Damsel in Defense (Toronto Nighthawks #2)

Chapter One

VICTORIA

I have been closer to death than to walking down the aisle.

My hand pauses midway to my ear, jewelry dangling as the sobering thought totally takes me off guard.

Where the hell had that cryptic notion come from?

It’s a true statement, but still…sad and super grim for me to be thinking about.

Especially when I’m only hours away from watching my older brother get married to the love of his life.

“Now, that’s a crazy thought,” I say out loud, smiling into the mirror.

My hand continues its journey to my earlobe and attaches the bright pink cherry-shaped earring.

My eyes flick from my now stunning earlobe to my face.

The reflection staring back at me still doesn’t look whole… but she’s getting there.

The last four months have been the hardest of my life, and my eyes, while clear and depuffed, still hold a sadness that I can’t shake.

I’m not sure if I want to. When you lose your person, your ride or die, your better half, it leaves a mark.

I hold the scars of a great love, now gone but never forgotten.

“Tori. We’re fucking screwed.”

The abrupt entrance of my manager startles me.

I blink back the sadness that was starting to engulf me and focus on her.

In her signature black from head to toe, with her hair piled so high on her head I have no idea how her neck holds the constant weight, Cece pauses mid-stride to gasp at her phone.

“Those fucking bastards. Next time I see the editor, I’m going to rip her cheap eyelash extensions out.”

I have to press my lips together to hold in my laughter. Cece has a flair for the dramatics but does not take kindly to people laughing as she rages.

“You’re going to have to go to rehab, Tori,” she says out of nowhere.

I hear her words, but they don’t register. Cece’s hazel eyes stare deep into mine as she repeats herself.

It’s like ice water has been thrown over me.

“What? Cece,” I say, drawing out her name with exasperation. “You can’t be serious. You know I’m sober and have been for years.”

“It’s the only thing I can think of to get ahead of this.”

“To get ahead of what? You’re not making any sense. Tell me what’s going on instead of spouting nonsense.”

Her arms fall to her sides, head tilting with annoyance at my words. I don’t care. She’s talking in extremes and confusing the hell out of me.

“Your ‘episode’”—she uses finger quotes—“was caught on camera last week. It’s all over the tabloids.

And it doesn’t look good.” Cece begins to pace back and forth across the room.

“I can’t believe those fuckers would hold this photo until the day of your brother’s wedding.

Talk about low,” she mutters to herself.

I’m up and off my chair in an instant, walking into the bedroom of the suite I’m staying in. Running the last few steps toward the nightstand, I pick up my cell from where I left it charging this morning.

I have eighty-three notifications.

No.

No. This can’t be happening. I thought I had caught myself just in time. Made it into the depths of the curtains before the heat overtook me and the feelings overwhelmed me.

Shit. Guess I was really wrong on that one.

Clicking on the first notification takes me to an article.

COUNTRY’S SWEETHEART HAS FALLEN AGAIN – IS SHE BACK ON BOOZE?

The headline isn’t anything original. The picture, however. Fuck. Taken out of context, it doesn’t look good.

The unlabelled water bottle I’m holding could be taken for vodka. My dishevelled and wild hair could be seen as the result of a wild night out. And the way one of my hands is extended in front of me does look like I’m searching for balance as I stagger off the stage.

All of that can be seen in the photo.

But that’s not what really happened.

Back on booze? When had I ever been on?

“See? It’s not good.”

My heart beats rapidly in my chest as I continue to click on a few more links. All of them are saying the same thing.

I’m angry and devastated. I’m a thousand different emotions, but I can’t vocalize any of them. I’m used to the media spewing lies, but they seem to really be focusing their filth my way recently.

“Again?” I grunt. “Again? When was the first time? I was twenty-one the last time I had a drink, and I stopped drinking that year because I saw too many people in the rock world lose everything because of it. How about they print that story.” I toss my phone on the bed. “Jackasses.”

I force the edges of my lips into a small smile and shake my hair back over my shoulders, hoping to lighten the mood.

It doesn’t work.

“This isn’t good, Tori. This could really damage your career. Even if we do get a new album out this year.”

God, a new album. I can’t wrap my head around that yet. How am I supposed to release a new album when my writing muse is suddenly silent?

“I get that, Cece, but rehab is not the answer. Can’t we just issue a statement? Or just ignore it?”

“No, we can’t ignore it. This is the third time this month that you’ve been pictured stumbling and not looking completely…there.”

“You know why,” I say to her softly.

“I know,” she sighs. “But unless you want to share that reason with the world, this is the only solution I can think of at the moment.”

“Then keep thinking,” I tell her as my spine straightens and my resolve turns to steel. “You keep thinking of how we should respond that doesn’t include me going to rehab when I’ve been sober for years or me sharing my deepest, darkest pain with complete strangers. I’m not ready for that.”

Cece opens her mouth, clearly ready to debate, but I won’t have it.

I cut her off. “I understand your side, and I do see how me going to rehab would help with my image. But if I go, I’ll just be taking the spot of someone else who really needs to be there to get help.

Not just a publicity stunt. And I refuse to take resources away from people who need the support. ”

It takes a minute of unflinching staring, but Cece finally nods.

“Fine. But you better be on your best behaviour tonight at Henrik’s wedding. No more caught-off-guard pictures. We’ll connect tomorrow morning and go from there. Deal?”

“Deal.” I give her a genuine smile.

“That dress looks lovely on you,” Cece says, surprising me with the change of topic.

My mood instantly lifts, and my chest warms at her soft compliment. Running my hands down the delicate violet fabric of my dress, I can’t help but agree with Cece—this dress is truly something else.

My brother’s soon-to-be wife, Bryn, had taken me aside at their engagement party and asked me to be her maid of honour.

Holding both of my hands in hers as she stared deeply into my eyes, she’d explained that she and Henrik wanted a small, intimate wedding and would both only have one person in their wedding parties.

“Since you’re one of Henrik’s favourite people—and I hope one of mine, too, soon—I wanted to ask you if you’d stand with us.”

The memory is still so fresh in my mind.

I’d cried, obviously, and yanked her into my arms as I hiccupped a yes.

I had been truly shocked and so moved that she’d picked me.

After all, Bryn was a huge Hollywood celebrity and had a ton of friends—at least I thought so.

Her thinking of me for this role was touching.

The medium violet colour looks great against my lightly tanned skin and summer-kissed red hair.

The corset top hugs me just right and flares out at the hips, gently falling to the floor.

In true Bryn fashion, she’d nixed my idea of high heels and insisted I wear comfortable flats.

I learned that day that she truly, truly hated heels and went out of her way not to wear them if she could help it.

It was her wedding day; she could call the shots.

Blinking out of my thoughts, I finger the fabric again quickly before giving Cece my focus. “Thank you.” From the corner of my eye, I see my cell screen light up.

Stepping over to grab it, I catch the time.

“Oh, shit. I need to go. I’m supposed to be downstairs by now,” I say as I start frantically tossing items into my clutch and giving myself a last quick look-over.

The concealer under my eyes is working overtime to hide the purple bags, but other than that, I look good.

Really good if I do say so myself. Even my hair has decided to cooperate today.

“Yes. Go! Go! We’ll talk tomorrow morning. Safe travels back to Toronto.”

I nod, already dreading continuing our conversation. I’ll have to make sure I find some time tonight to give the situation some thought—because faking a rehab stay is not something I want to do or feel comfortable lying about.

Cece and I are out the door and parting at the elevator moments later. Taking a deep breath as the doors close in front of me, I prepare myself.

This evening will be an emotional one as I watch my big brother commit his life to another. But it will also be a mental roller coaster too.

I hate small talk.

Even with the ceremony being small—close family and friends only—the inane chatter and repeated questions always grate on me.

By the end of the night, I know my eyes will be sore from all the tears I’m about to cry, and my cheek muscles will be tight from fake smiling and laughing.

The pleasant chime of the doors opening rings out, and I step into the crowded lobby.

“Miss Westwyld, right this way,” a suited gentleman directs me. Nodding, I follow his lead. “First time in Barbados?” he asks.

I stifle my laugh. And so, it begins.