Chapter 13
Day Six
Rubbing at my aching eyes, I stare at the glare of my laptop. I inhale, sucking in a deep breath and huff out a resigned sigh, having found nothing in this one last sweep through all the contracts before Haley’s lawyer friend takes a look over them. I’m pinning all my hopes on Rachel MacDonald.
The moment the show was over last night and my phone blew up with texts and calls, I knew I needed someone else to help. But I can’t face Megan Lamont and all the other suits at the record company, or Vivi, our social media manager—not even Ewan, our laid back band manager. Every one of them will say the same thing: I’ve been stupid and only have myself to blame for this mess.
And while they’ll be quick to point the finger at me, I know when it comes to finding a way out of it, Megan will roar in like the captain of the cavalry and take control. She’ll have solutions, but they’re unlikely to be ones I can live with. It suits their purposes just fine to paint me as the bad boy of the band. This time I’m not having it. That’s why I’ve blocked the lot of them. I’m keeping them out of it. I’m going to fix this my way.
There’s a twist of a key in the lock, the front door swings open and the dogs are gone, like racehorses out of the gates.
I’m both expectant and nervous about Haley’s arrival home from work. We’ve talked lots today. I hope I didn’t get her in trouble with my endless texting, but even with the two dogs shadowing my every move, it’s lonely.
There’s been no mention of that kiss. Is it embarrassment? Or she doesn’t remember? Or is it, as I desperately want to believe, she’s OK with it because she’s taken another step towards the thing I hardly dare hope for—seeing me as more than just her brother’s friend? Something inside me balls up into a knot of nerves and anticipation at the thought of that conversation. It squeezes tighter, as I’m reminded that down track there’d be a conversation with Ollie to face, too.
A Scottish-accented voice calls out from the foyer.
“Hales? Are you here?”
There are clattering claws against the wood, the jubilant steps of the dogs’ exuberant welcome dance echoing from the hallway.
“Hello there.” I hear giggles interspersed with murmured endearments and kissy noises. The sound of prancing paws subsides, replaced by a slither of upturned bodies, the dogs presenting tummies for scratching. The happy rhythmic thudding of tails vibrates through the house.
Rachel is here. It seems all Haley’s friends have keys and come and go as they please. Hopefully, this one isn’t going to attack me.
I wander out, pausing to lean on the doorframe. A blonde-haired woman dressed in a business suit sits on the floor, wrestling the two wiggling dogs. Sensing my presence, she looks up, and her strong eyebrows converge.
“Ahhh,” she says, ice-blue eyes boring into me. “Christian Steele.” This one knows who I am—and from the small scowl tugging down her pretty scarlet bowed mouth, that may not be a good thing. “So, I would be correct in assuming Haley’s problem has something to do with you?” Her tone suggests she’s less than impressed with the disruption I’ve caused to Haley’s happy existence.
“Right first time.” I cross my arms over my chest. “Guess you’ve been watching the TV.”
“Yes,” she says, lips pursed in disapproval. “Well, that’s a right shit show.”
“You could say that.”
She rises to her feet, a tall woman, made even more so by a pair of towering heels that allow her to look me right in the eye.
“Lucky for you, I’m pretty good at getting people out of the shit. Make me a coffee and let’s get started.”
I like her direct manner. Certainly, from the way she’s dressed and the confident tone, there’s a small beacon of hope; I might get out of this mess after all. She’s older, too, mid-thirties, so I presume there’s actual legal experience there, not simply bravado. She’s very different from Haley. As I show her to a seat at my laptop, I’m glad of their unlikely friendship, apparently grown out of a few girls going for drinks after a Pilates class.
By the time Haley arrives ten minutes later, Rachel is deep in legalese, peering through a set of studious glasses with a small divot between her brows.
“Hey there,” Haley says, “Seems you two have met. Sorry I got held up. A surgery went overtime.”
“Yes, we’ve met.” Rachel casts me a judgmental glance. I can see she’s only doing this for Haley. It’s probably fair enough she’s dubious about me. Anyone would be after seeing the crap on TV last night. Not to mention the shadow of those other lies about Waverley and me that seem like they’ll never go away.
“How’s it going?” Haley stands at her shoulder. “Anything jump out?”
“Not yet,” Rachel says, but her intense gaze, and the determined set of her jaw, tell me she’s going to do her best. The challenge has piqued her interest, even if meeting it means getting a scumbag like me off the hook.
“How about I start dinner?” I suggest.
I’ve prepped for the three of us. Hopefully Rachel likes steak. I retrieve the chunky slab of best fillet from the fridge, finding a spot on the worktop so it can come up to room temperature. Tucking it safely out of reach of marauding dogs, I begin to assemble the ingredients for a simple but impressive red wine jus. I ordered in a heap of vegetables, in case she’s not a carnivore like me and Haley. Plying her with good food might ease her distaste for the task at hand.
“I’ll help,” Haley offers. “Leave Rachel to work her magic, eh? ”
I’m not sure Rachel is the answer to my prayers. Only one page into the contract, she muttered about it looking watertight. Still, I’d rather take my chances with her than Megan and her mates, who’ll only try to bully me into doing what’s best for others, even if it’s not good for me.
But working in the kitchen alongside Haley takes the edge off my gloomy mood. Even if Rachel fails to save me, having her here has delivered an opportunity to do something so ordinary, but at the same time, special: cook dinner alongside Haley. What I’d give to be doing this every night when we’re not on the road. To have Haley arrive home, share a glass of wine together, talk about nothing and everything while we make dinner.
I’m not giving up on that possibility. The thought of that kiss still dances seductively in my head, but I’m scared to raise it with Haley. Best to leave that to her; to choose when—or if.
Ollie’s kitchen is spacious and well-equipped, with wide worktops and sleek cabinetry, two sets of gas hobs and two ovens. While there’s room for both of us to work in here without ever colliding, we gravitate to the centre, drawn to each other. The task provides an excuse to flirt with the tantalising nearness of her, and it feels as if she wants it too. The relaxed brush of her body past mine, as we dance back and forth, peeling and chopping, measuring and stirring, mesmerises me. I tingle all over as she leans past me to pull open a drawer, her fingers grazing my hip.
I offer her a taste of the jus, and the sight of her dainty tongue lapping at the spoon has me regretting it immediately. I force my brain to retrieve useless information. I recite the monarchs of England since 1066, the names and dates of Henry the Eighth’s wives, the names of Shakespeare’s tragedies and then move onto the comedies—anything to damp down all the messages my body is sending; anything to drive away the taunting images of Haley; the ones that invade my dreams and now seem to have braved my waking hours. I fail, but at least the apron I tied on covers the physical evidence of my arousal.
She gives me shit the whole time, bantering with me as if she doesn’t believe I can really cook, even though two pretty damn good meals the previous two nights prove otherwise. It’s playful and flirty, and I lap it up like a cat with a bowl of fresh cream.
“Better hold the steak. These are still hard.” Haley leans into the oven, stabbing viciously at the tray of roast vegetables with a knife. The sight of that sweetly curved arse pointing in the air captures my gaze, and I jerk my eyes away just in time as she slams the oven door and turns to face me. “I told you twenty minutes wouldn’t be enough.”
“Are you always so right about everything?” I say.
She rolls her eyes. “Always. Especially in the kitchen.” She pokes my chest with a pointy little finger, trying to look bossy.
I adopt a hurt expression. “You don’t like my cooking, then?” I pout.
“Lose the puppy dog eyes, Christian,” she says, attempting to suppress a giggle, and failing when I respond by exaggerating my down-turned mouth. God, it’s like the music of angels to my ears, the sound of her unbridled happiness. What I’d give to hear that every day of my life.
“Send that puppy dog in here.” Rachel’s voice has an edge of excitement to it.
I pull the pan off the gas element and try to walk casually. Haley isn’t so restrained, dumping the knife in the sink and running to Rachel’s side. I join her, staring down at the lines of black print that hold me prisoner.
“Right,” Rachel says, a smug smile lighting her face. “I think I’ve found a loophole. Yes, you might have to take a risk, be prepared to defend it in court, but it might not come to that.”
My heart races, the blood roaring with possibility.
“So, you want to spill some dirt on these guys?” she asks.
I nod. “People deserve to know what really happened.”
“OK. But you’re not allowed to talk about why you were asked to leave—”
“Chose to leave,” I spit.
“Settle down, Christian,” she commands. “I’m not the enemy here.”
I swallow. “Sorry.”
“OK,” she says, pointing at the document on the screen. “First, you were right, you can’t leave this house. Not until the day of the live show, next Thursday. That’s still a whole week away. Anyone catches you breaking that condition and they’ll sue your arse.”
Hayley’s panicked eyes meet mine across Rachel’s head. I smile reassuringly and give a little shake of my head. I don’t want her to feel bad about what she asked of me. I have no regrets about risking those two trips to the vets. I’d do it again without hesitation if I had to; for her, for Tully, no matter what.
Rachel scrolls down some more. “And it’s very clear, in this clause—you can’t talk about why they asked you to—why you chose to leave. They’ve got that sewn up tight.” She trails a finger down the contract, pausing to reread each numbered clause.
“But,” she bites at her lip, her chin resting on one hand, “there doesn’t seem to be anything in here that prevents you talking about other contestants. Or them talking about you. I’m at a loss as to why they’ve left it out. It could be an oversight, which is kind of surprising given the money these guys would spend on contracts—”
Haley interrupts. “I bet it’s not.” There’s a small satisfied grin on her face. Rachel and I sport twin questioning frowns. We obviously have something in common—unlike Haley, neither of us are regular consumers of reality TV.
“What causes the most fireworks on these shows?” Haley looks between us as if we should know this like she does, but seeing our blank stares helps us out. “The gossip. Contestants dissing each other. All those secret asides where they’re encouraged to let loose with what they really think. On shows like this, they want people to talk about each other, stir up trouble. They don’t want to rule out their best source of conflict. The magazines are full of it, long after the season ends.”
My brain whirrs, the cogs spinning wildly now. There is another person who knows exactly what went down. One who could talk about what I did and not be sued for doing so.
“Loreena,” I say. “She knows everything.”
But, still stuck on the inside, she can no more talk to the press than I can. And even if I could sneak out of here, there’s no way I can reach Loreena. It would take a paramilitary operation to get back undetected. My practical skills don’t extend to parachuting in behind enemy lines, or stealthy landings on the wild beaches of a remote island. My brief flash of hope is gone as quickly as it came, followed by a new realisation. I sigh.
“Even if I could get a message to her, there’s no way they’d let her reveal my secret on air. They can cut anything they want. ”
And yes, I could wait for it all to be over. However, that’s not an option I want to live with—the world thinking I’m a creep for weeks until the whole story is allowed to come out.
“But it’s a start, right?” Haley’s voice is bright. She’s practically bouncing with excitement. I can’t bear to crush her optimism.
“It is.” I force a smile. “We’ll work something out. Thanks Rachel.”
“Anything for Haley,” she says, making it perfectly clear she’s helping me under duress. “Now, how about a glass of wine while you finish dinner?”
I should be more hopeful, sharing some of Haley’s positivity, but while I take care of the rest of the dinner, and the two girls relax and chat, I slowly sink back into my despondent mood. Since last night, the world knows I’m not on that island. It’s even more crucial I lie low. Reporters will be hunting me now. Their questions alone would provoke the wrath of the production company lawyers, whether I choose to answer or not.
I lean on the worktop, head in my hands. Not knowing there’s a lifeline was bad, but knowing there is one dangling out of my reach—somehow it’s worse. And beyond that, there’s a quiet dread, a dark shadow lurking at my shoulder. I have this strange premonition, a twisting in my gut; the bastards at Wild For The Win aren’t done with me yet.