Chapter 21
The album was almost done—and so, after the morning spent working together, Quentin told Raine he was going out for a while. He’d also admitted that there were paparazzi guarding the entrance to his property, so he used the excuse that he was going to see if he could get them to follow him away.
Every last one of them did as he drove away.
He wasn’t sure if they suspected Raine was in the back seat hiding, but he was going to have to shake them somehow.
The first thing he decided to do was park at the grocery store.
Getting out of the car, he pretended like it was business as usual—because he knew the real story here was Raine, not him.
But it turned out he was only half right.
A few left, having peeked in his car to see he was really alone, probably to stake out his property again.
He wasn’t worried about Raine, because the paparazzi knew better than to actually set foot on his property uninvited.
But several photographers remained in the parking lot, standing outside their cars and snapping photos as soon as he walked out of the doors of the store—and he couldn’t help his reaction.
He lost his shit, letting out all the anger inside.
“Get the fuck out of here,” he said, approaching one with a big camera. “Go home. There’s no story here.”
“Tell that to my readers. They’re curious about this album—and about you and Raine.”
“Well, they can buy the single and then wait like everybody else.” When he got close, his fists clenched at his side, the guy got in his car. “Same with you, asshole!” he said to another man in a space not far away.
If they wanted a story, he was going to give them the most boring one of all. Getting in his car, he headed to the highway and drove the speed limit. In the rearview mirror, he saw the caravan trailing him just like he’d wanted.
Fifteen minutes later, he was driving through Twentynine Palms to the east—and two of the five cars following him stopped, turning away.
Another fifteen minutes, there was only one determined photographer still on his tail, the one he’d first approached, and Quentin decided he would drive all fucking day and into the night if it got this guy off his ass.
Almost an hour later, he arrived at the junction to Highway 177, and he turned south.
If the guy following him was paying attention to the map, he’d figure out that, even if it took some time, he could get back to Joshua Tree following this route.
Quentin had to get back home somehow, but there was no way in hell he’d go back the way he came—at least not until this fucker got tired of following him.
Quentin still had half a tank of gas, so he knew he’d be fine.
Finally, after another half hour, the photographer turned back, no doubt realizing just how futile this mission was…
leaving Quentin alone with his thoughts.
After a few more miles, Quentin pulled over to the side of the road and got out to walk around a bit, feeling free…
but exposed. Then he got back in his SUV and kept driving.
By the time Quentin got back to Joshua Tree via the alternate route, it was nearing sunset—and, even though he felt like he’d won the battle with the paparazzi, he’d lost the one with himself.
He didn’t even realize he’d parked in front of the bar until he was pocketing his keys and entering the establishment.
He’d never been in here before, but he’d been in plenty of places like it.
They served food, and he caught the hint of a cheeseburger…
but that wasn’t what he was here for. The bar had a stainless steel counter and wooden walls, and it was lit up like Christmas, not exactly the kind of place he wanted to drink in.
Instead, he would have preferred a dark corner.
There weren’t many people here, probably because it was a weekday night, and he imagined the two folks at the bar were regulars.
Both older men were talking to each other while the bartender watched something on the television screen on the opposite wall.
As soon as he saw Quentin, though, his eyes shifted focus.
Although the town was fairly small, especially when Quentin compared it to L.A.
and the entire Greater Los Angeles Area, where he’d spent much of his youth, that didn’t mean he knew anyone here.
Probably the only people he could say he kind of knew were the cashiers at the grocery store.
It was the only place he really frequented here—and he’d kept his distance intentionally.
Thus far, no one had recognized who he was, so he’d been able to live a quiet life.
That was probably going to change now, though…but, for now, he had this moment.
“What’ll it be?” the bartender asked as Quentin slid onto the black leather stool.
“Whiskey neat.”
“Any particular brand?”
“Nope.” In fact, cheaper would probably be better, he thought, but he let the bartender choose.
The guy pulled a bottle off a higher shelf, something of higher quality.
Quentin didn’t really care, because the end result would be the same, regardless.
When the bartender poured two ounces, Quentin tapped the stainless steel, indicating that he wanted more—so the bartender tilted the bottle again, doubling the amount. Quentin nodded. “That’s good.”
After he paid and tipped the man, he pulled the glass close. Looking into the amber pool, he got lost in memories. The scent drifted into his nostrils, and he drew it in deep. Not once had he forgotten the smell of caramel and smoke and, when he inhaled a second time, his mouth began to water.
Yeah…this was what he needed.
But how long had he sat there with his hand clenched around the glass, immobile, the knuckles white?
If he was going to do it, it was time.
Picking up the glass, he lifted it to his lips and his mouth filled with saliva again.
Before the liquid even touched his tongue, he knew what to expect—the burning, warming sensation that would light up his taste buds and his chest…
and then a sense of calm would radiate out to his limbs.
And the more he drank, the more he’d relax.
It was temporary, of course, but he knew it would work.
But this was exactly what he’d been fighting against: giving up and giving in.
Setting the glass down on the bar, he didn’t say a word as he slid back off the stool and out into the evening that was growing cool.
He’d done it…but how long would he be able to resist?
The paparazzi motherfuckers were still hanging out by the entrance to his home, including the tenacious photographer who’d followed him the farthest. Yeah, the guy was just doing his job, but it was a shitty fucking job.
When Quentin got there, Raine was nowhere to be found. He knew she’d be in her room if she wasn’t in the kitchen or elsewhere, and it filled him with a sense of guilt again.
Not just guilt…but longing—and he had to resist, just like the whiskey he’d walked away from twenty minutes ago.
He trudged back to the studio, determined to finish this album so maybe he could try to go back to normal.
Avoiding social media, knowing that was part of what was driving him to be so goddamned stupid, he checked his email…but there was one subject line in the short list that could not be ignored: Official Nomination Invitation for Producer of the Year.
What the fuck?
Opening it, he quickly scanned the contents.
The first line said, “We are pleased to inform you that your work on ‘Ripped Away’ has been recognized as a nominee for Producer of the Year in the National Guild Music Awards held the first week in December. Your attendance is requested for a rehearsal and ceremony taking place…”.
There was more about red carpet and press and he realized what this all meant.
They were inviting him back inside.
But he didn’t know that he wanted it—not now, not this way.
And he and Raine needed to talk.
The next morning, as he ate a bite of breakfast and drank his coffee, he waited for Raine to arrive.
When she did, she was quiet and dressed much like she had been the day before—but there was a lightness in her step that hadn’t been there yesterday.
He asked, “Did you get an invite to the Guild Awards?”
“Yeah, I just got an email this morning. The nomination’s for you, but because I was the artist, they want me there.”
“I wanted to make sure.”
“Finally. Maybe this is what needs to happen to get everyone to shut the hell up about August already.” She filled the kettle with water and started assembling what she needed for a cup of tea.
Jesus. Raine seemed excited about it—and it was the last goddamned thing Quentin wanted to do. But he had to—for her. The old Quentin would have just blown this shit off…but the man he was today had to do it.
Later on, when both he and Raine got an email from Russ at the label who said they needed to attend together as a couple…that should have been okay.
But it made Quentin feel like he was in a cage with no fucking way out.