1984: Against All Odds (Love in the 80s #5)

by Rebecca Yarros

  I thought of the way Hawke hadn’t even looked at me in New York, the cold way he’d spoken, his obvious dismissal. What was I really scared of? Falling for someone who obviously hated me? Hard to do when I was already emotionally incapacitated around him.

  “Give me a minute, okay?” I asked for the same reprieve she had earlier.

  She patted my shoulder and stood. “I can do that. The label really wants this, and that puts you in a position of power, which hasn’t happened in a long time. If there’s something you want, now is the time to ask. Bigger video budgets, you name it. I’m giving you a couple minutes, and no more, so think quickly.”

  I nodded to show that I understood, and she took my silence for the cue it was, shutting the door behind her as she left.

  Where was my perspective? My label had handed me a fantastic opportunity to bargain for what I really wanted, and I couldn’t see past Hawthorne Owens long enough to think of my own career, which was in a pretty precarious place.

  Disgusted with myself, I pushed back from the table and walked to the window. L.A. spread before me, her possibilities as endless as the ocean that lay just beyond her borders. There had been a time I had thought my life had those same limitless qualities—when I wrote my own music, lived and breathed my art.

  Could I do it? Work with Hawke?

  The door opened behind me and my eyes slid shut, trying to block out the answer I knew she wanted that I wasn’t ready to give. “I’m still thinking, Mom—” I rubbed the skin between my eyebrows “—Lenore. I know it’s black and white to you, but it’s a little harder than that for me. He’s…I don’t expect you to understand.”

  “Your mom makes you call her Lenore?”

  My eyes flew open and my heart jumped through my throat. Hawke. I turned slowly, wishing I’d put on something more than the button-up and leggings—something like medieval armor.

  He leaned back against the door, his arms folded across his chest. The rips in his acid-washed jeans only accentuated the lines of his muscular thighs, and the black shirt stretched across the expanse of his chest. He was bigger, more filled out than he had been in high school, the soft lines of boyhood long-since conquered by the angular lines of this man’s face. Even his eyes were harder, cynical. He raised a singular black eyebrow, waiting for my answer.

  I blinked, thinking back to the question. “Yeah, she thinks it’s more professional.”

  “Huh.”

  We stared at each other across the silence, the tension so thick it felt like there were a million walls between us. I had to start the conversation, right? After all, I was the one who’d ended it. “Hawke—”

  “About the song,” he interrupted.

  “Oh. Of course,” I said softly, unsure if I was hurt or relieved that he didn’t want to talk about anything else.

  “The guys are okay with it. It’s mutually beneficial.”

  “And you’re their spokesman?” I asked, mirroring his pose and folding my arms across my chest.

  “I’m the only one who thinks it’s a shit idea.”

  “Oh.” What the hell was I supposed to say to that?

  “Is that seriously all you have to say?” He pushed off the wall and walked forward until the table was all that separated us.

  “What do you want me to say?”

  He scoffed. “I’d like you to have an opinion. Or did they brainwash you to the point that you’ll say what anyone wants to hear?”

  “I think it’s a crap idea, too. Is that what you want to hear?”

  “Is that actually what you think?” He leaned forward, bracing his palms on the table.

  “I think collaborating two brands like ours is a great idea. I think it will get tons of airplay on different stations, pull in both fan groups and give MTV something to broadcast.”

  “And that qualifies as crap to you?” His eyes narrowed. “No. You don’t want this for the same reason I don’t. Because neither of us wants to be within a mile of the other.”

  He was so wrong. My problem was quite the opposite.

  “Don’t act like you know me,” I snapped.

  Those gorgeous, full lips morphed into an ugly sneer. “Know you? Yeah, you’re right. The sweet little branding, the brainwashed answers, the shit songs—I have no idea who the fuck you are, because you’re not Brie. Brie would have vetoed ninety-nine percent of the songs on both of your albums. She would have told Matt Goodwin to keep his hands to himself because she doesn’t like to be touched by people she doesn’t know. She would be telling her mother to screw herself because she didn’t want to work with her ex. That’s the Brie I know—or rather, thought I knew.”

  I hated that he saw so much, realized how many pieces of myself I’d given away. I hated how beautiful he was, that despite the angry words and knowing he’d rather kiss a viper than get close to me, I couldn’t deny the pull that had me leaning across the table just as he was. “Maybe I grew up.”

  His gaze dropped to my breasts, the green depths heating. “Maybe. Or maybe you just sold out.”

  “I’d forgotten how much of an ass you are.”

  “I’m happy to remind you, sweetheart.”

  “Is this really so easy for you?” I tossed at him, floundering in desperation to feel something real, anything that resembled the Hawthorne I knew—had known.

  Something flashed in his eyes before he slammed it back down. “Well, you know me,” he said with an easy shrug.

  “No, I don’t. Not anymore.”

  “Of course you do. I’m a rock star, right? And we’re all the same, so you know everything you need to. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have beer to drink and groupies to fuck.” He ran his tongue across his lower lip and God help me, I couldn’t look way. “Unless you’d like to fill tonight’s slot.”

  I flinched. “Hawke.”

  He shook his head. “Yeah, I thought not. I’ll go tell the guys you’re a go.” He was almost to the door before I registered what he’d said.

  “Wait. I said it was a crap idea.”

  “You did, but that’s not what you’ll tell Brad Scott when he walks back in. You’ll say yes because they want you to, and we’ll be stuck working together on this. You might think I don’t know you, Sabrina, but I do. I just like Brie better. Let me know if she shows up.”

  He didn’t wait for my response, just slammed the door on his way out.

  I sank into the nearest chair, a fine tremor going through my hands as I momentarily covered my face. Out of every fantasy I had about seeing him again, that was definitely not how I’d pictured it.

  He’d accused me of being a fake, pushed over, sell out…and he was right. And I hated him for being right almost as much as he hated me.

  I’d never understood how love transformed to hatred, but I’d seen it in his eyes… the same eyes that gave me a view of myself that I didn’t really appreciate.

  But what could I possibly do to change it?

  The door opened and Mom walked in. “How did that go?”

  “Worst scenario ever, but at least I don’t think you’ll have to worry about us starting a relationship back up.”

  Her forehead crinkled in concern momentarily before she smoothed the lines. “Good, because the label wouldn’t go for that anyway, not with his reputation and your image. Well, what’s your answer?”

  Hawke’s words pounded at my soul, calling me out and daring me to stand up. You’ll say yes because they want you to. But what if I said it because I wanted to? “What are they willing to give up for me to do this?” I asked.

  “They’re willing to cancel the summer tour.”

  Hallelujah.

  “Can we start with an acoustic series first? Something on a smaller, less processed scale?” I asked.

  “Don’t push it, Sabrina. They’ve told you that you can’t carry an acoustic set. That’s not your brand.”

  “Well, that’s how they found me in the first place, right? Singing on a stage at Duncan with only Hawke on backup.”


  She leaned across the table. “This isn’t high school.” Her exhale was long and drawn out as she sat back down. “Look. I’m not sure you’re really…strong enough to focus on the big picture yet. After all, you’ve barely been cleared by that doctor.”

  She may as well have smacked me. Was she right? Dr. Erickson had told me to take my comeback as slowly as I could—to make sure I had both feet under me before I took off running, and here I was demanding an overnight change to my branding. Maybe it was irresponsible.

  “What if I got them to let you co-write a few songs on the new album?” she offered, her tone the same as it had been when I was nine and wanted a new doll.

  Co-writing a few of my own songs…that was a step in the right direction. Maybe it wasn’t the outright revolution I craved, but it was something. But was it worth working with Hawke?

  What was I willing to pay to get that feeling back?

  The music. Only the music. Not Hawke.

  But putting up with one earned me the other.

  “I’ll do it.”

  My fingers flew over the strings of my Fender, dancing with the melody of the powerful solo. I moved with the instrument, pulling the notes from the guitar as if she already knew the song, as if we were co-conspirators in writing something that had been there all along.

  This one was lonely, the notes saddened with the kind of craving I’d long-since buried. The kind of craving that bordered on insanity, the desperation for deep, sea blue eyes and that laugh that was so rarely heard. Not the fake giggle she was famed for now, but the one that came from her soul.

  I dropped my hands, the guitar’s weight secured by the shoulder strap, and leaned my head back. When the fuck had this song become about her?

  Every song is about her.

  Three and a half years and I was still hung up on the moment she’d walked away, told me that she could never be with a rock star…only to ironically become that very thing.

  What a little hypocrite.

  A beautiful, sexy, enchanting little hypocrite. Seeing her again—not just on TV—had been like a punch to the nuts, shocking me into numbness for that moment, but it ached like hell once it set in.

  And she’d had the nerve to look hurt, like I was the one who’d ended us, ripped a canyon into what had been the only thing I’d ever been sure of.

  The door to the small studio opened and Chad walked in, a barely-dressed beach bunny under each arm, but at least he didn’t look high or tripped out. “You about done? Because Brie is supposed to be here any minute.”

  “And you chose at-home-in-leather chic?” I asked, motioning to the tight leather pants he wore like a second skin.

  “What? I put on a shirt.”

  “Good point,” I said as I put Lily back onto her guitar stand. It was a fitting name for such a graceful neckline. She was definitely the favorite of my collection.

  “Any thoughts on what we should write?” Chad asked.

  “I was thinking something about a money-hungry opportunist with stars in her eyes…and in her bed,” I mused out loud as I walked toward the doors.

  Chad took his arms off the girls. “Brittany, Candy, why don’t you two head up to the hot tub and relax? We need to work a little bit.”

  “Ooh, but we like…really wanted to meet Sabrina Caroline,” the one on the left whined.

  “She doesn’t do people,” I snapped.

  “Oh? But she like…always seems so friendly,” the one on the right chimed in, batting her brown eyes in my direction. On another day maybe I would have taken her up on the way she was openly assessing me. But not when Sabrina was due here any minute.

  Damn, it’s not like you’re together anymore. You could be in full-on sex mode with another woman and she wouldn’t get a say.

  “It’s a defense mechanism,” I explained. “Just give her some space if you run into her.” She hated crowds, large groups, anything that put her on display, which was why watching her first hit Boy with the Green Eyes climb the charts had confused the shit out of me.

  That, and the song had sucked balls. I knew what Sabrina was capable of writing, and that glorified, empty pop piece of shit had not been it.

  “We’ll meet you in a while,” Chad promised, kissing each heavily-made-up cheek.

  They pouted, but did as they were asked. “Bianca’s waiting for you upstairs,” Candy called out as she walked away.

  Great.

  Chad closed the door behind them and leaned against it. “You cool?”

  “I’m cool.”

  He looked anything but convinced. “Just don’t make this any more painful than it’s already going to be.”

  “Me? She’s the one walking into my house, my band, and my life.”

  “She didn’t want to,” he said, his hair moving with his head as he shook it. I knew the longer do was all the rage, but I just couldn’t hang with it.

  “Bullshit. Sabrina has enough clout to do whatever the hell she wants, and she made it pretty clear at Epic that she might not want to do it, but she’s not going to fight it, either.”

  “Right, well when’s the last time you remember Brie doing anything she wanted? In high school she did whatever you wanted, her mom wanted, the teachers wanted. And I know her mom is the one driving that train now.”

  “She’s a big girl. She can stand up for herself.” She’d never been a doormat in our relationship.

  “She did, pretty loudly from what I heard. I’m not sure of all the details, but shit went down at Epic after we left. She didn’t want to do this. They got her with something, but I’m not sure what.”

  My body tensed like I needed to step in front of Brie and protect her. Knock it off, that ship sailed three years ago. “How do you know that?”

  A sly smile spread across his face. “Screwed Brad Scott’s assistant the next day while we were meeting there.”

  “Nice.”

  “You could always do a little revenge lay with her. Get her out of your system.”

  Of course Chad saw sex as the answer to everything.

  “You can unbarricade the door. I’ll play nice with Brie.”

  Unlike yesterday where you were a total dick.

  “You’re not going to wig out?”

  “No. I’m cool.”

  He opened the door and we walked out into the lowest level of my Malibu house. The tiles on this level were cool against my bare feet, one of my favorite features besides the floor to ceiling windows that gave an unparalleled view of the ocean.

  I followed Chad up the stairs to the main level, psyching myself up with every step.

  She was the one who left—sliced my heart open and watched it bleed out while she packed her shit and ran away to New York City. She was the one who should be nervous. I’d moved on, Birds of Prey had blown up big, and getting laid was as easy as crooking my finger.

  So why the hell were my hands all clammy?

  Thank God I still had a few minutes to pull my shit together.

  I nodded to the small party going on in my living room, which was the norm while the guys stayed here between tour dates.

  A spectacular, tan pair of mile-long legs came into view as I turned the corner into my piano room. She was leaned over my grand, her denim miniskirt riding higher up the backs of her thighs the more she stretched on her bare tip toes.

  The need to slide up behind her and pull that incredible ass against me nearly overrode my common sense. Nearly. Because she wasn’t my Brie. She was Sabrina Caroline, and she was here to work, not get felt-up by a guy who couldn’t seem to tell the difference between past and present.

  “You’re here already!” Chad said. “Oh, and look, you brought Heather.”

  “Of course she brought me, you asswipe. Like I was going to let her walk into this Lion’s den without a little backup.” Heather crossed her arms in front of her chest.

  “Hey, we’re perfectly tame little kitties,” Chad answered with a smirk.

  “Like hell you—”

&nbs
p; “Hey,” Sabrina interrupted, nervously tucking a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. She wasn’t all made up like she had been for the interview, or even the meeting yesterday—like the girls in the next room were—and she was all the more beautiful for it. She looked more like my Brie…and that fucked with my head on a level I wasn’t ready for. “Danny was just showing me something he was working on.”

  He might have been our drummer, but he was decent on the ivories, too.

  “Awesome. Hawke, you ready to jump into it?” Chad asked.

  She was barefoot in my house. Like she lived here—like she planned to be comfortable while she ripped me out of the safe space I’d created for myself.

  “Hawke?” Chad prodded me.

  I ripped my hand over my hair and turned around. “I need a damn drink.” My feet carried me to the kitchen on auto-pilot while I tried to get a grip. I opened the refrigerator and pulled out a can of Coors, popping the top and chugging the first few ounces.

  Maybe it would numb me just enough to go back in there.

  “I really didn’t want this to be awkward, especially after what happened at Epic.”

  Her voice cut through the noise in my head, and I knew that I could down the two bottles of tequila in my bar and it wouldn’t make a difference. Nothing would get me drunk enough to deal with Sabrina.

  “Where are your shoes?” I asked, slamming the refrigerator door.

  “I took them off,” she said softly, walking towards me. I concentrated on the little silver tab of the can. “I didn’t want to hurt your hardwood with heels.”

  I laughed, the sound harsh in the relative quiet of my kitchen.

  “What?” she asked, coming close enough for me to catch the scent of her perfume. Damn, she even smelled good.

  I retreated and turned my back on her. “You. You ripped my heart to shreds three years ago, but now you’re worried about my fucking floor.”

  “You don’t have to use that language with me.”

  I abandoned the beer, opting instead to grip my counters. “Yeah, well, didn’t you know? We’re rock stars now, so I can say anything I want and it just makes us more popular.”