Chapter Two
Gemma
"Tell me again why I'm doing this," I say, eyes closed while the hair stylist tugs on my newly dyed pink hair.
My dreams are back on a stage in New York—a dream that's slipping through my fingers with every curveball I never knew could happen. Show writers having a falling out, delaying the rehearsals for months. Musician schedules conflicting with timelines. And a particular director dropping an “amateur and dead-end flop” for a chance to work with a Tony-winning actor.
Placing a hand on my stomach, I inhale through my nose and exhale out of my mouth. If only that were his reason for leaving, the fucking asshole.
Getting the lead role in the steampunk inspired rock opera was difficult enough with all the backstabbing and competition. And now not only am I getting a crash course in show delays and fighting down the fear of the producer dropping it all together, but it seems a lesson in life and consequences as well.
"It's only two more weeks," Mal reassures from the plush chair in the corner of my hotel suite.
"I still can't believe your show sells out," Kim, one of the new producer’s many assistants, says.
Snapping my eyes open, I narrow them on her.
"That didn't come out right." She shakes her head, lifting her palms out in front of her. "I meant, I didn't expect Vegas visitors to be interested in opera. I get their obsession with pop stars, magicians, and the burlesque show that just ended, but opera?" She lets the question linger.
Closing my eyes once more, I take a deep breath and let her off the hook from my annoyance, because…well, she's right. I wouldn't have guessed the shows would be near to or completely sold out, but they were.
It's flattering, but I'm exhausted from regurgitating the more mainstream songs from operas and musicals.
"All done, sweetie," the cute hair stylist announces.
I push up from the chair and move to the large wall mirror. Turning my face left then right, I take in the large, smooth rolls she created in my hair. It has a classic pinup feel, but with a romantic twist at the nape of my neck. She even made it look like I have way more hair than I do.
"I'm not sure how you did all this without extensions, but if I'm ever super rich…" I turn to face her, "I'm making you my live-in hair stylist."
She snorts and responds, "I'm sure once you meet my four kids you would kick us to the curb."
Her mention of kids sends a shiver through my body. Swallowing the rising emotions, I plaster a small smile on my face.
"Hmmm…" I contemplate her words, glancing once more into the mirror. "Nah, I'll just have to make sure I'm rich enough to put you up in a separate house."
This time, she laughs.
"You should come to the show," I offer, watching her pack away combs, sprays, and hairpins. "There are only two weeks left before I'm gone."
"I appreciate that, but I've got a full day of appointments. Plus, it's family dinner night," she says.
"That sounds way better than my show. Can I come to your house too?" I give my best pleading look.
"Don't tell people that," Kim scolds.
"It was a joke," I say, rolling my eyes. "Sort of," I tack on, heading up the stairs to my bedroom.
"You've got twenty, and then you have lunch and press rounds to make," Mal shouts at my back. "You need to eat."
Her comment sends steel up my spine, and my bare feet falter on the steps. Mal is the one person currently aware of my predicament. Still, the comment makes me grip the railing. Instead of releasing the emotional outburst building inside, I stop halfway up the stairs and twist at my waist. Blinking back unshed tears, I focus on the nearly-packed-up stylist. "So, about that family dinner night…"
"Go get dressed," Mal orders, pursing her lips.
"Bossy bitch," I insult, restarting my ascent.
"It's what you pay me for," she retorts.
She's right.
Dressed in high-waisted, cheetah print capris and a black, short-sleeved crop top with the adorable peter pan collar, I slip into my black patent leather heels and wrap a matching belt around my waist. In the floor length mirror, I examine my profile. Placing both hands on my stomach, I exhale a long breath. There's no visible evidence of my level of stupidity yet, but there will be, and it won't be long before my poor judgment and decision making is a national headline.
I close my eyes and drop my head, allowing a couple tears to escape.
"I'm so stupid," I choke out on a quiet sob.
What I thought were signs of the flu turned out to be something a tad bit more permanent. Like, life changing and long lasting.
Wiping away the tears, I swallow the rest of my pity party and turn to face the mirror, placing my palms on the cold glass.
"You're an idiot," I growl through clenched teeth.
Thinking back to the moment when I set myself on this destructive path, anger and disappointment surge through me, battling to be the dominant emotion.
It had been three weeks since I’d walked away from Zarek. Only three weeks for his actions to return to being everyone’s favorite dirty details to report, and months would follow of reminders of his past exploits with new ones along the way. Pictures of him in clubs with his hands up the skirts of different women. Me walking in on him backstage at the award's show. Video of him dry humping a groupie on stage until the crowd heard her orgasm. The exploits went on and on, plastered across the media for the world to drool over.
I didn't want to be bitter, jealous, or hurt, and though I’ll still deny the feelings to everyone, I can't lie to myself. It built and built, twisting my rational brain into a jumble of crazy, leading me to a terrible decision.
Derren Skards was famous, charming, and the most requested stage director. His interest and attention were the last ingredients to my self-destructive cocktail.
He didn't have to make promises, offer romance, or seduce. No, I ate up his attention and offered myself willingly. The month-long affair distracted me from the pain, jealousy, and heartache I didn't want to carry with me, and made the risk of my role in the production worth everything. It was exciting, new, and invigorating…until it wasn't.
The text messages and calls I always thought were work-related turned out to be the fiancé I'd had no clue about. When I confronted him about the messages, he turned things around on me, accusing me of snooping, eavesdropping, and seducing him. The level of his paranoia grew concerning, and the moment his hand connected with my cheek was our last. I never looked back. Until a month ago, when the only illness I was positive for was an unplanned pregnancy.
Telling him turned into a fiasco. He claimed entrapment and quit the show, claiming he had a better opportunity just to put distance between us. The production company was caught off guard and suspected something between Derren and me, but they've said nothing so far.
My current situation leaves me alone with my job at risk, dreams on the line, and pregnant with one man's child while still desperately in love with another—my own personal level of stupid and cliché.
Checking my makeup one last time, making sure I don't look like the hot mess I am and my eyeliner wings are even, I return downstairs to the living space.
Mal and Kim stand the moment my heels click on the hard floor.
"Lunch is set up in a private dining room," Mal informs, looking down at her phone. "If we get down there now, you'll have about twenty minutes before the first scheduled interview."
"Well, let's get moving then." I turn on my heels, heading for the door of the suite.
When I exit, Gerald, my personal security guard, moves into position on my right.
The man is the flesh-toned version of The Hulk. He towers over me at six feet tall and has biceps the size of my head. I swear he could palm my face in one hand if he wanted to.
"How they hanging, Ger?" I taunt, grinning up at his colossal form.
He grins, and responds, "High and tight, thanks to my underwear."
Laughing, I almost miss the ding of the elevator.
As the door opens, I turn, and the smile drops from my face.
You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.
The thudding in my chest echoes between my ears and the nausea from this morning rushes to the base of my throat.
His head is down, focused on his phone. The ink on his neck peeks out from beneath the collar of his t-shirt.
My tongue has traced that ink.
Gerald moves in front of me, blocking my view of the man I can't seem to escape, but can never have, especially now. Karma is a mean twat-sickle. All the avoiding and ignoring I've done to get him out of my head, and she just keeps shoving him back in my face. Another price I have to pay for my dumb decisions.
A tall man in black steps off first. He looks to Gerald and gives the nod before motioning the rest of the people from the elevator.
Wrapping my arms around myself, I move farther behind Gerald and close my eyes, trying to calm my breathing, but all the memories rush back.
Us entwined, skin to skin. The smell of Zarek's hair, skin, and even his fucking breath. The way his inked fingers sifted through and, at times, fisted my hair. Our physical connection had been like nothing I'd ever experienced, and the emotions…
Christ, the emotions.
In one night, he seduced his way into my panties. In one week, he schemed his way into my heart. Then, in one overheard conversation, the reality of who he is and what he's about yanked me out of a foolish girl's fantasy.
I was just another no one. Zarek had said it himself. "Just some chick I picked up. You know how it goes with these no ones."
I squeeze my middle tighter. The words still make me feel like a puzzle losing its pieces.
Yeah, he'd explained what he'd said, saying he didn't want to share me, or us, with anyone – the public, and especially not his management team. That he just wanted to stay in our own world a little longer.
I knew what he was saying. I completely and totally got it, and I agreed. Yet, I knew the stories, his history, and track record with women. I knew the week was special, even to him, but in the harsh reality of both our lives, I was exactly what he'd said. Just another no one in the middle of his somebody life.
The hardest thing I've ever done was say goodbye and cut him out of my life. But it was best for us both. My career was just taking off with this show, and his life was a place I didn't fit.
"Gemma?" The familiar caress of his voice causes my heart to skip a beat.
Opening my eyes, I meet his.
Swallowing every emotion he stirs—mostly the desire to jump in his arms and never let go—I release my middle and lift my chin.
"Zarek." I attempt to stay friendly, yet detached.
With a small nod, I move around Gerald and onto the elevator.
I don't need to look back to know he's watching me. The weight of his eyes follows me, lingering even after the doors slide shut.
Once they're closed, I place my palms on the back wall, bow my head, and fight back the tears.
"I didn't know he was here," Mal whispers. "We can request a move to a different floor," she offers.
"It's okay," I choke out.
She thinks I hate him, and she would be right, but I also hate myself.
I hate him so much for being the one person I can't forget. And I hate myself for making sure he'll never want anything to do with me.