I don’t trust easily—a product of my upbringing and shitty life experiences. So why in the hell am I so ready to just hand everything over to this man? I want to confide in him. I want him to comfort me and tell me everything will be okay. I’ve never wanted or needed anyone to do that for me. I’ve learned to take care of myself and not lean on anyone. One mind blowing orgasm from him and I’m suddenly ready to throw all of that out the window.
“Morning, Lay,” Finn says with a smile as he walks through the backdoor in the kitchen and pours himself a cup of coffee. “You get any sleep last night after the cops left?”
I sigh and shake my head, taking another soothing sip of hot coffee.
“Well, I talked to them this morning and so far they don’t have any leads on the brick. They figure it was just some crazy kids out for a few laughs or something.” He shrugs like it’s no big deal and goes back to adding cream and sugar to his mug. “You have a fan meet-and-greet at Capitol Records this afternoon, right?”
I set my coffee down and turn to face him, wrapping my arms around my waist to ward off the chill that comes over me when I think about standing in my bedroom the previous night scared to death when Brady had me lock myself in my room. I had my ear pressed up against the door, listening for any sound of a scuffle when the brick came crashing through my window and sprayed shards of glass all over the place. I had been petrified. As soon as he’d heard the alarm from his cabin, Finn threw on some clothes and raced between our two yards. He saw how shaken up I was and sat with me through the entire police interview. Now he was thinking it was no big deal?
“Do you honestly think it was just a few kids playing pranks?” I ask, my voice raising an octave or two along with my shock at his disregard.
“Well, yeah. Honestly, what else could it be?” he asks nonchalantly, shrugging his shoulders again and pulling out his cell phone to flip through his messages.
“Oh, I don’t know, how about the crazy stalker who’s been sending me creepy letters and attacked me yesterday.”
I stare at him angrily, my fingernails piercing the skin of my palms as I clench my hands into fists.
“One does not necessarily have to do with the other, Layla. That guy at the club could have been some lowlife bum that was standing around just waiting for a woman to walk by alone and you happened to be the one who did it,” Finn argues with a roll of his eyes, talking to me like I’m a child who just doesn’t get it.
“Are you seriously trying to tell me that you don’t think this is all connected?” I fire back.
“Are you seriously trying to tell me that you suddenly believe all of that bullshit Mr. Navy SEAL has been feeding you?” Finn shouts as he slams his mug down, coffee sloshing over the top and pooling in a puddle on the counter. “I thought you were smarter than that, Layla. I thought we decided that he was just another pawn your mother was using to piss you off. He’s a drunk with a shady past that you know nothing about. He sticks his hand down your pants and now everything he says is gospel. Jesus, if I would have known that was the way to make you listen to me I would have tried a little harder to fuck you ten years ago.”
The smack echoes through the room before I even realize what I’ve done. The sting in my hand tells me I’ve just slapped my best friend across the face, and the redness on his cheek is further proof that we’ve both just crossed a very thin line in our friendship.
I’m too furious to be sorry for my actions. I told Finn what had transpired between Brady and I after the police left the night before because I needed my friend to tell me I hadn’t made a huge mistake. I needed someone who knew the real me to listen with an open mind and tell me I wasn’t just jumping into bed with the first guy that showed me some affection after the clusterfuck that was Sam. He listened and he understood, and he told me to do whatever I felt was right, whatever I needed to be happy.
And now, here he was, throwing all of that back in my face and making me feel like an idiot.
“I’m trying really hard right now to avoid saying something I’m going to regret. I don’t know what the hell has gotten into you in the past few weeks, and I’m sorry if you feel like I’m taking someone’s side over yours, but you have no fucking right to talk to me that way.”
Finn cocks his jaw from side to side and runs his hand once down the cheek that I smacked as if rubbing away the sting.
His eyes are cold and there’s an ugly twist to his mouth as he turns his head and stares me down. I’ve never seen him look this angry, and for a second, I want to retreat in fear.
Finn takes a menacing step towards me, and I force myself to stand my ground and not move. He leans his head down towards me and speaks in a low voice.
“I’ve done nothing but support you, and I’ve been at your beck and call for most of my life. All I wanted was for you to be careful and to not trust some loser you know nothing about.”
I hold my breath as he takes a step back, glancing away from me and at something behind me, over my shoulder.
“I guess the guy with the bigger dick wins. Or is it the guy who is the bigger dick? I always get those two mixed up,” Finn says sarcastically before turning and walking back out the kitchen door, slamming it roughly behind him as he goes.
I close my eyes and let out the breath I’d been holding as I feel Brady come up behind me and smooth a hand down the back of my head.
“Wow, and I thought I had anger management issues,” he says with a small laugh as I turn around to face him.
The half-smile from his attempt at humor dies on my face when I see what he’s holding in his hand by his side: a well-worn, brown leather journal. A book that goes everywhere with me but is only brought out when no one is around. A book that stays hidden in an extra flap sewed behind one of the curtains in my room when I'm home in case my mother decides to go snooping through my things.
“What are you doing with that?” I ask in a horrified whisper as I stare at the book. A book that was a gift from my father on the last birthday I spent with him.
His head turns to what I’m looking at, obviously forgetting that he had it in his hand during the commotion with Finn. He holds the book up between us and raises his eyebrows at me.
“This? The window company came to replace the broken window this morning while you were in the shower. I had to take the curtains down so they weren’t in the way and it fell out when I moved them.”
He opens the book like he has every right to do so and begins flipping through the pages. I’ve never let anyone read the things written in that book, even Finn. I’m in such a state of shock that this man is here in front of me, scrutinizing my heart and soul like it’s perfectly fine. All I can do is stand with my mouth open and my whole body shaking.
He stops on one page, holding the book wide open, and I know what he’s about to do. I can see it on his face and in the way he clears his throat and swallows.
I write things down in that book as a way to escape, a way to get the thoughts and feelings out of my head so I never have to think about them ever again. I don’t go back and read what I’ve written; I don’t analyze the words or make changes to anything. I write and I move on. I don’t want to go down those roads again. I don’t want to relive the things I felt when I wrote them.
Every single page is filled with lyrics to songs. Songs I’ll never have the courage to sing in front of anyone because they are too personal. Songs that my mother will never let me sing because then everyone would know the truth. I don’t want them on display; I don’t want him to read them and judge me for the choices I’ve made.
“Please…don’t,” I whisper, my voice choked with tears I don’t even realize are pooling in my eyes.
He either doesn’t hear me or doesn’t care. His need to get inside my soul is too great. His deep, resonating voice fills the room with the words that have filled my heart with so much darkness for such a long time.
“Every day is another step closer,
to where I don’t want to be.
Another smile, another laugh, another moment
of this fake reality.
Because of you
I see clearer than I ever have.
Because of you
I can’t let anyone inside.
Because of you
I learned how to be alone.
Because of you
I am ashamed.
Just for a moment, I was back in time,
to a place where I belong.
Where dreams could lead you everywhere
and wishes could make you strong.
But then I wake up and my eyes are open wide.
Because of you
I see clearer than I ever have.
Because of you
I can’t let anyone inside.
Because of you
I learned how to be alone.
Because of you
I am ashamed.
Every day I lose
more of who I am.
Afraid to cry, afraid to hurt because
you taught me it was wrong.
Someday there’ll be nothing left,
just a shadow of who I was.
Because of you
I see clearer than I ever have.
Because of you
I can’t let anyone inside.
Because of you
I learned how to be alone.
Because of you
I am ashamed.”
The silence in the room is deafening as Brady finishes up the last line of the song and slowly closes the leather book. I can feel his eyes on me, but I can't do anything except stare in horror at my feet.
I wrote that song when I was in rehab for trying to overdose on sleeping pills. It was my twenty-first birthday and I had just found out that even though I was legal in the eyes of the law, everything I had and everything I was, belonged to my mother.
It was childish and immature, and I regretted my actions as soon as the last pill made its way down my throat. I immediately forced myself to throw up. By the time I had managed to purge some of the pills back up, the rest had already started to do their thing, and I could feel my body shutting down as I sunk to the floor of the bathroom.
Before I passed out, I managed a slurred, confusing call to Finn. After having my stomach pumped and my name splashed across the tabloids, courtesy of my mother (“All publicity is good publicity”), I woke up two days later in an exclusive rehab center in southern California where all of the stars go for some “rest and relaxation.”
I wrote those words in the quiet of my room, alone. Words that I knew would never see the light of day because my mother most likely slept her way through the Hummingbird legal team to make sure my contracts were ironclad. I would never have a say in the songs I sang and I would never get to choose the lyrics I produced.
As much as I initially hated the idea that Brady was just here as my mother’s lapdog hired to do her bidding, I am painfully reminded by the words of that song that I am the quintessential puppet for my mother. I do what she says when she says it, and I do it with a smile on my face. I take her criticisms and her threats and I let them mold me into the person I am today.
It doesn’t matter if I really have a stalker or if his threats against me are real or just contrived by my mother for publicity. It doesn’t matter if Brady really wants me or he just wants to protect me because that’s the type of person he is.
As long as my mother has a say in it, I’ll always be the poor, little rich girl who had it all and tried to throw it away. I'm scared to death that Brady will read those words and finally see the real me and realize I'm entirely too damaged for him. But those words aren’t really me. They can’t be. My mother won’t let them be.
“Layla, this is amazing. Did you write all of these?” Brady asks in awe as he flips through a few more pages. I don’t even care about stopping him at this point. I know what he’s going to say next, probably even before he does.
“I don’t understand. Why the hell aren’t you singing this shit? This is YOU. This is what people want to hear. They don’t care about partying on the weekend or random hook-ups; they want real life. They want the real you.”
A cynical laugh bubbles past my lips, and I turn away from him, taking my coffee cup to the sink to rinse it out.
“You’re right. You don’t understand so don’t bother trying.”
He comes up behind me, and I see him set the book down on the counter next to the sink out of the corner of my eye.
“Hey, don’t do that,” he tells me softly.
“Don’t do what?” I ask angrily as I shut off the water and whirl around to face him. “Don’t be honest?”
“Don’t push me away!” he shouts back. “I just found a book filled with songs that make me want to rip out my own heart. Words that are real and deep and fucking amazing and yet here you are, week after week, singing shit songs that have no meaning. I just want to know why?”
He’s so close to me that I’m pinned against the counter and it’s too much. I need space and I need to breathe. I put my palms on his chest and push him away from me so I can move out from around him to the other side of the kitchen table across the room.
“You don’t want to know why. You just want to fix what’s broken. You can’t fix me, Brady. What you see is what you get. I sing what I have to. End of story.”
He advances on me and for the first time ever, I’m glad to hear my front door open and my mother snapping at me from across the room.
“Why aren’t you dressed? The meet-and-greet starts in two hours and hair and make-up will be here any minute.”
Brady gives me one last burning look, pleading with his eyes for me to tell my mother where to go or to just prove to him that the woman who wrote those songs is real.
I turn my back on him and head upstairs to my room to put on the outfit my mother has chosen for me and have my hair and make-up artfully constructed the way my mother insists.