Chapter Fourteen
Scarlett
“Tender, soft and loving. Where are the thorns?”
One Week Later
“And sometimes,” Zayla prattled, “sometimes I feel like I spend more time worrying if I’m a good person than actually being a good person… you know?”
“Uh huh.” I continued to scroll through my list of contacts, searching for Barbara Housen. She owed Ryden a favour. She owed me twenty.
“And like, ever since Jannet called me a narcissist, I can’t stop thinking I am one. Like, I can’t stop talking to other people about themselves. I’m not self-centered, right Scar?”
An automated response. “Totally.”
“You’re a narcissist.”
At this, my fingers froze. I looked up at her, challenging that feline stare. She simply smiled, puckering her bright pink lips.
“See, now you pay attention to me.”
“Take that back.”
“You only care when someone insults you.”
I crossed my arms. “Because I’m damn good at what I do.”
“But what about who you are?”
I grumbled a string of curse words, returning to my phone. “This is why I don’t talk to you.”
“We’re at lunch right now.”
“And you’ve been having a one-sided conversation for the past” – I flicked up my wrist, glancing at my Piaget – “twenty-seven minutes.”
She frowned. “You’re a real cunt sometimes, you know.”
“I’ve been told.”
“Who’s a cunt?” Polly chimed, returning to the table with a tray of croissants.
“Barbara Housen, for being impossible to track down.” I picked a mint leaf off the whipped cream, placing it on my tongue.
“You never save your contacts, though,” Zayla said.
“Too much work,” I waved, “besides, she should’ve contacted me months ago after I got her out of that bikini commercial.”
“What happened again?” Polly asked, taking a bite of her food.
“Barbara’s one piece was see-through and she was trying to rebrand her image but the label lied to her about it being a scandalous photoshoot so she called Scarlett to save her ass before the commercial went live –”
“Breathe, Zay,” I interrupted.
“So you canned the commercial, then?”
I leaned into my chair. “I buried that damn label, Polls.”
Zayla drew her brows. “How do you know so many people who can like, just cancel major companies?”
I stared at Zayla Edwards for a second and reflected on our three year friendship. I’d met her and Polly at a backstage party for Rory Klaven, a new DJ Arc & Sheild Records signed to promote one of their new label-exclusive clubs.
Ryden wasn’t off the rails yet, mind you, he wasn’t as big as he is now. I still had a chance at making friends. People didn’t know me at all.
Maybe that’s why I clung so tight to the girls at this table. Because they got in before the curtains closed, and when they opened again, Ryden was a rock star, and all hope of a normal life was lost.
Not much normal to go back to, if I’m being honest.
I wouldn’t trade this life for anything.
I sold my fucking soul for it.
Zayla was a girlfriend to Rory’s best friend at the time, before Rory’s best friend fucked Rory’s girlfriend and then Zayla fucked Rory… it was all too confusing, but I admired Zayla’s retaliation.
I found her crying in the bathroom minutes after Rory found his best friend’s hands down his now-ex’s pants.
“Everything okay?” I’d asked her, this petite, blonde-headed mess of sparkles.
Another girl walked in, my Polly Lavine, and knelt down beside her. “Hunny, you’ve got some vomit in your hair.”
Zayla burst into tears. “It’s just glitter!”
Now, I’m not theatrical, or emotional. Lord knows I’ve never cried over any man like Zayla Edwards has. But it was strangely… human? Seeing someone feel so freely, so deeply, about everything.
I questioned if I was ever human at all.
She perked up, like she’d been injected with coke or something, and said, “I’m going to sleep with Rory Klaven.”
I already knew what happened, so I leaned into Polly Lavine, no clue why, and dished out the details.
In turn, I found out she was just passing through the strip with her sister and a promoter gave them free drink stamps and one thing led to another and boom – fate brought me my second new friend on a silver platter.
All it took was a five minute debrief for Polly to help our now decided new companion to her feet, cleaned up her “glitter” (it wasn’t glitter), and crowned her a new hot commodity.
I smiled, rubbing her shoulders. I always loved a good revenge plot. “I’ll take you to him.”
***
“Uh, she manages one of the biggest rock stars of this generation, Zay,” Polls said, handing her some berries. “Why wouldn’t she know some very important people?”
“Because she doesn’t talk about it?”
I plopped a raspberry into my mouth. “I prefer to take an enigmatic approach to life.”
“Enigmatic, good word.” She pursed her lips, “You should be a songwriter. Have you ever written one of Ryden’s?”
I pressed my lips together, shaking my head no, remembering the discarded sheets of paper I kept buried in my piano bench, Ryden’s cracked guitar pick still among the notes.
He gave it to me at a time in my life when I needed something to hold on to, a reminder of who we were, what we came from, and where we are now. I fucking hated that Derek broke it in his frenzy. But I tolerated him because I understood why.
One day, one way or another, I’d put that guitar pick back together. Even if I have to glue it myself.
“Anyway,” Polly cut into her pastry, “what do you need Barbara for?”
I rolled my tongue. “She’s got connections at The Times, and I need her to wipe out any headlines that showcase me or Ryden at the GQ afterparty.”
“You mean, when you poured amaretto all over Yasmine Ryvetts?”
“It was a martini, Zay, but close enough.” I smirked, taking a sip of my mimosa. “Anyway, I don’t want any bad press before Ryden’s show at Radio City.”
“That’s this weekend, right?” Polly drizzled chocolate sauce over her croissant.
I raised a brow. “Dark or milk?”
She handed me the tiny ceramic pitcher. “Dark.”
“Gimme,” I smiled.
“Me too!” Zayla was practically pawing at it with her French tips.
“What happened to your two-week sugar fast?” Polly asked, handing out napkins.
Zayla groaned. “Don’t remind me.”
“Enough with the diets, Zay, you’re gorgeous.”
She gave my hand an affectionate squeeze before my phone vibrated. I answered distractedly. “Barbara?”
“Yes, dear?” A high-pitched, most definitely not Barbara squealed.
I supressed an all-knowing smile. “Ryden.”
His laugh was smooth. “Dove.”
“What do you need?”
“Hm,” he paused, “a new Bugatti.”
“What happened to your old one?” I played along, knowing damn well that man has never owned a vehicle – let alone a supercar.
“Whizzed off into the sunset, found a new life.”
“Luckier than most, then.”
He chuckled. “Can’t I just call to call you?”
“Nope,” I replied, popping another berry into my mouth. “Reason required, Ry.”
“That so?” A muffled car horn crackled through the phone. “Never needed a reason to talk to my Dove before.”
The girls stopped their chat, eyes caught on something behind me. Before I could turn, someone’s breath tickled the back of my neck. “Never needed a reason to see her, either.”
I stifled a laugh. Of course.
Ryden was dressed in all black, a leather jacket thrown over a charcoal hoodie. “Afternoon, ladies.”
I quirked a brow. “Why are you here?”
“Good to see you, too.” He grabbed the nearest empty chair, nodding at the couple who didn’t have time to react to his presence.
Is that? I heard them say. Ryden Spectre?
But he’d already turned around, ballcap low over his eyes, sitting at my now table of four.
“Did you not have soundcheck booked in for one?” I asked, demanded rather.
“Rescheduled,” he smiled, crossing his arms.
“And how come I wasn’t notified?”
“Because I just made the decision.”
Sly fucker. “Where’s Morty?”
“At home,” he plucked a clementine from the fruit bowl, “with his wife and kids.”
“And how about –”
He groaned loudly, “Can we ease up on the questions, Scar? I came for lunch, not an interrogation.”
I rolled my eyes. “Whatever rock star.”
He winked, turning to my friends. “Polly, Zayla. How are we?”
A flush rose from Zay’s neck. Polly, as usual, was unaffected.
I felt a hint of pride in that, seeing as she was a cutthroat real estate agent, one of the best (if not the best) in New York City.
If anyone had the ambition I possessed, it was her.
But with that ambition came the highest of standards, and no one seemed to fit the bar.
“Love will come,” I’d told her once.
“I’m not worried,” she replied.
Now, I’m not impressed easily, but I’d go as far as saying she was in a league of her own.
Much like Emory…
I swallowed hard, glancing around to see if I’d misheard a distant conversation, a gust in the wind tormenting me or had it just been me – my own mind – all along.
I shoved the thought away, shoved it so far down that it drowned on its own whispers.
“Excited for Radio City?” Polly asked over the brim of her coffee. I was thankful for the distraction.
Lock it up, throw away the key.
Ryden shrugged. “Will you be there?”
“Of course.”
He snagged her mug. “Then I’m elated.”
I steadied my breath. “You won’t be elated when there’s a hitch in your vocals.”
“And when has that ever happened?”
“Preventative measures, Ry,” I pricked his thumb. “I’m calling the guys.”
Before I could unlock my phone, he covered it in his palm, sliding it into my front pocket. “I’ll call them,” he assured me, lifting out of his seat. “Be right back.”
“Wait!” I warned. “There could be paparazzi.”
He glanced around, pulling on his hood. I watched as he practically scaled the back wall to reach the men’s room, and only then did I take a breath.
“You’re so tense, girl.” Zayla reached out to rub my shoulder.
“Yeah, babe. Ease up. They won’t eat him alive.” Polly said.
But they didn’t know the industry like I did, the lengths I had to go to bury all of Ryden’s scandals. Not because of his image, but because of who he was – to his core – the man I cared about the most.
They would fucking ruin him. Lord knows they’ve tried. And I already had a plate full of thorns waiting for me since the aftermath of GQ. I couldn’t deal with another headline.
“Did Yasmine say anything to him at the party? Is that why you drenched her?” Zayla asked.
I nodded. “He wouldn’t tell me what they talked about, but honestly, her career is tanking by the second. She’s resorting to singing backup for some major clubs now. One hit wonders get you nowhere.”
“And it wasn’t even her hit,” Polly rolled her eyes. “Some people are unbelievable.”
Ryden returned, snagging a grape from the cheese board. “All taken care of.”
I snorted, sipping my mimosa. “Managers take care of rock stars.”
He turned to me slowly. “Friends take care of friends.”
Something sour (or sweet) churned in my gut. I couldn’t differentiate the two anymore.
“What’s your setlist for Radio City looking like?” Zayla piped, offering him more fruit.
He plucked a kiwi between his fingers, eyes bright. “Grand.”
“Aw come on,” she whined, “no hints?”
He laughed. “The guys and I are working on a new release for the encore. I’m all about surprising the fans.”
She twirled a lock of blonde hair around her finger. “But I’m more than a fan…”
I kicked her leg under the fucking table.
“Ow!” She squealed. “I was just teasing.”
“Tease less,” I snapped, surveying the area for watchful eyes.
“No paps, Scar, I checked.” Ryden poured me another glass from the pitcher.
“You don’t exactly have a bird’s eye view.”
He gave me a look that said come on.
“Why are you even here?” I asked, coming off ruder than I meant to. “Reschedule soundcheck, fine, but you’ve got a meeting with Tav at six.”
Now this, he didn’t account for. “Do I?”
I rolled my eyes, already pulling up Tav’s contact. “Do you not keep track of your own schedule?”
His lips lifted into a smirk. “You are my schedule.”
I glared at him, my patience waning.
Eventually, he let up, lifting out of his chair. “Can I borrow the boss, ladies? I’ll return her safely.”
“Well duh,” Zayla shooed me away, eagerly. “Go, do famous people things.”
“We will,” he smiled, sliding my seat out from the table.
“I didn’t consent to this,” I tried. “It’s my day off.”
But he grabbed my purse and jacket, escorting me out of the restaurant. “You manage the greatest rock star of this generation –”
“The humblest, too.”
“Ah, Scar,” he grinned. “Days off are a luxury.”
“Don’t you think we deserve one?”
His lips folded into a thin line. It wasn’t a joke, we both knew that. In every circumstance, it served as a nasty reminder of the life we lived before this one.
No days off.
Always running.
Trading a life of privacy for press.
Trading rundown rooms for rumours.
Trading childhood for change.
We no longer struggled the way we used to, but our innocence was never discovered or explored – we were forced into one pitiful life, thrusted into the next.
Never a decision based off our own merit. We did what we had to do.
I did what we had to do.
And I could never undo it, not for a second.
I thought living this life would fix all our problems – it only paid off our debt. But I, we, sold ourselves in different ways.
You can’t get that kind of money back. It’s not a currency.
Ryden stared at me contemplative. The sparkle in his eyes had dimmed, and I knew that they’d gone back to that place. I was just about to touch his arm, to bring him back to life when he said, “Fine, Dove. Let’s have a day off.”
“What?” I asked.
He yanked me to the exit before I could say bye to my friends. “Come with me.”
“Well, I clearly don’t have a choice.”
He turned to me. “We never did.”
I swallowed, breathing in the stale air of New York City.
“We never had a choice,” he faced me, “so we made one. Let’s make another.”
“That easy?”
He said nothing, stepping forward, grabbing my hand. “You trust me?”
All surrounding noise was drowned out by the ambit of us, the black hole we lived inside of, keeping me secure with the only man I’ve ever trusted in my whole life. He knew the answer to that. But he wanted to hear me say it.
“You trust me,” he stated now.
And no word in the world could ever emphasize how much I did.
Eagle and Dove. Forever and –
“Always.”