Chapter 82 Reed
REED
“Georgina!” Owen says warmly, embracing her. “It’s great to see you!”
“It’s great to see you! You look dapper.”
Georgina and Owen are having this conversation in front of me in a backstage hallway at Madison Square Garden.
Owen has been in New York the past few days, working as the point of contact for a documentary film crew shooting tonight’s RCR concert for a Netflix special.
And, of course, the Intrepid Reporter is here to do a quick interview of RCR.
“And you’re perfection!” Owen coos to Georgina. “The lady in red. That ruby necklace is a show-stopper.”
Georgina touches the gems around her neck and looks at me. “It was a gift from my generous boyfriend.”
Owen already knows that, of course. He’s the point of contact for both my accountant and bookkeeper, so he’s well aware of any large purchase I might make. But Owen, smart man that he is, plays along. “That was quite a gift. Sounds like someone is smitten. And I can see why.”
“Sorry to interrupt this lovefest,’” I say dryly. “Is everything all set for filming? Did Andrew get my notes on those shots I want him to get?”
Owen nods. “Andrew’s got a skeleton crew in the guys’ dressing room now, capturing that behind-the-scenes idea you had.” He looks at Georgina. “The band is expecting you. I told them to allot forty-five minutes. Is that enough time?”
“Double what I need, probably. The special issue will be focusing a lot more on Dean, individually, than the full band, so we only need a quickie with all four.”
We head off toward the dressing room, at which point Owen leans into me and whispers, “Wow, boss, this is quite a ‘purely professional relationship’ you’re having.”
Inside the dressing room, we find all four guys of Red Card Riot, as expected, plus their usual entourage, plus, a skeleton crew for the documentary.
And, last but not least, there are several PAs flitting around the room.
.. including, to my delight, the little waif who walked in on Georgina and me backstage at the Rose Bowl, when I was camped between Georgina’s naked thighs.
“You remember Georgina?” I say to RCR. And all four of them—Dean, Clay, Emmitt, and C-Bomb—immediately come over to greet her. But nobody more enthusiastically than C-Bomb—Caleb Baumgarten—who strides over, hugs Georgina with fervor, like she’s his long-lost lover.
As small talk ensues, I steal a glance at the little PA from the Rose Bowl to find her looking at me like she’s a mutt at the pound who just took a crap in her food bowl. I smile at her reassuringly, but it’s no use. She’s terrified of me. Not at all happy to see me, to put it mildly.
When I return my attention to the band and Georgina, they’ve already moved to a nearby sitting area, so I follow them and take a chair behind Georgina, where I’ve got a direct line to C-Bomb. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.
C-Bomb asks Georgina—but not me—if she’d like a drink. Georgina declines, explaining, “I drank too much champagne on the flight here. It’s my first time in New York, plus my birthday week, so I went a little crazy with the bubbly.”
C-Bomb looks like a shark smelling blood. “Your first time in New York and your birthday week? This calls for celebration. Come to our party after the show tonight, and we’ll make you our guest of honor.”
Motherfucker.
“Oh, that’s sweet of you!” Georgie says. “But I’ve already got plans tonight.”
C-Bomb is undeterred. “How about tomorrow, then? We’re not leaving New York until Wednesday. I’ll show you all the tourist spots by day. And take you for the best pizza you’ve ever had by night.”
I’m a hair’s breadth away from launching out of my chair, grabbing C-Bomb by his mohawk, and dragging his tattooed ass out of the dressing room. But, quickly, it’s clear there’s no need for me to intervene. My baby’s got this.
“Thanks for the offer,” Georgina says sweetly. “But I’m here with my boyfriend. He knows New York really well. I’m sure he’ll be taking me to a great pizza place.”
Oh, how I love this brilliant, gorgeous woman. And, oooooh, how I love seeing Caleb look like he just got punched in the balls.
“Cool,” Caleb says. And that’s it. He sinks into his chair, looking defeated.
“What are you and your boyfriend planning to do while you’re in town?” Clay, the bassist, asks, and it’s clear his question is only designed to razz his drummer.
“Oh, the usual tourist things,” Georgina says.
She rattles off everything we’ve talked about doing during our stay, and then adds, “Plus, we’re going to visit family.
” I’m assuming her comment refers to our planned detour to Boston, until she says, “My boyfriend’s mother lives in Scarsdale and he always visits her when he comes to the East Coast.”
My heart stops.
No.
How did I not see that one coming?
Georgie has made it clear she wants us to “come clean” with each other—to trust each other “completely,” as she keeps saying.
And, of course, I’m fully on board with that plan.
But only in regard to stuff that directly affects Georgina.
Not everything about me. And certainly not about my mother.
I’ve spent my entire life lying to people about my mother!
Literally, my entire life. And I can’t suddenly stop doing it, just because I’ve fallen head over heels in love.
When I was in grade school, I remember telling classmates my mother was a firefighter who worked crazy hours down at the station, which was why my nanny, Amalia, and not my mother, was the one who showed up for school functions.
Also, why I had to be so quiet during the day—so my mother could sleep at odd hours.
Looking back, it was an interesting choice of profession for her, but my undeveloped brain thought it was a stroke of brilliance at the time.
By middle school, I’d grown savvy enough to realize my mother’s slight frame made the firefighting story wholly unbelievable. So, voila, she became the US Ambassador to France.
After that, during my first year of high school, once I’d started living at that horrid group home, I remember telling the other kids both my parents had died in a plane crash.
Which, in my mind, was a whole lot better than admitting I was in foster care because my mother was in a mental facility and my father in prison for bilking innocent people out of their life savings, and all my relatives had decided I was too big a pain in the ass—my anger issues way too difficult to manage—to deal with me.
Not to mention, they’d all figured out there was no pot of gold at the end of the rainbow for anyone who took me in.
Granted, lying about my father’s death in high school came back to bite me in the ass a few times, whenever I happened to be talking to a kid who followed current events, and therefore knew all about my notorious father.
But, mostly, my lie that I was an orphan worked out just fine, especially in relation to my dead mother.
Which was good. The fewer questions about her, the better.
After my father killed himself during my first year of college, I abruptly stopped telling people Mom was dead.
Instead, she became the mother of my current lies.
The one living her best life. The one who does yoga and paints and plays Scrabble like a boss.
And that’s the mother she’s going to remain, even with Georgina.
Especially with Georgina. Because, now that I’m truly happy and in love for the first time in my life, the only thing I want to do, more than ever, is look forward, not back.
Why would I want my relationship with Georgina to get dragged down by the shit that’s always dragged me down my entire fucking life?
I take a deep, calming breath. It’s fine.
I’ll simply tell Georgina my mother isn’t available for a visit this time.
I’ll say she’s got a friend staying with her.
Or that she’s out of town, visiting a friend in Paris.
Or Toronto. And on our next visit to New York, I’ll make excuses that time, too.
And then, again and again. And if Georgina starts asking me why she still hasn’t met my mother, down the line, I’ll deal with it then.
Who knows? Maybe I’ll feel ready at some point to tell Georgina the truth.
Maybe one day I’ll tell her about all the tragedies that have left my mother irrevocably broken.
The tragedies sitting like an elephant on my chest every day of my life. But today isn’t that day.
Everyone around me chuckles, drawing me out of my thoughts—and I realize Georgina is in the midst of a raucous interview of RCR. I watch her for a moment, marveling at her confidence and charisma. At how obviously she’s charmed each and every one of them. Not just C-Bomb.
After a moment, my eyes drift to that PA, the one who walked in on Georgina and me.
She’s sitting in a far corner, watching the interview.
And when her eyes happen to land on mine, she flashes me a pitiful look that practically screams, I swear I didn’t tell anyone what I saw!
before quickly looking away, her face flushed.
I resist the urge to smile at her misery—because, man, it’s highly amusing to me—and, instead, shift my eyes to Dean.
My golden goose. The face and voice and brilliant mind that launched my empire.
He’s a fucking genius, that man. And a great guy, too.
Can’t say the same thing about his best friend.
Speaking of which... my eyes snap back to C-Bomb to find him glaring at me.
Fuck you, I shoot him nonverbally, with a little lift of my chin.
He returns the glare and the gesture. And then does something that makes my blood simmer.
He looks at Georgina lasciviously, and then back at me, and flashes me a look that plainly says, Looks like we both missed out on that one, eh?
He winks, like he’s taking great pleasure in knowing I won’t get to tap that ass, any more than he will.
And that’s it. My blood flash-boils. I look away, forcing myself not to shoot him a smug look that will telegraph I’ve already tapped that ass, motherfucker... and it was the best ass I’ve ever had.
Goddammit. Clearly, my scare tactics with that little PA worked too well, because there’s no doubt in my mind she didn’t tell C-Bomb, or anyone else, what she saw going down in that dressing room.
Or, rather, who she saw going down. When C-Bomb heard I’d nixed Georgina’s plans to attend his party and tag along on tour, he must have figured I did that because I wanted Georgina for myself.
.. but not because I’d already successfully gotten her.
And that pisses me off to no end. Sitting here now, I want Caleb to know I’ve fucked Georgina.
I want him to know I’m fucking her every night of my life.
In fact, I want every fuckboy on my label to know it.
Even the nice guys, too. I want the whole world to know Georgina is mine.
In fact, I want to take out a full-page ad in Rock ‘n’ Roll to broadcast the truth: I love Georgina Ricci.
.. and, miraculously, she loves me, too, motherfuckers!
There’s more laughter that draws my attention. I look at Georgina. She’s having a great old time with the band. And, suddenly, I feel like a man possessed. Obsessed with the idea of C-Bomb, and the other band members, knowing I’m the “boyfriend” Georgina just mentioned.
“Awesome, guys,” Georgina says. She rises from her seat. “That’s all I need.”
The guys thank Georgina. Dean wishes her a great time in New York and a happy birthday.
The other guys follow suit, with Clay specifically telling her to have fun with her “boyfriend.” Georgina wishes the band a great show.
And in the middle of all that, Owen arrives with a small group of VIPs who’ve come to meet the band.
I shake hands with the VIPs and introduce them to the guys, and then to Georgina—but only as a reporter for Rock ‘n’ Roll.
Not as my girlfriend. Because that’s what Georgina has specifically said she wants, whenever we’re interacting with my artists.
But this time, unlike all times before, not getting to call Georgina my girlfriend is driving me batshit crazy.
I want—no, I need—the world to know she’s mine.
As the VIPs take their selfies with the band, I pull Georgina aside. “I need to talk to you about something.”
She looks concerned. “Are you okay?”
I glance at C-Bomb, and force myself, through sheer force of will, not to kiss Georgie, right here and now, so he can see me do it. “No, actually, I’m not. Come on, Miss Ricci. Follow me.”