Chapter 5
“Check Yes Juliet” - We The Kings
Saylor
How is this my life? I wedge the cold compress between my shoulder and cheek the way one might a phone while I fiddle with the ibuprofen bottle.
At this rate, I’m going to give myself an ulcer, and then I’ll have to deal with that in addition to the toothache, which is starting to feel debilitating.
I think about my credit card longingly. Once upon a time, I kept a minimal balance on it, paying it off every month.
My credit score was fantastic. But thanks to my wonderful husband and his gambling addiction, the card has since been maxed out—with steep payments I’m still responsible for—and my score has tanked so low that I get laughed off if I even attempt to apply for another card.
Everything is fucking terrific.
I’ve got the thousand I deposited in the bank when I opened my new account, but they fine you if the balance falls below the initial deposit. And try as I might, I’ve been unable to scrape together enough to cover my rent and a dental visit.
I’m prioritizing the roof over my head, which means I’m officially screwed and will just have to ride out the toothache until I find a new job. God, I love my life.
The compress has warmed and is now more nuisance than help, so I toss it on the counter and peek into the fridge. I don’t want to take the painkiller on an empty stomach, but given the lack of food, that might be my only option.
There’s a half-full bottle of ketchup, a jar of Nate’s jalapeno olives—no idea why those are still in there—and a jar of blackberry jam my mum gave me for Christmas last year that tastes like a Fruit Roll-Up that gave up on life.
I haven’t had the heart to throw it out, in case she asks about it the next time she’s here.
Unless I’m willing to eat condiment soup, I’ll just have to risk the ulcer thing.
It looks like my last paycheck from Restore Hope will go toward restocking my sad fridge.
Which means it’s time to start job hunting.
I’ve been putting it off since Sondra let me go on Friday, but I can’t ignore the inevitable any longer.
I will starve to death if I don’t find another source of income.
I carry my laptop over to the sofa and plop down. I would rather get my tooth extracted without numbing medication than look for another job. How will I ever find anything that compares to Restore Hope? My work there mattered, and I already know I’ll hold everything else up in comparison.
As I wait for my computer to boot up, my phone rings. I blink in surprise at the name on the screen. He’s never called me before.
“Hello?” I answer tentatively.
“Saylor Jones.” I can hear the smile in his voice already.
“Rhett Cole,” I say back.
“I have a proposition for you.”
“No, I’m not giving you sex tips.”
“You slay me.” I picture him clutching his heart in mock pain. “My offer has nothing to do with sex, you pervert. Also, I don’t need tips, thank you very much.”
“I assumed you were as useless in bed as you are at chess.” We tried playing several games at summer camp, and when I say the guy doesn’t know his pawn from his king, I’m not exaggerating.
“God, you are mean.” His laugh has a light, airy quality to it. “I’m beginning to reconsider my offer.”
He has my curiosity piqued, but I’m not about to tell him that. “That’s probably better anyway. I’m a very busy person.”
“Oh, yeah?” Something that sounds like a guitar strum comes through the phone. “What are you doing right now?”
I glance down at the lock screen on my computer. I shift it off my lap and tuck my feet underneath the thrifted oversized Metallica T-shirt I’m wearing as a dress. “That’s classified information.”
A pause. “And what do I need to do to gain access?”
“I’m afraid I’m out of your league. Sorry.”
He groans. “I’m fully aware of that. But it won’t stop me from trying anyway.”
I bite my lip through a grin. Flirting with Rhett is .
. . fun. And I haven’t done anything resembling fun in a very long time.
Still, there’s no point to it, and I’m just procrastinating, avoiding doing something that will actually keep me alive.
“How about I save us both the time? It was nice running into you again, but I don’t think this is going to work. ”
“You haven’t even heard me out yet.”
No, but I heard my heart pick up speed when your name flashed on my screen. This is a dangerous game I have no business playing. “Like I said, I’m very—”
“This will only take a second.”
“Fine.” I say it with a sigh, but a small part of me—a very small part—is excited by his insistence.
I hear a faint “yes” on the other end. I imagine him pumping his fist into the air like he’s actually achieved something. I hope he knows he’s only setting himself up for disappointment, because whatever he’s offering, I’m turning it down.
I pick up the mug of lukewarm tea from the coffee table and wait for him to go on.
“I need you to pose as my girlfriend.”
I choke on my drink. When I’m done coughing, I hold the phone back to my ear. “Sorry, I didn’t catch what you said.”
“I want you to pretend to be my girlfriend on tour.”
I laugh. Loudly. “That is . . . wow. Do you try that line on all women you want to sleep with?”
“Who said I want to sleep with you?”
“I thought guys like you considered another notch in their bedpost to be the greatest possible achievement.”
“Guys like me,” he repeats.
“Guys like you.”
There’s silence for a few seconds, and I’m beginning to think I’ve offended him.
“Are you calling me a slut?” he says. The question is absurd, given how many times he’s appeared in the tabloids, his arms slung around women so beautiful it hurts to look at them.
I laugh awkwardly and stroke the blanket tossed over the back of the sofa. “I didn’t say that.”
“I can own that I have . . . slutty behaviors—”
“Behaviors?” It comes out on another laugh.
“But I was actually serious, Saylor.”
Something catches in my chest at his tone. Probably just left over from my choking fit. I clear my throat. “I can’t do it.”
“Why?”
“I’m not sure I’m required to give you that information.”
More strumming. “What can I say to convince you?” he asks.
I bite my lip and push my toes into the orange velvet of the sofa. “My answer isn’t going to change, but you can tell me why you’re asking.” No one said I can’t be curious.
A soft melody floats across the line. I wonder if he’s perched on the edge of a chair to play or slumped back against a couch, guitar on his chest.
“I’m an addict.”
The words are so unexpected, I blink and set my tea down before I spill it all over myself.
“I got out of rehab earlier this year,” he continues. “In March.”
“You’re clean?” I say.
“Five months.”
“Congratulations.”
“Thanks.” He sighs, and there’s a rustle of movement. “The record label doesn’t know. If they did, they probably wouldn’t have signed me.”
“I thought drugs were par for the course in the music world.”
“They want a polished image. ‘A clean Justin Bieber.’” Mockery coats his words.
I snort. Rhett is nothing like the Biebs. “How do I play into all of this?”
“I was hoping you’d be my handler. You work with addicts, right?”
“Not exactly.” I create social media content about addiction—well, I did—and volunteer on the hotline, but that’s not the same thing. Not even close. “I’ve never been anyone’s sponsor.”
“I already have a sponsor. But he’s old and fat, and no one would believe he was my boyfriend.”
I cackle. “Why do you need to date your sponsor?”
“To hide the real reason for their presence?” His voice rises at the end, the question hanging there, as though he’s still trying to convince himself this fucked-up plan could actually work.
It makes sense in a way. If he’s hiding his addiction from the record label, he can’t exactly broadcast that he’s bringing a handler along. “I wish I could help you.”
“You can.”
I let out a wry chuckle. “No, Rhett, I can’t.” Not only is it a bad idea on so many levels, but I already know how it would end. Not pretty.
“Why not? Didn’t you just get fired?”
My jaw tightens at the reminder. “I was let go.”
“Potato, po-tah-to.”
I tug the ’70s afghan I thrifted a few weeks ago onto my lap. Why am I suddenly cold? “My answer is still no.”
“Have you found a new job?” he says.
“Not yet, but I—”
“Now you don’t have to look.”
My sigh is loud. I push my fingers through the crocheted holes in the blanket. “It’s not that easy.”
“What’s so hard about it? You need a job, and I’m offering you one. The pay will be better than anything else you’ll find.”
“You think I can’t find a high-paying job?”
“Not this high.” He quotes the figure.
My mouth falls open, and I have to remind myself to shut it. “That’s insane. You’re going to pay someone that much to pretend to be your girlfriend?”
“Not someone. You. And technically, it’s payment for being my handler.”
“I can’t do it.” I force the words out before my brain can trick me into mentally spending every cent he just offered me.
“Can’t you even think about it before saying no?” His voice is soft, wiggling its way into my core, invoking more sympathy than I should be feeling right now.
“There must be a thousand girls who would say yes.”
“I don’t want them. I want you.”
I do my best not to let his words flatter me, not to read into what is a very convincing charm. “You don’t even know me.”
“Come on tour with me, and I’ll change that.”
I shake my head, a smile tugging at my lips. God, he’s relentless. An even better reason to stay far away. “I don’t think so.”
“Please.”
I laugh at his pleading tone. “You must have been awful as a child.”
“I go after what I want.”
“I noticed.”
“What I want is you, Saylor Jones.”
My heart beats a staccato. He’s a player, I remind myself. He thinks what he wants is me, but I know better. “You’ll just have to find someone else.”
“Come on. Think about it. Traveling the United States, all expenses paid, for six weeks. With the hottest artist on the planet.”
I ignore the flash of excitement that lights up my brain. “You’re going to the US?”
“I’d go to the moon if it meant you’d say yes.”
Part of me wants to reward him for his persistence.
Another part of me really wants that money.
With that much cash, I could fix my tooth, stock my fridge, and go back to working at Restore Hope, for no pay this time.
Hell, with that much money I could make a down payment on a house.
A little cottage with pipes that don’t creak every time you turn on the hot water and a little flower garden out front and— Shit, Saylor. What are you doing?
“I could be your social media manager instead,” I say before I can reconsider. Maybe there’s a way for both of us to win. “And your handler.” It’s still a bad idea, but if it’s just for six weeks, it might not be a complete disaster.
“I don’t need someone for social media.”
“Uh, yeah, you do,” I say. “Your TikToks suck.”
“You follow me.” The smugness in his tone is blatant.
“I looked you up.” Rhett Cole on screen is addictive. I can only imagine the kind of magic he will bring to the stage.
His songs have always been good, if maybe a little generic. Recently, his lyrics have become more raw and vulnerable, the music edgier, grittier. His voice is throaty and makes something deep inside me pulse when he sings.
“I wouldn’t take my photographer to an after-party,” he says.
“Why not?”
“Because that’d be weird?”
“But you could,” I point out. “The fans would love the behind-the-scenes stuff.”
“Fine,” he says. “You do the social media shit and play my girlfriend, and I’ll double the price.”
My eyes nearly bug out of my head. “Can you repeat that?” I stammer.
“I’m serious.”
Goddamnit, why does he have to make this so hard? “I can’t. I’m sorry.” I feel physical pain saying the words. The things I could do with that much money. But it’s not worth it. If I say yes, it’ll only destroy me.
Several seconds pass before he says, “I can offer more.”
“God, Rhett. It’s not about the money.”
“Then what is it?” A brief pause, then he adds quietly, “Is it me?”
Images of him flood my mind, and the memory of his scent clogs my senses until he’s all I can smell. “No, it’s not you.” I mean, it is him, just not in the way he thinks.
“Tell me what I need to fix, and I’ll fix it.”
“There’s nothing to be fixed.” Some things just aren’t meant to be. “I can’t do it.”
“And you won’t tell me why?” he says.
I squeeze my eyes shut, my fingers clenching the afghan. “I just think it’s a bad idea. The kind that blows up in your face.”
“Aren’t those the best ideas?” His smile bleeds through the phone, but it sounds sad.
“My answer is still no.”
“I’m not giving up.”
“You’re wasting your time.”
A pause, then: “I don’t think I am.”