11. Torren
11
TORREN
PRESENT DAY
Callie.
She goes by Callie.
Days later, and I still can’t quite believe it.
I know her. I know I know her. That’s one of the most frustrating things about getting sober. You realize just how much of your life was lost to the drugs. Whole chunks of time are black, and the memories that did manage to stick are distorted and hazy. I can’t quite tell what’s real and what’s not.
But I know Callie James. I can feel it. I just don’t know how.
The chances of her being a groupie are slim, given how much she fucking dislikes me. Was she at a party where I got into a fight? Did I fuck up her boyfriend?
A chill skates down my spine...
What if it was Sean? Could he have...?
No. It couldn’t have been that. We kicked his ass out of the band before he could do any real damage, and while it’s no secret that he’s my brother, I’d have remembered something like that.
No. Sean can’t be the connection.
It must be something else.
I turn down Callie’s street at 8:00 a.m., revving the engine of my black sports car louder than necessary. My music is blaring as well, the bass turned up to obnoxious levels.
Anything to draw attention. The more nosy neighbors I intrigue, the better.
When I pull up to the curb of her apartment building, both Damon and I climb out. I stand beside the car for a moment and check my phone. I loiter. Three minutes. Then five minutes. Then I walk into the apartment building, leaving Damon to stand beside my car.
I consider the elevator, but it resembles a microwave from the 1960s, so I take the stairs. When I knock on the door, it swings open immediately, revealing a girl around fifteen. As soon as she sees me, her jaw drops, and she lets out a tiny squeak.
“Oh my god, she wasn’t lying.”
I smile. “She was not lying.”
The girl’s hair is a lighter shade of red than Callie’s—closer to strawberry-blond—but her eyes are the same shade of green.
“You must be Callie’s sister. I’m Torren.”
“I’m Glory.”
She stands in the doorway and blinks up at me, staring slack-jawed in shock.
“Can I come in?”
“Yes.” She nods, but she doesn’t move, so I gently step past her and into the living room.
When I do, I hear heated whispers coming from a room down a short hallway. I glance toward it and see Callie’s back. She’s standing half inside a room, and from the stiffness in her spine, I can tell this discussion isn’t going the way she’d wanted it to go.
“Mom’s pissed.”
I bring my attention to Glory, and she shrugs.
“She doesn’t want Callie to run off again. Thinks she’s being irrational and stupid, which, duh .”
“Again?”
“Yup.”
I glance at her. “Care to elaborate?”
She pops her hand on her hip and arches a brow. “I don’t know you. If she wants to tell you, she will. ”
“Okay,” I say with a laugh. “Noted.”
She huffs and walks away, apparently no longer dumbstruck by my presence, and leaves me standing awkwardly in her living room.
I can’t help but look around at the small space. An older model television sits on a stand in the corner. A couch that has seen better days covers the wall to the left. There is a small dining table to my left full of papers, and my eyes scan it on impulse. I see what looks like bills. Electric. Sewer. Internet. Something that I’m pretty sure is an insurance company. I look away, not wanting to invade the family’s privacy any more than I already have.
My eyes find a large dry-erase calendar stuck to the fridge in the kitchen. Callie Work is scribbled on nearly every day in red marker. Glory Work on a few other days in blue. I look away from that, too, but then my attention goes back to it. From the looks of the calendar, Callie works a lot. Two weeks in a row with no days off, with several days adding DOUBLE next to her name.
She really wasn’t exaggerating when she said she wasn’t in the position to turn down my offer. Part of me feels bad, but another more selfish part feels relieved.
When Callie steps out of the bedroom and starts walking to the living room, her face is twisted with disappointment, and she looks even more exhausted than she did when I saw her a few days ago. I didn’t think that was possible. She stops in her tracks when she sees me and grimaces.
“You’re early.”
I check my watch. “By ten minutes,” I say. “But I’ve been here for five, so fifteen minutes early, I guess.”
She jerks out a nod and steps out of the hallway, toting a carry-on suitcase behind her.
“Let’s go then.” She turns back to the hallway. “Mom, I’m leaving. Just... Just call me, okay?”
Callie waits for a response, but when one doesn’t come, she walks reluctantly to the door. Just before we step into the hallway, her sister comes running back into the living room with her dog trailing behind her. She throws her arms around Callie’s neck in a hug, and Callie must be shocked because it takes her a moment to return the gesture .
They hug for a long time, and Glory whispers something into Callie’s ear before they finally release one another.
“Be good,” Callie says, and her sister nods.
“You, too. Call soon, okay?”
“I’ll call every day.”
After one last sad goodbye and a pat on the dog’s head, Callie follows me out the door and down the stairs.
“That didn’t seem to go well,” I say to her, and she laughs.
“Yeah.”
I glance over my shoulder at her. She has sunglasses on, so I can’t see those light-green eyes of hers, but her body language is all I need to see to know she is less than thrilled to be leaving with me. I consider just asking her—just coming right out and saying it—but I decide against it. Now is not the time, and given just how blank my memory is surrounding her, it’s a conversation that’s probably best had in private after the tension between us has calmed a little. And it has to calm; otherwise, no one is going to believe this relationship is real.
Before stepping out of the stairwell, I stop and turn to face her.
“Okay, there will probably be some photographers outside,” I warn her, and her eyes flare.
“Already?”
“Already. You think you can act a little more excited to be with me?”
She gives me an extremely unbelievable smile, and I can’t help but laugh.
“Sure. They’ll buy that,” I say sarcastically. “Okay, new plan. Let me hold your hand and then y?—”
“Hold your hand?” Her question is one of apprehension, and I nod slowly.
“Yeah, Callie. We’re dating, remember? We’ll be touching a lot more than that?—”
“I said no sex,” she whispers at me.
“Right, no sex. But touching. Hand-holding. Embracing.”
When her face pales, I frown and step toward her. I lower my voice so only she can hear. “Are you sure you’re up for this? We can stop it. We can call it off.”
The silence stretches and my nerves stir in my chest before she finally speaks .
“I’m up for it.” Then she’s reaching for my hand and lacing her fingers with mine. The contact sends a flare of heat up my arm. “Let’s just get it over with.”
I nod and force a smile. “Right.”
Because Let’s just get it over with is exactly what I want to hear from my girlfriend, fake or not.
Callie’s hand tightens around mine the moment we step out of the building and are met with the shouts of three paparazzi with cameras. I expected it—it’s why I made such a scene when I got here—but Callie obviously hates the attention.
I lead her to the car where Damon already has the passenger door open, then I help her in and shut the door behind her. Damon takes her suitcase and puts it in the trunk, then he and I are both climbing into the car and driving away. Once we turn the corner, Callie lets out a slow breath.
“Will that ever get easier?”
“You kind of get used to it,” I tell her honestly.
I don’t tell her it will only get worse once we’re on tour and word has spread that she’s with me. Sure, the stalker will hopefully disappear, but the media will be relentless for a while.
“Your mom seemed angry,” I say, changing the subject. “I could tell you were arguing when I arrived.”
Callie rests her head on the seatback and sighs.
“Well, I’m not allowed to tell her the truth, so of course she’s going to be pissed that I’m ditching my family to go on tour with some arrogant rock star with a bad reputation.”
“Ouch,” I say with a laugh. “Don’t hold back. Let me know exactly how you feel about your boyfriend .”
“Sorry, King. Her words, not mine.”
“But you agree?”
She shrugs. “If it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck, it’s probably an arrogant rock star with a bad reputation.”
Well. These next three months should be easy. Assuming we make it that far.
I won’t lie—I find the idea of a relationship with Callie kind of thrilling, even if it is fake. I need to unpuzzle my memory of her, and something about the fire in her, about the way she seems to absolutely despise me, has me intrigued beyond what’s reasonable.
She’s not falling at my feet. She’s not throwing herself at me, which tells me she’s also not trying to get on my good side or butter me up to use me. I approached her for this arrangement, and she agreed out of necessity, not some hero-worship obsession.
I like it. It’s refreshing in a way I’ve never experienced. It’s a nice change of pace from what I’ve come to expect from most people. With this level of fame and money, it’s hard to find anyone who isn’t clambering over themselves to kiss my ass. I loved it at first. Now I find it exhausting.
I can’t help but smile, and I have to swallow back the urge to laugh at myself. I’m so over the fame that the idea of a fake relationship with a woman who seems to hate my guts has me more excited than I’ve been in a long time.
I should probably talk about this on Therapy Thursday, but I have a feeling I know what my therapist will say.
I like Callie’s dislike of me because if she can’t stand me, that means we’re not at risk of fooling ourselves into thinking this arrangement is something it’s not. We won’t pretend it’s more than it is. She won’t take advantage of me. I won’t fall in love with someone who’s unavailable, and the only thing that matters in my life will be protected: the band.
If Calla Lily James hates me, I’m safe, as long as she can pretend like she likes me in front of the cameras. If she hates me, I won’t be in danger of repeating recent history.
“What did you tell her?” I ask, breaking the silence we’d fallen into. Callie jumps slightly in the passenger seat. “Sorry if I startled you.”
She shakes her head and stifles a yawn.
“It’s fine. I told her I met you a couple weeks ago, and we’ve stayed in touch. That I like you, and I’ve decided to go on tour with you.”
“She believed it?”
“Yeah, I guess. She was angry and hurt. I think maybe that clouded her ability to really question it.”
I glance at her quickly before looking back at the road. Her eyes are shielded behind sunglasses, but I have a feeling they’re closed.
“How did you explain the first check?”
“I didn’t. I just deposited it into her account.” She brings her hands to her head and presses on her temples. “I’ll deal with that when she notices. If she talks to me again.”
“I’m sorry this is causing you so much stress,” I say quietly, and Callie scoffs.
“As long as it helps Sav Loveless, right?”
I’m surprised by the bite in her tone, but I don’t respond. I focus on driving, and she says nothing else until we’re pulling up to Sav’s house where the tour buses are parked out front on the curb. We drive past the crowd of reporters and through Sav’s wrought-iron gate. When I park in her circle driveway, Callie is alert and peering out the window.
“This is Sav’s house. Everyone else is already here. We’ll be getting on the road soon.”
Callie nods and takes a deep breath. “Any more public appearances today?”
“Hammond wants us to pose for some pictures that he’ll release to the media, and then we’re going to have to walk past the crowd out front to get on the bus, but after that, you’re free for a bit.”
We fall back into silence as she continues to stare out the window at Sav’s house. Damon hasn’t said a word from the back seat the whole drive, but I can see him check his watch in my periphery. We need to get moving.
“Okay. I can do this,” Callie says suddenly, then she opens the door and climbs out.
I follow, then round the car to stand next to her.
“Ready?”
She shakes her head. “No. But I have to be anyway. Might as well just rip the Band-Aid off.”
“Get it over with, yeah?”
“Yep.”
“Right. Well...this way.”
I push past her and walk into the house. She sighs behind me. I can picture the way her brows are probably knitted in a frown right now, but she follows. Her footsteps sound heavy, tired. She makes no attempt to hide her reluctance, but I don’t mind.
The more she dislikes me, the better. It’s safer that way.