Exquisitely Broken (A Sin City Tale Book 1)

by M. Jay Granberry

  @igottabe: bitch mode! @therealSinclair hostile much?!

  @the1derful1: yaaaaas girl #slapahoe

  @nativerider: OMG! You don’t deserve him, he’s hot AF

  @BIGwillthethrill: You can slap me anytime. #slapthishoe

  @economusik: @TheRealSinclair we see you girl. And the cops did too. #bougiebitch #wherethemhandcuffs

  As I’m making my way through the feed, the tweets keep coming in. Most of which are stories about how I regularly walk around slapping people, or how this was just another example of my diva ways. All things that are untrue. I know I shouldn’t care. Hell, I’m pissed that I do care, but at the end of the day, I’m a person with feelings and the whole gambit of emotions.

  So what? I blew up at an ex. Shit happens, right? Says every celebrity ever, but I know better than this. I’m under a magnifying glass. Not just Sin the musician, but Sin the person as well. It’s been getting more intense because of how well the music is doing. I should’ve walked away last night instead of lashing out in anger. But something about his stupid face just begged to be hit.

  I blow out a breath and close the app, sliding the phone facedown on the nightstand.

  An elegant retro phone sitting on the marble surface rings loud and shrill in the silence of the room. Good grief that’s loud. I sit up snatching the thing off the hook.

  “Hello”

  “Hi, Ms. James. My name is Jeanine Williams. I’m the director of media relations at The Hotel. Mr. Rappaport asked me to reach out to you in reference the incident last night.” A slight English accent makes her voice sound cool instead of cold.

  “Oh, okay. I have my own pr—”

  “As a contracted employee of The Hotel, it is in the interest of all persons involved that we launch a united media response,” Jeanine says, cutting me off before I could finish that thought. “I have already been in contact a…” There is a long pause and the sound of papers shuffling in the background. “Venetria McCullough. We’re both in agreement that the best way to approach this incident is head on. Ms. McCullough will be arriving on the first possible flight. In the meantime I have scheduled multiple interviews today for yourself and Mr. Johnson. There will be a mixture of local and national news outlets present, but I’m trying to keep the groups limited around six to eight reporters at a time.”

  Once again there is a long pause and the sound of papers in the background. She must have put her hand over the speaker because her voice becomes muffled. “Oy… I have no time for you and your numpty friend. Out with the lot of you.”

  “If you’ve talked to Ven, then there’s no way you think you’re running anything with regard to dealing with my response to the media, and there is no way in hell I’m doing an interview with Jake,” I blurt.

  “Apologies, Ms. James. What was that?” Her voice dropped a couple of degrees. I feel the frost through the phone.

  “I said there is no way in hell I’m doing one interview, let alone multiple interviews, with Jake.”

  “That’s completely up to you, but let’s break this down, shall we? In the last seven hours, there has been a purge of information regarding you and Mr. Johnson’s relationship. Your fans, yours Ms. James, have done a surprisingly good job of putting all the pieces together. The inspiration for your album is no longer conjecture. The entire world knows who he is and what he was to you.

  “They have somehow unearthed pictures of the two of you from ten years ago up to what, I assume, is a date close to your breakup. According to your team, there are pictures of a check written to you by his mother for a large some. That one really started trending. The comparisons to Romeo and Juliet are amusing.”

  Did she just say amusing?

  “Stop!” I say a breath below a shout. “I’m calling my own publicist.” I slam the receiver down with shaking hands and immediately call Ven from my cell. I don’t care that Jeanine Whoever The Hell Works For The Hotel, her job is not to handle me. I have my own handlers, and not one of them would ever talk to me like a wayward child that needs direction. It’s essential I strategize with my team, people that have me and my band’s image in mind before I deal with a representative of the company that can, in theory, hang me out as the sacrificial lamb. I don’t know what Jake has at stake, but I have to assume his needs align with the company and mine, at this point. don’t.

  I press the number nine and the screen immediately lights up with a picture of Ven and I. The word calling flashes in time with the ringing. She picks up on the fifth ring, sounding out of breath.

  “Hello, Sin?” I hear the noise of traffic in the background.

  “Yeah.”

  “What in the hell happened? I expect this shit from Dan, but you?” I accept the tongue-lashing I knew I had coming. She lets out an ear-piercing whistle, and there is a pause before I hear her giving directs to the airport.

  “I said keep your head down. I said get the easy money. What about any of this says easy?”

  “I know. But, Ven, listen I got a call from—”

  “If you’re about to say Jeanine Williams, I’ve already spoken to her.”

  “She’s rude as hell.”

  “Maybe a little chilly, but I’m guessing you haven’t seen the gossip blogs and Twitter yet. It’s bad, Sin. The slap is just the tip of the iceberg. Did his family actually try to pay you off?

  I squeeze my eyes so tight that white lights pop behind my lids, and I let out a long slow breath. “Yeah, but what does that have to do with anything that happened yesterday?”

  “It spins the story, changes the motive. Up until this point, you’ve been squeaky clean. Celebrity news outlets would like nothing more than to dirty you up. And the small-town girl who is actually from Pahrump instead of Las Vegas, whose mother OD’d while working in a brothel, who has no father listed on her birth certificate, and was possibly paid off by her ex-boyfriend’s family to leave him alone? That girl’s story is gold.”

  I’ve been waiting for this day. The day when the façade shattered and every nasty thing that ever happened in my life comes to light.

  “What do we do?”

  Ven lets out a long sigh. “First and foremost, you play nice with the cuntress from The Hotel. Although she be cunty, she be good.” She chuckles. “Next, keep your fucking head down. If you surrounded yourself with an entourage like every other pop star, this wouldn’t be a problem. There’d be someone there besides two bodyguards.”

  “Keanu Reeves and Lady Gaga are both way more famous than me, and neither one of them travel with an entourage.”

  “They live in New York, totally different. New Yorkers by definition are rude and don’t have time for anything, including celebrity.”

  “You know you’re from New York, right?”

  “Exactly. That’s why I can speak on it. It would be so much easier if you had an actual physical person there with you. I don’t think you fully grasp how nasty this thing can get.”

  “Why? Because I was born on the other side of a mountain? Or is it because Adam and I hit the streets of Vegas at seventeen and once they turned eighteen Miles and Dan moved up as well? So what, I don’t know my father’s name, and I never lied about my mother being dead.”

  “The devil is in the details, Sin. Celebrities, meaning you, like to pretend like you’re still the same person”

  “I am still the same person.”

  “To a certain degree, you are. But fame changes everything. Everyday people do not have a twenty-four, seven two-man security detail or a stalker that thinks he knows the inner workings of their soul.”

  “You made your point, Ven.”

  “I’m not trying to make a point, Sinclair. I’m trying to prepare you for the storm that’s brewing when, up until this point, you’ve had nothing but sunny skies. You need to do these interviews, and you need to do them with Jake.”

  “I can’t do this.”

  “You can and you will. That slap damaged The Hotel’s brand, and you need to help repair it. Also, Jake has
been catapulted into the spotlight because of his past with you. He’s not going away. Questions about him aren’t going away. You made him the story. The two of you need to show a united front and squelch the more outlandish rumors.”

  She continues to talk about the dos and don’ts of the interviews for a couple of minutes, and when she disconnects, I bite the bullet and dial the number she gave me for Jeanine.

  “Jeanine Williams,” says a brittle voice through the speaker.

  “Hi, Jeanine. It’s Sincl—”

  “No need to reintroduce yourself. I’m well aware to whom I am speaking. Now, where were we?” Just that quickly, she’s back in business mode. “I have housekeeping en route to your villa now. We will do the press release from that location. Venetria and I both believe it will be a nice touch. It welcomes them into your world, showing that you have nothing to hide. I will be round in approximately one hour to prep for the interviews. Do you have a stylist?”

  It took me a minute to realize she’s asking me a question.

  “Of course, but I normally do my own.”

  “How quaint. It’s up to you if you want to handle your styling. All I ask is that you stay away from anything overtly sexual. I’m looking for the hometown girl that made good, someone that people can relate to, get behind. No big sunglasses. No drug addict chic. No, I’m a big rock star glitter, sparkles, or jangles.”

  My anger threatens to boil to the surface and spill all over this woman. It’s like she lacks the filter of common human decency. I’m sure she’s good at her job, but being good at her job doesn’t give her license to keep coming for me. If she keeps it up, I promise she won’t like what she finds. I inhale deeply through my nose and exhale in a long steady stream. Play nice with the cuntress. Play nice with the cuntress. I can do this. I can absolutely play nice with this fucking cuntress.

  “I’m sorry, Jeanine, was it? I’m not—”

  “Oh and Ms. James, I will dig us out of this bloody mess. I’ve dealt with worse, and I look forward to meeting you.” She hangs up the phone without saying good-bye

  Exactly one hour later, three sharp knocks vibrate my door. I open the door to find an elegantly dressed, tall, slender woman with a short pixie haircut and bright red glasses perched on her nose. She doesn’t bother to look up from her phone as she breezes by me through the doorway. The door automatically snaps shut when I let go of the handle. Her silence is almost as disconcerting as the phone call. After several minutes, she looks up from her phone, finally looking at me.

  “Good afternoon, Ms. James” She holds out a hand. “Jeanine Williams, director of media relations for The Hotel.”

  “Sinclair.” I take her hand in mine and give it a gentle squeeze. “It’s nice to meet you. Thank you for your assistance.”

  She drops my hand and with a nod walks around me, one finger pressed against her lips in concentration, appraising me like a piece of jewelry. I keep turning in an attempt to maintain eye contact. “Are you wearing makeup? Your skin is flawless. Your color is quite pretty, actually. Not at all smoke and mirrors like so many celebrities.”

  “Um… Thank you. I guess. And no, I’m not wearing makeup yet.”

  “So, let me tell you what I know, and you correct anything that rings untrue.” She drums her perfectly manicured nails on her slender hips.

  “I’ve spoken with Mr. Johnson, and he has given me a brief rundown. You met in college. Blah, blah, blah”—she flits her hand back and forth—“began to date. Blah, blah, blah. One of you traveled, someone cheated, and the two of you broke up. You released an album titled Exquisitely Broken in which you detailed said breakup. You and Mr. Johnson see each again after a few years and boom, media catastrophe.” She summed up my life in three sentences. Ouch.

  “That’s the gist.” I turn my head toward the wall and count to ten. Play nice. That’s what Ven said.

  “I’m not big on Indie rock, but your speaking voice is lovely. All that rasp makes you sound like a young Kathleen Turner.”

  “Who?”

  “She was a popular actress in the eighties. Never mind, I digress. You, I can work with, and the camera loves you. I have a complete media kit from Venetria—that one is a bit of a mother hen—but the pictures really don’t have the same impact of seeing you in person.”

  There is another knock on the door, and Jeanine moves quickly to open it. Jake stands there. His eyes are hidden behind dark sunglasses, and even though I don’t want to, even though a spike of adrenalin makes my stomach queasy and my hands tremble, I can’t look away. He still affects me. Hits me in a place that is unsophisticated and raw. Even after four years of harboring hurt feelings, giving voice to his betrayal and physically lashing out, I’m surprised to feel our natural chemistry. To feel his gaze on me too.

  NOW

  Sinclair

  “Mr. Johnson, I thought I specifically stated no wannabe rock star craziness. Take the glasses off. Now.”

  Jake lets out a long sigh but removes the glasses. His eyes immediately find mine. At first, all I see is the color. The multicolored threads that give his irises a chameleon factor that are still as mesmerizing as I remember, but as I keep looking, I see him. Not some version of him. Not the caricature that I’ve made him, but him. The man with a heavy heart and a messy soul. The man who recklessly threw away everything, and I can’t seem to summon the anger that has fortified me for years.

  “Whew, the air is so tense between the two of you. I can practically see the emotion.” We both turn to Jeanine. I hadn’t noticed she’d taken a seat on the sofa or her head bouncing back and forth between Jake and me as if watching a tennis match.

  “Cut the cute shit, Jeanine,” Jake grumbled.

  “Oh, Mr. Johnson, rest assured there is nothing at all cute about this situation. Let’s strip it down to the brass tacks, shall we?” She pushes up off the couch and stands between us. “I have a job to do. Seeing the two of you, together in the same room, I know my job undoubtedly got that much harder.”

  The condescending tone of her voice is beginning to shred my tolerance.

  “I’ve been with the two of you for less than a minute, and I know there’s a story here. There is not a journalist alive worth their salt that will stop before they get pay dirt on both of you. So, we have to create a narrative.”

  Once again, she placed a blood red nail against her lips. Her gaze is distant as she works the problem out in her head. After a couple of minutes, she snaps her fingers, and I flinch at the sound. Jake rolls his eyes.

  “The first and most simple explanation is reconciliation. We pretend the two of you are attempting to work out the kinks in your relationship. We ask for privacy to do that,” Jeanine says.

  “What’s the second option?” I ask, vigorously shaking my head like the motion alone will present a better option.

  “Ms. James, the second option is the truth. We go into the gritty details of your separation from Mr. Johnson. We say that you slapped him after all these years because he cheated on you forever ago. That you still haven’t worked out your issues after what can only be called a therapeutic album, and let’s not forget all the men you’ve been linked with since the breakup.”

  “What do you mean all the men I’ve been linked with? I haven’t dated anyone since him.” My throat is aching with a barely contained desire to howl like a wounded animal. Seriously, what is happening right now? One day back in this city. One day and everything goes to crap.

  “Well, now, Ms. James, Google says differently. I don’t know or follow you, and even I’m aware of the rumors linking you to Mr. Beckham. And who said twenty-four-hour news cycles are factual? Conjecture and hypothesis are all that’s needed for a reputable station to run the story. No one will believe someone that sounds like you or looks like you, for that matter, has been single, rejected, and pining away for one man the last four years. It’s not what you know, it’s what you can prove.”

  “I haven’t been rejected or pining away. I’ve been worki
ng. My last two albums went platinum.” My voice shakes. I can’t with this whole situation.

  “Ms. James—” she starts, serving me a frigid look of bored indifference.

  “For the love of God, please stop calling me Ms. James! It’s Sinclair. Plain and simple. Nothing complicated about it.”

  Jeanine takes a seat on the sofa, crossing her legs with cool sophistication. She tilts her head, resting her chin on the curved fingers of her right hand, and for a long uncomfortable minute, she doesn’t utter a sound. She studies me. Her eyes periodically leaving me to bounce to Jake before inevitably returning to my face.

  “Sin-clair.” She stresses both syllables of my name in her accented English. “That’s where you are wrong. This is complicated, and you made it ten times worse by behaving like an ill-mannered child.”

  She’s purposefully trying to push every button I have, every single one. “You know what? You can take your condescending bullshit and stick—”

  “Jeanine, can you give us a minute.” Jakes cuts my tirade short. I want nothing more than to use her as a target and take out the last several minutes of frustration by ripping her to shreds. She’s been doing it to me all morning.

  He grabs my elbow and leads me into the bedroom. The moment we step over the threshold, he lets my arm go and closes the door softly behind him. He leans his tall frame against the wooden surface, taking me in, his eyes hitting on different points in the room before roving my face, briefly meeting my eyes only to skitter away.

  “You look different,” Jake says.

  I back away a few feet and sit on the edge of the bed, unsure how to act under his scrutiny.

  “Good. But… different than I remember,” he continues.

  “I can believe that. You haven’t seen me in four years.” His eyes flit back to mine before dropping away again. “Everyone on the planet has seen you, Sin.”

  “True enough. I’ve gained some weight. Adam finally convinced me that cheese is like manna from heaven. Maybe that’s it?” Where his gaze had been everywhere, but on me, his eyes finally find mine. He arches one of his brows.