Reverb (Songs and Sonatas Book 7)

by Jerica MacMillan

  I always go to the Google alerts first. I have them funneled into a dedicated folder so I can scan them once a day. Then I start reading them.

  I click the first headline without even registering the words until they’re huge on my screen: Brash Bride—The Woman Trying to Get Her Hands on the Brasher Brothers’ Fame and Fortune

  The pictures are the same ones they’ve shown a million times, but the spin on this article is completely different. Most have been curious about me, digging into where I’m from, my major, the usual crap. The worst have been somewhat condescending, but nothing too terrible. Nothing like Gabby and Charlie seemed worried about when they warned me away. Which is why I haven’t followed their advice.

  But this …

  This makes me out to be a whore. And a gold digger. And a fame seeker.

  My breath freezes in my chest. I can’t breathe. My diaphragm is paralyzed.

  This is why Charlie texted me earlier today reminding me that I could call her if I ever need to talk.

  Oh my god oh my god oh my god.

  Are my parents going to see this?

  I can’t … I squeeze my eyes shut, tears falling unchecked, air wheezing into my lungs. This can’t be happening. How is this my life?

  Fumbling for my phone, I stare at Charlie’s text for a second, and then hit the button to call her. If anyone understands this and how to deal with it, it’s her. Yeah, Gabby gets random crap written about her, but nothing like this.

  Charlie does, though. Maybe she’ll have some sage advice.

  It rings a few times before she picks up, but when she does her voice is all sympathy. “Oh, Lauren, I’m so sorry. So so sorry. I don’t understand how this happened.”

  Her words unleash another torrent of tears, and I collapse sideways on my bed, sobbing into my pillow while she murmurs words of sympathy and encouragement in my ear.

  I don’t really know why or how, but for some reason I feel a little better after unleashing the tears and listening to Charlie tell me that it’ll be okay, that I’ll get through this, that I’m stronger and better than whatever lies these people spread about me.

  When the sobs subside to little more than hiccups, I push myself back to sitting and pull my laptop back into my lap, scrolling through the offending article again.

  “Are you looking at it right now?” Charlie asks.

  “Yeah.” My voice is scraped raw from too many tears. I clear my throat, but it doesn’t help. “The quotes they got from people. Holy shit. They talked to my hookup from camp last summer. A couple of the girls too. Their quotes are the worst. And oh my god, some guy whose name I don’t even recognize says I gave him a blowjob at a party. I didn’t do that! I don’t even know who that guy is!”

  Charlie sighs. “They probably just went through the student directory until they got someone willing to say that. It doesn’t matter if it’s true or not. As long as they can quote someone, they’ll use it.”

  I close my laptop and cover my face with my free hand. “I thought Jonathan’s PR team was supposed to be on top of this. Shouldn’t they have stopped this from running?”

  Another sigh. “Yeah. Sometimes they can’t, though. They don’t catch it in time or they can’t pay them off for whatever reason. It’s just … part of the gig.”

  “What gig? This is not my gig. I’m not you, Charlie. I didn’t choose this.”

  Tense silence stretches over the line, and I press my mouth shut. Because I know she didn’t exactly choose it either. Not with her over-the-top stage mother pushing her into it from a young age. Arguably she’s chosen to continue as an adult. She could’ve taken her chance to stay out of the limelight when she went underground last year. At the same time, though, this is all she’s known since she was a kid. And she’s amazing at it.

  “I mean, I know no one asks for this.” Even though I should probably just follow my first instinct to shut up, I can’t help trying to clarify. I don’t want Charlie to think I think she’s some fame-crazed attention whore. She’s my friend. I sigh, feeling defeated by my inability to adequately express myself. “I just mean that you’re … you. You’re Charlotte James. You have a huge fan base and mega success and like multiplatinum records and whatever.” I’m working myself up enough that I’m gesturing wildly with my free hand alone in my room. “I’m just me. I’m nobody. I have no aspirations to your level of fame. Hell, I barely have aspirations for better than a section position in some obscure professional orchestra and some private students to make ends meet. No one writes tabloid stories about the seventh chair second violin. Or gives a shit about her sex life.”

  Holding my breath after my tirade, only my accelerated heart rate echoes in my ears as I wait for Charlie’s response.

  At first there’s nothing. Then a giggle that grows into a full-on laugh.

  I let out my breath in a controlled exhale. At least she’s not pissed.

  “Sorry, sorry,” she says after laughing for a minute. “No, you’re right. You’re totally right. I get it. I’d rather I didn’t get paps following my every move and documenting every time I make a weird face or something, but like you said, at least I have the perks of being Charlotte James to offset that.” Her laughter dies completely, and her voice softens. “You don’t. But like it or not, you’re married to Brendan. And even though he likes to pretend he’s little more than a nobody himself, we both know that’s not true. The diehard Brash fans still find him and ask for autographs.”

  I flash to the time in New York when he got recognized. And there was one night in Las Vegas where a woman about my age approached and asked for his autograph and a picture. He’d obliged rather stiffly, and we’d left soon after. But Charlie’s right.

  “Not only that,” she continues, “he’s getting new fans too thanks to Jonathan including him and Colt in like half his concerts. It’s a smart plan on Jonathan’s part, capitalizing on his past fame to cement his current fan base, but it has spillover effects for his brothers. And I’m not sure Jonathan realizes how unwelcome those effects are for Brendan. Colt, on the other hand, loves it. He has hopes of breaking out on his own at some point. But Brendan?”

  “Doesn’t,” I finish. “He just wants to produce music. Not perform.”

  “Mmhmm. Exactly. But even if he put his foot down and stopped performing immediately, he’d end up in the tabloids again at some point. Not as much as his brother, for sure, but he’s got that special something as a producer. He helped on my last album, did he tell you that?”

  “Yeah. He mentioned that he’d worked on it, but since he was an intern he wouldn’t get credited like he will now that he’s getting paid.”

  “He did more than just work on it. He basically produced one of the lead singles. It was his final project, his test for The Professor to land the job he has now. That’s the single that hit number one its first week out.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah. Wow. That’s amazing. Your man’s got skills, and he’s going places. Working with The Professor is a good place for him to get started, but he won’t be content to be there for long as a cog in a machine, just one stop along the assembly line. He’ll be ready to spread his wings before too long.”

  My breath catches. If that’s true, maybe that could speed up our timeline for being together. Clearing my throat, I try to keep my voice calm. “How long do you think ‘not too long’ might be?”

  Charlie hums in thought. “I dunno. It depends on Brendan to some degree. But I’d guess a year, maybe two at the most.”

  The tiny balloon of hope in my chest pops. “Oh.” I swallow. “Makes sense.”

  She’s quiet for a moment, and when she speaks, her voice is uncharacteristically uncertain. “I know you’re closer with Gabby, and even though we were roommates we didn’t hang out all the time or anything, and it was only a semester before I was gone again, but …” She clears her throat, and I open my mouth to reassure her, but decide to just wait and see where she’s going. “What I mean is, I have some
experience with a long-distance relationship. Where we’re both busy. And making it work. I know Gabby and Jonathan had that one semester apart, but from all accounts, neither of them handled it very well. So, anyway, my point is that I’m here. If you need to vent. Or want advice. Or … just need a friend.” She pauses again, and I wait to see if she’s done. “Plus”—she practically shouts the word—“I have a plane. And I’m a hopeless romantic deep down. Just sayin’.”

  It’s my turn to giggle. “Thanks, Charlie. I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “You’ll get through this, Lauren. I know better than anyone how hard it is to ignore this kind of crap. And I know you well enough to know that even though you’ve been told not to look, you do anyway. Just … don’t let it get you down, okay? And call me anytime you need to talk it out.”

  “I will. Thank you.”

  Just as I’m about to hang up, there’s a beep alerting me to another call. Man, between talking to Brendan every night, plus phone calls with my parents and Gabby and now Charlie, I think I’ve spent more time on the phone in the last couple of weeks than I have in my entire life.

  Speak of the devil, when I pull my phone from my face, Brendan’s face is smiling back at me, a pic I took of him in our room in Vegas. I can’t help the soft smile that comes to my face.

  “I gotta go, Charlie. Brendan’s calling.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Brendan

  “Hey,” I answer breathlessly as soon as Lauren answers. “Are you okay? Do I need to come up? The Professor will want to murder me, but I’ll drop everything and catch the next flight if you need me to.”

  She makes a choking sound that’s almost like a laugh. “I’m okay.” Her raw, watery voice doesn’t really make me believe her, though.

  “Are you sure?”

  She sniffs again. “Yeah. I mean, I will be. I just talked to Charlie.”

  I slump back into my desk chair, feeling a small measure of relief. Even though her voice is almost unrecognizable, it’s steady.

  “I take it you saw the article.” Her dry tone makes one corner of my mouth lift. If she can be sarcastic, even just a little, maybe she’s okay after all.

  “Yeah.”

  She sighs heavily. “None of it’s true, you know.”

  “I know. I know you, Lauren. Trust me. I wouldn’t have been anywhere near you if I’d thought you were anything like they made you out to be.” I rub my fingers across my forehead and let out my own sigh. “There definitely are people like that. Chicks who wanted to get with me to try to get closer to my brother. Or just to brag that they’d banged a sort of famous guy.”

  She snorts, and for a second I think she might say something, but she doesn’t.

  I shake my head, thinking back over when we first met. “You’ve never acted like one of those girls. I have a finely-honed ability to detect gold diggers and fame seekers. Even the fact that you were upset when the first set of articles came out proves that you’re nothing like those women. I wouldn’t have given you a second glance if I thought you were.”

  Her throat clicks as she swallows. “Thank you.” Her voice is thick with unshed tears again.

  “Please don’t cry,” I whisper. “I can’t stand the thought of you crying and me a thousand miles away.”

  She sniffs. “I’m not.”

  “Liar.”

  She laughs, that same choking sound from before. It’s her laugh when she’s crying. Or just been crying.

  “I’m so sorry this is happening.”

  She sniffs again. “It’s okay.”

  It’s not, though. I know it. She knows it. But there’s really nothing else to say.

  She breathes deeply in the silence and blows it out slowly. “I’ll be okay,” she reassures me again.

  “Okay.” What else can I say? This is fucking awful. All of it. The distance. The tabloids. Acid burns up my throat, and I swallow it down. This is so much worse than I ever imagined. Not just the articles, but being apart from her, not knowing when exactly I’ll see her again, or how long we’ll have between visits.

  “How’s your project going?”

  I’m so busy stewing in my own misery, that it takes a second for the words to register. “Huh?” Despite being mired in her own personal hell, she’s asking me about work. Though, to be honest, it’s probably just a plot to distract us both. But if she wants to be distracted, I’m happy to do that for her. “Oh, uh, good I guess. I’m almost done with the bridge, which is the last thing I need to finish.”

  “That’s good. Do you have your next project lined up? Or will you get a little break?”

  Shaking my head, I sit back in my chair, slouching down so my head rests against the top. “I’m not sure. The Professor doesn’t always tell me ahead of time. Why? You hoping I can come visit?”

  Her response is a low, sexy chuckle. “I wouldn’t object to that.” She’s quiet, but it’s the kind that makes me think she has more to say, so I wait. And my patience is rewarded. “I miss you. It feels like forever since I saw you last.”

  Warmth trickles through me at her words, soothing the raw feelings in my chest. “I miss you too.”

  “So do you think you can come visit?”

  “Maybe. If I get this done tonight, maybe I can leave first thing in the morning. Worst case, I bring my laptop with me and get started on the next project while I’m there. I’ll need something to keep me busy while you’re practicing or teaching, right?”

  “Right.” There’s a smile in her voice. “I’d really like it if you could come.”

  “Me too. But if that’s going to happen, I better go so I can finish. Do you want me to call when I’m done?”

  She hums, and I imagine that she’s stroking her existential beard as she considers my question. Then she yawns. “No. After crying my eyes out, I’m wiped. I think I’m gonna go to bed.”

  “Okay.” I swallow, hating the thought of hanging up if she’s going to start crying again. “You gonna be okay?”

  “Yeah.” Her voice is more solid when she says it this time. “I will. Between Charlie and you, I feel a lot better.”

  “Good. This’ll blow over soon.”

  She sighs. “I hope so.”

  “I’ll call tomorrow.” I pause. “I love you.”

  There’s the soft sound of her intake of breath. And then her sweet voice. “I love you too.”

  Even though I called to try to make her feel better, she’s managed to do the same for me. I tell her to sleep good and hang up, ready to get back to work so I can finish this and see her soon.

  The next morning, my phone wakes me up, buzzing over and over again. Someone’s calling. Why is someone calling? I was at the studio till two in the morning finishing the bridge before sending it off to The Professor. My email also let him know I’d be out of town to visit my wife for a few days but would have my laptop if he has something I need to get started on right away. Then I got a ticket on an afternoon flight to Spokane.

  Groaning, I sit up and swipe at my phone. The call has gone to voicemail, but it vibrates in my hand with a new text.

  I glare at the time through one eye, not wanting to admit that I’m awake since it’s seven in the morning and I’ve only gotten a few hours of sleep.

  But then my eye focuses on the text and my other pops open. It’s from Jonathan. Call your wife. That’s all it says. Just three words, no more explanation.

  Before I do, I unlock my phone and tap on the browser icon, doing a quick search on her name to make sure there isn’t some new hatchet piece out there on her. I want to know what I’m working with before I call.

  Or maybe he just saw the article from yesterday?

  No, that can’t be right. He has alerts set up for my name. I’d bet money he does for Lauren too.

  A quick scroll through the search results shows nothing new. Lots of comments. Lots of rehashing of that shitty story from yesterday. But I can’t imagine that would provoke an early morning text from my older brother.r />
  What does he know that I don’t? Is it worth asking him first or should I just call Lauren?

  Shaking my head, I tap Lauren’s name and decide to see what’s going on straight from her. It takes a few rings before she picks up, and when she does, all I hear is crying.

  I’m instantly awake and on high alert. “Lauren? What’s wrong? Are you hurt? What’s happening?”

  “Brendan?” She gulps in air a few times, trying to calm down enough to speak. Sniffing, her choked voice says, “Hang on,” followed by the sound of her blowing her nose.

  When she comes back, she’s still crying, which kicks me in the chest, but it’s not the heart wrenching sobs from when she first answered.

  “Lauren,” I whisper. “What happened?”

  “Um, I got … fired.” Another choked sob, and more sniffing.

  I’m confused. “Fired?” I sound stupid, but I don’t know what she’s talking about.

  “Yeah,” she croaks. “From the orchestra camp. It starts the week after next. They just called and told me that in light of the new information that’s come out about my activities”—the word is shot full of venom—“last year that they don’t think I’m an appropriate role model for impressionable young girls.”

  “What?”

  She sighs. “Sex. I had sex with one of the other counselors last year. We snuck off after the campers were in bed. I feel like we’ve talked about this before.” Her throat clicks as she swallows, but her voice is more steady now. “Didn’t you read the article? They found the guy”—that wobble is back—“and interviewed him. Plus some of the other counselors.” She swallows hard again. “I’m a slut, Brendan,” she spits out. “They don’t want a slut working with minors, because my sluttiness might rub off on them. Like it’s some sort of contagious disease.”

  My mouth hangs open, and I still feel like a moron, because … what? What the fuck?

  “I’m so sorry, Lauren.” I have no words. And she’s crying again, quietly, but I can tell.