Chapter 7
Seven
Ella
I’m too embarrassed by my video to check my VideYou account.
I don’t know what would be worse—having zero views, or having people actually watch it.
And what if they make mean comments? VideYou commenters are known for their lack of tact.
I saw that when Sebastian’s and my karaoke video went viral.
Thankfully, I could ignore it because nothing had been traced to me—I closed down my personal social media accounts soon after I left the university to take care of my dad.
It had been too painful to scroll through and watch my former friends all living their lives, moving on with their studies, meeting new boyfriends and girlfriends, going on vacations, buying new cars.
Social media seems to want to show the best of everything.
Even when I was at my lowest, I knew intellectually that everything presented on my feeds was a shiny veneer, coated in filters and carefully edited to present life in impossibly good lighting.
Yet in my heart, all I saw was everyone else’s happiness.
I’ve just finished cleaning at Dorado Terrace, and now I’m walking to Kingston’s penthouse.
He gave me the access code for the elevator and told me to treat the place as my own.
I’m not too proud to take him up on the offer.
I’ve moved in a few changes of clothes and toiletries, and I can’t remember the last time I slept in my own apartment.
Truth is, I don’t miss it.
Traffic is light and lazy because it’s Saturday afternoon. I keep to the sidewalk and text Melinda, my Maids in Heaven boss. Any chance I can pick up an extra shift or two ?
A minute later, my phone vibrates with her response. I don’t have anything right now. Are you looking for a permanent new assignment, or something short-term?
I wince. I haven’t told her yet about quitting Bartleby’s. Something permanent.
I’ll let you know when something comes up .
I love the woman for not asking questions. It’s hard enough right now, because I did not get the job at Chez Michel. I’m going to have to go online and see about finding openings at other restaurants and pubs.
As soon as the uncomfortable thought crosses my mind, my phone rings—and it’s Natasha.
“I got one of the open positions at Chez Michel,” she says. “Please tell me you did, too.”
“First,” I say, “congratulations. Second…I did not.”
“What?” She makes an outraged squawk.
“They’d already made their decisions before my interview, it sounds like,” I say.
A part of me, though, will always wonder if I don’t look polished and high-class enough, like maybe they could smell the poverty on me.
But I would never say that aloud, not to anyone.
“I mean, they asked if they could call me if I was needed in the future.”
“Shit,” she says. “That really sucks. I’m sorry, E.”
“No, it’s all right, I’ll figure something out.” I have a safety net, now. Bash and Kingston will never let me starve or be kicked out of my apartment. They’ve asked, more than once, for me to move in with one of them.
Natasha and I chitchat while I walk. She’s still seeing the guy she went on the date with last week.
His name is Gabe and he treats her like a queen.
I’m stupidly happy for her, because as we’ve gotten to know each other better over the past few weeks, I’ve learned Natasha has an anxiety disorder and it’s hard for her to open up to guys and trust them.
By the time I reach Kingston’s building, Natasha has to get off the phone, so we say goodbye and I ride up the elevator, texting Kingston that I’m here.
I’m at Ironwood, going over footage , he texts back.
No problem. I miss you .
I miss you, too .
I sigh, staring at my phone screen. I hate that Kristin has been kidnapped—she’s got to be terrified, and I truly hope she’s alive and well. But I also miss my boyfriend, and selfishly, I just want this whole Kristin kidnapping situation to go away so I can have him back.
It’s a horrible thought. I should want Kristin rescued because nobody should be kidnapped, ever, and I want her to be safe.
Even if she was, for a minute, after my man.
The elevator opens and I step into Kingston’s penthouse. The luxury of it smacks me in the face every time I see it.
But this time, there’s more—Sebastian is waiting in the living room, a bouquet of roses in his hand.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey, beautiful. These are for you.”
“Thank you—why?”
“To say congratulations.”
I cock my head. “For…?”
He laughs. “You haven’t looked at your VideYou channel in a while, have you?”
“Ugh, no.” I give my phone a disgusted look. “I’m too nervous about the whole thing.”
He holds up his phone. “Well, I’ve been checking in, and I think you should take a look at this. Two hundred thousand views, princess.”
I hurry toward him and stare at the screen.
My video is playing and I feel my face get hot at the sight of me, in front of the world, playing music on my own.
This is different from the karaoke video getting popular, because that was all about Sebastian, and it wasn’t my song.
This one, though—this is all me. And it’s hard knowing that.
But two hundred thousand people have watched it. Two hundred thousand seven hundred five, actually. My brain can hardly make sense of it.
As I stare, slack-jawed, at the bright blue 200,705 number on the “times viewed” count, it automatically refreshes. 208,018 .
“What—what does this mean?” I ask.
Sebastian smiles and picks up my hand, kissing my knuckles before saying, “It means, princess, that you are going viral.”
Sebastian
The weekend passes fairly pleasantly. Ella works an extra shift for Maids in Heaven on Sunday, and when she’s finished, we head to the university to record another song for her VideYou channel. She’s hit the required number of subscribers to monetize her content, so now she just needs more content.
“Do you think I should dress up or something?” she asks. She changed out of her maid uniform after her shift, so now she’s in a worn pair of jeans and a pink, long-sleeved tee.
“Nope, you look beautiful.”
The light is different today, because it’s just before noon, so I decide to stand on the other side of her this time. I take a couple of photos and show her how it’ll look.
She nods. “Seems fine to me. Damn, this is so weird, though.”
“The more you do it, the less weird it will feel,” I say. “I promise.”
“All right. Let’s do this.”
We record it five different times. I’m tempted to hire someone to put together the best of all five takes into one “perfect” recording, but Ella doesn’t have the funds for that, and I don’t think she’ll accept what she views as charity.
So I help her pick the best one of five, then I send it to her.
She uploads it to her VideYou channel and takes a huge breath.
“Doing all right?” I ask.
“Yeah. I need to practice some more songs so we can come back and record another one next week.”
“Ah, princess.” I kiss her forehead. “You’ve caught the bug. I’ll sit right over here while you show me what else you’ve got.”
I watch and listen for an hour, and then my sick mind starts coming up with ideas for how I could arrange her on that piano bench and fuck some sweet notes right out of her.
I don’t want to interrupt her practice time, though, so I force my attention to my phone for a minute.
Scrolling through my PhotoGram feed, I see that I’ve been tagged in a few re-posts.
My jaw drops. Artists who I’m friendly with—current, popular musicians—are sharing Ella’s video. A couple have tagged me, knowing (rightly) that I’d be into the music. One of them adds a note. I’m telling my agent about this girl—Bastian, you should tell Trina .
Fat fucking chance of that. I guess the news hasn’t gotten around that Trina is facing all kinds of charges for her role in my early retirement, and then her attack on Ella. But the fact that other musicians are taking note of Ella’s music? Damn, this is incredible.
Ella didn’t want me to share her video before, because she didn’t want her fame to be a result of knowing me. But now that other artists are sharing it, it would be weird if I didn’t, right?
I listen to her singing and playing in front of me, right here in this room. Even if I didn’t know her I’d be impressed, and I’d share this video I’ve been tagged in.
So I click the little “re-post” button and send it out to my followers.
Kingston
The worst thing about Kristin’s kidnapping is she doesn’t have any family to advocate for her. I’ve never met anyone who is so alone and disconnected. In the absence of those familial ties, I’ve been doing my best to check in at the police station. Her abduction is on the news.
Of course it is. An upper-class white woman, grabbed from the street in an expensive part of town. People are going to take notice.
It’s unfair to everyone else, but I hope the attention can somehow help Kristin.
When I get back to my apartment, late on Wednesday night, Ella is curled up on the sofa, frowning at her phone.
“Everything okay, sweetheart?” I ask.
“Yeah.” She smiles up at me. “Any news?”
“No.” I collapse on the sofa next to her.
Not only have I been trying to help both Ironwood and the police department in finding Kristin, but I’ve been trying to keep Tyler Analytics running and do not only my job, but as much of Kristin’s as I can.
Marco Ruberetta refuses to be ignored. And he’s not the only one—we have other clients, too, who require their businesses to run despite horrific things happening in the world, like a woman’s kidnapping.
Ella reaches up to cup my cheek, running her palm over my whiskers. “You look tired, Daddy.”
“It’s a rough day. But coming home to you is a definite bright spot. I could get used to this.”
“So could I.”
Her smile is subtle, but it’s there.
“Don’t tease an old man,” I say. “Are you hinting that you might…?”
She laughs. “I’m wondering if the offer’s still open.”