Breaking Giants, page 7
Music is the only lover who will never leave you, Rose.
That little gem is the main reason I don’t do relationships well and not at all with musicians. Even when I’ve dated good, honest, kind men, within a year or so all my demons invariably reared their heads, and Good Honest Kind ran for the hills.
“Ungh,” I say.
A series of beeps sounds from Greta’s nearby purse. “It’s probably Owen,” she says, squeezing my shoulder before fishing out her phone and heading into the kitchen.
I catch, “She’s okay…” before distance muffles the rest.
I snuggle deeper into the couch, the movement alerting me to a hard object wedged against my hip. Pulling out my cell phone, I check for new texts.
There’s nothing.
8
is this real life?
Late the following morning, I haul my hungover ass out of bed. Greta’s in the kitchen, which is always an event worth witnessing, and I’m badly in need of coffee. Throwing on my fluffy purple robe and some slippers, I grab my dead cell phone—it hadn't plugged itself in when I told it to—and pad down the hallway.
“Morning, sleepyhead!”
“Bleh.”
Greta laughs but doesn’t turn from the stove where I’m hoping her signature crepes are happening. There are grocery bags on the counter. When I spy a half-used carton of blueberries, I almost do a dance. Almost.
Instead, I walk zombie-like to the coffee maker where—God bless her—there’s a full pot waiting.
“That’s it, Owen can’t have you. You’re marrying me.”
She snorts. “You must have heard me come back in. I just started cooking. Eat some strawberries and relax.”
“Take your time. Thank the Welsh gods, I don’t feel that sick.” Spying the two empty wine bottles by the side door, I wince and palm my stomach. “I take it back.”
After pouring steaming coffee up to the brim of an oversized mug, I hop onto the counter beside an errant charge cable. I plug in my phone, then focus on what really matters. With every reviving sip, I pledge my undying love to caffeine.
Greta glances curiously over her shoulder. “What the hell is wrong with your phone?”
“Huh?” I look down. The slim device is buzzing a mile-a-minute, dancing all over the counter by my thigh. “That’s weird.”
I set down my coffee and pick up my phone. It continues vibrating in my hands like a live wire. Notifications fly down the screen, too fast for me to follow. Frowning, I unlock the phone.
“Uhh… I think my Facebook got hacked.” Pressing the icon, I wait for the app to load. “Definitely. I have a hundred friend requests and a bajillion notifications. Ha! Hold on, lemme change my password and figure out what some jerkface posted on my profile.”
“Rose?” asks Greta mutedly.
“Yeah?” I ask without looking up from my task.
“I’m looking at Facebook right now. You’re tagged in a bunch of articles. E! Online, TMZ, Huff Post Entertainment, and a bunch of others I’ve never heard of. You… you’re not going to like this.”
Waves of cold radiate down my body.
“That makes no sense,” I whisper, even as I see the articles for myself.
They all have varying titles of the same theme. All boast a damningly clear camera-phone picture of Julian and me beside the bakery case at Tullamore. We’re standing about a foot apart. He’s looking down at me, smiling, and the way my face is lifted toward his…
“It looks like we’re going to kiss.”
“Yes, it does,” Greta confirms.
“One of my customers betrayed me!”
“That’s what you’re focusing on?” she asks with a little laugh, then blurts, “Shit, the crepes!”
I read the tagline of the first article again.
Recently engaged Julian Ashburn and Rose Cunningham, daughter of songwriting legend Grace Cunningham, share an intimate moment at her café, Tullamore.
A sudden pounding on the front door brings me off the counter and almost paints the floor with coffee.
“Good Lord,” Greta gasps. “Who the hell is that?”
I set my mug down carefully. “I have a pretty good idea—cleanup crew.”
Knotting my robe around my waist, I head into the foyer and peer through the peephole, then unlock and open the door.
“Hi, Matt. Where are the lawyers? And how did you find out where I live? Nevermind. I don’t want to know.”
Matt, looking like a Viking god on a mission to dominate Earth, storms past me without an invitation. He veers into the kitchen and jerks to a stop.
“Oh man, that smells good.”
Greta, bright red in front of the stove, squeaks, “Would you like a crepe?”
“How about some coffee?” I ask, moving past him to grab a new mug.
“Yes, thank you. Black.”
He plops down at my kitchen table like he’s been here a hundred times. After serving his coffee, I sit opposite him and cradle my mug between my hands. As I take measured sips and stare out the kitchen window, I can feel him studying my face.
Finally, Matt sighs and sinks back into his chair. “You look like hell.”
I lift my brows, angling bloodshot eyes toward his face. “I’m probably still a little drunk, which is why I’m not kicking you out right now.” I wiggle my fingers. “Where’s the non-disclosure agreement?”
He frowns. “It’s not that simple. Our publicist is working on retractions but that’s not the only photo that surfaced. We have twenty-four hours to spin this before the other photos destroy Julian’s reputation.”
“You mean his farcical engagement,” snaps Greta.
I blink in surprise as she drops plates of steaming crepes on the table, then slams down syrup and butter.
Despite her obvious awe, she glares at Matt. “You should tell Julian to clean up his own messes.”
Yeah, go Greta!
Aloud, I attempt maturity. “How bad can the other photos be? It’s not like we—”
Matt holds up his phone, presenting me with an image of Julian standing in the private lot behind Tullamore. His t-shirt is rumpled, hair mussed, and… well… he looks freshly fucked.
With a purposeful swipe, the next image appears. I’m standing behind a register, staring blankly, my hair chaotic and… yep, that’s a hickey on my neck.
My fingers cup the spot on my throat.
“Our publicist came up with a solution,” Matt says, lowering the phone. “A win-win.”
Staring at my plate, I mutter, “I’m banning cellphones in the café. Forever.”
Fingers snap in front of my nose. “Focus, Rose!”
I do, and see that Matt’s extremely upset.
“We need to fix this!” he pleads.
I sigh, rubbing the bridge of my nose. “I don’t see how. Besides, it will blow over.” I narrow my eyes. “You know I’m not really interested in helping Julian, right?”
“And isn’t all publicity good publicity?” asks Greta.
“Not this kind,” says Matt matter-of-factly. “Not mere months before an album launch. Not when sixty-percent of our fanbase is female between the ages of fifteen and forty.”
“Can’t have Julian looking like a cheater,” I mumble, while drowning a crepe in maple syrup.
Matt is silent a few seconds, then asks quietly, “Is that what you want? Female revenge stuff? I didn’t think you were the type.”
I wave a fork at him. “Quit with the reverse psychology, Mattie. I’ll write a statement saying Julian and I are just friends. I’m not talking to the press though. Happy?”
“Not exactly. I want you to be my girlfriend.”
A spoon clatters in the kitchen. I freeze with a forkful of crepe halfway to my mouth. “Say what?”
The look Matt gives me is the polar opposite of romantic interest. “We’re going to a charity function downtown tonight. I want you to come with me as my date. I’m going to lie to the press and tell them we’ve been dating in secret. That Julian was a decoy so I could get you alone in your office. And that it backfired when someone snapped photos of you two.”
“Are you kidding?” Anxiety travels down my arms in flashes. “No way. Not a chance on this blue planet am I going to some celebrity event with you!”
Matt doesn’t react to my words, just watches me calmly. “This could ruin his career. It could ruin Breaking Giants.”
The words filter in slowly, settling with a harsh scrape of conscience and consequence.
“Goddamnit,” I hiss, breaking eye-contact to stare at my cooling breakfast. “This is so unfair.”
“I know,” murmurs Matt. “I don’t like putting you in this position, but the band comes first for me. It’s everything to me. Please.”
I squeeze my eyes shut until the burn in my chest fades, then blink at Matt. “Let me guess, we have to kiss in front of the cameras.”
Relief breaks like sunshine on his handsome features. “So much kissing,” he agrees with a wicked smile. “Can I touch a boob?”
Greta snort-laughs from beside the coffeemaker. “This is so funny. Messed up, but funny.”
I glare at her. “Maybe someday I’ll laugh with you.”
She grins. “Trust me, you will.”
“One more thing,” says my new boyfriend. “Please, please don’t call me… whatever you called me.”
I blow him a kiss. “Sure thing, Mattie.”
♫
The party line is that Matt—whose image is largely based on being a certifiable lady’s man—was pressured into keeping his relationship with me secret.
The band’s label isn’t a fan of the implication that they were the ones doing the pressuring, but allowing the secondary, more damaging photos to surface is less of an option. I don’t ask how much money will be flung at the wannabe paparazzo who captured the shots. It’s no doubt exorbitant.
Owen, after being filled in on the details, excuses me from work, ending our conversation with an explosion of maniacal laughter.
I’m still not laughing.
At two o’clock, a team of stylists shows up at my house with suitcases and garment bags and begins turning a pumpkin into a coach. Or a mouse into a horse? Whatever the transformation, I’m definitely not feeling the role of pauper to princess.
The preparation required for a public appearance of this caliber isn’t as enjoyable as people think. You basically don’t exist except as a body and face with a million flaws that have to be squeezed, compressed, plucked, and powdered into the semblance of perfection.
The team—three women and a man—are nice to me in a distant, professional way. They don’t know who I am beyond the chick in the gossip blogs this morning and are no doubt contractually bound to not ask questions.
Around five p.m., as the stylists pack up their various instruments of torture, I stand in front of the full-length mirror in my bedroom and feel… indifferent.
Sure, the dress I’m stuffed into is gorgeous. Tight as a glove, some dreamy color between rust and gold. I’m sure I look like a million bucks. But all I see is a taller, curvier, less beautiful version of the iconic Grace Cunningham.
I hear the front door close behind the stylists. Moments later, Greta knocks on my bedroom door.
“Come in,” I say, turning from the mirror. The smile blooming on her lips falters as she sees me. “Yeah, I know. I look like mom.”
“It’s the eye makeup,” she says, coming forward. She trails fingers along my bare shoulder, grazing one of the diaphanous straps pretending to hold the dress up. “This gown. Crap. It probably costs more than my car.”
“Yeah, mine too.”
Greta fixes a concerned stare on my face. “I gotta say, I’m a little surprised you’re not more, um…”
“Freaked out?” I ask, and she nods. “I’m nervous as hell, but honestly I’m mostly just hungry, tired, and hungover. The faster this is over with, the faster I can shove a spoon in some ice cream.”
She doesn’t look convinced, but smiles anyway. “Well, you look stunning. Like a bohemian goddess.” The doorbell rings and she peeks out the nearby curtain. “Limo’s here.”
I grab the tiny clutch with enough room for my ID, house key, and a half-empty tube of lipgloss, and give Greta careful hug.
“I’ll let you know how it goes.”
She grins. “Have fun kissing Matt Sullivan, you bitch.”
I laugh, because the only other option is crying hysterically. I don’t want to kiss Matt. I don’t want to leave my house. I don’t want to.
It could ruin his career.
And as jacked up as it is, I care.
So I go.
Matt waits on the curb for me, looking exactly as expected—a wet dream in a tuxedo. His pale hair is swept back, blue eyes electric and dancing with mirth. He grins rakishly, gives me a kiss on the cheek, and gestures me into the limo before him.
I maneuver carefully onto the backseat and scoot over. Matt slides inside and slams the door, then turns and pounces, caging me with his arms.
His face is very close. “Darling,” he purrs, in a tone that—even knowing its feigned—makes me blush. Before I can form a coherent thought, his soft lips graze mine. “You look edible.”
I can’t help it—I laugh, leaning back to catch the surprise on his face.
“Does that shit work for you?”
Matt gasps in exaggerated affront, falling against the opposite door with a hand over his heart. I laugh harder.
“Actually,” says a light female voice, “it usually does work for him.”
In my efforts to get inside the limo without tearing my dress or falling on my face, I’d completely overlooked the potential for company.
Idiot, it’s a limo.
My gaze snaps to the two people seated on the bench behind the driver. My heart catapults into my throat.
Julian and Missy.
Because life.
I really, really want to jab my elbow into Matt in punishment for not warning me. Seriously—what the hell? Instead, I smile brightly at the siren in a blue evening gown.
“Hi, you must be Missy. Great to meet you.”
She really is beautiful. Blonde, but not a canned beauty. Fresh and natural, with lush, straight hair brushing her shoulders and pale eyes. A young Margot Hemingway.
“Nice to meet you,” she says mildly.
I hear only a trace of twang and wonder if she pumps it up in public. I also wonder how much she knows—then register the calculating gleam in her eyes.
She knows, all right. And for whatever reason, she doesn’t seem the least bit bothered by the fact I swapped spit with her man.
I feel like I’m missing something. A big, ugly something.
My shoulders knot with tension.
Matt, sensing my distress, threads his fingers through mine. I’m so grateful for the support that I clutch him like a lifeline, scooting closer until I’m leaning against his hard shoulder.
Julian stirs, his gaze flickering briefly in our direction before returning to the passing scenery. In fact, small movement aside, he could pass as a wax statue of himself. Sharp and elegant. A rockstar James Bond.
Then he tells the window, “Thanks for doing this, Rose.”
“Sure,” I squeak.
Aaaand kill me.
Missy gives me a cool smile. “Julian tells me you’re a songwriter like your mother.”
Annoyed that he felt compelled to tell her a single fact about me, I say rigidly, “It’s a hobby.”
“Ahh,” she says knowingly.
The implied insult, of course, is that it’s a hobby because I lack the talent to succeed professionally.
Matt and Julian both stiffen, no doubt anticipating a cat fight. But it takes two and I’ve never been much of a hothead. At least, not when I’m sober. As Matt opens his mouth to defend me, I squeeze his hand.
“It’s fine,” I tell him, then look at Missy. “I write songs because I love to, not because I want to be famous and sell out stadiums. I know it’s hard to understand, but all the things you have? I don’t want them.”
Her eyes narrow with feeling. “I think we all know there’s at least one thing I have that you want.”
Touché.
Julian frowns out the window. Matt gets a text and eagerly occupies himself with his phone. Missy, after glaring at me for a few more seconds, guzzles down a plastic glass of champagne.
By the time we reach our destination I’ve inspected the fingernails of both hands twice, and it’s a damned miracle their polish survives the trip.
9
fraud and fortitude
The night passes in a blur of reporters, flashing cameras, amazing food, and benefit performances to raise money for breast cancer research. By the tenth time Matt and I offer a staged kiss to a camera, two things are certain: we have zero chemistry, and we’re damned fine actors.
At one point, he whispers, “If you want, we can give it a go backstage somewhere. You know, for posterity.”
“You’re just annoyed you’ve finally met a woman you can’t get—” His hand covers my mouth. I bite his fingers. Cameras flash as we laugh at each other.
I’m not exactly ignoring Julian—we’re supposed to be friends, after all, and he and Missy are seated across from us—but call me evil, I rather like the anger I catch simmering in his eyes on the rare occasions he’s not clapping, eating, or making out with his fiancée. He’s a good actor, too, and Missy’s even better.
Nothing seems amiss with the power couple; in fact, they leave Matt and I in the dust in the PDA department over the course of the night.
I try not to feel anything, I really do.
Why is he with her?
Despite the PDA, I can’t shake the weird feeling that they don’t even like each other much. Missy’s adoring smiles ring false, her eyes on him full of calculation. And even while whispering in her ear, Julian’s shoulders stay high and tense.
Whatever their deal is, their relationship is seriously fucked up.
