Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
SIENNA
By the time my phone rang that evening, I was already in my pajamas and mid-way through watching Spencer Reid solve crimes on TV.
I sighed, rearranging Muffin on my lap and then praying she didn’t get up and leave, before answering. “Louise. What’s up?”
Colors popped beneath my eyelids as I squeezed them shut, hoping she wasn’t calling to make me go out somewhere. It was already — I winced, 7PM. Something about putting on my pajamas just made the idea of going back out again seem The Worst.
“Oh my god, Sienna. You’re not going to believe it.”
Curiosity piqued, I hit the button to put Louise on speaker. “What?”
“Okay, so you know that guy, the singer, who won that show you love?”
Humming, I nodded. Singing shows, or any trash TV for that matter, was my biggest vice. I loved it. I even had a pool running with Cade as to who would be the winner of the various series we binged. “Yeah. Frankie something? What about him?”
“Well, it turns out he was just arrested in a huge drug bust in Brooklyn.” Louise sounded giddy and when I paused for a moment too long she huffed.
“That, um, sucks,” I offered and Louise snorted, her voice becoming slightly muffled by my cardigan as I leaned over the phone to reach for my hot cocoa. “Wait, what? I couldn’t hear you.”
“I said: Studio 9 think it sucks too — he was supposed to be their cover star this month.”
“But…” Warmth seared my throat as I accidentally gulped my hot drink. “But doesn’t that issue launch this month?”
“Yes! So they’re looking to do an emergency shoot with a new cover.”
“Louise, are you telling me—”
“Studio-nine-wants-you,” Louise squealed, the words all one breath and the high-pitched shriek making Muffin’s ears flatten to her skull. I stroked her head soothingly as my heart beat faster in my chest.
“Studio 9—”
“Wants you to be the replacement for Frankie,” Louise confirmed. “Well, specifically, they want you and August.”
Studio 9 was one of the most prestigious and popular magazines for musicians that existed. It walked the fine line between gossip rag and industry know-how and the cover spot was the most coveted of them all. It would be the perfect showcase for my rebrand.
“Apparently the whole issue is about the beat of the moment. After they saw you and August trending, you were the first person who came to mind for the shoot.” Louise sounded as excited as I felt, though my happiness was somewhat subdued by the ensuing panic.
If I’d known I’d be doing the biggest shoot of my life this week, I wouldn’t have indulged in so much chocolate — my break-out food.
“This is amazing.” Muffin purred as I scratched under her chin before yawning widely and hopping down from my lap. “What about August? Does he want to do this?”
The errant click of heels in the background made me think Louise was going somewhere, a few car horns cementing the thought. “I haven’t spoken to him yet, I wanted to talk it over with you first.”
“What’s there to talk over?” I laughed. It was a shock, but a happy one. “If he’s okay with it, then I’d love to do the shoot.”
“Okay. I’ll talk to him and we can go from there. I’ll need a decision fast, the shoot is tomorrow. They’re on a tight turnaround if they want to get it to the printers in time.”
“Thanks, Lou.” The line cut and I sat there for a second, apartment silent around me, Spencer’s face frozen on the TV.
“I’m going to be on the cover of Studio 9,” I whispered and that made it feel more real.
A smile blossomed on my mouth as I let out an undignified shriek of excitement that scared my cat.
Now this was something that would have excited my dad: baby’s first ‘proper’ magazine cover.
It felt strange to miss him. Like I was conning myself into loving a memory when the reality had been infuriating most of the time.
My dad had been absent more often than not, but when he did make time for me it was like I was the centre of the universe.
As if it was a miracle every time I breathed.
Unfortunately, those moments were few and far between when there were shows for him to play and interviews for him to attend.
I wasn’t a priority, but that had started to change a little before he’d died — especially with his promise of sobriety.
I didn’t look much like him. Only the slope of my nose, the stubborn tilt of my chin, and the color of my eyes hinting at a resemblance. But if Kennedy Zats was here now, I would tell her the god's-honest truth: he would have been so proud.
The floor creaked as I stood from the sofa and walked into my spare room, finding my guitar instantly and bringing it back with me to the warm spot on the couch.
“Sometimes, you’ve just gotta sing it out,” he’d say, and this felt like one of those times, where my excitement had morphed into melancholia that verged on a pool of sadness. So I positioned the body across my thigh and settled my arm over the top of the cherry wood and let the first strum sing.
I played nothing in particular, just picking my way up and around some of my favorite chords until the familiar pattern of one of my dad’s favorite songs formed under my fingers.
I’d helped him write this one, or so he’d told people — and it had been true, somewhat.
I’d help him with a line or hum a melody for the chorus…
Most of the songs I wrote didn’t leave the relative privacy of my notes app. They weren’t bad, but they weren’t ready. Or maybe I wasn’t.
My cheek touched the cool gloss of the top of the guitar as I let the melody wind into a twangy sweet song. Before I could forget what I’d picked, I hit record on my phone and played it again and again, until my fingers had the notes etched into the skin.
The guitar went back in its stand and I wrinkled my nose as I took in the smudges on my hands. They smelled like metal strings, simultaneously giving me a headache and filling me with nostalgia.
It was confusing, grief. One moment I could be fine and the next it’s midnight and my mind is hazy with thoughts, until I grab my guitar and sing it out.
Feeling slightly wrung out but more in control, I hit play on my episode and scrolled absently through my socials while I waited to hear from Louise again.
August would say yes to the shoot, wouldn’t he? The magazine had specified the both of us, so if he turned it down…
I bit my lip, determined to mindlessly scroll through my phone and not stress about it until I got a reply — though this was easier said than done when my face and August’s stared up at me from my social media feed.
I had expected the interest to have died down by now, but #Saugust had racked up a million posts already and had been boosted again by our lunch date.
Someone had photographed us through the window of the restaurant, August leaning in close to me so we looked conspiratorial.
Then there was the shot of us on the sidewalk, my head tucked into the large expanse of his chest as the press photographed us.
I looked tiny next to his bulk, not quite reaching his shoulder as I breathed into his side.
I could still recall his scent perfectly, the way it had centred me and driven me crazy at the same time.
It reminded me of the night we’d nearly spent together, but it also made me feel safe.
Like I could fall at any moment and August would be there to catch me.
This is crazy.
I shook the thoughts out of my head as I swiped through more paparazzi shots.
Despite this arrangement being just for show, I had to admit that we looked good together.
The tousled waves of his short brown-red hair made my blonde strands look paler, my skin brighter, and our eyes seemed to be caught and held in every photo.
It couldn’t be accurate, because we’d have fallen over for sure unless one of us was watching our step, and yet there it was: undeniable chemistry.
It was no wonder Studio 9 wanted us for their replacement cover when we photographed like that.
My phone vibrated and I swiped onto Louise’s message immediately. It was short and to the point: He’s in.
“It’s happening!” I lifted Muffin up from the floor and held her in the air Lion King style. “We’re going to a photo shoot!” Muffin looked unimpressed by my high pitched tone as I lowered her to my chest and waltzed her around the coffee table.
Another message came in and Muffin shook her fur out as soon as I put her down.
Louise: He’s in.
Louise: 7AM sharp.
God, I hated early mornings, but for Studio 9 I’d make an exception. In fact, I was already buzzing with excitement. Sleeping tonight would be a struggle.
My phone vibrated again and I glanced down at it in surprise, what else could Lou have to share?
But it wasn’t Louise. A different name faded from my screen as the notification slipped away and I tapped quickly, without blinking.
August: You still awake?
I frowned, my eyes finding the time and seeing it wasn’t much past eight. Another message came in before I could reply.
August: Got to get your beauty sleep before the big day tomorrow.
Then another message, following fast after the second.
August: Not that you need it, of course.
I exhaled in a huff of amusement, shaking my head as I snapped a picture and typed back.
Some of us just wake up like this
IMG.578
A full minute passed with no response and my smile slipped into a frown as I stared at the little notification that said read under my message. A minute wasn’t a long time, I reasoned, even as it slipped into two and then three.
It was embarrassing how quickly I reacted when my phone lit up a full ten minutes after my last message. I knocked my shin against the coffee table in my haste to grab my phone and grimaced, locking gaze with Muffin across the room where she stared at me with big eyes, judging.
“I know, I know,” I muttered. “I shouldn’t be getting this worked up over a guy.
Especially one who says I’m not his type.
” I rolled my eyes and delayed opening the message in favor of walking to Muffin and kissing the top of her head.
“What do you know, anyway? You’re a cat.
I don’t need to explain myself to you.” Muffin yawned in my face and I laughed quietly. “Yeah, okay. I’ll read the message.”
Maybe I’d been hoping to let him stew for a few minutes, like he’d done to me — though, the thought was probably ridiculous. I doubted August was playing mind games with me in the form of phone messages like we were twelve or something.
I unlocked the phone and froze, knowing the blood had rushed to my face, because he’d sent a photo back.
August: Sweet dreams.
IMG.271
My mouth went dry and I swallowed twice, forcing my eyes to look up and away from the screen when they started burning.
It was innocent enough, truly. He had little half-moon silver patches under his eyes and a white sheet pulled up to his chest. His bare chest. The picture was relatively dark, lit just by the orange glow of a bedside lamp, but I could see more than my brain knew what to do with.
When did collarbones become so attractive?
His skin was pale, delicate almost against the dark auburn of his hair and stubble, but the definition in the expanse of his shoulders was something else, like artwork. Most of his chest was hidden, just bare collarbones and shoulders, long throat and hard jaw.
God, I needed to delete this photo. It was innocent, a joking response to the ridiculous selfie I’d taken. Yet, my palms were sweaty and an ache was building between my legs as I remembered how I’d touched and tasted the shirtless man on my phone screen.
The phone locked with a click and I stared at it on the sofa’s arm, just out of reach like it was nuclear. Then I did one of things that came most naturally to me: I worried.
What kind of shoot would we be doing tomorrow?
Hopefully nothing that involved semi-nudity, though they obviously would think we were a couple and therefore not necessarily opposed to that kind of thing.
Or worse, what if everything was chaste and clothed and I still had this same reaction to him?
I needed to get myself under control, otherwise this dream of a photoshoot might turn into a nightmare.
I prided myself on my self-control and composure, so what was it about him that let August Ashford get under my skin so easily?