12. Claire
12
CLAIRE
I flip through the photos on my phone and favorite the ones I think I can use.
They’re all close-ups of Jonah on stage from the last two nights. From the wings. From the pit. I was everywhere. I got him from every angle. I even took a few of the crowd from backstage. I’m going to take some more tonight, and then I’ll post a Thank you, Stockholm carousel when we leave for Lisbon. The fans will like that. Everyone wants to feel appreciated.
The video of Jonah playing “Landslide” got over four million likes in just under twenty-four hours. The Star called it “the video that broke the internet.” I hate The Star , but I was surprised to see that their post was almost positive. They did question whether he posted it while high, or if it was recorded after a drug-fueled orgy, but Rome wasn’t built in a day. I can’t expect Jonah Hendrix’s new glowing reputation to be either.
I go back to the video in my phone of Jonah playing and watch it again without sound. I’ve done this no less than twenty times since I filmed it. I don’t have to turn the volume on. I hear the music just fine in my head.
My eyes start to sting before I’m halfway through the video, so I click out of it and shoot a quick glance toward Sav and Mabel. They’re both engaged in their own things—Mabel is texting someone, and Sav is messing with an acoustic guitar and scribbling in a notebook—so they thankfully didn’t notice my almost-tears .
Since I don’t feel like having to avoid Jonah’s dick again, I’m sitting through the opener in their dressing room. I’ll be here after, too. I’m not worried about him taking off. I brought José back as full-time security, and he’s promised to call me immediately if Jonah tries anything stupid.
So far today, I’ve had very little interaction with Jonah. It’s his rest day with Thor, and he had therapy and his STI test this afternoon. I’m sure he needed a break from me, because I certainly needed one from him.
God, I hope we wrap this up soon. If I have to be here for the whole tour...
He’s so confusing. One minute, he’s cooperative, and the next, he’s hurling insults. Insults that really hurt. Expertly crafted and dealt with lethal precision. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about what he said to me the other night. The way he cut me down so effortlessly. Without any remorse or restraint. He wanted to hurt me, and he did. He magnified every insecurity. Pushed his fingers into every gaping, unhealable wound.
I’ve even dreamed about his comments. Ironically, the ones he got wrong are the ones that have haunted me the most.
I bet you’re the success story of your shitty little town.
Bet your family just loves to show you off during the holidays.
I hate that I’ve given yet another man this kind of control over my emotions. I hate that it’s sent me into yet another downward spiral. My stomach churns. Familiar hunger pains swirl with anxious energy in a way that makes me dizzy. I dig through my purse for some sugar-free mints and pop them in my mouth.
Then, because I’m a glutton for punishment, I close out of my photos and sign into my social media account. I don’t even scroll through my feed. I just go straight for my ex-best-friend’s profile.
The first picture is of my brother with my nephew in his arms, and my heart sinks. Macon looks so happy. So healthy. So healed . And the way he’s looking at his son...Like he’s the most precious gift. Photos like this always make me want to smile and cry. Smile because I never thought my brother would get here, and cry because I’m not part of it.
My finger hovers over the photo, and I consider liking it, but just like all the other times, I chicken out. I’m lucky I’m not blocked as it is. I don’t want to push my luck .
The next photo is of my nephew with his face covered in something green. Some sort of vegetable. From his expression, he doesn’t approve, and the caption confirms it.
Peas. 0/10. Do not recommend.
I laugh quietly and wipe my eyes.
“Oh, he’s cute.”
I jump and look up to find Sav behind me. She’s standing in front of the mini fridge with a mineral water in her hand, but she’s looking over my shoulder at the photo. She can probably tell that I’ve been crying because her smile drops.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to invade your privacy like that. That was shitty.”
“No,” I say with a forced laugh. “No. It’s fine. He’s my nephew.”
“He’s fucking adorable. His hair is the same color as yours.”
I click off the phone screen and set it face down on the table. I force a swallow.
“Yeah, my brother has the same hair. Mine’s curly like theirs too. I just straighten it.”
“I bet they’re missing you right now.”
“No.” I wince and give my head a little shake. “No. They’re not.”
Sav’s eyes scan over my face. I don’t know what she sees, but her smile turns sad.
“That sucks. I’m sorry.”
I shrug, doing my best to breathe through the threat of more tears. “It’s my fault. I have to live with it.”
She furrows her brow. “Want to talk about it?”
I shrug again. I consider telling her no, but when I open my mouth, something else comes out. Something I’ve harbored in my chest for so long that it’s taken up permanent residence around my heart and lungs. It’s like letting air out of a balloon.
“It’s simple, really. I made a shitty decision that hurt people. If I’d known it would do the damage it did...” I close my eyes and slump back in my seat. “I can’t take it back.”
I shake my head as a tear escapes through my lashes.
“When I finally realized how wrong I was...Well, it was too late. Now I’m dealing with the consequences of those choices.”
Sav and I fall into silence. Even the sounds from Mabel’s phone have stopped, and when I finally open my eyes, they’re both looking at me. I’m afraid of what I’ll see on their faces, but instead of judgment, I find empathy. I find understanding.
“Have you apologized? Explained?”
I look at Mabel and nod. “I’ve tried. Kind of. I don’t blame them for not wanting to hear me out, though. I wouldn’t forgive me either.”
I haven’t. I can’t.
The admission brings on more tears, and my muscles sag with defeat. Then Sav puts her hand on mine.
“Can I say something? Unsolicited advice, kind of. It’s cool if you don’t want it.”
I think about it for a moment. Do I want advice?
“There’s nothing I can do that will make them forgive me, Sav. I don’t want to force it.”
She shakes her head. “I know. It’s not about that.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, then nod. “Sure. It can’t hurt.”
She smiles softly. “You have to forgive yourself, even if they can’t.”
I huff out a laugh before I can stop myself. My half smile is sardonic. Self-deprecating. “With respect, Sav, you don’t know my story. You don’t know what happened.”
She shrugs. “Yeah, but I’m no stranger to shitty decisions, either. I’ve hurt a lot of people out of selfishness. I caused others pain because I was in pain. I’m not proud of it, and I know it’s well within their right to never forgive me. Some of them will never speak to me again, and I’ve had to accept that.” Her grip on my hand tightens. “I also know what remorse looks like. I know regret. I know how it eats at you, and no one can live like that. You’re allowed to move on. It sounds like you’ve punished yourself enough.”
I wipe at my cheeks, my hands coming back smeared with black mascara. I don’t respond. I keep my eyes closed, grit my teeth, and breathe. I want to hear her. To believe her.
“She’s right,” Mabel adds, her voice closer now. “We’re not perfect. We’ve all made mistakes. We’re all the villains in someone’s story. In Sav’s case, she’s the villain in a lot of stories.”
Mabel says the last part playfully, and Sav snorts out a laugh that elicits a small smile from me.
“Thanks, Mabes. ”
Mabel giggles. “ Anyway , Sav is right. You have to forgive yourself. Even if they can’t.”
I force a tight smile. “Sure.” My voice cracks slightly, and I clear my throat again. “Thanks.”
“Sometimes you have to cut away the worn-down parts of yourself,” Mabel says. “The shit weighing you down. You’ve got to shed it so you can move forward.”
I force a swallow and let myself ask a question that terrifies me. Something that’s worried me for years. “What if there’s nothing left?”
Sav squeezes my hand one more time. “You have to have faith that you’ll grow back better.”
Thankfully, I don’t have to respond because the door opens, and Hammond pops in to let them know it’s time to head to the stage. Sav and Mabel both leave me with smiles, and when they disappear into the hallway, I drop my head to the table and finally let the tears free.
Forgive yourself, even if they can’t.
Have faith that you’ll grow back better.
Simple sentences for insurmountable tasks. Forgive myself for ruining lives? Grow back better?
I can’t. I won’t.
I don’t deserve it.
I get back to the suite before the band.
I need a hot bath and a glass of wine, and I don’t need to deal with Jonah Hendrix’s mood swings.
I can tell I’m on the verge of a tailspin. That familiar refractory feeling is creeping out of the recesses of my mind, making my pulse spike and my stomach roil. I don’t want to acknowledge it. It would mean failure. It would mean erasing all the progress I’ve made, and I can’t accept that.
I sent a text to José after I finished taking photos and told him to let me know when they were heading back to the hotel, and then I preordered a glass of red wine from the guest services concierge. As soon as I’m in the suite, I take my wine straight to the bathroom. I turn the water as hot as I can stand it, use the hotel provided bubble bath, and do my best to clear my head as I sink to my chin in the luxury soaker tub.
I last five minutes before I’m mentally going over Jonah’s calendar, and then I’m hauling myself out of the tub so I can get some work done on the MixMosaic account. Someday, I will learn how to relax without feeling guilty again.
I put on pajamas and throw my hair up into a towel, then crawl onto my bed with my laptop. I really wish I could be in the office to at least brainstorm with the team, but Brandt’s been leaving comments on the shared drive for me. It will have to do while I’m stuck in Europe traipsing after Conrad’s son.
Conrad.
I’ve only spoken to him once since I left New York. The time difference has made it difficult to talk on the phone, and he’s not the best texter, so all my messages have received monosyllabic responses and the occasional emoji. It’s cute when he sends emojis. I smile. Then I frown.
I wonder how he’d feel if he knew how close I’ve been to his son’s penis. I wince. Or if he knew how hard it was not to look.
I shake my head and grab my phone. Conrad likely isn’t working right now, and it would be nice to hear his voice. When my attempted video chat doesn’t go through, I try a regular call. He answers on the third ring, his voice booming through the receiver against a backdrop of muffled conversation and classical music.
“Conrad Henderson.”
“Hi! It’s me.”
“Ms. Davis.” He clears his throat, and I hear something like cutlery clinking in the background. “What can I do for you? How is the job going?”
My smile dulls.
Ms. Davis?
How is the job going?
I haven’t spoken to him in days, but he sounds less than thrilled to hear from me. And the job ? As in his son ?
“Um, the job is fine,” I say slowly. “I don’t need anything. I just called to talk. ”
“I see.” There’s a brief pause, and when he speaks again, the sound is far away. “I’ll be right back. I have to take this. Work.”
He’s with someone, I realize. I check the time on my computer and do quick math.
“I’m sorry,” I say quickly. “Are you busy? I can call back.”
“Just a work dinner. It’s not important.”
I feel the creases in my forehead deepen as I frown into my lap. The restaurant sounds seem so much louder now. And the classical music...
My stomach cramps.
“Awfully late for a work dinner,” I say carefully. “Where are you?”
“ Le Chateau .” He says a muffled thank you, probably to a doorman or a host, and then the sounds are replaced with street noise and breeze. He’s outside. “Is my son behaving?”
I ignore his question and focus on the statement. Le Chateau is a Michelin star French restaurant in Manhattan. He took me there on our first real date. I’d never been somewhere so fancy, and I left with stars in my eyes.
“ Le Chateau ? For work?” I force a laugh. “Isn’t that a little intimate of an atmosphere for business?”
“It’s close to the office.”
“There are hundreds of places close to the office.”
He doesn’t respond, and I can practically feel his stern eyes on me, silently commanding me to back down. It’s easier to ignore when he’s not right in front of me. The distance makes me bolder. It makes me sit up straighter. I force myself to smile again.
“Who’s the client?”
He sighs. “Claire, my love, don’t do this.”
“Do what?”
“You know what.” He sighs. “How is Paris?”
“I’m in Stockholm.”
“Ah, it’s been years since I’ve been to Stockholm. Are you enjoying it?”
“I’m here for work. It’s not a vacation.”
He chuckles. “Of course. I picked the right person for the job. I knew I could trust you with this.”
The sentence does what he intended. Teases that thing inside me that yearns for praise. To be appreciated. Even though part of me knows I’m being manipulated, I still smile. I do my best to ignore how much that disappointments me.
“I miss you,” I say on a sigh.
“I miss you, too, my love. How about I?—"
“Conrad,” a woman’s voice interrupts. “They brought out the food.”
I know that voice.
“Ms. Davis, I’m going to have to let you go. We’ll discuss the job later."
His tone has changed. He’s no longer warm. No longer affectionate. He’s business again. Cold. It makes me wince, and then it makes me angry.
“Is that Dierdre?” He doesn’t answer, so I speak again. “I thought this was a business dinner. Why is Dierdre attending a business dinner with you? She never attends business dinners.”
He clears his throat again, then hits me with a tone I’ve only heard him use with employees or staff when they’ve done something to displease him. Severe. Commanding. Superior.
“I’m glad to hear the job is going well. I will call you in a few days to check in. Will there be anything else?”
I blink, and it takes me a few breaths before I can speak. Almost four thousand miles between us, and I still feel like I’ve been slapped.
“No,” I whisper, shaking my head slowly. “No...there’s nothing else.”
“Good.”
He hangs up without saying goodbye. He gives me no chance to say anything in return. I pull the phone from my ear and stare at it as call ended disappears and the phone screen goes black. Le Chateau on a Thursday night with Dierdre. I’m not an idiot. I know what this is.
“He out with his wife?”
My eyes shoot straight to the doorway. Jonah is leaning on the frame with his arms crossed, expression equal parts smug and sympathetic. He’s still wearing the same distressed jeans and vintage band tee he had on for the show.
“When did you get here?” I snatch up my phone and click on the screen, finding a text from José. OTW sent twenty minutes ago. I look back at Jonah. “How long have you been listening in on my conversation? ”
I run back through the phone call. I’ve been careful not to say Conrad’s name. I’m usually good about hiding it. I’ve had a lot of practice recently. But did I let it slip...? I stare at him and wait for a sign. Is he fucking with me, or does he not know? Then he smirks.
“Long enough to know your boyfriend is cheating on his mistress with his wife. You’re the mistress, in case you weren’t sure.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “I am not a mistress because he is not married, and he is not cheating on me.”
The statement tastes like ash. Even I know it’s a lie.
Jonah pushes off the doorframe and prowls toward me, looking me up and down in a way that makes me want to pull the duvet up to my neck.
“Who is Dierdre, then? Certainly not a business partner.”
“I’m tired.” I snap my laptop closed. “Don’t stay up too late, please. We have a full day tomorrow.”
He tilts his head to the side. “Are my test results back? I need to get laid.”
I sigh, grateful for the subject change. “The doctor said five days.”
“I’m not waiting five days to have sex, Davis. I wear condoms. I don’t have any STIs.”
“Sorry to break it to you, Hendrix, but that’s not how it works.” I throw the duvet off my body and climb out of bed so I can dig some ibuprofen out of my bag. “While I am beyond glad to hear you have at least one functioning brain cell in your head, condoms aren’t one hundred percent preventative of anything.” I throw the pills into my mouth and swallow them dry. “Not babies. Not sexually transmitted infections. Nothing.”
“You’re messing with my post-show routine. I play a show. I fuck a groupie or three.”
I shrug. “You’ll be fine.”
He watches me with his arms folded over his chest, brows slanted slightly. Again, I feel like I’m being studied. A reminder that I need to mask any and all weaknesses. I stand taller, and he smiles.
“I get tested regularly on my own, and I know how condoms work. I’m not an idiot.”
“Congratulations.”
We fall into silence once more, and for some reason, I don’t want to be the one to break our eye contact. It feels like a challenge, and between the dressing room conversation and the phone call, I really need to win something today. I take a step closer and peer up into his blue eyes. As much as it makes me want to vomit, I take a page out of his father’s book.
“Is there anything else, Mr. Hendrix?”
I half-expect him to proposition me. Offer me a guest-starring role in his post-show routine or some other insufferable suggestion. I’m even prepared with a scathing retort, but then he surprises me.
“Why’d you pick that caption?”
“Excuse me?”
He arches a brow. “ Can the child within my heart rise above ?”
When it dawns on me, I huff out a laugh. “It’s a lyric from the song you played, Jonah. Surely you know that.”
“Why that lyric?”
He speaks calmly, almost indifferently, but something tells me my answer matters. It’s more than artistic curiosity. That caption hit a nerve, and the realization makes my heart race. This is the win I need.
I shrug. “No reason. I like that lyric.”
“Hmmm.” He hums, eyes bouncing between mine. I don’t back down.
“Why?” I ask innocently. “Is it a problem?”
The pause stretches, and I wonder if he finds comfort or protection in silence. Perhaps both. Or perhaps he wields it as a weapon—a way to control tone and direction. I smile softly. I am unbothered. I will not be manipulated.
“Well?”
“Nope. No problem.”
He shakes his head once, then takes a step backward, attention dropping to my lips briefly before lifting back to my eyes. He doesn’t smile, but there’s a softness in his expression that gives me pause. When he speaks again, his voice is low, intimate, and chills once again tickle my arms and neck.
“I’ll be ready for our full day tomorrow. Sleep well, Claire.”
“You too,” I say with a nod, and then he slips behind his side of the partition.
I watch his shadow move around his side of the room, and I pretend to busy myself with my phone until he disappears into the bathroom. The shower kicks on, and I release a sigh of relief as I crawl back into my bed.
Then I let myself smile.
Jonah’s reaction to the caption I chose for that video boosts my confidence. It tells me I’m starting to figure him out. I’m one step closer to understanding him, and that’s exactly the win I needed today.
I meant it when I said PR was like chess. It’s a complex game, and to win, I need to stay several moves ahead. I need to maintain the upper hand.
The biggest threat to Jonah’s public image is himself. To succeed in this job, I have to play for him while also playing against him. He’s his own worst enemy, which means as long as I’m here, he’s my enemy, too.
And what’s the first step in defeating your enemy?
Understanding them.
I’m going to take you down, Jonah Hendrix, and you’ll be thanking me after.