Chapter Four
Scarlett
“so when it burns, you light it on fire”
“En route, Mr. Turner. Did you receive the corrected amendment?”
His secretary already confirmed that he had, but this industry was built on a hill of formalities. You were categorized as one of the three RCSs: respectful, cordial or stern. Though more often than not, you’d come across as a raging OA –
Outright Asshole.
Take Mr. Turner, for example.
“I’ll have Devorah check,” he replied. His secretary’s name was Victoria. “Five minutes on the clock.”
I supressed an eyeroll and shoved my phone back in my purse. “Barnett,” I tapped Ryden’s driver on the shoulder. “Say we can make it in five. Say it, Barnett.”
“Four, Ms. Emory-Blake.”
“Beautiful.” I flashed a smile at Morty who sat in the passenger seat, one of the few men I actually trusted on this planet. “I’ve got a few words for you.”
“What’s that, Ms. Emory-Blake?”
His voice was calm water, no matter the circumstance. Not even a natural disaster could wake the sleeping giant burrowed beneath his skin.
I took a glance at Ryden who kept his eyes on the outside city, away from me. He twiddled with that purple dove guitar pick while tapping a finger against the window, humming.
“Careless. Senseless. Bodyguard.” I spoke in staccato, pricking Ryden’s pinstripe trousers with a black acrylic nail.
“It wasn’t his fault.” Ryden rebutted, turning his sharp green gaze my way.
The eyes of an eagle, I always thought. Ever since I’d known Ry, he possessed an iridescent glimmer that held pride, power, victory. A fierce loyalty to the ones he loved, but only to them and them alone.
I happened to rule that list.
Morty came close.
“Look, I got riled up. Didn’t give Morty much of a choice when I went to Kings.”
“And what riled you up?”
But it wasn’t a what, no, it was a who. Ryden’s mania was printed on the tabloids just a few hours after he’d manhandled that journalist. I didn’t blame him; reporters were intolerable. I just wanted to know why.
He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, flexing out tan forearms covered in music lyrics and memories. “Just drop it, Scar.”
I narrowed my eyes, leaning forward. “It’s my job to manage you.”
He glanced up. “Over being my best friend?”
A pin lodged itself in my throat as I stared at the man who’d become my life. He was right, God he was so fucking right. Our devotion to each other, our commitment – that mattered more than anything. So answer the goddamn question, Ry.
“As your best friend,” my fingers found his, “I’ll kill any son of a bitch who steps out of line.”
His throat bobbed like a broken spring.
“Now,” I pushed, “tell me the truth, Ryden.”
It took a few seconds, it usually did, for Ryden to find the courage to speak. That’s how I knew it was bad, how I knew that whatever set him off was a complete act of insensitivity, of snakes wanting to settle a score.
“That journalist, uh –” he scratched at his jaw – “he knew about my past.”
My jaw cracked in place.
I found Morty’s eyes in the rearview mirror before he returned his attention to the road.
Paparazzi, press, journalists, all those spineless savages who deserved a kick in the face.
They could never sympathize with someone like Ryden, understand the extent and pressure of a celebrity.
A mere mortal turned icon, under constant beratement and scrutiny by the public eye because of a gift. Talent.
Did they ever stop and think for one second that underneath the parties, the people, the parades, there was a person? Someone who existed beyond the fame and fortune? A little boy who wanted nothing more than to escape a terrible circumstance – to run away from a life he didn’t fucking deserve –
Breathe, Scar. Breathe...
None of that mattered unless they got a story, and that story – Ryden’s story – wasn’t meant for public consumption.
We pulled into Artist Pass Parking at GQ’s headquarters, the rest of our team trailing directly behind us.
As we walked through the sliding doors, I let my hand graze Ryden’s. “How do you figure that journalist found out?”
A weighted shrug. “Might’ve been one of the girls from the scandal, no idea. I run my mouth when I’m fucked Scar, you know that.”
What an understatement. “Limit those lips from now on, okay?”
He swallowed hard. “Maybe Yasmine.”
“No,” I shook my head. “I mean, she’s a foul fucking person but she wouldn’t –”
“She stole my song.”
“Stealing a song and selling a story are two different things.” He opened his mouth to speak but I cut him off. “She’s not worth the energy.”
“Not many people are.” He smiled sadly, knocking my shoulder as we rounded the front desk.
Baby blue eyes looked up at me, then to Ryden, a peony glow emanating beneath the peachy blonde’s cheeks.
I rolled my eyes as she mumbled a faint hello to him, tongue tied like twigs, completely unaware of my presence.
“Hi,” he replied, flashing a signature Ryden Spectre smile her way.
She loved that.
Everyone did.
“Hey there.” I threw in my equally gorgeous grin, not like she cared to see it. “I’m here for Mr. Spectre’s interview with Abe Turner.”
“Oh, right! Um… just, one second –” The girl fumbled with a notepad, then a sheet of paper, then a random file to her far left.
Ryden and I exchanged a glance – mine impatient, his contemplative. “What are you thinking about?” I asked.
“Last night, Scar.” His jaw was set. “I don’t want my private life thrown in the dirt.”
“It won’t be.”
“It already is.”
“It’s not!” Peach cheeks behind the desk piped in, holding a red sticky note that matched her flush.
“I, uh – I mean… you’re still incredible, Mr. Spectre. Your music is phenomenal.”
“You know what would be phenomenal?” A commanding voice echoed through the marbled lobby. Sharp footsteps tapped against its polished floor.
By now our entire team was settled behind us, and without even a glance, I could tell who held everyone’s attention.
“Mr. Turner,” I extended a hand as he approached. He didn’t take it.
Oooo I bit my fucking tongue, betting my life Abe Turner got a kick out of making other people feel small.
Other people, not me.
Not Scarlett Emory-Blake.
Abe was a smidge taller than Ryden, maybe six-two or six-three. I’d seen him enough times over Zoom calls but never in person. Lucky me.
Sure, he took impeccable care of himself. Dark brown hair threaded with grey, eyes an intense deep blue, not light like the girl behind the desk. But with a personality like that, well… you always compensate for something, don’t you.
That predatory look swept over me before Abe turned his attention to Ryden. “I’m not impressed, Mr. Spectre.”
This guy.
Abe wasn’t the type of man who received backlash, he dished it out. So I took great, great pleasure in stepping up to bat. “All this talk of impressions, Mr. Turner, but were you not the one pressed for time?”
Maybe that comment could’ve landed me in the waiting room with a paper cup of cold coffee. I mean, it had before. But I didn’t care. For years and years I’d been on Ryden’s watch, soaring over him ready for an attack. We protected each other – for over a decade, we were all we had.
Eagle and Dove.
Destined to fight the great fight.
Together.
Abe tilted his head, amused. “I am on a tight schedule.” He turned on his heel. “Follow me.”
He flicked up his wrist, adjusting the golden band of a Rolex. “Annabelle?”
The girl behind the desk piped up like an obedient little soldier. “Yes, sir? Anything I can do?”
A loud clap almost made me flinch. Almost.
Abe never slowed pace as he pointed towards the young receptionist. “Pack your things, be out by five. You do nothing for me or GQ.”
A deafening silence followed. No one said a word.
I wasn’t surprised. This industry was brimming with atrocities. It’d be a cold day in hell to find a sliver of decency.
The receptionist’s muttered pleas trailed us down the corridor, but Abe’s footsteps were louder, weighted with indifference.
“You just hired me two days ago!”
We stopped in front of an archway door, accented with pearlescent crystals and glass. “Dominico Blanchette,” Abe drawled, pulling out a set of gold keys.
“Pardon?” I replied, catching his eye.
He smiled. “The architect who designed these doors, my office in fact.”
A manchild and a narcissist. “Stunning.”
“Expert craftsmanship.” He slid a lone finger down the pane, almost sensually. “More than meets the eye, right, Ms. Blake?”
Ryden cleared his throat, stepping forward. “I could use a drink, Mr. Turner.”
Abe unlocked the door. “I’m sure you can, Mr. Spectre.”
I stayed behind watching Ryden and our team drift through the expert craftsmanship of Abe’s doors, relief and grief flooding over me.
How I love that you save me, Ry, I thought.
How I wish it wasn’t at your expense.