Delaney
Piper had barely taken a breath for the past hour, talking nonstop to me and to the people working on my appearance. Quite a feat, since it had taken six outfit changes to decide on a simple white sheath dress, the back held together by safety pins to accommodate a mic pack, and two hours in a chair for hair and makeup.
Rolling my fingers into my palms to keep from scratching at my cheek—apparently television required a different level of cosmetic application than magazines and websites, because the makeup on my face had to be an inch deep—I went over my notes from an intensive one-on-one media training workshop with Shane’s publicist.
No looking up when I thought about a question.
No fidgeting, no “ummms,” no “likes.”
Answer only the question being asked, keep answers short and sweet.
Send lots of loving looks Shane’s way, but keep touching to a minimum.
I also had a list of potential interview questions and had practiced my answers until I could give them in my sleep.
A hand on her hip, Piper offered more unsolicited advice. “Stop worrying, Delaney. Just stick to the script and you’ll be fine.”
What script? I would have lifted my eyebrows, but the heavy coating of makeup made it difficult. I didn’t have a script. I had one page of notes. I had answers to questions that might be asked. Definitely not the same thing as a script.
A production assistant poked his head in the door. “We’re ready for you.”
Piper beamed. She’d been assigned to work with me because of our high school connection. I was her first real assignment, and was minutes away from being interviewed for national TV. We’d come a long way from Bronxville.
There was a last flurry from everyone around me, lots of primping and fixing and zhuzing. And then, as if they’d coordinated it, everyone backed away, and I stood up on heels that were absolutely gorgeous, but incredibly painful.
Shane’s door opened at the same time as mine, and immediately my nerves felt just a little less frantic. “You look beautiful,” he said, before leaning close to my ear and adding, “Although your blissed-out, post-sex look is still my favorite.”
A trembling knot of desire unfurled deep in my stomach. “Blissed-out, huh?” What a perfect description of how Shane made me feel. Dizzyingly infatuated.
He reached for my hand as we headed into the main part of the suite. The windows had been covered in favor of huge artificial lights, and several cameras were already in position. Off to the side, Mike Lewis was consulting with several of his colleagues, shuffling through color-coded index cards and scribbling notes in the margins. Either I was about to meet the genial morning show host I’d enjoyed waking up to for years, or the best-dressed executioner in America.
Greetings and handshakes were exchanged all around. Mike Lewis was thinner and slightly fussier than he seemed on camera, but very engaging and personable. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.
The PA called for silence, red lights on the cameras flashing. Lewis launched into his welcoming spiel as if we hadn’t already met and chatted for a few minutes.
Ten questions in, the one at the heart of the interview finally came. “Shane, recently a document has come to light indicating that your relationship with Delaney is professional, rather than romantic. That you pay for her company.” Mike took off his glasses, leaning forward as he held them up in the air, a move I’d seen many times before, always before a question that hit below the belt. “You’re the lead singer for Nothing but Trouble, arguably the most popular band in the country. You’ve been named People magazine’s Sexiest Man of the Year not once, but twice. Tell me, why does Shane Hawthorne have to pay for sex?”
There it was. The moment I’d been dreading. I’d just been called a whore on national television.
Shane
Delaney stiffened at my side, and I knew if I turned to see the hurt and embarrassment smoldering in her eyes, I would lose my mind. My temper. Probably Delaney, too.
Guilt pricked at my soul, knotting in my gut and spreading to every organ like an invasive cancer, corrupting all the good feelings Delaney had stirred up. Somehow I managed to rein in the fury swirling through my veins, even as the light kit shined on me with an accusatory glare. “I have never paid for sex, Mike. Not with Delaney, not with anyone.”
“Are you saying you’ve had similar contracts with previous girlfriends, or with women you presented in public as your girlfriends?”
“No. I’m not here to discuss prior relationships, and I’m not going to.”
Pursing his lips, Lewis paused as he considered his next question. “Fair enough. Let’s get back to Delaney, then. Why a contract? Why not just date her?”
I should have taken a moment to gather myself, but instead I let loose with an answer that wasn’t at all what I’d intended. “That contract was meant to remove an element of unpredictability from my already unpredictable life. But as it turned out, life is pretty unpredictable, too. Delaney Fraser is the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and if getting her to come on tour took a ridiculous contract, so be it. I’m not sorry, and I’d do it all over again.”
Lewis slumped back in his chair, clearly surprised by my answer. But I wasn’t finished. “What I do regret, though, is your suggestion that Delaney is a prostitute. She is not, and the only reason I agreed to sit down with you today is to put that slanderous accusation to rest.”
Lewis shifted his focus to Delaney. “How do you feel about what Shane just said?”
I slipped my hand over hers, dragging my gaze to her perfect profile. “I—I’m not going to apologize for my relationship with Shane either,” she said softly, but with conviction. Delaney turned her face to me, a tremulous smile tugging at her lips.
She saw me. And she stayed.
For a second, everything else faded. The lights, the cameras, the people crowding into the room, the scandal itself. For a moment it was just the two of us, and if lightning struck, I would have died a happy man.
Until Lewis shot an arrow straight into my euphoric bubble. “Let’s talk about something you two have in common. Both of you lost people close to you because of car accidents, correct?”
“You know we have.” It felt like I had rocks in my throat, or maybe hot coals.
“Do you want to tell me about it?”
I cocked an eyebrow. Fuck no, I didn’t want to tell him about it. But I did, reciting the same details I’d shared with Delaney.
“Were you on drugs?”
“No.”
“Drinking alcohol?”
Remorse climbed up from deep in my belly, coating my throat, its foul taste lingering in my mouth. “No. I was driving in a blizzard, and I skidded. It was an accident. A tragic one.”
“Then how do you explain the beer cans that were found in your vehicle after the crash?”
“My friends each had a beer on our way home.”
“Just to be clear, all of you were underage, correct?” He didn’t wait for an answer before continuing. “So somehow you obtained alcohol, which your friends drank…and you didn’t?” His skepticism was blatant, and clearly intended to taint the viewer’s perception.
“You don’t have to believe me. I took a Breathalyzer at the scene. The results were negative.”
“But those results were later called into question, correct? And you left before the police concluded their investigation, didn’t you?”
I gave a tight nod. “Yes.” The word was short, clipped. I could get into more detail, but I knew it wouldn’t do any good.
He lifted a brow. “Why?”
My jaw clenched, hands fisting at my sides. This interview had become an interrogation. “There was nothing to keep me there anymore.”
“You didn’t even attend the funeral of—” he consulted a note card he’d slipped into the crease of the chair “—Caleb Branford. He was your best friend, wasn’t he?” Lewis was testing, pushing, pressing. Trying to find a way in.
And he was succeeding. I cleared my throat, pulled at my collar. The lights were bright, hot. Intense. “I’ve mourned Caleb’s death every day since then.”
“I’m told that the police wanted to question you further, but they couldn’t find you. Do you know why?”
“Sounds like someone’s been telling you an awful lot about me,” I shot back defensively, immediately clamping my lips shut and willing myself to breathe normally. I was one question away from coming off like an arrogant celebrity who got where he was by taking the place of his best friend. By killing his best friend. I couldn’t see Travis from where I was sitting, but he was probably hunched over in a corner, breathing into a paper bag.
Lewis crossed his legs and put his glasses back on. “It might have something to do with not knowing to look for Shane Hawthorne.”
I hoisted one shoulder. “Makes sense.”
“Because Shane Hawthorne isn’t your real name, is it?”
My chest tightened, knowing exactly where Mike was headed. I glared at him. “No.”
“Sean Sutter was the boy involved in an accident that killed his friend and injured two more. Sean Sutter walked away with barely a scratch.”
I nodded, each word hitting with the force of a sledgehammer.
But Mike wasn’t finished. “And then Sean Sutter headed west, became someone else entirely. Someone named Shane Hawthorne.”
Delaney
I could feel Shane’s cocky swagger bleeding out of him, replaced by the shamefaced kid he’d once been. Lurching forward, a defensive retort burst from my mouth. “And just what would you have done, Mike? Imagine you were a sixteen-year-old kid who’d been kicked around by your father your whole life, watched your mother die of cancer, and your only brother was unreachable in New York. Imagine losing control, of a car, of your life. Imagine everyone blaming you for the death of a friend you would have given your own life to save. Shane didn’t run away because he was guilty. He left because of the guilt.” I know exactly how heavy a burden he carried. “I don’t blame Shane for that, and no one else should either.”
Mike blinked, a pleased expression settling on his face. We were giving him one sound bite after another. “So, you’ve told Delaney about your past?” he asked Shane.
He squeezed my hand, threading his fingers through mine. “I’ve told Delaney everything.”
“Has she done the same?” Skepticism edged his tone.
Shane shrugged, but the rigid set of his jaw was lined with strain. “You would have to ask her.”
Mike’s eyes slid to mine. “Why don’t we talk about that?”
The mama bear I’d been just a minute ago lumbered back into the forest. “You mean my father,” I said, my voice rising several octaves.
“Yes. Your father was convicted of vehicular manslaughter in the death of your mother. A conviction that came with a fifteen-year sentence, earning him a place in one of New York’s toughest prisons. And yet, just a few weeks after signing a contract to become Shane Hawthorne’s girlfriend, your father was moved to a minimum-security facility. What would you like to say to the people questioning your commitment to Shane? People who believe your relationship is nothing more than a sham in return for cash and favors.”
I took a moment to consider Mike’s accusatory question, knowing exactly how I should answer it. Instead, the truth came out. “Honestly? Nothing. I don’t think my relationship with Shane is anyone’s business but ours.”
He drudged up a chuckle. “Fair point. But I have to ask, would you deny it?”
“Yes, I would. My mother’s death and my father’s subsequent arrest and conviction devastated our family, and I won’t discuss his incarceration. I’m here today because of my genuine feelings for Shane, not for any other reason.”
“Do you believe the alcohol your father consumed that night was a factor in the accident?”
My palms were sweating, and I slid them beneath my thighs. The plain truth was that no, his drinks didn’t cause the accident. But my back was against a wall. Too much was at stake to speak the truth now. “That’s not for me to say.”
Mike leaned back in his chair, clearly considering how much he wanted to push this topic. But Shane was the one his viewers were interested in. I was nobody, and my father even less interesting. His chin tilted toward Shane, gesturing with his glasses. “Shane, Delaney mentioned earlier that your father ‘kicked you around,’ I believe was how she put it. What did she mean by that?”
My heart pounding in my ears, I mentally chastised myself for saying too much earlier. The NBC team hadn’t unearthed details about the abuse Shane had suffered at the hands of his father, and I’d just hand-fed it to Mike. Damn it.
Shane rolled his shoulders, trying to relieve some of the tension I could sense curling around his muscles. “I’d rather not speak ill of the dead, Mike.”
“Are you saying you don’t have anything good to say about your father?”
“I repeat, I’d rather not speak ill of the dead.” His voice was hard, flinty.
Mike Lewis’s expression changed, processing Shane’s non-answer and giving a slight nod. “Tell me more about Caleb Branford. He was the lead singer of your band, correct? You were the guitarist. You didn’t take center stage until after his death. Why is that?”
I shifted on the couch so I could look directly at Shane, gave his hand a squeeze. For a moment we were back at the karaoke bar, and I could see the flash of pain streaking across his face when I asked if he did anything else besides sing.
“I don’t really know. Writing songs was how I coped with Caleb’s death. I could have given them to someone else to sing, but that didn’t feel right. Eventually, I was singing more and playing guitar less.”
Mike’s eyes flicked to someone over our shoulder, and he gave a slight nod. “I think it’s fitting to conclude this interview with a statement we received from the Clark County District Attorney’s Office.” He reached for another note card and put his glasses back on. “We are reviewing the circumstances surrounding Caleb Branford’s tragic death. If we believe Shane Hawthorne is criminally liable for Caleb Branford’s death, we will prosecute to the fullest extent of the law.”