Chapter 1
1
A ll of LA sparkled in a dark goblet before Eden, Scholastic Book Fair gems cast onto velvet. She didn’t like or dislike Los Angeles, but it was a strange place. The scrubby desert perpetually stamped down by cracked concrete and bright plastic. Nature and human ego locked in a forever-battle for dominance.
She looked to the inky hills where the Hollywood sign was supposed to be lit up. It wasn’t. Power cuts? General incompetence? Squinting, she made out the ghost of a giant white ‘H’ and wondered why she even cared. What about her life would be improved right now by seeing a big word in the dark? She returned her gaze to the sprawling city, glittering like a magician’s trick.
Willow shifted beside her, bending over the bars, also trying to make out the Hollywood sign. Once upon a time, she’d have pretended to shove him over, but it was hard to meet his eyes right now, let alone make a joke about either of them getting hurt.
It had been a year since her tour bus had spun out. Two broken ribs, one broken arm and a partially deflated lung. Months of physical therapy and doctors’ trips and work being delayed. Yet, as she stared out at the city, Eden thought the same thing she’d thought a million times. She’d endure it all again, all the pain and inconvenience, if Willow would promise to go back to normal .
He'd always been protective and fatherly, even before he was the father to their two baby girls. But the accident had changed something, turned him paranoid. She’d understood—he’d thought she was going to die. But she wasn’t hovering between life and death anymore, and it was like no one had told Willow. Her formerly chilled-out, jock-boy husband could barely sit still if they were in public. He texted her a billion times a day, stressed about everything, and insisted on driving her and their daughters everywhere , sometimes gripping the wheel so tight his knuckles split.
They’d had the same conversation a dozen times since the accident, but this morning, it spilled into an actual fight. Because Willow hadn’t just lost his chill about her public safety, he’d lost his chill about her sexual safety. He wouldn’t hurt her in bed, no matter how responsible she promised to be, no matter how much she begged him to.
This morning, she’d had enough. She’d sat naked on the hotel bed, the duvet clenched in her fists. “I don’t want you to fucking murder me, Willow! I just want you to be rough with me.”
“No, you don’t,” he muttered. He always got quieter when they argued. Not a bad thing, except for the part where it made Eden even angrier because she could never control her volume during fights.
He’d been on his feet, pacing the hotel room, his freckled fist to his forehead. “You want me to hurt you, and if you think after what happened?—”
“I don’t want you to hurt me, I just want you to?—”
“Choke you?”
“Put your hands on my neck or spank me or hold me down or something. Anything! ”
“I’ve told you a million times why I can’t do that.”
“Then let me be in charge,” she’d said. “At least at the start. Let me be some bitch being mean to you from high school and then you can?—”
Willow growled like an angry dog. “You don’t get it, do you?”
“What don’t I get? That something bad happened once, and now it’s over, and it doesn’t even fucking matter anymore?—”
He’d whirled around to face her, his usually sunshiny expression furious. “You have no idea what it was like to see you in that hospital bed! You have no fucking clue! ”
His genuine anger stopped the argument dead in its tracks. Willow had gone to shower. She’d gotten dressed, and then they’d left for the buffet breakfast hand-in-hand as though everything was fine.
Eden had been on edge all through the meal, unsure if anyone had heard them fighting in their hotel room. The record company was paying for them to stay at The Beverly Hills Hotel, and the idea that she and Willow had become ‘that couple’ on other people’s dime was mortifying.
Though not as mortifying as knowing it was her fault. She and Willow had been having perfectly good, perfectly normal sex, and she had ignored her instincts and asked for what she’d known in her heart he wouldn’t want to give.
Before the accident, she and Willow could tear the world down fucking. Bondage, breath play, the nastiest roleplay imaginable. Having kids hadn’t changed that, but the crash had. She’d lost hope that they’d ever get back there. With every tender lovemaking session she felt less like a hot bitch and more like she was back in hospital, barely able to move without getting stuck with more morphine.
Her husband was silent beside her, and she wished she could believe he was appreciating the view. But she knew him better than that. Willow was thinking about her. Worrying about her. Though she was starting to think it wasn’t really her he was worried about. It was an idea of her that had been born in his head six months ago, a version of Eden Cartwright-Williams that was fragile as paper.
“We’ll have to get going soon,” she told him, unable to bear the quiet. “The car’s coming at nine.”
“I remember. Bar Camelina, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Despite their sojourn to the Griffith Observatory, she and Willow were in LA on business. Well, she was. Against all odds, she was in talks to produce an album for Quinley Wu. A former Disney star with a sickly-sweet pop catalogue, Quinley was angling for a grittier ‘Oliva Rodriguez-Charli XCX’ route to superstardom. Thousands of American producers would have given their right hands for the gig, but apparently, Quinley wanted to go outside the box. And she couldn’t have gone out of the box further than a cult Australian DJ who’d switched to producing after having kids, but somehow, Quinley had found her.
“I love your sound,” she’d written in an Instagram DM Eden had initially mistaken for a hoax. “And I love the songs you made with Baybee and Anoia. When Baybee blew up on TikTok, I couldn’t believe I hadn’t already heard of you. You have the coolest fucking taste, and I want you for my next record. Can we please get in touch?”
So, they had, in a very ‘your manager calls my managers, calls my assistant, calls my dog, calls your mother to get back to me on Monday’ way. Not that it was Quinley’s fault. Turned out famous-as-shit artists had a lot of people invested in their success. But the initial fifty-person Zoom meetings had gone well, and now here Eden was, in the City of Angels, on the verge of signing the biggest contract of her life, with Willow along for the ride.
I should be happy , she thought, as though that ever helped. Truthfully, she wished she was alone. Because tonight she and Quinley were going to meet face-to-face and decide if they could make this thing work, and she needed to play the role of shit-hot, all-powerful producer, and she had no idea how to do that while Willow treated her like cracked glass that might shatter at any moment.
A warm hand closed over hers, and she looked up to see her husband smiling at her, his expression strained but sincere. “I’ve been thinking you should go to this thing by yourself tonight.”
Eden’s jaw almost hit the ground. “I don’t… You think so?”
“Yeah, I can’t see myself helping you relax and do your thing. And if I’m not doing that, what’s the point of me being there?”
He said it lightly, but she heard the self-loathing beneath his words, and her heart ached because they could both remember when Willow was the only person who could help her relax. The only person who could bring her home when she got lost.
“It’s not your fault,” she whispered so the other tourists couldn’t hear. “I get that my accident was fucked. I get that it’ll take time, and I’m sorry about this morning?—”
“Don’t apologise. You need to get into the zone. Let’s get back to the hotel, and you can put on music and prep.”
Eden’s heart hurt worse than ever, gratitude and grief smashing together like cymbals. “What… What will you do?”
He shrugged. “Go to the hotel pool. Get pissed. Watch cricket highlights on my phone.”
Smiling took every ounce of strength Eden had, but she managed it. “Okay, Mr Williams. Thank you. And we will sort this all out, talk properly, and go back and see a therapist again if we have to. We can fix everything.”
Willow’s smile looked as miserable as hers felt. “Exactly.”
The record company sent a massive, shiny, black car to the hotel; some unholy combination of limousine and assault vehicle. Eden sat in the back, drinking a complimentary glass of champagne that became two because LA traffic had more problems than her marriage. Her blonde hair was piled high, her pink pleather dress was ultra tight, and her spike heels were already crushing her toes, but she’d needed an outfit that said, ‘I might have two kids and way too many boardgames in my house but I’m still a killer bitch.’
This outfit certainly said that. She wished Willow had seen her in it, but he’d made good on his promise and headed for the hotel pool as soon as they got back. She pictured him sitting shirtless by the water, his chest as ripped and his stomach as tight as when he’d played football. A lot of the late-night swimmers would enjoy the view. At forty, he was hotter than ever, the lines around his eyes and forehead lending him a sternness that was as sexy as his body. Jealousy wormed its way through Eden’s middle as she imagined the women who might be swimming alongside her husband. There was never a good place to have body image issues, but LA had to be the worst. It seemed like every woman in the city was ten out of ten stunning. Actual models.
And maybe one of those models was at The Beverly Hills Hotel tonight. And maybe she liked redheaded, Australian Vikings. And maybe she never wanted to have kinky sex and was better suited to Willow 2.0 than Eden was?—
Stop it , she told herself. Producing. Quinley Wu. Focus-pocus.
But she couldn’t focus-pocus. Instead, she thought of something her best mate, Cheryl, had said ages ago, back before Willow and kids and professional music and everything that was Eden’s life now.
“Watching people change—like, really actually change—fucks me up,” Cheryl had told her. “It’s the only thing about getting older that blows my mind. How so many people go from being cool and open-minded to fucking weirdos.”
Eden had agreed automatically because Cheryl was amazing and right about everything, but she hadn’t really understood. Now, she did. With every passing year, she’d run into formerly hilarious school friends who could now only talk real estate. Ex-hippies who thought 5G was poisoning their reproductive organs. DJs who’d once double-racked DMT off their decks moaning ‘The Kids These Days Are So Irresponsible.’
If she squinted, she could still sometimes make out the humans she used to know, but mostly, it was like they were fossilising in real time. Stiffening within resin that might soon harden forever. But that couldn’t be Willow. It was impossible.
It was also something she couldn’t think about while trapped in a luxury car on her way to the most important meeting of her life.
“I love you,” Willow had said before he’d left for the pool.
“I love you, too,” she’d told him. And she did love Sloan Williams. There was no one in the world she loved more. But their problems could, and would, have to wait.
Unsurprisingly, Quinley’s management had gotten a private room at Bar Carmalita. The popstar was tiny and full of beans, rushing forward and hugging Eden as though they’d known each other for years. “Oh my god! You’re so gorgeous!”
Eden had been worried the girly-girly thing was a stunt, but as they sat down and talked, she realised Quinley just was one of those people; cute and bubbly, the kind of girl who could make friends with a barstool. She was also clearly comfortable being in charge. After Quinley’s entourage, who seemed to own nothing but black and beige power suits, had given Eden a bunch of half-assed head-nods, Quinley had called them out.
“Guys, this is probably my next producer,” she’d said, her dazzling smile dimming several watts as she stared down her monochrome staff. “Let’s see some effort, maybe?”
Handshakes and offers of drinks abounded, and Eden mentally added another check to Quinley’s pro-column. Artists without a strong sense of themselves were nightmares in the studio; crying one minute, raging the next. Handholding had never been Eden’s specialty, but she didn’t sense Quinley needed that. In fact, as they started talking about concepts for the new album, Eden grew increasingly excited. She and Quinley both liked the same aspects of her old musical style—the harmonies that showcased her fantastic vocal range and the occasional bursts of hyperpop. They both hated the syrupy melodies and repetitive choruses. They both thought grimy trance beats with lashings of 90s Eurodance would be both interesting and suited to where Quinley wanted to push her aesthetic.
“Slutty Judy Garland meets the girl who hides in her van at Burning Man but secretly wants to be in the orgy tent,” she said, waving her old fashioned through the air. “What do you think?”
“Holy fuck,” Eden said, beyond impressed at the analogy. “That’s so you!”
Cocktails were barely sipped, and appetisers went uneaten as the scheduled two-hour meeting flowed into three, the album plotting itself out like a novel. There were lyrics typed into the notes app and old songs played through iPhone speakers for reference to beats and melodies they might use. At 1am, Quinley tucked a knee into her chest and shyly admitted she’d listened to all of Eden’s old tracks and loved them. And as one of her matrix-style managers looked at the other and started typing frantically into his phone, Eden knew, without a doubt, she had the gig. Not only that, but she was actually looking forward to working with Quinley Wu, former fake cheerleader on a Disney show so naff she wouldn’t let her kids watch it.
Oh my God , she thought. I’ve done it.
And then, I wish Willow was here.
It was almost two when Quinley’s management convinced her to head home. Apparently, she had some photoshoot she needed to rest up for. Eden accepted another hug and a plan to meet in two days to sign an official contract with Sony. Andy, her lifelong manager, had already read through the prospective Quinley’s management had sent them and in his words, “almost slapped the cat when I saw how much cash they’re throwing at this thing.”
Smiling to herself, Eden headed for the door. One of the monochrome cronies grabbed her arm.
“Hi,” he said, flashing her a truly terrifying smile. “Since this seems like this is actually gonna happen, you need to rent a place in LA for at least three months. You know that, right? Everyone on Quinn’s team expects full commitment.”
Eden had enough industry douchebag experience to shake the asshole’s grip and blast him her own ‘don’t fuck with me’ smile. “ I expect I’ll cut an amazing record, and everyone on ‘Quinn’s team’ will get paid to hell and back. That’s what you’re really saying, yeah?”
The man laughed as genuinely as if she’d told a joke. “Exactly. Maybe bringing you on board isn’t a guaranteed fuck up of an idea, after all?”
“It’s a great idea,” Eden snapped. “Quinn can see it, even if you can’t. But that’s why suits and artists are always bad bedfellows.”
The guy laughed again. He was young, with hazel eyes and a sharp jaw. “Who knows, honey, maybe we’ll make good bedfellows?”
There was a beat, an instant, in which Eden wondered if this guy was into the kind of fucked-up sex shit she was sorely missing. Then she thought of Willow, his face drawn in anger, fucking her ass in the driveway of her parents’ house. This man—whoever the fuck he was—was a shadow of her husband. A pale imitation of someone who could wield sexual power without genuine grossness getting in the way.
“I doubt it,” she told the guy. “But the music’s still gonna destroy. See ya, mate.”
She exited the bar on shaking legs, unsure whether anger, shock or delight was responsible for her physical response. All she wanted was Willow. Her strength, his confidence, and the fact that a man would never have talked to her like that if he had been there.
And most of all, she wanted him in maniac mode, making her come until the stress in her body melted back into hell, where it belonged. The way he had when she used to go on tour, before Jupiter and Mercury and the accident and everything else.
As she dove into the back of the giant black car, she felt the reality of her situation bearing down like an iron maiden. She was going to have to move to LA for a quarter of next year. She and Willow had discussed coming to California as a family versus her doing it on her own, but now they were staring down the barrel of actual decisions. The idea that she could live without him and their girls for three months was wild. But it wasn’t more insane than her and Willow not being able to fuck each other properly anymore.
What if she told her husband about the contract and he said, ‘No, it’s fine. Why don’t you go by yourself?’ the same way he had tonight. Maybe it would mean nothing. Maybe it would be the tiny tear in their marriage that pulled the two of them apart. The beginning of the end.
The traffic was as bad in the early hours of Sunday morning as it had been before midnight. The car crawled past clubs swarming with well-dressed, beautiful people. Eden studied their faces and wondered when she’d gone from a DJ who’d sell her soul for a massive night out in LA to a producer who’d rather watch a movie with her kids, get banged by her husband, then go to sleep.
She was being ridiculous. Ridiculous and a hypocrite. Other people had changed? She’d changed. She didn’t want to go to a club. She didn’t even want to be in LA. She’d always love making music; maybe she was even still cool, in a ‘you’re not young, but you’re fine’ way. But she’d transformed from a dirty, underfed, underground DJ to… whatever she was now.
Fuckin’ change. So easy to see in old friends. So hard to catch in the mirror. She’d waited for Willow to get back to normal after the accident and he’d waited for her to get used to the new way he wanted to fuck. And what good had that done them? It had led to a situation where she might have to move to California by herself.
“Oh lord,” she said, pressing her face into her hands. “What am I gonna do?”
The driver had put up the little divider between them and either didn’t hear her question or ignored it, which was probably a good thing. She didn’t need strangers weighing in on what could be the biggest or worst transformation of her life.
The car crawled past a sex store, the window outfitted with mannequins in leather harnesses and sexy sailor costumes. And then Eden saw it: a dress that had her lightly tapping on the divider.
“Hey,” she asked the driver. “Could we please maybe stop?”
The guy put the divider down. “You need something from around here?”
Normally, Eden would have been at least a little embarrassed to have a random dude watch her go into a fuck-shop, but the driver had the blank eyes of someone who could be watching her puff a glass pipe and wouldn’t care.
“I just need to duck into that store,” she said, jerking her head at the sex shop. “Is that okay?”
“No problem. I’ll pull up if I can. Otherwise, I’ll circle ‘till you get back.”
“Or you might still be stuck in this exact place?”
The driver laughed a little, unlocking the doors. “Be brave out there, kid.”
It was a strange thing for a stranger to say, but Eden liked it. Sometimes you couldn’t be safe. Sometimes, buses slid, and people got hurt, and hard choices rose up like tidal waves. But you could always try to be brave. And as she strode alone into a random LA sex store, Eden decided that was exactly what she was going to do.