Chelsea

“We’re all set!” Rosa exclaims cheerfully through the phone. “It’s a done deal!”

Silence hangs in the air. It’s almost oppressive with how long it lingers.

“Chelsea? Did you hear me? They’ve agreed to donate all the proceeds to the foundation.”

“Seriously?” I’m more than a little dumbfounded. When Rosa called me to tell me about her idea to have Ian Monroe and me work together on an album and a tour… Well, I was torn. Part of me really wanted to work with him. Almost couldn’t wait to. But the other part, the more sensible part, the part that remembers Eric telling us all he was clean only for us to be burying him two weeks later… That part really doesn’t want to work with Ian Monroe, or really have anything to do with him at all.

So I’d decided to throw up a little roadblock. Instead of a portion of the profits going to charity, I demanded that every cent be donated. I didn’t expect Ian—or the record label, if I’m being honest—to agree to it. And now here we were. A done deal.

“Yeah! Why don’t you sound excited? You love helping out Wish Givers. This could generate a lot of money for them.”

“I’m just… surprised is all. I didn’t think they’d go for it.”

“Well they did! We’ve got studio time booked for you two on Friday—”

“Friday? So soon?”

“That’s not going to be a problem, is it? The video of you two has gone viral, so we want to move on this as quickly as possible.”

“No, no. That’ll be fine. I’ll make it work.” After all, it’s for the kids. For kids like Mariah that need something to give them hope. I can’t let them down. I still can’t believe it’s happening. I know Ian’s been trying to repair his bad-boy image, but it’s still a shock that he’s such a decent guy, agreeing to do the album without any compensation—and without any hesitation, judging by how fast Rosa called me back. It doesn’t really fit in with the image of an addict in my head.

Eric was always hard up for money. He spent every spare cent on drugs, and when all his money was gone, he’d come to me, wanting more. If I didn’t give it to him, he’d find it another way—normally by stealing. My sweet, honest little brother turned into a lying, scheming, criminal because of his addiction. I know it’s enough to turn anyone into a monster. And it’s not a problem that goes away. Whatever Ian tells his fans and the press, I don’t believe he’s not still addicted. It just doesn’t work like that. But a guy with a drug problem would probably care a little more about getting paid.

So I don’t know.

But it doesn’t matter. Not really. I’ll work with Ian Monroe, I’ll sing some songs in the studio with him and put on a good show for the handful of tour dates we’ll have, but I’m not getting involved with him. No matter how attractive he is or how much his voice makes me weak in the knees, Ian Monroe is trouble and he’s off-limits.

I’m still repeating that to myself, over and over again like a mantra, when my phone rings again. I expect it to be Rosa with more “exciting’ details, but I frown when I don’t recognize the number. Anxiety hits me fast and hard—did a crazy stalker fan somehow get my number again? I’ve been through a dozen numbers in the past couple years because of problems like that. And I learned my lesson about answering numbers I don’t know. But something makes me answer anyway. If nothing else, I can vent some frustration at this creep.

“Hello?”

“Chelsea?”

I don’t have to ask who it is. I recognize his sultry, growling voice immediately by the shiver it sends straight to my toes. “Ian?”

“Oh good, I wasn’t sure you’d answer a strange number.”

“I normally don’t.”

“Today must be my lucky day then.”

You have no idea. I want to be annoyed with him, but I don’t really have any reason to be. Being attracted to him and knowing he’s wrong for me isn’t really anything that’s his fault. That’s all my problem and I need to suck it up and stay professional.

“Anyway, I’m glad I got a hold of you. I don’t know if your manager told you, but we’re supposed to be in the studio on Friday—”

“Of course she told me,” I snap, jumping to Rosa’s defense. What kind of manager would bury the lede that badly?

“Okay, cool,” he says without missing a beat. He doesn’t sound annoyed with my callous tone at all, and I almost wish that he were. At least if he were also a jerk, I wouldn’t feel so bad. But hearing his genuine enthusiasm makes me feel like I just tried to kick a puppy. I take a deep breath and remind myself to mind my manners. This is work. He’s done nothing to warrant my anger; he’s not Eric, and he’s not the reason Eric’s dead. I am. That’s on me. Being angry at Ian won’t fix it or make me feel better about it, even if it seems like it should.

“Anyway, Merrill said the label wants us to try and write a new song or two and I was thinking we should get together to run through some lyrics and stuff. I’ve got a few songs I’ve never recorded that could be turned into duets and you’ve probably got some stuff, too I assume.”

It’s just work, I tell myself again. Be polite.

“Yeah, I’ve got some stuff in old notebooks that could work, but we can just look at it on Friday.”

He pauses, and I can tell by the way he doesn’t answer for a beat that he disagrees and is trying to say so tactfully. I don’t even know this guy, I just know this business.

“The last time I tried to write a song with booked studio time, I never heard the end of it. Besides, it’ll all go much smoother if we get together and work on harmonies and shit beforehand. We got lucky at the show that everything worked out, but I don’t really want to count on luck when I’m recording an album.”

I sigh, knowing he’s right. That’s the same argument I’d use if someone were trying to block me like I was him. At least that’s a point in his favor. He cares about his art as much as I do.

“Yeah, all right.”

“I’ve got a studio at my place,” he says and I freeze faster than a deer in headlights, so grateful he can’t see my shocked look.

“I’ve got one downtown,” I counter. “I’ll send you the address.” No way am I going to his house. And even though I have a studio of my own here at my place, I’m also not inviting him over. If he came over to my home studio, I’d be stuck with him until he decided he wanted to leave. And going to his place just seems like it’s asking for trouble.

I swallow thickly, trying to push the thoughts of exactly what kind of trouble we could get into out of my head. It doesn’t really work. Heat is pooling in my core and making me squirm at the thought.

“Okay, that works. Wanna meet in a couple hours?” He sounds so ready that I feel like a monster for denying him. But I’ve got to think about myself. I’ve got to protect myself.

“Can’t do it today. Tomorrow morning? Bright and early?” That’ll give me some time to get my head in the right space. Not to mention it’ll prevent any late-night songwriting that could too easily turn to bad decisions. I know how my body responds to a talented man—and it’s impossible for me to forget how it reacts to Ian in particular. I know that being tired and out late at night is only going to invite an offer of continuing to work on the music at one of our home studios ...which will probably lead to sex. And that’s not happening. Not with a guy like Ian. So the morning is a better choice, and with any luck he’ll oversleep and I can avoid the whole thing.

“Sure, that works,” he says, sounding almost disappointed. Oh well, it’s not my job to keep him happy. That’s what he’s got a manager for. Even if guilt squeezes around my chest and nearly makes me change my mind. I can’t let him manipulate me, though. I learned that with Eric. Addicts will do and say anything to get what they want and I needed to be vigilant and firm.

“See you then,” I say quickly before hanging up and texting him the address and access code to my downtown studio. I could listen to his voice all day long, trying to entice me into spending time with him, but I know better. I know I can’t let him get any closer than I absolutely have to.

Already, I’m thinking about changing the plans, inviting him over to my home studio, seeing how long he wants to stick around. I have a feeling that if Ian Monroe came to my house, he’d be spending the night and I can’t stop myself from thinking about his talented fingers, long and callused, touching me with that same masterful caress he used on his guitar. I can’t help but imagine his intense eyes staring into my soul as he filled me with his cock…

And just like that, I’ve made myself blush. I cannot be thinking things like that. I have a job to do and that job does not involve fucking Ian Monroe. It involves pretty much the exact opposite. Being linked with a him romantically could be murder for my reputation and I’m not even sure a guy like Ian does romance. He probably just has unending one-night stands without ever remembering anyone’s name.

I’ve had a few flings of my own, but I’m much more the relationship and commitment type. We’d never be compatible, no matter how good the music is. I learned that the hard way when I was still a kid in this business, infatuated with one of the guys I toured with. In the beginning, I opened for him, but then we started singing together on stage and the praise was intoxicating. That was definitely the launching point to my big solo career, but it was also my first real heartbreak and betrayal. I thought Jamie and I had chemistry, I thought he liked me too, but when I made my feelings clear to him, he all but laughed in my face.

“It’s just music, sweetheart. Don’t get it twisted. Everything out on that stage is an act. We’re not really together, you know that, don’t you?”

Even though I was only sixteen at the time, I felt like the world’s biggest idiot and I swore I would never get involved with another musician. I swore I’d never let myself confuse musical chemistry for actual chemistry, and I’d never mistake onstage flirting for the real thing. But that’s pretty much exactly what I’m doing with Ian and I need to put a stop to it before he burrows in any further.

But knowing all that isn’t the worst part of all of this. The worst part is that I still have to turn my phone off and jump in the shower to prevent myself from calling him back. The worst part is that under the steamy spray of the shower head, I can’t help letting my hand slide down my body, touching myself and moaning his name as I shudder with release. The worst part is that he’s doing all this to me and we haven’t even started yet.