Shane
Fucking Malibu.
The last traces of sleep evaporated as I stared out at the sea from the terrace off my bedroom, my right hand running through the hair on my head as my left idly plowed a destination farther south. I was naked, but the waist-high plants along the perimeter would block the view of any intrepid paparazzo. Inhaling air thick with salt and fog, I closed my eyes and listened to the rush of the waves crash along the beach.
Normally the rhythm of the tides soothed me.
But not today.
My eyes snapped open, scowling at the relentless surf. The sun was just cresting the horizon, the ocean a quivering mass of gray and blue, littered with bruised shards of purple and orange. It wasn’t the view that was pissing me off. I’d been on edge before I got out of bed. Before I went to sleep. Hell, I’d been a bundle of nerves since we finished the album.
One more week until the latest Nothing but Trouble tour kicked off.
One more week and, for two hours out of every twenty-four, my view would be stadiums packed with thousands of fans screaming my name.
The rest would be filled with impersonal hotel rooms, private planes, tour buses, and way too many people I didn’t want to look at—let alone talk to—fighting for my attention. Autographs. Selfies. Groupies with glossy lips whispering invitations for everything from blow jobs to backdoor action. Easy sex with an STD chaser.
No thanks.
My last counterfeit companion walked out a month ago, when I’d been spending every available second in the studio tweaking the last couple of songs, which had taken forever to get right. She’d already found someone else to sink her claws into, an up-and-coming actor who made sure he was photographed in public, the more compromising the situation the better, to cover up the fact that, behind closed doors, he was about as interested in tits as a kid with a milk allergy.
Not that I missed her. It was time, and we both knew it. She had gotten what she’d wanted out of being Shane Hawthorne’s “girlfriend”: name recognition, a place on the Best Dressed lists, even a small part in a big-budget movie. It was time for someone new. Past time, actually. Someone who engendered more than apathy.
Except I hadn’t met her yet. Maybe she didn’t exist.
Of course, if she did, I sure as hell didn’t deserve her.
My gut twisted, forming a gnarled, ugly clump leaching anxiety and tension into my bloodstream. The truth was, no one deserved me. I was a jagged knife, the tip of my blade edged with poison. Brutal. Messy. Lethal.
The wind was strong this morning, stronger than usual, and each salty gust chafed at my skin. I welcomed the abrasion, wishing I could be swept up. Swept away. Days like these were too long, littered with too many opportunities to get lost in my own mind. That was a dangerous place for me. Dangerous for everyone around me.
Being on the road sucked. But staying in one place, trapped with my memories, with my guilt…well, not even a beach house in Malibu could make that bearable.
From the half-open door, I heard my phone. Recognizing the ringtone, I headed back inside to take my agent’s call. “Hey, Travis.” He slept even less than I did, and that was saying something.
“I’m just confirming. You’re coming tonight, right?” Travis only had one setting: steamroll.
My disgruntled sigh fogged up the screen. “Let me guess. There’s someone you want me to meet.”
“Of course. Several actually. You’ll have your pick.”
Agent. Lawyer. Matchmaker. Travis was a one-stop shop for me. He’d been on the hunt for my next girlfriend for a while now, and I was still single. Neither of us was happy about it. Left to my own devices, trouble was always too close for comfort. “Fine. I’ll be there.”
Disconnecting the call, I took my first deep breath all day. Travis and I had a deal. He found candidates worthy of being “Shane Hawthorne’s girlfriend,” but I had ultimate approval. I don’t mean prostitutes, either. Hell, I practically had to beat chicks back with a stick. Everywhere I went, there were girls begging me to fuck them against the nearest wall, or dropping to their knees on the dirty floor of a public restroom. Three hundred and sixty-five days a year was my only constraint when it came to sex.
But life on the road was different, and the first few weeks of a tour were especially nerve-racking. So many new people, so many moving parts. It wasn’t easy to get back into the groove of things. Waking up in a new city every day, surrounded by a sea of new faces—I needed the people in my inner circle to stay the same. My agent, bandmates, tour manager…and my girlfriend.
I know how it sounds. Sleazy with a capital S. But sex isn’t part of the deal.
Not that it didn’t happen, of course, just that it wasn’t what I was paying them for.
Being the girlfriend of a rock star shouldn’t be a hard position to fill, but it was. Sexy, beautiful, reasonably intelligent—those were basic requirements for someone I’d be spending months in close quarters with. And she needed to be drama-free, someone who liked my music but wasn’t a super-fan, stalker chick. My “girlfriends” were a thin veil of armor against the hordes of groupies that clawed their way toward me, offering anything I could ever want. And too much I didn’t need.
Truthfully, I didn’t mind the groupies. At my core I’m a hustler, too. Been hauling around a five-pound sack filled with ten pounds of problems since the day I was born. But I’ve made it, busted my way to the top of the fucking heap. Lead singer of Nothing but Trouble. A list of hit songs so long a tattooist couldn’t fit it on my arm if he tried. More money than I knew what to do with. A dozen Grammys at last count, and even an Oscar for best original song last year, the only golden statue awarded to an otherwise unremarkable movie.
I hired Travis years ago to build up my career, and now we were in protection mode, just trying not to crash and burn. Shane Hawthorne was a brand now, one worth millions. And yet, losing everything we had worked for would be so easy. Just one offer of things I couldn’t resist: an asshole named Jack Daniel and that gorgeous white powder that made my brain feel like a shaken snow globe, cloudy with glitter.
So, maybe tonight I would meet my next girlfriend. Someone contractually obligated to be by my side at every show and party, every press junket and photo op. Someone with me day and night, pretty enough I wouldn’t mind the view. Someone with a fun-loving personality, who knew better than to actually fall in love with me.
I’ve done a lot of stupid things in my life, but that was a line I had yet to cross. A line so far in the distance it wasn’t even a smudge on the horizon. And I wasn’t heading in its direction anytime soon. Preferably never.
Love was the one luxury I couldn’t afford.
Assuming I felt a spark of connection with one of the women at Travis’s house tonight, he would lock her into a nondisclosure so tight the press would never find out that she was just an employee, a prop. That our relationship was fake.
What she wouldn’t know, what no one except Travis knew, was that we would have something in common.
Because everything about me is fake.
Shane Hawthorne, resident King of Rock n’ Roll and the cause of dripping panties everywhere, from shrieking tweens to bored housewives, is a sham. More myth than man.
Shane Hawthorne doesn’t exist. He’s the stage name I used for the first time at sixteen, expecting to be hauled off by a pair of cops if I so much as breathed my real name.
Sometimes I’ve wondered what my fans would think if they knew the truth. Would I still be hailed as People magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive if anyone knew who I really was?
Who am I? I don’t even know anymore.
Fraud.
Runaway.
Addict.
Murderer.
Not so sexy now, am I?
Delaney
“Delaney? Delaney Fraser, is that you?”
I froze as the familiar notes of a voice I hadn’t heard in years practically stomped up my spine, leaving angry hives in its wake. The voice, and the person belonging to it, were from a life I’d left behind several years ago.
Bronxville, the insulated Manhattan suburb where I’d been raised, was not merely three thousand miles from Los Angeles; it was in an entirely different galaxy. And yet, this particular meteor had dropped into the upscale steakhouse where I worked without disturbing anything but my peace of mind.
My pivot was purposefully slow, needing a minute to firmly affix a smile onto my face and every ounce of concentration I could muster to remain standing. “Piper. Wow, small world. I didn’t recognize you.”
“Me?” Piper Hastings, former queen bee of the Bronxville School, took a step back and looked me up and down as if I were a mannequin wearing an outfit she was considering. “I almost didn’t recognize you.”
I managed a small shrug. “We’ve all changed since graduation, I guess.” Although, I’ve probably changed more than most. The last time I saw Piper, I’d been solidly on the chubby side of average, sporting braces and barely tamed hair. The excess weight was gone now, along with the braces, and I kept my hair under control via daily altercations with a salon-strength straightener, a life-changing invention I’d only recently discovered.
Piper wasn’t buying my brush-off. “You’ve more than changed—you’re practically a new person. Or at least half of the one you used to be, anyway. What did you do?” She’d always been irritatingly tenacious, a dog with a bone.
How exactly to answer Piper’s invasive questions? Heat rose up my neck, probably depositing telltale patches on my cheeks, too. Gee, Piper, after the Accident, food just didn’t hold much appeal anymore. “Nothing really, just a hormone imbalance.” These days, lies came easy.
But Piper only nodded enthusiastically, her perfect blond hair swinging. “I’m so jealous. I have to practically live at the yoga studio just to fit into my jeans!” Her face was expectant, as if waiting for a round of applause. I gave none, and she continued her rapid-fire questions. “So, what are you doing in California? Did you transfer?”
My eyes narrowed. Could she really not know? After my father was held responsible for my mother’s death, life as I knew it came to a screeching halt. “Something like that.” I proffered a question to stem the tide coming from Piper. “How about you?”
Piper flaunted a Colgate-bright smile. “I graduated from UCLA two years ago and now I’m working in public relations for a Hollywood agent. Super-agent, really. Wild horses couldn’t drag me back to Bronxville.”
I returned the grin, although mine was only half-hearted. “Same here.” Because no one, wild horse or otherwise, would be doing the dragging. My father was in jail, my mother was buried six feet under, and keeping in touch with friends from my former life hurt too much.
I wanted what they still had. Family. Security. A belief that life would magically work out for the best.
I knew better now.
Piper made a sweeping arc with her hands. “So, you work here?”
Eager to extricate myself from Piper’s well-manicured claws, I slipped back into waitress mode, pen hovering above my order pad. “Yep. What can I get for you?”
“A glass of sauvignon blanc, if you have it.”
“Sure. Be right back.” I had to force myself not to run to the bar. Despite knowing Piper Hastings for most of my life, that was probably the longest conversation we’d ever shared.
By the time I returned with her drink, an older man had seated himself opposite her. Medium height with a build that was solid without being stocky, he had an attractively shaved head. A starched white button-down shirt set off his tan, and gold cuff links flashed at his wrists. Setting down Piper’s wineglass with only the slightest wobble, I turned to him. “What can I get for you, sir?”
Piper spoke up before he could answer. “Delaney, this is my boss, Travis Taggert. Travis, Delaney’s an old friend from back home.”
Old friend? Talk about an exaggeration. I would have laughed, but Travis’s dark, appraising eyes didn’t inspire levity. “Nice to meet you, Delaney.” His voice was gruff but polite.
“Likewise. So…” I cleared my throat, itching to get away again, “something from the bar?”
Another nod. “Grey Goose, rocks, three olives.”
Travis’s hooded gaze followed me as I crossed the restaurant to fetch his cocktail. “Delaney,” he said on my return, “I’m having a party tonight. You should come. I’ll bet Piper would love to spend more time with one of her friends from back home.”
The glare Piper gave Travis from across the table belied his assessment. “I don’t get off until late tonight,” I said, not exactly jumping at the chance to hang out with her either.
Travis responded with a short shake of his head, the restaurant’s recessed spotlights glinting off his bald scalp. “Not a problem. My parties don’t get good until late, anyway.”
I flicked a tongue over suddenly dry lips. “Well, I’m not exactly dressed appropriately, and I don’t have a change of clothes here,” I said, looking down at my standard waitress attire of white shirt and black pants.
“Oh, Delaney, that’s too bad. I guess we’ll just have to do it another time,” Piper chirped, the obvious snub bringing back memories that filled my mind like a swarm of angry bees, buzzing and stinging at will.
Oh, Delaney, you don’t really want to try out for cheerleading, do you? I mean, being out in front of the stands, representing our school, it’s just such a huge responsibility. And, of course, the uniforms aren’t exactly forgiving.
Oh, Delaney, this party’s not really for the whole school. Just a few friends, and friends of friends. You understand, right?
Oh, Delaney, I’m jealous you have so much free time to study. Between cheer practice, football games, hanging out with my squad and all the players, and of course, chairing the prom committee, I barely have time to crack a book.
How many “Oh, Delaney’s” had I heard from Piper and her friends over the years? Too many. And her caustic tone was just as abrasive now as it was then.
Travis rolled his shoulders, eyes narrowing as he looked back and forth between us. “You two are just about the same size, and I’ve never seen you in the same thing twice, Piper. I’m sure you have something for Delaney to wear.”
My breath caught in my throat. Was I really the same size as Piper Hastings? I cast a discreet glance her way. Not quite, but not too far off either. Grief was a pretty effective diet. “That’s really generous, but I just don’t think—”
Piper let loose a high-pitched chortle. “After being on her feet all day, you can’t blame Delaney for not wanting to put on a dress and heels.” I gnashed my teeth at the latest comment from the peanut gallery. Piper didn’t want me at Travis’s party; I got the hint, loud and clear.
Travis, not so much. He flicked an exasperated glance at Piper. “Last time I checked, I had plenty of seating. Besides, no one turns down an invitation to one of my parties, Delaney.”
A tingle of curiosity pricked at my skin. I wasn’t in high school anymore. Why was I letting Piper exclude me from all the fun?
Fun. Did I even know what fun was anymore?
Maybe it was because I hadn’t been to a party in three years. Maybe it was because I was enjoying the irritation smeared across Piper’s face a little too much. Maybe it was because Travis didn’t seem like he was going to take no for an answer. Maybe it was all three, because when I opened my mouth, not a single one of the dozen excuses I had at the tip of my tongue emerged. “Well, I guess I wouldn’t want to spoil your perfect track record.”
“Great.” Travis slapped the table with a resounding thwack. “What time does your shift end? Piper will pick you up here.”
“Around eleven, sometimes a little after,” I answered, my brief flare of rebellion already fading. Partying with Hollywood A-listers? Not exactly my crowd, any more than Piper’s cheerleading squad and the jocks they hung out with had been in high school. “But there’s no need for that. If you give me your address, I’ll call an Uber.” Yeah, right. Another lie. Without a doubt, I’d be in my pajamas by midnight. As usual.
My hesitation must have been obvious, and Travis was clearly no fool. “Absolutely not. Piper will be happy to pick you up after your shift ends, with something suitable to wear. Isn’t that right, Piper?”
I winced at the little daggers of outrage glinting from her wide-set eyes. “Sure thing, boss.”
“Good. It’s settled, then,” Travis pronounced.
Settled? Crap. What have I done? “Are you sure, Piper? I don’t want to put you out of your way,” I sputtered, silently begging her to get me out of the mess I’d created.
An overly bright smile twisting her perfectly lined and glossed lips, Piper’s voice was honey with a saccharine chaser. Nauseatingly sweet with an artificial aftertaste. “Don’t mention it. Coming back to pick you up, bringing an outfit, it’s no trouble at all. I’m just thrilled you don’t already have plans.”
I hadn’t made plans in three years. Why bother when life stole your lemonade and pelted you with rotten lemons instead? If I wasn’t working, I was usually home with my nose buried in a book or binge-watching shows from my Netflix queue. Living through fictional characters whose lives were so much better than mine. “Well, okay then.” I pushed the words out of my mouth, wishing I could swallow them whole instead. “I guess I’ll see you later.”
Travis set down his cocktail. “Going to be a good crowd tonight. Trust me, you won’t regret it.”
Too late. I already did.
But what the hell, just add it to the list. I’d accumulated a lot of regrets in my twenty-four years. What was one more?