Indiscreet (The Discreet Duet Book 2)

by Nicole French

  Will sprinting through the forest.

  A mob of cameras coming for him, and then for me too.

  The breaking news that Fitz Baker, the actor who had disappeared during a boat wreck off the coast of Maine four years before, had resurfaced in my backyard. And proceeded to make me fall hopelessly in love with him without once telling me who he actually was.

  Will Baker. Fitz Baker. I didn’t know which one was real. And so I’d left Newman Lake again, fled back to New York, a place I never thought would be a refuge, but the only other place in the world I had people to help me. Out of the frying pan and into the fire. There didn’t seem to be any in-between for me. Not anymore.

  “I don’t know, Mama,” I mumbled. “We don’t know what’s going to happen with Theo since he showed up at the lake. I should probably stay a little while longer until I know the dates of the hearing and everything.”

  That was a lie. I wasn’t even sure I’d seen Theo at the bottom of the hill that day, although since getting out of jail, he had been texting me again. My lawyer had filed some kind of charge alleging that he had broken the terms of his parole by contacting me…but I certainly didn’t need to be there to tell that to the judge.

  “Oh…well, okay then,” Mama said. “But you are coming back, right? Everyone’s been asking about you. Barb, Linda, Lucas…”

  I nodded, even though she couldn’t see me. I could imagine the faces of the neighbors and friends. People who were salivating over the gossip, though there were a few who genuinely cared about me too.

  “Sure,” I said softly. I wished I meant it.

  There was a long pause on the other end of the line. Ice clinked in the background. Good lord, it was only noon, and she’d already started. I didn’t know why I was surprised.

  After we said goodbye, I set my phone on the coffee table and sighed. I hated that I’d left my mother, who was struggling with a disease that only seemed to get worse the older she got. It didn’t matter how many times people told me I couldn’t cure her alcoholism. I’d never stop feeling guilty that I hadn’t intervened more.

  Right now, I couldn’t bring myself to go back to that either. Everywhere was painful. Here. There. Because he’s gone, a little voice said.

  And what did that matter now? When I didn’t even know who he really was?

  Without thinking too much about it, I reached over to the end of the couch where I’d been sleeping for the last ten days, took my favorite guitar out of its case, and started picking a melody that was in my head. The action felt good. Familiar. The strings bit a little at my uncalloused skin. It had been too long since I’d played consistently. But I went with it, singing softly to myself.

  The things we used to say, like I

  Won’t stop, no one loves you like I do…

  Did they all justify

  The heartache and these tears I cried for you…

  Can’t tell so I might as well just

  Feel the way I do…

  Gonna make my way back to lonesome without you.

  “What the hell is that?”

  I looked up to find Calliope, my best friend and former manager, standing in the doorway of her bedroom with a look of shock. She fluffed the mass of tight black curls bouncing in all directions around her head, then popped her hip and gave me a very businesslike stare, as if she wasn’t currently dressed like Cardi B in rainbow-striped pants and a crop top that showed off her enviable abs. Then again, I supposed, her outfit could count as business professional considering she managed crazy-looking musicians for a living.

  Cal gestured toward the guitar, and the chunky gold bangles on her wrist jangled. “Is that new?”

  I shrugged as I stowed the instrument. “Something I had in my head.”

  Cal quirked her brow. “It’s good. Really good. We should get that down. Did you bring your recording equipment with you?”

  I shook my head. “Of course not. I packed and was out of there in fifteen minutes. Besides, it’s rough still. I only have the chorus, maybe one verse.”

  Callie pressed her lips together, like she was trying to decide if I was lying or not. “Well, it’s good,” she repeated, then came to sit next to me. “I didn’t know you were writing again, babe.”

  “I’m not.”

  It was another lie, and by the look on my friend’s face, she knew it, too. I didn’t have to tell her that the second I’d driven across the Washington border, it was like a faucet had been turned on after more than a year of running dry. More than once on the four-day trek back to New York, I’d stopped on the side of the road, perched awkwardly on the hood of my Passat or dangled from the back seat, and picked melodies into my cell phone while passersby honked.

  It was funny. In the past, heartbreak had never been a good catalyst for songwriting. Maybe later––months or even years later––but I hadn’t written anything in over a year. Not since the last song I wrote after Theo’s verdict was handed down. But right now I had a notebook full of new lyrics in my purse that I’d been writing in almost daily. I couldn’t stop.

  “Mmm-hmm,” Calliope replied as she swiped through her phone. “When do I get to hear the rest, though? You put that on a demo, and I bet I could get another showcase together. People are asking about you again since your face was in the papers. We might as well get something out of this circus, don’t you think?”

  I pulled my knees to my chest and laid my head on top of them. “We talked about this, Cal. New York doesn’t want me. Not like that.”

  Calliope rolled her eyes. “Is that why you lied to your mom, then? Because you think New York doesn’t want you?”

  I slumped back on the couch and sighed. “I just don’t want to go back right away. It’s fine.”

  “Baby girl, it’s never been fine.” Callie patted my knee. “I was willing to deal with this whole Queen of Denial crap you’ve got going on because you’re my girl and all. But, babe, it’s been almost two weeks. Your mama said several days ago that the press disappeared after Will”—she broke off when she caught my glare—“sorry, Dickhead was seen at Teterboro. It’s not that I don’t want you in my spot, but, babe, you’ve got to make some decisions. Tell him off. Take him back. Pick up that guitar. Start playing. Get a job. Go home. I don’t know, kid, but you have to do something.”

  I stared despondently at the worn copy of US Weekly sitting on the coffee table. The edges were wrinkled from being handled too much. I’d actually bought three copies, but after flipping through the other two to the point of tearing the thin pages, this was all that was left. Okay, so one I actually tore up on purpose. Maybe you would too if you saw pictures of the man you loved plastered with a different name. Pictures from before, when he had his arm around a beautiful actress they said was once his fiancée. Pictures from now, from a night when you were still in love—pictures that your “friend” sold to buy herself a new Porsche and a trip to Maui.

  Okay, that’s a lie. Lindsay, that bitchy little she-devil from Newman Lake, wasn’t ever my friend.

  “I’m going to throw that thing out.”

  Callie reached over to take the magazine, but I sprang to life, swiping it out of her reach.

  “Hey!” I hugged it to my chest.

  Calliope’s entire body dripped irritation. “Girl. This is pa-the-tic. Stop staring at that rag like he’s going to jump out of it and carry you off into the damn sunset. When are you going to admit that you’re staying in the city because you’re waiting for him to come find you?”

  I scowled. “That is not what I’m doing.”

  “The hell it’s not. You’ve been moping around my apartment for ten damn days, playing this passive-aggressive game of hard-to-get. You wouldn’t let me reach out to his agent—and I would love to have an excuse to call Benny Amaya, by the way, in case you care at all about your own friend’s career—but you show absolutely no interest in doing anything else productive. Maggie, seriously, it is time to get the hell off your ass!”

  I didn’t respond.
Calliope waited silently, now that she was done spouting. This was the girl who pulled me out of my shell in college, who sat in the back of my first New York open mic, who, once she graduated and became my manager for real, painstakingly arranged every show, every gig, every opportunity I’ve ever had. She believed in me for a long time, and for that reason, her disappointment stung worse than most.

  Slowly, I set the magazine back on the table. Calliope immediately snatched it away.

  I missed him. Of course I missed him. You don’t go from opening up your entire soul to someone to acting like they don’t exist without a little heartache. Will had carved a space for himself inside me, and now it was empty. The void hurt. It hurt badly.

  “I still don’t get it,” Callie said, looking at the cover as she sat down beside me. “How could you have not known who he was?”

  I sighed. “I don’t know, Cal. I just didn’t.”

  I’d been asking myself that for the last two weeks. It was the same question everyone asked me. Mama, Lucas, the Forsters, and any number of random people who had recently “found” my number and thought that now was the perfect time to rekindle our acquaintance. How couldn’t I have known?

  It was a combination of things, I guessed. I hadn’t exactly been living under a rock, but when “Fitz Baker” was at the height of his fame, I had been interested in music and not much else. I was a poor artist coming out of school, waitressing and playing guitar and singing while I shared a two-bedroom apartment with sometimes four other people. Every penny I had went into living in this city and into my equipment. For several years, I didn’t even have a cell phone beyond a prepaid flip phone—that’s how poor I was. My life was music and survival…and not much else.

  It was the polar opposite of the kind of life Will had once had. His fame was the kind that had probably made him so ubiquitous, he would have been easy for me to ignore. I never looked at the magazines in the checkout counter. I never went to the movies. But it had taken exactly ten minutes of scrolling through Google to make me sick with how…everywhere he had been.

  Emmy and Golden Globe winner.

  Oscar nominee.

  Sexiest man alive.

  Fiancé.

  The last one hurt the most.

  The tabloids and various gossip sites said it was understandable how other people missed it when they saw him now. To start with, Will had obviously gone to great lengths to conceal his face, with the long, unruly hair and the beard that reached his chest. He trimmed both back in the weeks that followed—mostly by my request. I couldn’t help feeling a little guilty—my desire to see him, really see him, may have been his undoing.

  But it wasn’t only that. When you looked at the before and after pictures that were featured in almost every article and post about his sudden reappearance—usually his “Sexiest Man Alive” cover next to the candid snapshot of the two of us taken just days before the news broke—you saw obvious differences that had to do with maturity. He wasn’t quite twenty-five when he had crashed his boat off the coast of Maine and disappeared, presumed dead. Back then, his body was much thinner, lankier even, and his face still had traces of adolescence skating over the razor-sharp cheeks and nose. Four years of swimming, lifting, and the basic labor it takes to maintain a rustic property like his house on the lake had turned Will into a lean, but fully developed column of muscle. He wasn’t recognized because until you really looked hard enough, you wouldn’t have been able to tell who exactly he was.

  So most people would never have guessed. Not until he trimmed almost his entire beard and bared his face to the world. For me.

  And therein lay the rub. Because I wasn’t just “anyone” who hadn’t recognized him. I was the one who had “penetrated his secret world,” according to the tabloids.

  Deep down, I must have known he wasn’t normal. He never totally fit into a place like Newman Lake. His tastes, though well hidden, belied a much richer life than you would get in Spokane. And of course, now all of his quirks made sense. The fear of crowds. The screenplays and home movie theater. The stubborn insistence to remain off the grid, without even a cell phone or internet connection.

  But before I could say any of this to Calliope, her buzzer blasted through the apartment. She gave me a knowing look, then walked over to pick up the handset.

  “Hey, Joe.” She listened for a second, nodding to herself. “Sure, let them up.” Then she hung up.

  I frowned. “Who’s coming up?”

  “Some clients. You might want to meet them, actually. Both of them are a pretty big deal.”

  I grimaced at my clothes—a black cotton skirt and a torn-up CBGB t-shirt that hung off one shoulder. I basically looked like an extra from Flashdance or another one of those old eighties movies my mom used to love.

  “You look adorable,” Calliope said as she fluffed her hair in the mirror. “I, on the other hand, look like Diana Ross. This humidity is killing my hair. I should cut it all off.” She clicked her tongue at herself, then headed to the bathroom to primp a bit more.

  “Hey!” I called after her. “They’re on their way up now!”

  “So let them in!” Callie retorted before shutting the door behind her. “You’re not getting out of this.”

  As if right on cue, there was a loud knock at the door.

  I froze. I wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was because I’d barely seen anyone in two weeks. But as soon as I heard that familiar deep voice, I felt the real reason for my paralysis. My body knew he was here before my mind. Just like always.

  “Maggie! Maggie, I know you’re in there. Open up the damn door.”

  I didn’t move, looking frantically around for Calliope, who had apparently decided to take up permanent residence in the bathroom.

  “Lily!”

  His voice—that name—cut through my stasis. I scrambled off the couch and to the door, where I struggled to open the deadbolt and unfasten the chain. When I did swing it open, I still wasn’t prepared for what I saw, filling the doorway with his broad shoulders, long, lean frame, crossed arms, and fiery glare.

  Will. Fitz. Love of my life. Devil of my dreams.

  He was here, and I could not have been angrier to see him.

  2

  “What. The hell. Are you doing here?”

  I didn’t wait for an answer, instead attempting to slam the door in his face like the last time I’d seen him. Will’s broad palm anticipated the move with a harsh slap on the wood.

  “I don’t think so,” he said as he shoved his way in, followed by a shorter, Latino-looking man with close-cut hair and a navy skinny suit that was accented with a pink-striped tie and matching polka-dotted pocket square. The two of them made a bit of an odd couple. With the exception of his beard, which had been trimmed to mostly stubble, Will looked his same, scruffy self in a plain pair of jeans, an old Nirvana t-shirt with more than one hole in the cotton, and his hair piled on top of his head in a messy knot. His beard had grown out some in the last two weeks, but not to the point where it obscured his face. After all, his cover was blown. There would have been no point.

  He looked delectable. Every cell in my body wanted to jump him. But I hated him all the more for it.

  “Well, look who the cat dragged in.” Callie strode out of the bathroom with a broad grin directed at Mr. Suit, who immediately grinned back. He crossed to her and delivered kisses to both of Callie’s cheeks.

  “How you doin’, Calliope?” He looked her up and down. “Damn, girl. You look better every time I see you.”

  “Cut the shit, Benny. I already told you, she’s not going to do that interview.”

  I frowned at Calliope. “I thought you said you hadn’t spoken to him.”

  Callie shrugged. “No, I inferred that I’d love another chance to chat him up. This guy’s a riot.”

  “A riot, huh? How did I get such a rave?” Benny asked while I shrank against the wall.

  “Interview?” Will glanced at his friend. “What the fuck, Benny? I also told you
I’m not doing anything with the goddamn press. Neither of us are.”

  Benny, whom I guessed was Benny Amaya, the notorious agent and name on the one piece of mail I’d ever seen Will receive, just laughed. It was kind of funny. Two years ago, I would have given about anything to stand in the same room as this guy. He was one of those people who held the keys to almost every door in the entertainment industry, whose good word could make a career within a five-minute conversation.

  Back then, I would have been falling all over myself to meet him. Now I couldn’t care less.

  “You don’t know what I want,” I snapped at Will. “You don’t get to speak for me. Especially when I don’t know who you even are.”

  “Maggie—” he started.

  I ignored the frustrated, helpless look on his face. “Don’t bother.”

  “Hey, hey, hey.” Benny inserted himself between us. “Let’s cool it a little, huh? First things first.” He extended a hand to me. “Benjamin Amaya. I represent Wi—I mean, Fitz, in well, all sorts of matters.”

  “Benny, she doesn’t know who the fuck Fitz Baker is.” Will’s deep voice cut sharply through the niceties.

  I shook Benny’s hand limply. He ignored Will and looked me over with mild recognition. “You look familiar, sweetheart. Where do I know you from?”

  “Probably the papers right now,” I mumbled as I sat back down on the couch. Will followed. I glared at him and got back up, crossing the room to cower next to Calliope. Will had brought a second. Well, I had mine too.

  “No, that’s not it…” Benny snapped his fingers. “That’s it! You were Theo del Conte’s girl, weren’t you?”

  As soon as the name was out, the room, already somewhat icy, became a tundra. Will’s face turned black, and Callie shook her head. I swallowed. It was one more indicator that no matter what, I’d always be defined by someone else’s shadow. Ellie Sharp’s daughter. Theo del Conte’s girl. There was a part of me that was starting to wonder if I’d ever be known for just being me.

  This time, Benny didn’t seem impervious to the room as he shifted uncomfortably on his wingtips. “Right. Damn. Yeah. I, uh, heard about all of that. You really pissed off an entire empire with that one, didn’t you, honey?”