21. White Lie
21
WHITE LIE
MAGGIE
Quicksand By Whissell
“O kay, but collaborations are just so overused,” I tell Dylan, my fingers scrolling through my laptop as I stalk Ivy Nova’s latest social media posts.
I flip through pictures of Ivy at award shows in revealing gowns, strutting in front of clubs wearing barely-there dresses, and even in sweatpants—she looks stunning in every shot. “It’s great exposure for the band,” Dylan explains, his voice full of that annoyingly familiar enthusiasm.
I roll my eyes as I watch a video of Ivy prancing on stage in high-heeled boots and a super short skirt, her body moving with a confidence I can’t help but envy. “Yeah, but do you want that kind of exposure?” I shoot back, the words spilling out with the bite of my frustration.
“What do you mean?” Dylan protests, as if he can’t fathom my point. “This is a chance to cross-promote both their fanbases.”
Dylan’s in business mode, and while I can’t deny I’m impressed when his ideas pan out for Stonewall, queasiness churns in my stomach. “She’s not really Felix’s type,” I blurt out, crossing my arms defensively.
“I already talked to him and he’s on board.”
“I’m sure he is.”
“I’m not asking him to fuck her,” Dylan chuckles.
“Of course not.” I slap my laptop closed with a thud, determined not to scroll again. “I meant her music. It’s pop.”
“That’s exactly why this will work so well. Can you imagine how awesome it’ll be to mix their genres?”
I want to punch him through the phone. “She’s just so…” I search for the right words. “Outlandish. Did you see her outfit at last year’s music video awards? It was basically see-through.”
“You sound like a jealous girlfriend,” he teases, the smirk I can’t see but can almost hear making my skin prickle.
The line goes silent, and I pick at phantom lint on my comforter, trying to hide my irritation.
“Oh my God, are you a jealous girlfriend?” Dylan accuses, his tone incredulous.
“No!” I shoot back, my voice rising a pitch too high.
“Goddammit, Maggie. I don’t need drama on this tour. It’s important, not only for Felix’s future but for Stonewall.”
“What about Stonewall’s future? What’s going on?” I ask, confusion clouding my thoughts. The company has been thriving, or so I thought. So much so that he wanted to buy Left Turn.
Dylan sighs, and I can almost see him pinching the bridge of his nose. “The music industry is changing. We have to expand to compete,” he explains, his voice heavy. “We’re not going to make it long term if this doesn’t happen.”
“And that’s why you wanted to take over Left Turn Records?”
“My dads did their best, but we don’t have the capital to market our artists like some of the big companies do. The merger with Left Turn Records would benefit us both,” He explains.
“And Morgan’s still being stubborn?” I assume.
“You could say that,” he groans.
“But this collaboration with Felix could be a game changer, and if I can pull Ivy from her current management…” He makes a low whistle. “It’ll definitely buy us some time. Tell me you’re not hooking up with Felix.” He sighs again, the weight of his concern palpable. “Because, so help me God… I gave you this opportunity to gain experience, and this is important.”
Shit.
It’s bad enough when I fuck up things for myself, but this is Felix’s career too and now Stonewall’s success is on the line…
My stomach aches with the added pressure and I know I should come clean but I’ll never hear the end of it from Dylan if this goes badly. It’s the reason I didn’t want to get involved with Felix in the first place. His career is on the line and he doesn’t need a distraction like me screwing it up. Which is why I lie.
“I’m not fucking Felix.” Much, I mumble under my breath, feeling the lie sit heavy in my stomach but swallowing it down with effort.
It’s a white lie, right? We only hooked up twice. Does it count if it was multiple times in one night? Definitely not. The second time wasn’t even my idea, so does that really count either? A shiver of memory courses through me at the thought of Felix’s head between my thighs and under my skirt.
I shake the thought from my mind, forcing myself to focus. What were we talking about again?
I swallow down my jealousy, but it’s like a pill that’s stuck in my throat.
“You’re right though, the collaboration with Ivy will be amazing,” I manage to grit out. I flip open my laptop and watch Ivy on stage, her energy infectious. Dylan’s right—she’s talented. I choke down a gag at my own thoughts.
“Well, I’m glad you’re on board because I need clips for social media to tease the fans,” Dylan says, his tone turning serious. “The more hype we have going into this, the more exposure we’ll have for both Ivy and Felix.”
“I can do that,” I reply, trying to sound upbeat.
“Great, I’ll send over the details. And Maggs,” he stops me before we hang up, his tone shifting. “No roller-skates this time. This is the real deal, people will be watching and I’m too busy to visit you in the hospital if you break a leg.”
Geez, just push the knife in further, will ya?
* * *
I grab my camera and stalk off, my heart pounding. I knew being with Felix was a bad idea from the start, and now it feels like a reckless gamble gone wrong. Damn, why did I have to answer when Dylan called? Always bringing my mood down.
He should be falling at my feet, grateful for the buzz my videos of Velvet Drift generate on social media, not accusing me of “fucking the talent.” I mean… not that he’s wrong, I am fucking the talent—and damn is he talented. But it’s just fun, right? And fun stops at some point, so why not now?
I glance around, realizing I’ve taken a wrong turn. I find myself on the back side of the venue, where the river stretches out like a shimmering ribbon, reflecting the afternoon sun. We rolled into Cincinnati this morning, but the festival isn’t until tomorrow so I have plenty of time to get some new footage over to Dylan.
Through a cluster of trees, I spot Felix sitting on a weathered picnic bench. The universe is cruel, because he’s not wearing a shirt and as he leans over his thighs, his head sways to the rhythm of whatever music is pulsing through his earbuds, the muscles in his back flexing in a way that sends a flush of heat through me. Those are the same muscles I sunk my fingernails into, and the memory sends a jolt straight to the traitorous area between my thighs.
His thick, dark hair falls over his eyes, and I catch a glimpse of his profile as he hums along. Now I’m convinced the universe has it out for me because how can I walk past that and not stop? I need to discuss logistics with him about the collab, so I walk through the grass and stop in front of him, expecting his eyes to track over my bare legs before they meet my face.
But he doesn’t even glance up to acknowledge me. I plant my hands on my hips and lean forward to catch a glimpse of what has him so engrossed. My heart sinks when I see he’s watching a video of Ivy Nova’s latest performance. Her boobs are practically spilling out of her top as she executes a cute dance move—while wearing goddamn heels, no less. She makes it look effortless, and here I was, dancing in Felix’s trailer like a drunk monkey.
I tap him on the head, my frustration getting the better of me.
He looks up, a small, lazy smile breaking across his face. “Hey you,” he greets, before returning to his phone, swiping through more videos, as if I’m not standing right here.
What the fuck?
I tap my high-top shoe directly in his line of sight, a silent but effective demand for his attention.
He pulls one of the buds from his ear, barely glancing at me before his head starts nodding again, lost in the infectious beat of Ivy’s latest hit. “What are you up to—taking a break from wreaking havoc?” He snickers, a cocky glint in his eyes as he resumes his humming.
I stare at him, slack jawed. So, it’s like that, huh?
Glancing around the small riverfront, I notice we’re the only two people here aside from a few boats gliding by. The crew are busy preparing for the show tomorrow, and I should be using this time to edit, but here I am, being ignored by someone who’d rather watch videos of a hot pop star than engage with me.
Did I swear off Felix not more than five minutes ago? Yep, but I’ll be damned if I’m ignored—especially when I was going to be the one to hit pause on whatever this thing is between us, not him.
With a calculated move, I bend over in front of him to set my camera bag on the soft grass, unzipping it slowly. I might as well capture this memorable moment of being cast aside for an annoyingly talented pop temptress. My mini skirt rides up my legs, and I know damn well it barely covers my panties.
There’s a honk in the distance, followed by something that sounds suspiciously like a catcall. I straighten up abruptly, irritation flaring.
Fucking truck drivers. I flip him the middle finger and watch as he drives by laughing.
I glance over at Felix, who smiles and shakes his head, returning to his infuriating humming. He starts mixing in one of his own songs, and I roll my eyes.
I shake my hair out of its ponytail, clearing my throat loudly as I point my camera in his direction. His gaze snaps to me, and he raises an eyebrow, straightening as if suddenly aware of my presence.
“I thought we could get some video for your social media. Get the fans excited for the show tomorrow,” I say, my tone light yet laced with challenge.
“Maybe later,” he dismisses, leaning back against the picnic table, his stomach taut and—God—is he trying to thirst trap me?
“Just pretend I’m not here,” I retort, zooming in on his abs for my viewing pleasure later, since Felix is clearly not taking the bait.
“Are you filming my abs?”
“No,” I scoff. “But can you lean back just a little more?”
Instead of laughing, he says, “I’m a little busy, Maggie.”
“Fine, but your fans will be very disappointed,” I reply haughtily. And by fans, I mean me. I plant a knee on the bench, right between where his are relaxed open.
“Maggie,” his voice is a low sigh, and do I detect a hint of aggravation? “What are you trying to pull?” He yanks the buds from his ears, making it clear he’s had to halt his listening and he’s not happy about it.
“I’m not sure what you mean?” I lean back, scanning his features in search of any possible kidding.
“I mean I’m trying to work, and you’re trying to keep that from happening,” he places a hand on my hip while he leans forward to drop his earbuds in his duffel along with his phone.
“Is that such a bad thing?” I sigh, following suit and clicking my camera off before setting it aside.
“No…” he draws out the word and brings his other hand up so that both are gripping my hips. Then in an unexpected move, I yelp as I’m being whipped around, mine and Felix’s positions exchanged as he gently lowers me to the bench where he was sitting. “But as I recall,” he continues, as he hovers over me, his eyes intense as they glower hard into mine, “this is just fun.” He uses my own words against me, anger flaring up inside me.
“We’re both here to focus on a job. This is me focusing on mine,” he tilts his head in the direction of his discarded electronics.
I grab my camera and sling the strap over my shoulder, gripping it protectively.
“I’m doing my job, too.” I hold up the camera.
“Oh, is that what you call bending over in front of me?” he jokes.
I rear back. “Fuck off.”
He reaches for me, and I shake off his hand.
“Just forget it. Go back to watching Ivy prance around on stage.”
“Sass,” he says.
“Don’t call me that.” I swivel on my heel and stalk off.