Chapter 1
CY
Eleven years later
(A.k.a. long enough that Sydney is no longer pissed)
“Fuck. This is enough to pull the plug, right?” I toss the stack of emails and pictures back onto the desk in front of me.
My hands still feel dirty, so I wipe my palms on my jeans.
The letters were more subtle in the beginning.
Someone claiming to have met me when I was still on tour with Boys Next Door.
The person claims we slept together, and I can’t confirm or deny, since I don’t remember much from nights after concerts, thanks to the mix of drugs and alcohol, the blur of city after city, the many nameless, faceless girls.
I don’t remember anyone by the name of Scarlett.
Then the letters started arriving with pictures accompanying them. Turning from confessions of love to something darker. More pornographic. The unwelcome pictures are shots of a woman from the chin down. And always with a tattoo front and center on her inner thigh. A tattoo of my autograph.
Each photo that showed up was more lewd than the last, the letters taking on a disturbing tone.
I know you feel it too. That pull between us.
Like a thread that’s always been there, tightening with every breath you take.
I see it in your eyes when you’re on screen.
You’re not acting. You’re speaking to me.
Only me. I watch you every night. It’s like you’re right here, whispering just for me.
I dream of the life we’ll have once the world finally brings the two of us together again.
Don’t worry. I’m patient. Love like ours can’t be rushed.
Then I found myself being talked into being a “celebrity searcher” on Searching for Love. The world thinks I’m ready to settle down and find a life partner. That couldn’t be further from the truth.
The real reason I’m going on the show? Apparently that’s what Featherlight, the production company running the reality dating show, requires before they’ll green-light the movie I pitched. So be it.
Scarlett was not happy when she heard the announcement.
Didn’t I see we were meant to be together? How could I not see that? And now the latest: Scarlett’s claims that she’s one of the contestants.
“Absolutely. Anyone can tell this poor woman is unhinged. And now she’s heading this way,” Rhett says.
My agent’s attention shifts to the other side of the desk. To the man who called this meeting.
James Ellery. Actor turned head of Featherlight Studios.
The man who holds my fate in his hands—in more ways than one.
Unlike Rhett and me, James is the picture of relaxation, leaning back in his chair, elbows propped on the armrests, fingers steepled in front of his chin, eyes flicking from the pile of filth on the desk to Rhett to me.
“No one is forcing you to do this, Cy. You approached me.”
The calm, almost monotonous timbre of his voice grates on my nerves. He reminds me of Soren, and I stopped talking to that dickhead three years ago when his tell-all autobiography came out and he painted me as the villain of his story.
“To option Beneath the Broken Sky. A movie that will make your studio millions of dollars,” I counter.
If attention and threats from a deranged fan could get me out of this farce of a dating show, I’d take the chance. But now he’s saying that if I don’t go through with it, I may not get the directorial debut I’ve been working for?
He arches a brow but otherwise doesn’t move. “That remains to be seen. You’re an unknown. And in my line of work, that’s not always a good thing.”
“Unknown?” Rhett scoffs “Cy has been in the public eye since he was fifteen. As a multi-platinum artist and as a supporting actor with numerous award nominations.”
“If I recall, his publicity as part of the boy band didn’t always paint him in the most positive of lights.”
Guilty as charged. But that was then.
“And while he may have numerous award nominations,” he goes on, “he continually plays stereotypical roles, and being nominated in categories like Favorite Jock We Love to Hate and Heartthrob of the Year doesn’t really inspire confidence.
It’s not enough to convince me to fund a project that will cost seventy-five million dollars minimum.
That’s why I offered Cyrus the deal. The one you both agreed to. ”
The deal means appearing on a celebrity season of Searching for Love, Featherlight’s reality dating show. What was once one of the highest-grossing shows for the studio is now on life support. Avid fans are less and less impressed by the couples who break up as soon as the season has aired.
I won’t be the one to tell James, but they aren’t going to get a different outcome with me.
“That was before this threat.” Rhett gestures to the papers on James’s desk.
My stomach churns. I don’t know that I’m actually afraid of Scarlett. But something about the pictures and the narrative of her letters makes me uneasy.
“She’s made no overt threats.”
“She’s a contestant on the season,” I point out, referencing her latest letter.
If her claim can be believed.
Threats or not, a woman who happily sends me a nude photo while spreadeagle on a bed to show how “excited” she is to meet me is a concern. As is the level of detail she included about me in her letters.
She has knowledge about me that even most of my closest friends aren’t privy to.
She referenced the picture of my brothers and me that sits on my dresser at home.
The type of peanut butter I buy.
Which kind of fruit I keep in the bowl on the kitchen counter.
Things she would only know if she had been in my house.
But James clearly isn’t concerned.
“And in her note, she’s only talking about how excited she is to meet you. A sentiment expressed by every contestant invited to be a part of your season.”
“Isn’t there some sort of safety clause in my contract?” I ask. Shit. I’m desperate to find a way out of Searching for Love, but I can’t lose this professional relationship I’m building with James if I want him to fund my movie.
And the closer the start date for filming gets, the more I regret agreeing to this.
James shakes his head. “We’ve never needed one before.”
“You’ve never had a celebrity of Cy’s stature before,” Rhett says.
James only shrugs.
I lean back, crossing my arms over my chest. “What if I say no? That this is too much.”
“Then you’ll need to shop Beneath the Broken Sky to another studio.”
My gut sinks. Fuck.
That’s what I was afraid of.
I’ve already tried. No other studio showed interest. And James knows that.
Beneath the Broken Sky is one of very few books I read as a teenager. Devoured is probably a better word. Star-crossed lovers, ranches in Montana the size of small cities. The book gripped me from beginning to end. I always wanted to see it made into a movie.
I bought the rights a year ago. Then I did my research and hired the best screenplay writer in Hollywood to work with the author in crafting the script. I have my eyes on several actors and actresses for the roles. This will be my chance to show the world what I can do.
Otherwise, Reverb Records has a backup plan.
One I absolutely loathe.
Written into our contract—which clearly none of us read closely enough—was a clause that stated if Boys Next Door ever broke up, the record company could call upon us to do a reunion tour.
And not just that. We’d be forced to participate in an invasive tell-all documentary.
The only out? If we were busy with other projects.
Last I heard from Maddox, the other guys were still working in the music industry—and unable to turn down the clause. When Reverb called me, I had just inked the celebrity Searching for Love season.
Thank God.
Because if I ever see Soren Langley again, it will be too soon.
“That’s fine—” Rhett starts.
I hold up a hand to stop him.
Because I have no choice.
“What can you do to ensure my safety? I realize you don’t think she presents much of a threat, but I’d rather err on the side of caution.”
If that makes me a pussy, so be it.
He sighs. “You’re serious?”
I nod. “One hundred percent.”
“The studio employs a full-time security firm. Let me talk to them and see what we can do. They can probably run background checks on the participants to see if anything pops up.” James makes a note on his tablet and tosses the electronic pencil onto the desk with a clatter.
Rhett straightens in his seat. “And provide a bodyguard.”
I snap my head to the side, assessing my agent. What the hell is he talking about? I can handle myself.
But before I can say that, James clears his throat.
“I think that can be arranged. I’ll check with Sawyer and let you know what he says.”
I nod. “And if I do agree to this season?”
“Once we wrap, we can sit down to discuss moving forward with your project,” James confirms.
It’s not a written contract, but if that’s as good as I’m going to get, then I’ll take it.
“So long as you can ensure my safety, I’m in.” I stand and shake his hand.
As I walk out of his office, I can’t help but feel like I just made a deal with the devil.