4. Callie
four
Callie
“Ms. Wright, we’re here.”
I open my eyes to the sound of my driver’s deep, rumbling voice. Pushing the melody and lyrics I was replaying in my head away, I glance at my driver, Mike, who is watching me with a curious brow in the rearview mirror.
“Are you okay, miss?” He’s in his mid-forties, stands about six-foot-five and probably weighs two-fifty. The man could be a linebacker for the NFL, but according to the security company he works for, he’s one of the best security guards out there.
Mike seems like a decent enough guy, kind even, but I don’t trust him. He could be another one of Silla’s transplants who reports my daily comings and goings to her. It’s not just him. I don’t trust anyone, not with the way Silla gets her claws into people. She poisons even the best of them.
“I’m fine, thank you,” I reply with a tight-lipped smile.
Mike nods and climbs out of the driver’s seat.
As I glance out the window, my heart races and sweat coats the back of my neck as dread pools heavily in my stomach at the sight of the rehearsal space Hudson reserved.
The Ricochet Lounge is an old brick concert hall that was made famous in the seventies. It’s a gorgeous space with a vintage feel. In another time, I would have loved to have performed here, with just my guitar on stage, under the lights and glittering disco ball hanging above me.
Unfortunately, that time doesn’t exist. My future, my life—everything—was torn apart the moment I lost everyone who mattered to me, and I’ll never be able to get that back. My throat closes and tears prick my eyes.
Mike opens the door, chasing the vision of her soft face and empty eyes away.
“Do you need help, Ms. Wright?” He holds out his hand.
I hesitate as my dad’s voice races through my head. “ Don’t let them see weakness.”
Twisting the gold band on my thumb, I shake my head. “I’m good. Thank you, Mike.”
Throwing my gym bag strap over my shoulder, I twist my body, take a deep breath, and brace myself as I place my feet on the curb. I hiss at the sharp stabbing pain in my knee as I stand. Refusing to touch the tender spot, I take a few tentative steps and breathe through the pain as I make my way to the entrance. It’s going to be a long, grueling day of rehearsals and choreography before I can find peace in the soundproof recording booth at the studio and rest my leg.
My mind drifts to yesterday’s accident. My heel snapped off as I stepped onto the moving platform, and I fell face first towards the ground. Fear struck me like a shot of ice to the chest, freezing me dead. Luckily, the stage box moved, and my knee slammed against the edge instead. The impact pushed my body out of trajectory, and I landed on my back.
If the heel had snapped after the box rose ten feet from the floor, I could have been seriously hurt or worse. I shudder at the thought as anxiety zips through me. Besides the fall, there have been a few other incidents that have me worried.
Last week, I got locked in the hot wardrobe closet under the moving stage. Thank goodness Hudson found me and I’d only spent ten minutes there shouting for someone to let me out. Hudson ended the rehearsal early and screamed at every stagehand, threatening to fire each one of them if something like that happened again.
Then there are the late-night phone calls. I’m met with silence every time I answer. Other times, I feel like I’m being watched, but when I look around, I can’t find anything or anyone out of the ordinary.
Like right now. I search the parking lot, paranoid like the boogie man is going to jump out at me.
I flinch as Mike slams the car door and rushes to catch up with me. He opens the front door and escorts me inside the building. Aside from a few stagehands, the space is lifeless. Only a wide variety of equipment that will make up the stage for my tour fills the space.
Being the first to arrive, I embrace the quiet. I prefer doing my vocal warmups alone in my dressing room. It helps ease my nerves before everyone trickles in for the day. The idea of performing in front of thousands of people still scares the hell out of me.
Sure, I’ve starred in movies and have opened for other musicians, but headlining a tour is very different. On a movie set, I can retake a scene if I mess up. There’s also less pressure to open a concert for someone else. With my tour, everything reflects me and there are no retakes. Everything must be perfect—from the set list to my singing and dancing, to my outfits.
Ugh, the outfits.
They are so uncomfortable to dance in, and a part of me feels like they are way over the top and sparkly, but what Silla wants, she gets. So, dancing in four-inch heels, which are color coordinated to match each set dress, is what I’ll do.
Mike follows me backstage, towards my dressing room. He takes his spot outside as I head inside and close the door. It’s nothing extravagant, but I like it. Aside from my apartment, it’s the only place that feels like mine.
A velvet-soft purple loveseat and matching ottoman are situated to the right against the wall, next to a mini fridge full of water. The small white coffee table to the left holds a four-pound jar of red vines, and an endless supply of pens and notebooks, while my guitar sits on a stand to the right. A rack of costumes lines the wall to the left that also leads to a small ensuite bathroom, while the back wall contains a fully lit vanity with a plush, lavender, wide-seat wingback chair and wall-to-wall mirrors.
Contrary to what Silla requests, this is the only stuff I allow in this space. The rest is up in her so-called office. When Hudson came to find me here, he noticed most of the things on my list of dressing room requirements weren’t present.
When he questioned me about it, I tried to shrug it off, saying the space was too small, but I’m a horrible liar. Hudson saw right through me. He has yet to voice his concern or ask me about it. I see the way he watches me and Silla interact. I’ve wanted to tell him all about our twisted relationship, but something holds me back every time.
I drop my bag on the floor and lie down on the couch. Closing my eyes, I take a few deep breaths and let the words I’ve memorized as a child fill the air.
My mother loved this song. She sang it no matter her mood. Feeling happy? Sing Somewhere Over the Rainbow. Sad, mad, frustrated, or excited? She’d belt it out at the top of her lungs. She had the most beautiful voice I’ve ever heard, and it used to bring me so much joy to come home from school to her singing in the kitchen. I’d watch my dad come up behind her and kiss her cheek. She’d throw her head back and laugh before singing again as she cooked or washed dishes.
Then, one day, it all just stopped.
Now, I cling to the memories of her. The way she ran her hand through my hair and the sound of her sweet voice as I fell asleep and dreamed about rainbows and blue birds.
When I was about eight or nine, I recall asking her why it was her favorite song.
She brushed my hair behind my ear. “My sweet girl, when a song reaches inside you—down to the deepest part of your soul—and brings out an emotion, you’ve come face to face with the beauty of music. One day, if you’re lucky, you’ll find a song that does that for you.”
“I like your song.” I snuggled deeper into her side, my head on her chest.
She rested her cheek on my crown. “Me too.”
I listened to mom’s heartbeat. “Can you teach me how to write a song like you do?”
“Really?” She sounded surprised.
I nodded shyly. “Maybe we can write a song that makes people happy too.”
“I’d love that, sweet pea.” Mom hugged me tight, and my eyes closed as I drifted off to sleep.
As the last note leaves my lips, I let go of the memory and the single tear that falls every time I sing this song. I miss her so much.
The air shifts, and the hairs on my arms stand on end like how I feel when I think I’m being watched. With my eyes closed, I lie as still as I can, waiting and listening.
The floorboards creak, and my ears perk up. Did that come from inside or outside the room? The floor creaks again, and my muscles tense.
“Good morning, Calliope,” a deep voice rumbles.
I jump with a scream, and roll off the couch. With a thud, I land on the hardwood floor stomach, and knee, down.
“Shit, Callie, are you okay?” The sound of footsteps gets closer, and the rugged voice I haven’t heard in months registers.
Before he can touch me, I prop myself on my knees and sit back on my heels with a hiss. “Elijiah Miller,” I push my hair off my face, and glare at him. “What on earth are you doing in my dressing room?” My breaths are choppy as I stare up into the mismatching eyes that haunt my dreams.
Eli steps back and smooths his charcoal tie down his chest, carefully pondering his next words as he shoves his hands inside his slacks pockets. “I got here early and was having a look around.”
“A look around doesn’t mean to hide in my bathroom and spy on me.”
“I wasn’t spying on you.”
“Then what were you doing?” My knee throbs, and I wince as I push myself to my feet and cross my arms over my chest, waiting for his answer.
“Fuck, you’re hurt,” he blurts, noticing my unease.
“I’m fine.”
He points at me and narrows his eyes. “No, you’re not.”
Confirming my injury would be a mistake. Eli Miller thinks I’m nothing but a spoiled princess. The last thing I want is to prove him right.
I wave him away. “It’s not from falling off the couch. Now, answer my question.”
“How’d you hurt yourself?”
“Answer me first. Why were you snooping around my dressing room?”
Eli rolls his eyes at me. “I wasn’t snooping.”
I glare at him, and he rocks onto his heels, looking sheepish.
“It was an accident. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. You came in, dropped onto the couch, and started singing before I could announce my presence. Now, tell me, what’s wrong with your leg?”
“None of your damn business,” I spit back.
A smug smirk pulls at his sexy mouth.
Does he enjoy pissing me off? I ball my hands into a fist, waiting for him to say something snarky.
“Wrong. You are my business,” he says, surprising me. What’s more shocking is that the way he says “my business” sends electricity shooting through me.
Eli unbuttons his jacket and shrugs it off his broad shoulders. My mouth dries, and my heart rate speeds up as I try not to stare at the way his dress shirt molds to his hard body.
Gah, why does he have to be so sexy?
“Where’s Hudson?” My question comes out all breathy, and I want to die of embarrassment at how he so obviously affects me.
“He has personal business to attend to. I’m all you’ve got.” Eli drapes his jacket over my costume rack.
“Great,” I mumble under my breath. “Just what I need. Another babysitter.”
Either Eli doesn’t hear me or ignores me. “I’m going to be onset working. I might have to step out for a minute, but if you need anything, let me know.”
“Don’t hold your breath.” I amble my way over to the wingback chair, making sure not to limp.
“Your call,” he states over his shoulder and struts into the bathroom like he owns the place.
I lean my elbows onto the vanity, prop my head in my hands and stare into the mirror. I watch his reflection in the mirror as he opens the cabinets, searching for who knows what.
“What are you doing?” I watch Eli bend over, and I can’t help biting my lip to stifle a groan at the sight of his tight butt. Elijiah Miller might be a pain in my ass, but his is perfection.
“Aha.” He walks back into the room, carrying an instant ice pack. I twist the chair to face him as he punches, shakes, and hands it to me. “Put this on your knee. Don’t think I didn’t see you limp.”
“Fine.” I grab the pack from his hand with more force than necessary and place it on my knee. “Why are you so annoying?”
“Why aren’t you telling me how you got hurt?” He takes a seat on the purple velvet ottoman and faces me as he rests his elbows on his knees, ready for me to talk.
“Do you always answer a question with a question?” I sound like a brat and I hate it, but this man brings it out of me. Since the day I met Eli, he’s just had this ability to piss me off. And turn me on.
“Do you always answer a question with a question?” he asks coolly.
See, right there? Why does he have to be so smooth? So unaffected?
“Real mature.” I glower as Eli glares at me.
My eyes bounce between his as he watches me watch him. If not for the twitch in his cheek, he’d look like a chiseled statue of a Roman god. I’d bet a million dollars he’d have no problem staying in this position until I gave in.
So, I do. “There was a shoe malfunction. My heel broke. I slipped and fell knee first onto the edge of the stage box.”
“Your heel broke?”
If this were any other person, I’d hear the disbelief in that question. I mean, I couldn’t believe it when it happened. It was a freak accident. Right? But that’s not how Eli asked. He sounded serious, and maybe … worried? The thought makes me shiver.
I push that crazy idea away. “That’s what I said.”
“Don’t you have someone managing costumes? Ensuring stuff like this doesn’t happen? Does Hudson know?”
“Yes. I checked everything with my costume supervisor before the set. But…” My thoughts drift back to yesterday, and I remember what went on before I fell.
“But what?” Eli prods.
I shake my head. “It’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing. You’re hurt. Tell me everything that happened.” He points at me, and I know he’s serious when his jaw ticks. “And don’t leave anything out.”
“Can you be any bossier?”
Eli flashes me a cocky smirk. “Yes. Now talk.” He waves his hand in a circle, gesturing for me to continue.
“Fine. Maggie—that’s my costume person—and I did a pre-rehearsal check on all the dresses.” I can’t stop myself from making a face. I hate all the costumes so damn much.
Eli’s brow lifts, but he stays quiet.
“After the dresses, we checked the shoes. Everything was in working order. Everything was fine until the last change … when I fell.”
“I didn’t miss the way you trailed off. What happened between your check and changing?”
I was hoping he didn’t catch that because I’m not sure. I keep trying to tell myself that it was an accident, but something in my gut disagrees. But there isn’t anything concrete to tell me otherwise, just a feeling.
I keep to the facts. “I don’t know. Maggie’s job is to move the costumes from my dressing room to their locations. Some go under the stage and some on either side. I don’t see the outfits again until I make the swaps, but I have less than a minute to change for the last set, so I don’t look. I just switch and rush out.”
Eli rubs his jaw, deep in thought. He stands abruptly, confusing me with his erratic behavior. “I’ll let you finish getting ready. You know where to find me.”
I nod, finding myself locked into a staring game with him again. We watch each other with careful eyes for a beat before Eli breaks eye contact and stands. With the move, his rich sea water and woodsy scent infiltrates my nose, and fills my head with all kinds of inappropriate thoughts.
As casually as I can, I lean away and hold my breath, refusing to let myself sniff him like a dog in heat. I can’t go down that road again. That road leads to fantasies of Eli pressing his hard body into mine as he fills me so completely with his thick, hard cock.
My cheeks heat, and the temptation to press the cold pack to my forehead is strong. I turn away and toss the compress on the vanity.
Eli grabs his jacket and heads for the door. He cracks it open and turns back. His eyes catch mine in the mirror. “Earlier, when I was in the bathroom listening…”
“Yeah?”
His eyes bore into mine, penetrating me down to my soul, and for the first time, Eli shocks the hell out of me with a compliment. “You sounded beautiful. You should sing like that more often.”
Before I can respond, he’s out the door, sucking all the air from the room and my lungs with him.
“You sounded beautiful.”
As his parting words replay in my head, I’m knocked off balance and left breathless. But my insides? Those are turned into molten lava. His words having affected me more than his hand on my hip ever did.