Chapter Eight
Scarlett
“… and what did it feel like to be cared for? Who would I adore? Would I still only love myself?”
Ryden fucking Spectre.
That lunatic, daring me to play his game of “Will I, Won’t I,” trying to get me to… to – feel something that could potentially wreck this whole empire. To ruin us.
(Or repair us) (What happened to us?) (What happened to you…)
NO. No, unacceptable.
I closed that door and I held my breath, caging the pain, the emotions, the possibilities.
If we took it further, if I let him, if he let himself… there would be no going back. We’d lose each other. We’d implode.
He was my best friend. He was my client. He was the only person on this planet I couldn’t lose.
So I locked my words in the airways of my throat and I stared at myself in the mirror, baffled by the person I’d become.
“Scarlett Emory-Blake,” I mouthed, over and over until my lips blurred into red poker chips and all I could see was the money (I used to help us escape), the finesse (I used to secure this position), and the rage (that made me who I am).
Back to Black.
Wise words, Amy Winehouse. Wise words.
I learned how to compose myself, so walking out of that bathroom door was easy. Leaving Ryden behind was hard. Knowing he was staring at me, trying to find the cracks I tried so hard to patch up.
If I learned anything growing up, it was to limit your affection. If people could reach you, they could hurt you. Always watch your back, always learn the enemy.
That’s why I never did relationships.
People can’t twist the knife if they don’t know where to stab.
Not that Ryden would ever hurt me, I just didn’t want to give him the chance to. He did that enough in unmistakable ways, ways where he hurt himself.
He caught up, positioning himself beside me as the elevator doors closed. “How do you walk so fast in those?”
I felt the sudden urge to lean on his shoulder, to feel that closeness again, but I wouldn’t. Couldn’t. I stepped aside.
If he noticed, he didn’t say anything.
“Lots of practice.”
“Explains the killer calves,” he teased.
“The gym helps, you should tag along sometime.”
“Cardio isn’t an issue for me.”
I threw him a nasty look.
“Jumping around on stage, Dove. It’s a workout,” he winked.
“So is managing you,” I rolled my eyes. “My brain’s like a private coach.”
He leaned closer. “I could use some extra sessions.”
“The joke’s dead, dumbass,” I laughed, just as we hit the ground floor.
He chuckled, pushing the small of my back as the elevator doors slid open. The lobby was bursting with light, and we hurried through before anyone could catch the next biggest scoop. Ryden’s driver, Barnett, and Morty were waiting by the Escalade.
“Good evening Mr. Spectre, Ms. Emory-Blake.”
“Oh, Morty, you’re always so formal.” I teased, swatting his arm. “Call me Scarlett.”
“It’s in our contract Ms. Emory –”
“I wrote the damn contract, Morty. Do you see me calling you Mr. Tollerton every time we cross paths?”
He sighed, scratching his forehead. “Your wish, Scarlett.”
The mood lightened as the car ride went on. No idea how we got on the topic of my conversational skills, but Ryden could not stop grilling me. “And remember that time, the coat clerk pissed you off so you hung your blazer on his head?” Even BARNETT was laughing.
“He said my roots were showing,” I countered.
“So you used him as a human jacket rack?” Ryden’s cheeks were stiff with glee. “Scar, you’re like a fucking firecracker.”
“Eat a dick.”
His hands flew up. “I’m complimenting you!”
“Don’t waste your breath,” I checked my nails, “I do it enough myself.”
His laughter was replaced by a warm smile. “Diva.”
“Princess,” I retorted.
We held hands.
Ten minutes later, Barnett parked in front of a brick building, pearly hues emanating from within the glass doors. Two sets of velvet ropes lined the walkway, security guards stationed at every corner.
The evening air greeted me as I stepped out of the car, grabbing hold of Ryden’s arm as we made our way to the carpet. Dozens of frenzied paparazzi flocked like scavengers, calling out for the rock star plastered all over GQ’s latest article.
“Remind me to bring earplugs next time.” I spat, slipping on my Prada sunnies.
“Oh come on.” He dropped my arm to sign a few autographs. “They’re just in awe.”
It was an admirable trait of Ryden’s, one that reminded me every day why he deserved the fame. God did something right, giving him a shot at this life – us a second chance at living. Not once did he ever ignore his supporters, making sure they felt the love he felt every single day.
“They see you on screen every day, what’s left to gush about?” I teased, grabbing hold of his sleeve.
I half expected him not to hear, until he turned to me and said, “Have you seen yourself, Dove?”
I swallowed hard, holding on to his gaze. For a split second, it was those grassy, green eyes I fell for when we were kids, pulling me into a tight embrace, shielding me from the world’s terrors.
My blush must’ve been captured on camera, but I didn’t care. Twice tonight that he’d made me feel. Twice tonight that I fought to fight it.
He stopped at the end of the carpet, blowing a kiss in finality as the guards shut the doors, guiding us through the entryway of the venue.
A crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, portraits of the Renaissance plastering the baroque patterned walls.
This brag of wealth was not the afterparty, but a prelude of what was to come.
The theme was sophistication, a kinder word for arrogance.
The V.I.P lounge was sure to be more private and seductive.
When Abe invited me as his date, I wasn’t astounded.
Some men wanted a trophy wife, Turner wanted a prize to be won.
The harder I fought his advances, the harder he fell.
A cat and mouse game, only I knew we were playing.
Could be fun, I thought. But then again, my idea of fun had always been flawed.
“I’ve got to meet Mallory so we can head off to the lounge,” Ryden said, slipping out of my grasp.
Mallory?
“Shouldn’t be hard to find her.” I forced a smile coated in venom.
I wasn’t jealous, I wasn’t even mad. He wanted to ask me, he said it. I was the one who denied it.
I was the one who didn’t give him a chance.
“I’ll manage.”
“Ryden –”
“Why’d you say yes?” He whipped around, jaw tight. “To Abe?”
I toyed with the gold bangles on my wrist. “He could be a good connection, you know. He could be useful.”
“Right,” his laugh was sharp. “I’ll see you later.”
I grabbed his hand. “You know I don’t do relationships.”
His jaw shifted. “You don’t owe me an explanation, Scar.”
“Then why do I feel like you’re asking for one?”
No response.
I struggled to keep him from leaving. “You aren’t even going to say hi to anyone here?”
He frowned, looking around at the sum of people I knew he didn’t recognize… Hell, I couldn’t name a single face, gun to my head.
Something caught his attention, something in the distance. He faced me. “Nah, but you are. Managers do that, don’t they?”
I winced as if I’d been slapped.
“Say that again.” My nails pierced my palm. “I couldn’t hear you.”
“I’m sorry.” Remorse. “Just on edge.”
He wasn’t over it. Whatever happened earlier. Whatever I said, whatever I did. Something pissed him off, a memory, a moment.
Business and pleasure don’t go together. How many times do I have to fucking say it?
He’d already made a move for the side door before I grabbed hold of his arm. “Come find me when you’re ready to talk?”
His jaw tightened, eyes narrowing as he made eye contact with someone behind me.
“Don’t you look exquisite.”
Abe Turner.
Fuck.
“Always.” Ryden didn’t even give the courtesy of a nod before walking away. “She always does.”
And he was gone, leaving me with the lasting presence of him and the new presence of his adversary.
His hand was on my back, a little lower than I would’ve liked. “Shall we mingle, Ms. Blake?”
I sighed, following Ryden’s pace to Mallory, watching them disappear into the V.I.P lounge.
He didn’t look back.
“It’s Emory-Blake,” I whispered. “Mr. Turner.”