1. Othelia
Chapter one
Othelia
Three Months Earlier
“Fucking Jericho!” my boyfriend hisses, slamming his fist on the passenger window, capturing the attention of the two men sitting in the front seat.
A blinding light flashes, illuminating the inside of the SUV through the dark tinted windows, the sounds of yelling and shutter clicks surrounding us. Crawling at a snail’s pace, we weave through the traffic littering the roads of the streets of Paris, trying to avoid the onslaught of paparazzi so we can make it to the warehouse in time for this photo shoot. I shuffle in my seat, moving as far as the belt will let me, wanting to move closer to Clay as I seek his protection. He still stares at his phone, unfazed by the onslaught.
Rolling Stone called last week and asked if we could fit in a last-minute interview while we were still in France. I had hoped to delay it until we hit London later in the year, but our manager insisted we could squeeze them in between a few local radio interviews and our last show tonight.Now with the delay of this traffic, I’m not so sure.
What was meant to be a quick photo shoot with the band has now turned into a media circus after photos of Jericho screwing a girl against the wall of the club hit the internet in the early hours of the morning.
I readjust my black vintage ray-bans, attempting to block out some of the unwelcome brightness. I lean forward in my seat so I can speak to Dom over his shoulder. “I can’t believe it’s this crazy here. Figured there would be some extra attention, but this is ridiculous. How did they even know we were coming here?”
“Not sure,” he says, a crease forming so deep in his brow I can see it in the rear-view mirror. “My guess would be someone at the magazine let it slip after the news of Jericho began doing the rounds. Don’t worry, nothing we can’t handle, ma’am.” He flicks his grinning gaze to me, giving me a quick wink in the mirror before turning back to the road.
I smack him on the shoulder and lean back against the seat with a smile. No matter how many times I’ve told him not to call me ma’am, he still does. I think at this point he just does it because he knows it irritates me.
“I suppose it has less to do with the fact he was fucking some broad behind the club… again… and more to do with the fact that she happens to be the daughter of the French fucking president,” Clay mutters while still staring at his phone.
I try to avoid news stories about us. In my experience over the last decade in the spotlight, no one usually has anything nice to say. Most of the time, it’s sensationalized truth or just plain wrong.
Shifting to face him, I rest my knee against his leg and his hand casually drops onto my thigh. “What?”
“Yep, it’s all over the news. Apparently she’s engaged, or was, I guess, to some French investment banker worth millions. Last night she was celebrating her hen’s night at the club and in swoops Jericho fucking Thorn. Total News Daily is now reporting that they were both high off their asses.” He shakes his head and drops his phone onto his lap, grabbing my hand and giving it a squeeze. “Thank God we’ll be back in the states tomorrow and away from all this shit.”
“He means well,” I say, and I mean it. Jericho, even with his man-whoring ways, never sets out to intentionally hurt anyone. He’s just dying for anyone to show him an ounce of affection, but too hurt by his past to accept anything except a quick fuck in an alley.
Clay shoots me an incredulous look, pulling his hand away. “You’re joking, right? The guy sticks his dick in anyone that looks at him longer than two seconds. You’d be better off getting a new guitarist. Someone who has your interest at heart.”
Dominic coughs from the front seat, which Clay ignores. “I’m just looking out for you, baby. This type of shit,” Clay waves his phone, the picture of Jericho pressed up against a stunning brunette clear on his screen, “isn’t good for our image. I can’t have the gallery associated with this shit.”
I feel guilty that my work is now blowing back on Clay and his career, but me and Jericho go way back and my need to protect him wins over my need to satiate Clay. “He’s been with me since the beginning, Clay. I know this isn’t okay and we will talk to Jer, but I have to stand by him in this. We’ve toured together for the last eight years. I’ve known him since I first moved to LA. He is a good person. Even if sometimes he makes bad decisions.”
I unbuckle and slide closer to him, not wanting to let this ruin the little time we have together. I wrap my arms around his neck and snuggle closer. “It feels like forever since we’ve been alone together. I’ve missed you.”
Clay leans away from me. “What are you talking about, Othelia? I traveled all this way to be with you. You begged me to join you on tour and here I am. I left my job and everything to be here.”
I run a hand through the straight silvery strands of my hair. “I know, we just haven’t had much time to just hang out, the two of us. I just miss us, that’s all.”
“And whose fault is that?” He glowers and I stumble, trying to get him to understand what I mean.
“No, I know. I’m just trying to say I’m so grateful you’re here. I know how much the gallery suffers when you’re not there.” I run my hand across his smooth jaw. He softens, allowing me to pull his face closer. My eyes close and our mouths brush against each other. But his phone vibrates before we connect and he pulls away.
“It’s Natalie.” The only explanation I receive before he turns back to his phone and begins typing out a text.
I don’t dare try to read what he’s writing, instead choosing to slide back into my seat and look out the window at the dark gray skies that swirl over the city, a storm brewing on the horizon.
Unease settles in my gut and I feel the sudden urge to push my luck. “Do you really need to head back to LA today?” I ask, glancing back at him just in time to see his hand drop to his lap, his jaw ticking as his fist clenches on his suit pants and I scramble for the right words to say. “It’s just… We only have this one last show tonight and then I’m on a plane to you tomorrow. Can you just delay your flight and stay? We can leave together tomorrow.”
His exasperated sigh and the glare I receive already tell me I’ve lost this battle. “You know I can’t.”
When I bite my nail and stare back out the window, he grabs my hand, pulling my attention back to him. His face softens, and I adjust my glasses to hide my now dewy eyes.
“If I could, baby, I’d stay, but Natalie needs me back at the gallery. I’ve got an artist coming tomorrow to look over the space, to design a concept for my next show. My life doesn’t stop just ’cause you’re playing rockstar on the other side of the world.”
I know it’s unfair of me to expect him to stay when he’s already traveled this far to be with me for the last three days, but part of me wishes he wanted to be here too. “Besides,” he continues, “you’ll be back home the day after, anyway.” Releasing my hand, he types on his phone again, and my gaze drifts back to the horde of people blocking the road in front of us.
Feeling his gaze on me, his eyes roaming all over my body, causes a smile to tip the corner of my lips. “Is that what you’re planning on wearing for the shoot?” He nods towards me, arching an eyebrow.
My smile falls as I glance down, taking in my high waisted, floor length black skirt with a thigh high split and the black leather corset top I paired it with. An oversized knitted gray sweater drapes around my shoulders to give me some coverage from the October chill and the waiting paparazzi, but I felt pretty good when I picked it out this morning.
“Uh yeah.” I pick at the hem of the corset. “I felt good in it.” Disappointment laces my voice. Choosing what to wear each day is hard enough. Dressing when you know the world is waiting to comment makes it feel a million times harder.
When Hopeless Mercy first exploded, I used to obsess over what the media had to say about me, especially when the world expected me to be a size two. It took me a long time to teach myself to care less. To stop backsliding into unhealthy habits.
“Hmm, shame they didn’t bother with a stylist. At least your makeup looks okay today,” he offers without looking at me, shooting off one last text before pocketing the device.
I pull into myself, wrapping the knitted sweater tighter around me as Dominic pulls up to the curb, nodding to Wyatt, his backup today, and together they exit the vehicle. They move in tandem, scanning this area for threats before opening the door, standing guard as I exit.
I don’t make it far before I’m pulled back into Clay. A broad smile brightens his face as he tenderly cups my cheeks. “I’ll see you when you get back,” he says, sweeping the hair off my face before his lips crush into mine. I hold on to his shirt, desperate for reassurance that everything is alright between us.
“Yeah, I’ll call you when I land.” The cameras flashing around us illuminate his ice-blue eyes, attempting to steal this moment from us. “I love you.” I press another kiss to his lips before pulling back.
He doesn’t reply, distracted by his phone chiming again. Releasing me, he whispers something in Wyatt’s ear and drops back into the car. Dom escorts me into the hoard. I look back, but his gaze doesn’t lift again.
If I thought it was loud inside the car, it’s nothing compared to the cacophony coming from the paparazzi screaming at me for a comment. Dominic and Wyatt flank either side of me, with one hand on the small of my back guiding me towards the open warehouse door, and the other outstretched to block any reporters attempting to jump in my way, as they blast my name on repeat.
“Othelia…. Othelia… Do you have any comment on Jericho’s escapades with the President’s daughter last night?” they call out, their English saturated with a harsh French lilt. “How do you feel about his drug problem and the fact that it’s tearing the band apart? Is this the end of Hopeless Mercy?”
I keep my head down, not wanting them to catch a reaction, as I duck through the door, Dominic slamming it behind them as they follow.