CHAPTER 23
TYLER
The next morning Tyler’s alarm played “Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go” by Wham!
Cary muffled a laugh under his pillow. “Are you serious?”
“Best wake-up song ever,” she said, rolling out of bed.
She’d seen George Michael on his last tour and was blown away by his voice, stage presence, and songwriting. But whatever happened to Andrew Ridgeley? She made a mental note to google it.
“Stay.” He reached out his arms and tried to hug her.
“I can’t. It was your bright idea to come out here.” The drive between LA and Malibu was farther than she’d planned.
“I know.” He cracked one eye open. “Did I hear you get up in the middle of the night?”
“We forgot to clean our plates after dessert.” She rummaged through her bag and pulled out a pair of fresh underwear. “I can’t sleep if dirty dishes are in the sink.”
After stepping out of the shower, Tyler slipped into a floral cotton dress. She didn’t particularly like what she was wearing but planned on changing into something fancier for Cary’s exhibit later.
“You’re dropping Rory off at the Roosevelt on your way to the gallery, right?” she asked.
Rory’s ears twitched when she said his name, but like a child avoiding his mother’s call for dinner, he didn’t stir a bit.
“Cary?” She raised her voice a smidge.
“I’ll drop him off around six,” he mumbled, burying his face into the pillow.
She kissed his bare shoulder. “Remember, no touching in front of Sebastien.”
“Who cares?” He rolled over and shielded his face from the light.
“I care,” she said. “I might get fired.”
“If he fires you, I’ll fire him.” He lowered his hand from his face and squinted. “Don’t worry about it.”
If Cary fired Sebastien he’d be out for revenge, an honor killing for bringing shame upon the SDM family.
“Please?” She kissed the nape of his neck, stressing the importance of keeping their relationship a secret.
“Fine.” He gestured toward the kitchen. “Croissants are by the fridge.”
She mustered a smile. “Thanks.”
“Have a great day, babe,” he murmured, eyes drifting shut.
Tyler’s car arrived at seven-thirty a.m. The driver said traffic along PCH was worse than usual—road work and routine maintenance slowing everything to a crawl. Her chest tightened. LA meetings rarely started on time, but she still hated running late.
She’d scheduled back-to-back industry meetings, ending with ASCAP after hours for drinks. As an intern, Sebastien had given her one useful tip—Canadian songwriters could join ASCAP for royalties. The only other thing he ever told her? To smile more.
He could go fuck himself.
At two minutes to nine she arrived at Warner Music Group and flew through the doors of the old Ford automobile factory.
Fuck, I’m late.
She rushed to the reception desk, where a young blond woman sat casually filing her acrylic nails.
“I’m Tyler Robertson,” she said, catching her breath.
The blond motioned toward the chairs. “Please, take a seat.”
Sweat trickled down Tyler’s sides. Fantastic.
Pit stains. She flapped her elbows like a deranged chicken before collapsing into the nearest chair.
She pulled out her phone and nearly dropped it—her hands slick from the heat.
Dozens of messages waited, and she had to reply within her standard one-hour timeframe.
A notification flashed across her screen, and she checked Cary’s Instagram.
“Rory!” It was a picture of Cary with her dog, barely recognizable underneath the sheets, and he’d captioned it with a heart emoji.
Lucky dog.
She smiled and liked the picture.
The rest of Tyler’s day was packed. Everyone claimed they wanted to sign her band, but she knew better—LA was a fickle town. Meetings were easy to land; follow-through was rare. She’d been burned enough by Dave to learn that lesson.
The ASCAP crew was different. As a nonprofit, they had no agenda, and their CEO—along with many top execs—was a highly educated woman. It made Tyler trust them more than the usual industry sharks.
From beers with ASCAP, she slid into an Uber, the city lights blurring past. Slightly buzzed, she arrived at Cary’s art exhibit just before seven p.m.
The gallery was smaller than it looked on their website but, as far as she could tell, well-suited for a photography exhibit. She smiled at the life-size poster of her boyfriend on the front of the building. It read cary kingston: candid.
“Tyler Robertson,” she said to the tall, burly security guard who stood at the entrance like Saint Peter at the gates of heaven. She flashed him a toothy smile, but he didn’t reciprocate, probably because he had a serious job to do, like checking names off the guest list.
“I don’t see your name?” he said, all judgment. His gaze dragged from her head to her shoes, lips curling into a smirk.
Damn it. She’d meant to change out of the floral cotton dress, but one beer had turned into three.
“I’m on Cary Kingston’s list.” She dropped his name like a rap record.
The security guard flipped over the page and traced his finger down the list of names. “Got any ID?”
“Yes sir.” She reached inside her bag and pulled out her passport.
“Canadian?” he asked rhetorically, crossing her name off the list. She nodded and he stamped her wrist, returning her passport without saying anything.
Inside the gallery Tyler scanned the room, but it was hopeless to find anyone in the crowd so she texted Cary: Here.
She hid in the corner to answer her messages.
It was out of character for her not to reply immediately, but she found it impossible to work in the City of Angels and understood why Motley Crüe shouted at the devil.
“Tyler!” Tommy crept up behind her before she could escape. “I’ve changed my mind.” He lifted two shrimp rolls from a plate of passing canapés. “I’ll take that band off your hands.”
“Yestown?” She waved away a tray of champagne. “Allie signed them.”
“When?”
“Last night.”
“Fucking bitch,” he muttered.
“You passed on them,” she reminded him. “Twice.”
He scoffed. “Yeah? We’ll see what Sebastien has to say about that. Speaking of . . .”
“Hi, doll,” Sebastien said, whiskey in hand. His face was extra splotchy and his beard unkempt, but thank god his baseball cap covered the rest of his head.
“Sorry about the Westgrays.” She shook her head like she meant it. “I know you sunk a lot of money into them.”
“I never liked them,” Tommy added.
You’re full of shit.
Sebastien’s eyes darkened. “I’m suing them.”
“They’re broke,” she told him. “They blew their advance money on partying.” Booze and drugs, she figured.
“It’s the principle.” Her boss gulped down the rest of his drink. “I heard the show went well last night.”
“It did,” she said. “Yestown killed it.”
“Good,” Sebastien snorted. “Sign them to SDM. We need more pucks on the net.”
What the hell?
“I thought you didn’t like them.” She distinctly remembered him saying they “sucked shit.”
“I don’t,” he said. “But as long as they’re making money—”
“You should’ve come last night,” Tommy interrupted them. “We threw an epic afterparty at the Chateau . . . tons of hot chicks.”
Sebastien frowned. “I don’t do amateur night.”
Tyler stopped herself from saying, That’s what she said.
Tommy straightened his tie. “Cary thought they were good, but I wasn’t sold. I’ll let Allie take them—throw her a bone.”
Sebastien’s eyes narrowed. “Why was Cary there?”
Jesus fucking Christ.
“I don’t know, but he wants to headline Coachella next year.” Tommy’s laugh turned into a cackle. “Fucking Coachella. Can you f—”
“I can’t wait to play Coachella next year,” a man behind them said.
“Cary!” Tommy turned around and shook his hand. He pointed at the photographs. “Nice fucking snaps.”
Cary scowled at him, insulted.
“I’m going out for a smoke,” Sebastien said. Her boss hated schmoozing with artsy-fartsy people, and they with him.
“I’ll join you,” Tommy said, brown-nosing like a piece of shit.
After they left Tyler straightened her dress. “Sorry,” she said. “My meetings ran late, and I didn’t have time to change.”
“You look beautiful, babe.” Cary kissed her cheek.
“Not here.” She peered out the window, but Sebastien had more than likely booked it out of there. “How’s Rory?” she asked.
“Tuckered out,” Cary said. “He played on the beach all day. I dropped him off at the hotel a couple of hours ago and he was already asleep. Hey, how’s my ASCAP family?”
“They loved the band!”
“Of course they did.” Cary squinted at the entrance. “Have you seen Vegas?”
She shook her head. “Kim picked him up this morning. But I haven’t seen her either, now that you mention it.”
“I’m sure he’s on his—”
“Cary darling!” a woman’s voice drawled, pleasant and sugary like sweet tea. She was from somewhere in the South. Maybe Texas or Oklahoma. Tyler couldn’t tell the difference between them.
“Uh . . . hi,” he said, his voice shaky as hell.
The petite blonde woman wore a tight fuchsia dress with a push-up bra, cleavage on full display. Her thick foundation had been plastered on, likely with a heavy hand, the shade noticeably off where it stopped at her jawline.
“Darling!” Her duck lips puckered, and she kissed Cary’s cheek, leaving behind an imprint so flawless it could double as a tattoo stencil.
Tyler raised her brow and glared at him.
“Tyler, this is Emma.” His voice was cold and clinical.
No shit, Dr. Kingston.
“Emma Turner.” She said her full name, no doubt making a point.
Tyler stared at her, jealousy slicing through her so sharply she could have split in half.
“Hi,” she spit out, lifting a glass of champagne from a passing tray.
The actress’s pale blue eyes zeroed in on her dress. “Hello.” She extended her hand and Tyler squeezed it firmly. “What is it you do, Tyler?”
“She works at SDM,” Cary said as if she were mute and added, “She works for Sebastien.”
And I fuck you, remember.
A photographer interrupted them, asking for Emma’s picture with Cary while Tyler’s heart shattered like a thin sheet of ice.
She turned away and gulped the champagne like water, then closed her eyes and willed the earth to vaporize six billion years ahead of schedule.
She cursed herself for wearing a stupid cotton dress, wedges on her feet, and no makeup on top of it.
How could Cary like both of them? Emma was her complete opposite. And a goddamn movie star. Okay—technically B-list, but still. Her ego was having a full-blown meltdown.
“Cary!” a well-dressed older gentleman with salt and pepper hair called him over.
With a grimace, Cary looked at Tyler and said, “I’ll be right back.”
“Take your time, darling.” Emma batted her fake eyelashes and wiped the lipstick stain from his cheek with her thumb.
Oh, fuck off already.
Tyler’s beer buzz was wearing off, so she grabbed another glass of champagne. The more she drank, the less she’d have to say to Cary’s ex-girlfriend. A win-win if there ever was one.
“I had too much sun today,” Emma mused, dramatically swooping her hand across her forehead. The actress stepped closer as a waft of Chanel No. 5 followed her. “Cary’s house doesn’t have any shade,” she added.
“Excuse me,” Tyler choked out, turning on her heel.
The voice in her head looped: Cary’s house doesn’t have any shade.
She half-walked, half-ran across the room, balancing her champagne glasses like hockey players fighting.
Oh my god! Did Emma meet Rory?
She chugged both glasses in quick succession before pulling up Emma’s Instagram.
“Fuck!” Emma had posted a picture of Rory on the beach and she’d captioned it: Love this little guy! #whosagoodboy
Using both hands, she clutched the high-top table beside her, knees buckling inward like a fawn on shaky legs. She didn’t know whether to scream, sob, or commit murder. It was like finding those emails on Dave’s computer—a complete blindside, no defense, no warning, just impact.
Her head pounded to the beat of The Tell-Tale Heart. Lub dub. Lub dub.
After she steadied herself and caught her breath, her heart crashed into her ribs like waves against a steamship.
I can’t believe this is happening.
A server came by with another tray, and she snatched a glass of champagne, knocking it back in one go. The bubbles stabbed her brain with icy needles, and she clenched her teeth while her eye twitched uncontrollably.
Meanwhile, across the room, Emma glommed onto Cary and smiled for the cameras. Once again, the actress kissed his cheek like they were a couple.
I’ve had it.
With alcohol now coursing through her body and the Chariots of Fire music fueling her pace, she ran toward the entrance in her sturdy wedges but collided with someone walking into the gallery.
“Sorry,” Tyler said.
“Dude?”
She spun around and cried, “Kim!”
“Hey, Tyler!” a man’s voice boomed above her head.
“Hi, Vegas.” She tried to smile but couldn’t muster a grin.
“Where are you going?” Kim asked.
Tyler’s throat tightened. Tears spilled before she could answer.
“Fuck, what is it?” Kim hugged her bestie and shooed Vegas inside the gallery. “What happened?”
Tyler could barely enunciate the words through her sniffles. “Em-Emma’s in there.”
“Fuck that skanky bitch.”
“Wait.” She showed Kim the picture of Rory on her phone.
Kim frowned. “She’s fucking dead.”
“While I appreciate that, it’s more Cary’s fault than hers.” Tyler glanced at her watch. “If I hurry, I can catch the last flight home. Please don’t tell him I’m leaving.”
Kim nodded and stormed inside, visibly pissed off.
On her way to the hotel Tyler booked the last seat on the last flight back to Vancouver. Time would be tight but she had Nexus, so she could bypass the line at the airport.
After she fetched Rory and her bags, the bellhop waved down a taxi.
“L-A-X,” she instructed the driver. “Take La Brea, please. I’m in a hurry.”
She’d been to Los Angeles enough times to know better than to leave the routing to the driver. They always took the long way around, driving slower than any grandma.
Where was Sammy Hagar when you needed him? Probably in Cabo drinking tequila.
As the car bumped down the road she leaned back and held on to Rory.
“Sorry, buddy,” she cooed. What is that? She sniffed his head and widened her eyes. Chanel No. 5. Holy fucking hell.
The thought of Emma touching her dog gave her the creeps. Poor Rory. She’d make it up to him with cookies, a bath, and more cookies to reward him.
At that moment Cary’s most popular love song blared through the radio like torture music, making her stomach churn.
She leaned forward and implored, “Please turn it off.”
Of all the songs in the world.
A few minutes later her phone vibrated. It was a text message from Cary.
Where are you?
She sent him a screenshot of Emma’s post and shut off her phone.
Good riddance.