Tell Me Why It's Wrong

by B. Celeste

  So she doesn’t bullshit me. Her throat bobs as she replies, “No, I can’t.”

  “Then come on.”

  She doesn’t budge. “Where?”

  I point toward my car, not giving away any emotion when I simply say, “My place, love.”

  4

  Rylee

  This is a bad idea.

  Anxiety creeps into my chest as the famous singer drives past the gate after punching in a code, and down the long, circular driveaway that leads up to the front of his huge house. There’s already a car parked in front of the garage, a shiny, expensive white BMW, and I wonder how many vehicles Garrick has as he parks beside it.

  Taking in the white exterior of the house silently from the passenger seat, I twist my fingers together in my lap and feel my stomach flutter with nerves. I try not to think about what comes next because Garrick has given me no indication of what that may be. The car ride was quiet with only the sounds of passing traffic and city life surrounding us as we drove into the cul-de-sac he lives in.

  I follow the famous singer to the front door after he gives me a few seconds to study the plain walls of the squared mansion-like building and the front yard that consists of mostly pavement and a few strips of bright green grass. There are no plants or trees, only a line of hedges planted in front of the gate to create a sense of privacy from the street. I can see where there must have been either a small tree or fountain in the circular patch of grass around the driveway, but someone must have taken it out. If Grandma Birdie were here, she’d insist on planting a small garden to bring color and life into the otherwise dull space.

  He punches something into the lock pad on the door before pushing it open and gesturing for me to come inside. I stop before the threshold, suddenly regretting not telling him to drop me off at a random hotel. Why did I have to tell him I lived around here? If Moffie was around, she would have reminded me of every single serial killer documentary we watched together that leads to my body being found in a ditch wrapped in a rug or something.

  “You’ve come this far,” he points out, already a few feet ahead of me inside the foyer. His accent goes straight to my chest, making my heart do a little summersault. I understand why girls scream when he purrs into the microphone at concerts, a fact I know from the many, many videos Moffie showed me as soon as Violet Wonders made it big.

  From here, I can see beautiful hardwood floors and bright white walls that match the white-washed exterior. There isn’t any furniture in view, save for the coatrack hanging up on a wall near the door that only has one measly jacket hanging on a hook, and an entrance mat on the floor by the door that’s basic gray color.

  “Can’t say many women have been this hesitant to come home with me,” he muses more to himself than me. “Then again, we don’t usually get that far before things get heavy.”

  I blanch. “Crass, much?”

  He grins, unabashed by his bluntness despite the twisted look I give him. “You don’t seem like the type to offend easily, darling.”

  My cheeks heat over his subtle pet name, but I don’t say anything because he’s not wrong.

  He shrugs my silence off. “Are you going to come in? We won’t be alone. I have a mongrel that I house, feed, and tend to whenever he needs it. Don’t worry, he’s house trained. Well, for the most part.”

  How did I not know that Garrick Matthews has a dog? “I’m surprised people don’t know that you have a pet. The public would eat that kind of stuff up.”

  Garrick snickers, gesturing for me to come in again. This time, I do, mostly because I want to see his dog. I had a Chow Chow growing up that passed away the year after I moved, and my parents never got another dog.

  Garrick closes the door behind me and leads me further into the home where the foyer opens to a huge open floorplan that has a den, living room, and dining room all spaced out. My eyes are greeted by pops of purples, yellows, and grays, all bright and welcoming, and I can’t help but gape at the nice furniture—all matching in color, style, and size—surprised at how well the décor makes the place feel so…lived in.

  It’s not too cluttered or too spacious, making it much homier than I would have imagined a bachelor like the lead singer in front of me would live in, especially considering the outside looks nothing like the inside. “He’s getting up there in age. Twenty-one,” he adds, referring to his pet. “Could benefit from a good bath and haircut. But I love him nonetheless.”

  A startled noise escapes my throat when another guy walks into the room with a bowl of something in his hands, surprise on his face when he sees us. One of my hands fly over my fast-beating heart as he says, “I didn’t think you’d be home this early.”

  “Speak of the devil,” Garrick chuckles, winking at me and gesturing toward the guy I suddenly recognize as his sibling. He doesn’t get seen in the media too often, especially not with his famous brother, but he made a splash over an interview he gave a year or so ago about an old fling he had that didn’t end well for him. “This is Chase, my little brother.”

  Blinking slowly, I turn to Garrick from the curly-haired boy in front of us. “The mongrel you were referring to is your sibling?”

  Disappointment settles in.

  Said brother scowls. “Why the fuck are you always referring to me as a dog?”

  That makes the man who brought me home laugh, his shoulders shaking as his brother glares in his direction. “Because it’s not far off from the truth. I thought you had a date tonight.”

  Chase looks away. “It ended early.”

  “It ended early, or you didn’t go?”

  I feel awkward standing here, but I don’t know where to go or what to do.

  “I’m not going to bail on someone, jackass. That’s your style, not mine. It just didn’t go well, okay?” The defensiveness in Chase’s tone makes me shrink back a little, but not as much as when his eyes snap to me inquisitively. “Who is this? If you want some privacy I’ll head to my room or go somewhere else. Just quit making everyone think I’m your damn pet.”

  A blush creeps over my cheeks at the implication left wide open and I don’t know how to explain my being there. “Oh, I’m not…we’re…er…”

  The youngest Matthews rolls his eyes. “I doubt my brother invited you over to have tea and crumpets, so you don’t have to play dumb.”

  “First off,” Garrick refutes in a scolding tone, “I’m not British, so screw off. Secondly, Mum taught us how to respect women, so I suggest you remember that right about now.”

  His brother’s cheeks color. “Sorry,” he murmurs, not making eye contact with me. “And I know for damn sure you drink that nasty herbal shit before bed every night, so don’t act like you don’t have a tea obsession.”

  As he walks away, Garrick calls out, “It’s good for my throat!”

  When it’s just the two of us, he turns to me and rolls his eyes. “Brothers, am I right?”

  I shrug awkwardly. “I’m an only child.”

  “Ah.” His head cocks to the side. “Is that why you were living in your car? No protective brother or sister to offer you their home?”

  My heart plummets into the bottom of my stomach. Unable to confirm or deny his allegation, I gape as he nods once.

  “Thought so.” He sighs heavily, scratching at his shaven jawline. “You can stay here tonight until you figure out what to do.”

  “I’m not g—”

  “I have plenty of spare bedrooms,” he cuts me off, pointing toward the stairs. “And they all have their own bathroom so no one would bother you.”

  My lips part, but I can’t force the words out. They’re tangled in my mouth, twisted around my tongue as I stare at the singer worth millions. Why would he offer me this?

  I’m not surprised that the first words I blurt are, “I could be a murderer!”

  He snorts as warmth licks my skin over the sudden outburst. “Sure, you could be. But I doubt it. Those eyes…” His narrow as he studies the two orbs I’ve always been self-con
scious of. People in school used to pick on me over the two different colors. “Those eyes are soulful. I’ve seen them before, haven’t I?”

  My heart thuds, thuds, thuds in my chest at the question I hoped he wouldn’t ask. Our interaction was minimal the last time we saw each other. It was a few minutes at best before Zayne Gray pulled my attention away. Back then, my hair was dyed a light brown, I wore a ton of makeup I don’t even own anymore, and my clothes wrapped around my body like a Christmas gift yet to be opened. It doesn’t surprise me he doesn’t recognize me.

  Because I’m a terrible liar, I choose to divert the conversation instead of giving him any real answer. “There’s no way I’m going to stay here. You’re…you. And I hate being a burden even if you have a hundred rooms to sleep in.”

  Amusement flickers in his baby blue eyes. “I don’t have a hundred rooms here, and you’d only be a burden if you fight me on this. I had to watch my mother struggle for a long time before she got on her own two feet. If I can help you in any way, I want to.”

  I’ve always been bad at accepting help. It used to bother Mom and Dad whenever I’d turn down their assistance, irritate them that I’d always let my pride get in the way of reason. But there were certain things I couldn’t do on my own, and I’d have to compromise. Now is no different, I suppose.

  “One night,” I agree quietly. It doesn’t sit well with me based on the staticky feeling shooting down my neck in warning, but what else was I going to do? A cab ride back to the city would cost a pretty penny and then there’d be room charges if I even found a hotel last minute.

  When a grin stretches across his face, I hold my breath. He takes a step closer to me and reaches out to gently brush a piece of fallen hair out of my face and behind my ear, his fingertips leaving a scorching trail along my skin that makes me shutter a breath. “We could make the night interesting. Get rid of that frown.”

  Holy shit.

  In the back of my mind, I anticipated this, knew a guy like him—someone who could be another Hemsworth brother with his tussled blond hair and smoldering blue eyes—would try something. Between the sexy accent, the way he towers over my small five-foot-four frame, and how he purrs his words while giving me the look, I’m two seconds from becoming a puddle.

  But that isn’t me, even if I really, really want it to be. So, I take a large step back once I control my drumming heartbeat. I’d like to think my reaction is out of shock, not arousal, but not even I’m immune to Garrick Matthews’ good looks and charm when it’s pointed directly at me as it is now. “I don’t do random hookups. Been there, done that. They’re not for me. And if that’s the payment you expect for letting me—”

  “Whoa, hold on.” He quickly shakes his head, his hair gelled into slight curls tumbling over his forehead from the quick motion. “I’m only teasing, love. I mean if you were game then I’d show you my bedroom in a heartbeat. But I’m not saying I expect it.”

  It’s hard to swallow as I wrap my arms around myself. “I shouldn’t have come here.” I eye the door, debating my options.

  “Second floor, third door on the left.”

  His voice pulls my attention back to him, his genuine eyes somehow calming my nerves. “It’s the spare bedroom you can have tonight. Chase and I don’t have rooms near there, so it’ll be all yours. No strings. Just somewhere to crash. We’ll figure things out in the morning.”

  “We?” I can’t help but ask.

  One shoulder lifts. “Or you. But I know where your car is, so you might need my help for a little while longer. Until then…” His gaze drifts to the staircase.

  To show he’s serious, he steps away from me. His hands go to his pockets, his stance relaxed, and that makes mine mirror it. He’s nothing like the tabloids have said if the few moments I’ve been around him are any indication.

  Then again, I knew that from before. From the things Zayne had told me about his best friend.

  My voice is barely audible when I say, “I appreciate this. Thank you.”

  His head bobs. “Goodnight, Rylee.”

  “Goodnight.” I don’t say his name because I feel like a liar—a fraud. I don’t deserve to be on a first-name basis with Garrick Matthews. Especially not when he’s being this kind to a stranger.

  Almost stranger, I remind myself.

  I wake up after a restless night’s sleep and drag myself to the bathroom despite not wanting to leave the big, fluffy four-poster bed. Everything in this room is immaculate—wide, open space painted a light gray with French country stylings that seem so over the top yet perfect somehow.

  There are details that show the effort put into making this place his own, and it makes me want to study each little piece I passed on my way to the bedroom last night with more observation to figure out who he is—the pictures of him and his family, awards on the shelves in the living room, and all the decorations that must mean something to him. Even the paintings on the wall in this room seem to have a point, something beyond matching the aesthetic. They’re peaceful, flowers and country sides, and blue skies.

  I’m guilty of judging a book by its cover, though I’ve been schooled once or twice during my time working for the L.A. Free Press. In the back of my mind, I know the celebrities that we print stories on are human beings. They just have more than the average person. Yet, I always have to remind myself that it’s their quality that people are always so interested in. Like if they’re a decent human or not, what scandal they’re involved in, who they’re dating or cheating on, and if there’s something groundbreaking about their character.

  More times than not, I realize that the people who have the most care the least because they think their value is all that matters in life. But one of my mother’s favorite quotes that she got from some old-time Christian preacher is that ‘the real measure of our wealth is how much we’d be worth if we lost it all.’ Some of the stories I’ve broken for the free press didn’t make me feel bad once I realized that monetary values were all these people cared about, because I wanted to see who they’d be without their fame shielding them.

  But with Garrick…I can see that he’s different, especially when he talks about his mother. His face softens along with his words. I’ve done my research on his entire family. I know he moved to California from Australia when he was younger, his mother worked in some plastic surgery ward in Hollywood’s finest hospital, and his little brother was adopted when Garrick was eleven. Family matters to him and it always has because they had to struggle before he got a shot at making something of himself and provide for them.

  Washing my hands after doing my morning business, I crawl back onto the bed and look around the room. There are beautiful paintings hanging on the wall, plants in the corners that I’m not certain are real, and a large set of windows covered by sheer white curtains bathing the room in natural early morning light.

  I reach for my phone that rests on the nightstand and notice a few strings of texts from my parents and best friend. Responding to them so they know I’m not dead, I groan when my father calls immediately after my message to them is delivered.

  “Hi, Dad.” My voice is still groggy as I curl under the blankets.

  “Hey, kiddo,” he greets. His voice is gravelly as always, making me smile in comfort despite being surrounded in luxury. “You were supposed to call last night. Your mother was worried thinking something happened.”

  Shit. I’d told him my car was making a weird noise and that I needed to get it taken care of. Dad used to be a mechanic, so he kept asking me what sort of sounds it was making, and then promptly laughed when I tried to mimic the problem. I think his exact words were, “What sound is that? A dying whale?”

  The soft blanket warms up my cold body as I snuggle in. “Sorry. Don’t worry about the car, it’s getting taken care of. I had kind of a crazy night, but everything is fine.”

  “What’s wrong with the car?” he asks, something I should have expected.

  I bite my lip. “Er…”

&nbs
p; The disapproving grunt he lets out makes me frown. “Ry, how many times have I told you to get the details from the mechanic? They can overcharge and take advantage of—”

  “My friend is handling it,” I blurt, wincing at the defensiveness of my tone.

  In the background, I hear Mom say, “You have a friend?”

  I drop my head back trying not to be offended by the surprise in her tone. She knows how much I love Moffie, but we don’t live in the same state anymore so we’re not as close as we used to be. Tiffany and I were situational friends, hanging out when we were both at our old apartment, but we never did much outside of it together. So, I guess Mom’s shock is justified.

  But still. “Yes, Mom. I have friends.”

  Dad chimes back in. “Well, I’m glad you have someone looking out for you.”

  The curiosity is too much for my mother though. “Is this a girl friend or a boy friend?”

  Thankfully, my phone alarm goes off indicating that it’s time to take my medicine. Saved by the alarm, I think to myself. “I have to go take my meds, but I’ll keep you updated on the car. No need to worry! Love you!”

  I barely get a chance to hear the words back from them before hanging up and blowing out a breath of relief. Flipping onto my back, I groan and stretch over the side of the bed where my bag is resting on the floor.

  My joints pop and crack as I dig through my bag and find what I need, prepping my syringe when I hear a knock on the door followed by Garrick’s voice. “You up, Rylee? I thought I heard you talking, so I wanted to let you know that I just got a call from—”

  The door opens before I can respond, and his eyes instantly drop to the needle in my hand. Part of my shirt is up where I’m about to inject into my lower abdomen, but I pause when I see something dark shadow over his face.

  His fingers grip the doorknob as he glares at me perched cross-legged on the mattress. “Did you bring fucking drugs into my house? After I went out of my way to help you?”