into my fireplace as the lights on my tree twinkle. I see the lights out the corner of my eye, but I’m not really paying attention to them. Instead, I watch the flames as they roll up into sharp points, sometimes crackling and popping. It’s seventy degrees outside, a little warmer than usual for Christmas in Los Angeles, or rather Hollywood Hills where I live, but I’m not thinking about the weather. I’m not thinking about the heat of the fire or the tree with the lights or the lack of presents beneath my tree.
I’m thinking about how I created this reality for myself. I’m thinking about the hard work it took to get to this place.
Most of all, I’m thinking about how lonely I am. I’m surrounded by people ninety-nine percent of the time, but the ache of loneliness burns in my chest.
My life has been a constant cycle of change. I thought everything would be so easy when I graduated from college—that I’d step out the doors with a diploma and find immediate success, find the exact path I was looking for. I’d relied heavily on the opinions of my instructors while I’d gone through school—those who trained me to sing properly, those who told me I had talent. When I graduated and found I didn’t have a million offers knocking down my door, I had to give into the reality that my talent was on par with everyone around me. It was time to hit the trenches and work my way up.
While I’ve been in music in some way my entire adult life, my success is much more recent. I was lucky enough to break onto the radio with a single through my first label, but they didn’t have the means to help boost my career. I moved onto another label who brought me a level of success I never thought I could reach. But when Ashmark opened its doors and my contract was up for renewal, I knew I could kill two birds with one stone. I could reach astronomical levels of success under the tutelage of Mark Ashton, and I could also worm my way into Ethan’s life—who, meanwhile, has lived his own life full of success.
I haven’t told a soul about my quest for revenge—not even Griffin. Surely he would try to talk me out of it. He’d tell me to let it go, that the best revenge is a life well lived or some cliché shit like that.
But I can’t let it go.
I won’t.
I can’t believe I’m thinking about revenge on Christmas morning. I can’t believe I’m thinking about Ethan on Christmas morning, for that matter. It isn’t how I was raised.
I was raised to go to church and be thankful for my blessings, and I am thankful. I have an excelling career many people only dream of, a lovely home with a view of Los Angeles, a beautiful real tree in my living room I didn’t have to lift a finger to get into place. I have money in the bank and a new record working its way toward platinum. I have a collaboration in the works with a famous rapper and I’m going on tour with Vail.
Some would look at me and think I have it all.
But when I look on the inside, it’s clear that I don’t.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
ETHAN
My phone buzzes with a text just after I’ve settled onto my black leather couch in front of my television to catch today’s scores on SportsCenter.
Mark: You missed Maci Dane at the Christmas party. I was hoping to introduce you.
Me: Sorry, man. I’ll meet her next week.
He doesn’t respond, and I feel a twinge of guilt—an unfamiliar feeling for a guy like me. I should have been there meeting the woman who will open for Vail in under two weeks.
I both love and hate touring. It can make for a lonely existence, even more so now that Mark and I will have our own buses, but as I glance around at my bare walls and empty house, I’m not convinced it’s any different than my day-to-day lifestyle.
I didn’t put up a Christmas tree this year. I never do, not since I got my own place—not that my mother was an expert at making the holidays special for her children. Christmas calls up too many painful memories, none more prominent than of what could have been. I switch the radio when a joyful seasonal song comes on. I ignore tradition for the most part. It’s all too reminiscent of the last time I saw the girl, the night she sang a solo, took my heart, and
vanished.
I’m heading to Chicago to spend the holiday at my aunt’s house. She’s my mom’s sister, and she took in my two younger half-sisters when my mom died. They have a far better life now, which is a bitter and morbid thought, but it’s also true. I’m able to send my aunt money every month for their expenses. I’ve also set up college accounts for the two of them, and I take care of them the best way I know how. My other sister, Zoey, who is just two years younger than me and lives in Atlanta now, will meet me there. She and Mark dated for a while and for a long time, I secretly hoped they’d end up together.
It’s strange musing about family as I sit on my couch a few days before Christmas. I should be out with my buddies getting wasted, but instead I’m thinking about all the dumbass things I’ve done over the years—the cherry on the top of that cake, obviously, this whole fiasco with Erin.
Shit. Shit. I just remembered she posted us to her Snapchat story. Is she fucking serious? Does she have any idea what could’ve happened if that stupid picture had gotten picked up? I thank the gods of luck once again that my face was out of the shot when she snapped the picture.
Part of me feels like I’m skipping town because of the seventeen-year-old, but I’ve had this trip to Chicago planned for months. As hard as it can be to go back home, it’s family.
I fly first class with Chuck by my side, sign a few autographs for fans who recognize me despite the ballcap I wear down low over my eyes, and grab a ride to my aunt’s house as Chuck and I part ways. I’ve given him my week in Chicago off. He has family here, too, and he deserves to spend his time with the people he loves rather than tailing my crazy ass. I plan to keep a low profile, and I assure him he has nothing to worry about.
My aunt lives in the heart of the city in a safe, newly renovated, and expensive as fuck house—I’d know since I bought it for her. I ring the bell, and Zoey throws open the door and tosses her arms around my neck in seemingly one motion. She clings to me for a few beats.
“Hey, bro,” she says softly.
Zoey and I share both parents, where Bianca and Stephanie came from my mom and this other dude who gave up rights to the kids before my mom passed. My father is a lowlife piece of shit who’s rotting away in jail. I prefer not to acknowledge he’s still alive. He and my mom were married for a short time before he got busted selling drugs. He got out when I was still young, only five or six, and my only memories from that time of my life are screaming matches between my parents. Eventually they got divorced and dear old Dad got busted again, this time for armed robbery and possession, but seeing a marriage crumble the way theirs did convinced me that marriage doesn’t work. It showed me from a young age that being committed to one other person isn’t for me.
When I was in high school, I thought it gave me street cred to tell people my dad was in jail. Now that I’m an adult and my life is looked at under a microscope, I’m ashamed to be related to him. My standard response when someone asks me about him now is I never knew my dad. It’s not a lie. I only knew him the year he was out of jail when I was in first grade.
“Hey, sis,” I say.
“How are you?” she asks.
I still feel a little off balance from the whole Erin thing. “Same. You?”
She shrugs. “Fine. How’s Mark?”
I soften my voice when I respond. “He’s doing great, Zo. They’re having a baby.”
“Great,” she says flatly. Her tone conveys her real feelings—it should’ve been her. I used to feel that way, too, but I don’t anymore. Zoey wouldn’t have been good for Mark long-term the way Reese is.
We don’t have time to talk more right now because my fifteen and sixteen-year-old sisters come bounding around the corner and race toward me. “Ethan!” they yell as they fight each other to be the one who gets to hug me first. As much as I’ve dreaded returning “home” for the holidays, this feels good.
And then the thought of Erin comes back to mind. God, she’s barely a year older than Bianca. I hate her for lying to me about her age, for making me think she was old enough—legal enough—to handle sex with a rock star, and now I have to work side-by-side with her father.
Susan, my aunt, comes down the hall next, and she folds me into her arms. She’s plump and sort of looks like the grandmother I never had—the complete opposite of my too-thin, frail mother.
“Merry Christmas,” I say softly to my aunt.
She tightens her arms around me. “Thanks for the last check you sent. The girls will have a good Christmas.” Her voice is quiet, just meant for me as Zoey ushers Bianca and Stephanie to the kitchen.
“Happy to do it and happier to hear it,” I say. I’m reminded that I haven’t done any shopping yet and Christmas is just a couple days away. I’ll order shit online, pay for speedy shipping, and have Zoey wrap.
I lug my bag up to the guest room, and then I join everyone in the kitchen. I sit at the table, the lone man in the house, while the women around me decorate cookies with sprinkles and frosting. I take in the scene and breathe in the warm scent of fresh-baked cookies. I feel like this should dredge up memories of a happy childhood, but instead it just reminds me of how this is all new to me. Zoey, too. At least Bianca and Stephanie will have these fond memories—but without their mother. I don’t know which is worse—having her here or not having her here.
I spend the next day ordering gifts with the help of Zoey. She talks me into piles and piles of clothes and make-up for our younger sisters, basically a brand new kitchen for Susan, and then I have to figure out what to get for her without her help. I add another of each of the make-up palettes since she couldn’t stop gushing about them, and then I decide last-minute she deserves something special, so I put money in an account for her and write up a little something telling her how to access the money to buy herself a new car.
It’s about as normal as Christmas can get for someone like me…until the younger girls all head up to their bedrooms and just Susan, Zoey, and I remain.
“I wanted to talk to you both about something,” she says.
Zoey and I exchange a glance before we look over at her. Neither of us says anything as we wait for her to drop the proverbial bomb.
She draws in a deep breath. “I got a notice your father is ill. I wanted you both to know.”
“He’s ill?” Zoey asks. “What does that mean?”
“It means they’re doing all they can, but they found an aggressive brain tumor,” Susan says. “He’s only got a couple months at best.”
I don’t answer. I don’t give a fuck about this guy. He wasn’t there for me before he landed himself in prison, and he certainly hasn’t done anything for me since—he hasn’t even tried to form a relationship.
Oh, wait. I take that back. He did try to get in touch in order to hit me up for money a few times.
Zoey’s face turns red, and I can tell she’s about to cry. I want to protect her from him like I did when I was seven and she was five, but I can’t. Not anymore.
“You’re related to him,” Susan continues. “Genetics and all that—if nothing else, it could be important information for you to know. I thought you’d like to pay a visit while you’re in town.”
“I’m good,” I say dryly.
Susan clears her throat. “He asked to see you both.”
“Let’s go see him this week,” Zoey says.
I pin a glare on my sister. “Why?” I ask.
“He’s our father. It might be screwed up, but do you really think you can live the rest of your life knowing you had a chance to talk to him and didn’t take it?” She’s pleading with me, and I know it’s because she doesn’t want to go alone.
But she’s going to have to.
“Yeah, I can,” I say. “He’s been dead to me my entire life.”
Both women in the room with me are quiet for a beat, and then I stand. I need to get out of this room. It suddenly feels like it’s suffocating me, the heat and the fireplace and the façade of a perfect home filled with less than
perfect people.
I grab my coat from upstairs then head out front to the stoop and sit. I pull my pack of smokes out of my pocket and light one up. It’s not weed, but it’ll have to do for now. Cigarettes are bad enough; I can’t smoke pot in the same house where my two little sisters are sleeping.
The door opens and closes behind me, and I feel a presence as someone sits on the stoop next to me.
“What’s wrong?”
It’s Stephanie—the younger one. She’s fifteen and she knows too much for her age. I wish someone would’ve been able to protect me at that age the way I can protect her.
I think of the stolen kiss in a high school hallway. Dani was only fifteen—the same age as the little girl sitting on the stoop next to me. I’d kill any kid who tried to kiss my little sister, especially if he was anything like I was back then. Crude and corrupt, ready to steal the innocence of a girl who deserved better.
I wonder why Dani is in my thoughts tonight. Maybe because I’m back here in Chicago. I didn’t grow up in Aunt Susan’s house, didn’t grow up with Stephanie in the next bedroom, but it’s all close enough to remind me both of a simpler and much more challenging time in my life.
“Nothing,” I mutter.
There’s a beat of silence, and then she says, “Those are bad for you, you know.”
“I know.” I take another drag.
“I heard what Aunt Susan told you guys,” she says tentatively, like she knows she wasn’t supposed to be eavesdropping but did it anyway. “I’m sorry about your dad.”
“He’s not my dad,” I say.
“But he is, Ethan. He might not have been there for you, but if I had the chance to go talk to my dad, you know what I’d do?”
“What?” I stare straight ahead of us, because for some reason this fifteen-year-old child is making me feel about two inches tall.
“I’d go talk to him.”
I wonder not for the first time what happened to her dad. I vaguely remember my mom dating a guy and getting pregnant, but I wasn’t around when he was. I was nineteen and immortal—still am at thirty-six. I was too busy for family, and at the time I thought I was a badass who would rule the music industry. I wasn’t wrong, but it took a fuck ton of hard work to get there.