If I were a more self-conscious person, I wouldn't have been able to get through the conversation with Kara a day ago.

But luckily, years of Hollywood conditioning and a general "don't give a fuck what people think" attitude, now serve me well. A more humble, caring person would have felt like a complete jackass asking the girl they'd ruined to become their fake fiancée to make a rape scandal go away.

But on a good day, I was a jackass. So, there you had it.

"What did she say?" 

Neil Pombo asks, his smoker's voice scratchy through the phone.

He'd been my drummer for what felt like forever ... practically the day I'd stepped foot in Hollywood. Neil was one of the only genuine people I actually trusted in the entertainment business, and just so happened to be my closest friend. He understood the machine we both worked for, how both dangerous and spectacular it could be.

I looked around the grimy confines of my childhood kitchen and felt the urge to punch all of the walls. "She stormed out, thought I was out of my fucking mind. Which ... I feel like I am. Dude, this rape shit has my bones spooked."

I felt the shiver course through my veins again as I said the word rape. I still couldn’t believe it. Hannah Lockwood was the latest up and coming model, not an A-list celebrity yet, but a girl to watch. And she was my typical MO; skinny, pretty, nice, although fake, tits and not too much talk. We’d had some fun nights, and some angry fights. But nothing had ever gotten violent, or physically abusive. I would never, and I mean ever, lay hands on a woman … at least in a way she wasn’t begging for. I hadn’t seen Hannah for three weeks, we’d kind of cooled off, when she’d showed up on a highly-watched daytime television show. Bruises on her cheeks, tears streaming down her chin, claiming I’d raped and hit her.

Instantly, the story had been picked up, and while most of my fans were withholding judgment, after a brilliant statement my agent put out, I knew there were rumblings.

“You need to make her see the benefit to her. Convince her that she will get more than just a year with you and a bunch of money. From what you’ve told me about this broad, in your drunken, lonely stupors, she’s a genuine person. She’s not going to be swayed by the typical material shit all of these groupies usually go gaga over.”

Neil and I … we’d been on the road for almost a decade together. Threesomes, drugs, wild parties, potential deathly situations. We’d done it all together. He knew what our norm was, and Kara was definitely not it.

“The money is definitely a factor for her, but I have to approach it in the right way.” I rub my chin, sipping on another beer in the endless stream of beers I’ve had since I got here.

I didn’t want to make this about money, but I’d seen her finances. It was alarming what certain dark web experts could dig up for you, but I wasn’t above using those channels. Kara was in debt up to her ears, the amount of money she owed would keep her nice and poor until the time she was about sixty. She could barely afford to buy a bagel, and there was no way she’d see a decent paycheck for another year or two with the track she was on. My private investigator had explained all of that to me.

The money I could provide her, with the contract in place, would solve all of her problems. With the connections I could pull, access to some of the best doctors in Los Angeles with some of the wealthiest clients, she would be set to work in any place she desired afterward.

“Her work. That’s going to be it. She’s a … a dermatologist, I think. We have a ton of those, all studied on the latest technology, in California.”

I practically hear Neil nod through the phone. “That we do, she’ll learn a lot. And be able to get any job she wants after a year at one of those places.”

I should write this down, fuel for my case to get her to agree, but I’m too lazy.

“So Hannah isn’t going to settle?” Neil’s voice is cautious.

Patrick had called me about the meeting this morning. Not that I wanted the splotch of a rape settlement on my record, but it was better for everyone if this went away quietly, her getting some money and me getting a signed non-disclosure.

“The bitch said that she won’t stop until she takes her story to the masses. She’s not doing this for money, she’s doing it for attention. To be on the latest cover of every magazine. Patrick said she was so cutthroat in the meeting, that I would have probably jumped across the table if I’d actually been there.”

“She’s a real piece of work. Jesus, man, I’m sorry this is happening to you. It doesn’t sound like she’s going to give it up.”

My gut roils with fury at being in this situation. “Get my mind off this man, what’s going on with the tour?”

Before I left LA to come out here and do damage control, we’d been planning a tour of intimate venues. I was tired of the giant stadiums and arenas, something about my life just felt … lacking. We thought maybe playing acoustic, to crowds who could literally sing along from just five rows back, would feel like we were actually doing real music.

“Got three more dates, so that’s the entire UK leg of it. Smaller pubs and theaters, this is totally going to rock, man. I can’t wait to get the fuck out of Hollywood … the fake is frying my brain.”

We both had a love/hate relationship with our transplant hometown. It was both wonderful and disgusting at the same time, making you want to explore and then leave for extended periods of time.

“Yeah, getting on the road will feel nice … although if Kara agrees, I’ll have to stay in Malibu for a little bit before leaving. Look like the doting fiancé, you know?”

I chuckled because the idea was just absurd. It was twisted and fucked up, putting a girl who almost had no choice in a position to be used like this. On one hand, I was so pissed at her. On the other, I loved her more than I ever had … not that I’d let that interfere in what we may have going on. Or maybe I would …

My head was all fucked up from being back in Elm Hill, a place I swore I’d never step foot in again.

“Sometimes I think you really are that prick they write about in the tabloids. Have you written?”

Staring at my black Moleskin notebook, one of a thousand that I’d filled with lyrics over the years, I sigh. “No … it’s like I come back to this shit hole and all of my talent is zapped. It’s a miracle I made it out of here.”

Neil chuckles. “Ironic, isn’t it? That you can write so many best-selling records about the woman from hundreds of miles away, but get within three feet of her and you have writer’s block.”

I gave the receiver of my phone the middle finger.

After a few more blips of conversation, I hung up with Neil.

I guess it was pretty fucking ironic. The girl in the songs, that’s what they called her all these years. A ghost that I’d built up in all of my interviews, and I knew she’d never expose herself.

Part of it had been a last-ditch effort to win her back. Then it just turned into a martyr’s cry. And now … I couldn’t summon the words about my so-called muse at all.

As much as this whole plan seemed like a good idea when Patrick and I had cocked it up in his office, a feeling of slow moving doom lingered over my head, warning me that maybe this wasn’t all that it seemed.