Chapter 19
The very next week, they were in L.A. The fucking label had decided that they needed to have a listening party for the tracks that were done and ready to go—even though Raine wasn’t ready for them to hear any of it.
But it didn’t matter because what the label wanted, they got.
Even now, she had little say in her career.
They were releasing the single the same day as the party, and so they felt like it was a good time to let it out into the world.
She and Quentin weren’t done yet, but the label didn’t care. The way Russ, the PR guy, had framed it was that this would really “sell the narrative that you’re a couple.”
Ugh. It was fucking bullshit—especially since Quentin had been acting like he’d regretted sleeping with her ever since it had happened.
And now they were arriving at somebody’s mansion in the Hollywood Hills ready to be on display.
They label had told Quentin he could wear whatever he’d typically wear to an event like this, but Raine didn’t get that kind of choice.
Instead, they brought her a selection of several outfits—and, after looking through them all multiple times, she landed on one that felt the closest to something she might pick out for herself.
She chose a soft almost-black silk cami with a cotton skirt that ended just past the knee and low boots.
They allowed her to wear her hair almost normally, but it was still weird.
It was blonde now, having been bleached to take in whatever fun color she’d have added, but the label didn’t want her to do that right now.
The pink had long since faded and they’d promised they’d let her change it up on tour but, right now, they wanted her to look “natural.” That was likely why her makeup too was soft.
The label had sent the same makeup artist to work with her who’d been there for the staged photo shoot and, when she was done, she’d declared Raine “beautiful.” Looking in the mirror, Raine couldn’t disagree—but she felt a little off.
Beautiful, maybe, but the woman in the reflection wasn’t Raine Dennison.
The same could have been said of the entire affair.
As the limo pulled into the drive, Raine took in the place where they’d be spending the next few hours: all glass, but not like Quentin’s place.
This mansion was surrounded by lush green plants, several palm trees, and, she discovered later, a large pool with a view of the lights of Los Angeles.
When the driver opened the door for them, Russ and his assistant Hunter got out first. After Quentin exited, he held out his hand for Raine, helping her out. His black button-down shirt with dark jeans and black leather shoes, ones she hadn’t seen before, complemented her outfit.
They would easily project the image the label was looking for.
As they made their way up the walkway to the house, lit up like the fourth of July, Raine pulled at the camisole.
It was like a lot of clothes she’d worn in the past…
but different. It felt like it was made of richer fabric and made to show that she was feminine without looking too sexy.
There was no deep scoop or plunge, making it what Russ had called “respectable.”
She could hardly wait until this night was over.
Approaching the door, she felt a slight chill in the air, reminding her of the hot days in Joshua Tree—and the cold nights.
As soon as they entered, they were introduced to lots of people—some she knew, but others were strangers. A few people, she knew, were influencers of some kind, no doubt there to spread early buzz about the album.
Again, it was all about control, as Russ had said on the way there.
Tristan was there as well, pressing palms and making nice with the folks who were there to take in Raine—and Quentin’s—newest efforts.
What really struck Raine, though, was the immediate shift in Quentin’s behavior as soon as they walked through the doors. After not having touched her since their night together, he put his hand on her back, doing exactly what the label had asked.
It felt warm and comforting…and confusing as fuck.
After all the introductions, champagne was poured and all of them—thirty or so people—gathered in a large carpeted room that was mostly white with cathedral ceilings.
There was a stark black fireplace at one end of the room, two white loveseats, and two white chairs.
There were other chairs scattered throughout, ones that seemed temporary, and they all faced a long table near a wall over which two large monitors were hung.
Just as everyone found a place to sit, there was a bit of commotion in the other room—and then Mal appeared.
The chatter among the guests stopped as they looked up at Mal making a grand entrance.
He wore his usual blazer over a snug t-shirt with jeans outfit, looking much the part of a busy manager.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said, as he made his way through the room.
Although he nodded at Raine and Quentin standing over to the side, he found Russ and Tristan and stood near them, talking with them quietly.
Minutes later, Russ broke away and walked to the front of the room. He gave a short introduction while Hunter and another man pressed a few buttons on a laptop. Soon, both screens displayed a title in large font, letting listeners know what the song was called.
It was “Ripped Away,” the first song Quentin had coaxed out of her.
Fuck. Why were they playing this one first? She already knew it wouldn’t be a single. She suspected the label wouldn’t want to make a big deal of it, because in the lyrics were echoes of her onstage scandal in August.
But all the people there seemed to like it. As the song progressed, they began talking quietly, one or two people here and there, other people making small noises of—was it delight? Still others were nodding, seeming to be pleased with how it sounded.
Maybe they weren’t listening to the lyrics.
Where she and Quentin stood off to the side, not sitting in any of the plush seats, she had a good view.
Although she hadn’t told Quentin he had to be with her, he stayed by her side.
Several people had offered them chairs, but she couldn’t sit.
For one, she was too goddamned nervous, and that wouldn’t change until she was the fuck out of here.
And, more than that, she didn’t want people staring at her while her voice came from the monitors up front.
She already felt like too much of a spectacle.
Quentin’s body was so close to her that she could feel the warmth emanating from him. He acted like he wanted to protect her from everyone here, but she sure as shit couldn’t read his face—or anything. Maybe it was all an act to him.
Then, of course, there was Mal. He glanced over once in a while but didn’t smile. And she couldn’t help but notice that he didn’t clap even when everyone else did. Well…maybe he’d figured out the song was about him.
They wound up playing six tracks all together, and they all seemed well received—but could she really know how people felt? Were they just giving lip service? And, even if not, would this help revive her career in the long run?
People again approached, now looser for having had a glass or more of champagne. But they all took their time, some of them talking amongst themselves until their turn to talk to Raine and Quentin. Of course, Russ stood close by, probably in an attempt to make sure the couple stayed on script.
Most people not only complimented the music, but they complimented the two of them.
As a couple.
Like Raine had been a nobody before Quentin.
She didn’t know any of these people and she wouldn’t remember who they were later—but, right now, they acted like they were her best friends.
And the worst part was all of the gushing about her fake relationship with Quentin.
When one of the influencers, a thirty-something woman with sleek black chin-length hair, said, “What a beautiful couple you are,” Raine felt almost hollow.
Because were they? Sure, they could act the part.
People were really believing it…but Raine was struggling, because it was starting to feel like nothing more than a lie.
The label did choose “Ripped Away” as her first single. Maybe, concerned about “optics,” they thought it might explain her behavior at the charity concert.
But Raine and Quentin had to focus on the task at hand, and the next two weeks flew by as they finished up the album—all but the last song.
Every time they had to do something public, Quentin appeared to be the dutiful boyfriend but, back in his home in Joshua Tree, he was shut off: distant and quiet, as cold as the nights in the desert.
When they spoke, it was all business, nothing more.
She refused to blame herself…but it was hard not to.
When she browsed through social media, the fans were talking about the supposed relationship, and based on their comments, she knew they believed it all. So did the press, publishing one article after another about how her relationship with Quentin had brought a supposed maturity to Raine’s music.
More than once, Raine tried talking with him, but Quentin was always too busy for her. If he wasn’t answering emails, he was taking a call or working on another tweak to a song.
He seemed to be making sure she couldn’t ask the questions she wanted to.
As work partners, they were solid. In the studio, he got her and she got him, and they made magical music together. Of course, the world would read so much into that.
But she wasn’t so sure they really were together…and she didn’t know how to broach the subject.
Still, she had to try.
One morning during the first week in November, she knew she needed to make an effort. Walking into the kitchen, she caught Quentin cleaning a plate in the sink. She made her way to the cabinet and pulled out a cup. As she filled the kettle with water, she asked, “How’d you sleep?”
“Okay.”
As she opened up a tea bag and dropped it in the cup, she asked, “Do you think we’re almost done?”
“Almost. We need to record some overdubs today.”
“Oh. For which songs?”
“Most of them. I have certain places marked for each track. We’ll go over it in the studio.” With that, he drained the sink before drying his hands on a dishtowel.
“Um…is everything okay?” she asked, hoping to get something out of him.
“Yeah. I’m just a little tired.”
And, with that, he exited the room.
How the fuck had she misread that first kiss…and what had followed? Clearly that night meant nothing to Quentin—not like it had her. Once again, she’d been one fucking easy mark.
And she was left standing alone, once more easy to discard.
The best, the only way Raine had ever learned to work through her emotions was through song. And it was time to do just that.
Later that day after the work was done, she made her way to her room and pulled out her old blue notebook and a pencil and started pouring out all her feelings. They weren’t a song yet, but she needed to vomit them out so she could actually start crafting lyrics.
When they came to her, so did a tune, and she let out a soft breath as she let them flow, singing slowly as she wrote them down.
My life is like the set of a made-for-family television show.
It looks real with the white picket fence and the windows all aglow,
With matching furniture and a bright kitchen of blue and white,
You only see what you should while the rest is tucked out of sight.
But I’m not that great an actress; I don’t know how to play my part,
Because when he touched my body, he also touched my heart.
Can’t play this game with one who can’t be the man I need.
Still all the while we pose and smile to feed the camera’s greed.
I’ve never been the chosen one. I’ve always been the easy mark.
You touched me like I was fire and discovered that you’d already gone too far…
You don’t need to say it, because I can hear it loud and clear, piercing.
It’s everywhere but it’s not in your words. It’s in the spaces in between.