27

Chapter 1

Y ou wanna know the shittiest thing about falling in love with someone who ends up being super famous?

It’s not the whole “sharing them with the world” thing. It’s not the constant speculation, or the ever-churning, internet-powered rumor mill. It’s not even the fact that you can’t go out without having a camera shoved in your face.

The absolute worst thing about falling in love with someone famous is that when you (inevitably) break up, their face is still every-fucking-where.

Case in point:

There I was, stuck in the usual LA traffic. The aircon system I’d had installed in my 1961 Lincoln Continental convertible let off something that sounded suspiciously like a death rattle while I drummed my fingers against the wheel.

It was hot but not unbearably so, the heat mellowing a bit in the late afternoon. My phone was resting on the passenger seat, blaring out the newest mix of my band Reliant’s latest album. It sounded amazing – still new enough that I was ass-over-elbow in love with it.

(The doubt doesn’t creep in until much later, when the rush of creating something shiny and new and beautiful wears off. I wasn’t there yet.)

I rubbed a calloused hand across the back of my neck, a prickle of sweat along my dirty blond hairline making me itch. The traffic lights changed, I looked up and

BAM.

There he was.

Well, it wasn’t him . If I’d looked up to discover Sebastian Jacobs, lead singer of the world’s favorite rock band Burning Bright and one of the New Yorkiest New Yorkers that you’ll ever have the misfortune of meeting standing in the middle of the road in downtown LA, I woulda sworn a blue streak that could make even the surliest sailor blush.

It was a billboard, a giant fucking billboard no less.

It was a full band shot, but Sebastian was front and center, his carefree black wavy hair spilling into the big, bright blue eyes that had captivated a couple of generations if Burning Bright’s streaming figures were anything to go by.

He wasn’t smiling, but there was a hint of something playful around his eyes, the corners of his perfectly shaped lips.

You better believe I tore away from those traffic lights so fast I swore I could smell burning rubber all the way home.

◆◆◆

The sun had almost completely set by the time I pulled into my street. The gold-tinged light splashed across the low roof of my sprawling bungalow, spilling onto the driveway as I turned in and killed the engine.

I glanced at the front door before I started gathering my things.

I flung my phone and tablet in my ratty Eastpak backpack, slinging it over my shoulder as I got out the car.

I grabbed the guitar case from the backseat, my breath trickling out on a steady exhale as the comforting, familiar weight of it settled in my hand.

I was almost at the front door when it swung open, unleashing the ball of energy otherwise known as Sara, my four-year-old daughter.

She knew better than to run down the front steps to greet me (she still had the scars from a dozen pairs of scraped knees, it’d been an endearingly difficult lesson for her) but that didn’t stop her from bouncing impatiently on the balls of her feet while I dragged my sorry ass up to the door.

“Daddy daddy daddy you’re home!” She yelped, flailing her little pale hands in my general direction when I got close enough to grab onto.

“I sure am, kiddo.”

I couldn’t help but smile down at her as she clamped herself to my leg. I moved my guitar case over to my other hand so that she wouldn’t get hit with it and swung us both inside the blessedly cool house.

It was exactly the kind of home I’d pictured having, when I ran away from Utah and found myself in LA of all places.

It was more than big enough for Sara and me; three bedrooms, all with their own bathroom.

I was oddly proud of the double driveway and the small, sparkling pool out back.

I’d designed the soundproofed music room myself.

It was cluttered but clean, it looked lived in.

I liked that when you walked in the front door, you could get a pretty good idea of who lived there – from the framed records on the hallway wall to the clusterfuck of dog-eared polaroids on the fridge from Reliant’s previous tours and the wicker basket of stuffed animals by the couch, it was clearly our home.

“You look like you saw a ghost, Max,” Abbey said in lieu of a greeting, one of her perfectly pencilled-on brows raising to meet her neon green bangs. “Hard day at the studio?”

“Nah,” I shook my head, dredging up a smile. “Just long. New mix is nearly done though.”

“Yay daddy!” Sara grinned, letting go of my leg long enough to clap her hands together. I put my guitar down to ruffle her honey blonde hair.

“This one gonna stick?” Abbey asked with a knowing cluck of her pierced tongue.

I glared in reply – the latest mix of the new Reliant album was a 3 rd attempt.

Abbey hadn’t been down to the studio much this time round because four-year-olds and super expensive recording equipment aren’t a winning combination, but she knew me well enough to know I was the one fussing over practically every second of the record, determined to get it as close to perfect as it could be.

“Pretty sure, yeah,” I nodded, dropping down onto one of the high stools by the breakfast counter.

“Geez, I can’t believe the album’s almost done. Felt like it was just yesterday plus two whole years that you started on it,” she quipped, bending down to meet Sara’s gaze.

“Well I’ve been kinda distracted,” I replied, nodding in Sara’s general direction.

“Hey princess, wanna go take a bath while Daddy eats his dinner?” Abbey asked Sara, who immediately began pouting.

“Don’t wanna bath,” was the little huffed reply. I spun on the stool and ruffled Sara’s sun-streaked hair.

“Tell you what, kid – if you go let Abbey give you a bath, I’ll come in and read you a bedtime story when you’re done. Deal?”

Sara glanced between us both, seemingly knowing when she was beat.

She gave in with a massive sigh and a roll of her blue eyes, sticking her hand up in Abbey’s general direction so she could be led off to the bathroom like a prisoner being led off to their cell.

I couldn’t help but smile; my kid was all attitude, and while I knew that was probably going to make things hellish when she hit puberty, it was kinda hilarious to see it in someone so small.

Abbey and Sara usually had dinner pretty early so Sara could get bathed and off to bed at a responsible hour, but Abbey always put aside some leftovers for me. I nuked the vegetarian lasagne she’d left in the fridge and rummaged through the cellophane covered bowls until I found some salad.

While my dinner was warming up, I kicked off my Chucks, popped open a beer and flicked on the living room TV.

If I was going to be having dinner with Abbey and Sara, we always sat at the dining table over by the big patio doors, but when I was eating on my own it was always a slumped-on-the-couch, feet-on -the-coffee-table affair.

I was so pre-occupied with plating up my food that it took me a second to realize someone on the TV had said my name.

I glanced up, internally groaning when I realised Abbey had left it on one of those stupid celebrity gossip shows she liked to watch so much.

Whenever I took her to an industry event with me, she’d elbow me and whisper some ridiculous rumor in my ear that she’d no doubt heard from one of those vapid shows.

The depth and breadth of her knowledge on who was dating who in Hollywood was actually kind of impressive.

The host of the show was a pretty brunette, her hair hanging around her sharp face in poker straight, glossy sheets. She was standing in front a massive screen where once again, Sebastian Jacobs seemed to take up the whole frame.

It was a paparazzi shot of him in New York.

He was walking down the street, talking animatedly on his cell phone, his free hand gesturing as he spoke.

He had a pair of stupid massive sunglasses pushed up into his hair, keeping it away from his face (and making it painfully obvious to the paparazzi that he was the one and only Sebastian Jacobs – he’s never really been good at blending in).

He looked pretty much the same as he had done when I’d last seen him, five years ago on the last day of the tour Reliant had done with Burning Bright.

We’d both been barely more than kids then, 22 and thoroughly intoxicated by alcohol and drugs and the endless possibilities that seemed to stretch out in front of us just like the never-ending American highways where we’d spent the summer.

I noticed, with a wry grin, that he still kind of dressed the same as he had back then: tight black jeans paired with fitted tees that were way softer than they looked.

I had to close my eyes and take a deep breath just to chase away the memories of those shirts bunching in my over-eager hands as I tugged them over his head, unleashing a soft laugh and a crackle of static electricity.

Fashion wasn’t really my thing, but even I could tell that the leather jacket Sebastian was wearing cost about $2000 more than the one he’d worn on that tour – he hardly ever took that damn jacket off and by the end of the summer, the elbows had cracked right through.

The boots he was wearing clearly were expensive too, the leather moulded to fit his long, slender legs.

A Sebastian spotting wasn’t usually enough to land him on TV, though.

He was famous, really famous, and while paparazzi photos of him tended to end up splashed across the front page of the internet so everyone could coo over his carefully curated outfit, seeing him living his seemingly charmed life in New York wasn’t really newsworthy.