Aidan
There’s something to be said for waking up and finding your face plastered all over the Internet. And I’m damn sure it ain’t good.
I close the browser window on my laptop and then slam the top down for good measure. Then, for even better measure, I turn off the Wi-Fi on my phone, followed by my data connection. Some fan always finds a way into my personal email and bombards me with her crap.
“Ads!” Ella bangs on my bedroom door. “Your butt, here, now!” She knocks again, harder, and I groan, swinging the sheet off me.
“All right, all right,” I call back, dread filtering its way through my body as she thunders back down the stairs. If she’s yelling at me that way with her assistant sassy pants on, it only means one thing: Mr. Manager is on the phone.
For me.
Given how I’ve heard him tear Conner and Tate new assholes before, I can imagine what’s coming my way.
I tug on some sweatpants and go down a few stairs, tying the drawstring and almost tripping over a stupid doctor doll. It hits the wall and sings “Time for your checkup!” at me. I scowl at the odd little thing and go down the rest of the stairs, making sure I don’t step on any more of Mila’s toys.
Mom’s really gotta get that baby another toy box for this house.
“Ads!” Ella whispers harshly. “Marc! Phone!”
I take it from her and hold it to my ear. “Hey.”
“Aidan! You genius!”
I pause, then frown. Kye snorts, and Ella glares at him, mouthing, “Shut up!”
I focus on the call. “Genius?”
“Getting a girlfriend before you screw up!” Marc exclaims. “Brilliant!”
“Uh . . .”
“Just hang on to her long enough for Kye to get one too, will you? The media will be looking at you very differently now that you’re taken. . . .”
“You should see Twitter,” Ella mutters, sipping on a smoothie through a straw. She leans back against the counter and kicks a cupboard door shut with her foot. Hell—she’s barely been here, but she looks right at home against the old farmhouse-style room.
I bat my hand at her to get her to shush, then scratch my forehead. “Marc, hold up. Jessie isn’t my girlfriend.”
“Wh-what?”
“Not my real one anyway. It’s a ruse.”
“Are you paying her for it?”
“No. I’m not—” I pause when I glance at Ella. “Never mind.” I explain the reasoning briefly and grab the spare slice of toast off Kye’s plate. He reaches to punch me but I dart away, grinning.
“Okay. Whatever. It works. Make it last long enough for the rest of Tate’s bullshit to pass over.”
“Tate has no bullshit. For once.”
“Oh.” He hesitates. “Then make it last long enough for your bullshit not to take over. It’s good for business when you’re behaving.”
Considering we get more publicity when one of us fucks up, that makes no sense. “Sure. I planned on it.”
“Good. Make this believable. Public. Get photographed whenever you can. Make it obvious. Lovey pics. Happy pics. Good, strong, real relationship pics.”
“Yeah, yeah, I got it.”
“Take her to dinner tonight. Charge it to the band credit card.”
“What?”
“This is publicity. Take her to the most expensive restaurant and show the world you’re serious about her.”
“Marc. This is fake.”
“I know, kid. But they don’t. And one nice date and your face is on the front page of every tabloid and paper and the top of every newsfeed. Keep it going as long as possible. We can use the speculation to launch the new album announcement in December.”
Tate grabs the phone from behind me. “We haven’t started recordin’ yet. Shit, we don’t have any fuckin’ songs! . . . A month and a half is dumb. It’s a damn fling, not forever. . . . Yeah, all right. I got it.” He turns and throws the phone onto the sofa. “Ella, darlin’, book a table at that fancy-ass place Dad took Mom for their anniversary a couple of weeks ago.”
She raises an eyebrow.
“Hey,” I say, making him turn to me. “What about your ‘it’s a damn fling’ protestation?”
Tate sighs heavily, throwing his arms out to the sides. “What Marc wants, Marc gets. He’s the boss, after all. And he wants you in a relationship so sudden and unexpected that the whole world will be holding its breath waiting for you to propose by Thanksgiving.”
“Then we break up explosively, and while me and by default the band are thrust into a permanent limelight, we announce our new album and probably another tour. Great, a new spin on capturing the attention.”
His lips thin. “Exactly.” The word is short and sharp and he stalks out of the room, leaving a heavy silence to descend over me and Ella. She moves, but not to go after him. Instead, she gets up and walks across the room to me, stopping just in front of me. I could rest my chin on top of her head, she’s that much smaller than me, but she takes a deep, resigned breath, and looks up at me, her dark eyes full of worry.
“Ads, do you know what that means? What he’s expecting you to do?”
“It’s pretty self-explanatory.”
She shakes her head, her ponytail swinging. “No. Marc is expecting you to spend no time with her beyond what you have to. He wants you to make the world believe you’re in love without you even liking each other.”
The reality sinks into the pit of my stomach. “He wants us to care so little that the breakup will be as easy as slicing through thin air.”
“Precisely. Now, I’ve only met Jessie a few times. But I like her.” Ella pauses. “She’s fun and she’s bubbly and she’s carefree. She’s my friend, Ads, and I don’t want her to get hurt. So I’m asking you to think about this before you do it. I know how easy it is to fall for one of you. She might hate you now, but one night is all it takes to fall in love.”
Our stare lasts for a long, long second as her words swirl around me and hit me with their truth. It would be so easy to change the dynamic we have. So easy for one fuck to go too far, one kiss to mean too much, one touch to be too full of emotion.
But we’re not lying to each other. Neither of us is under any kind of pretenses about the status of our relationship. It’s the biggest load of bullshit to drop on Shelton Bay since silage season. We both have far more things to gain than to lose, and in the end, that’s all that really matters.
Gaining. Whether it’s publicity for the band or freedom for her, it doesn’t matter. It’s still something we both need, and this is one surefire, easy way to get it.
“I appreciate your concern, Ella, but there’s far more to me and Jessie than you know. We’re like oil and water. This is nothing more than an arrangement of convenience.”
She sighs. “I’ll book your table. Seven?”
“Please. Can you have some flowers sent to her, too?”
“Which ones?”
“Whatever they have.” I shrug. “Flowers are flowers, aren’t they?”
“Aidan Burke, you have a lot to learn about women.” She shakes her head. “And . . .” She stops and looks at something on her phone, sucking her bottom lip into her mouth before releasing it slowly. “And I’ll also tip off some media about your dinner date, at the request of your manager. Fantastic. There goes my day off,” she adds with a mutter, walking away.
“Don’t worry,” I call after her. “I’ll make sure Tate gives you a bonus!”
She flips me the bird over her shoulder. “At least text your girlfriend about your date, okay?”
I laugh, dropping onto the sofa and grabbing the remote. “Got it!”
Flowers.
What the fuck am I supposed to know about flowers?
“You’re wearing that on a date? Are you serious?” Kye leans against my doorframe, staring at my T-shirt, a disgruntled reflection of myself.
“What am I supposed to wear? A fuckin’ tuxedo?”
“A shirt with buttons at least, you bum.”
“This whole thing is stupid.”
“Yet you’re the one who started it.”
“Moment of weakness. And stupidity. And remembering how good she is in bed.”
“I knew you had an ulterior motive.”
I grin at him, and he returns the exact same smile. “Of course I had an ulterior motive. I can’t stand her company, but she’s damn good when her mouth is doing something other than talking.”
“Have mercy,” Mom sighs from the hall. “How’d I manage to raise four Southern gentlemen who are such disrespectful little shits?”
“Hey!” Kye argues. “I ain’t done a thing. It’s all him!”
“Like you respect women,” I snort.
Mom slaps us both in the back of the head, and we jump, rubbing the spot where her hand just collided, the way we’ve done so many times in our life. Fuck, I feel like I’m seven again.
“Y’all listen to me now!” she demands, straightening to her much-shorter-than-us full height. Somehow, though, she seems to tower over us. “I’ll have none of this ‘I like her because she’s good in bed’ nonsense in my house. We’re not in the fifties anymore, boys. Women are worth more than nightly entertainment.”
Kye opens his mouth to respond, but she points to the door, her eyes hard and practically screaming, I’ll talk to you in a moment. He follows her silent command and disappears through my door, leaving me solo to face the wrath of my mother at twenty-four years old.
“And you! Sit your ass down, boy.” She moves her pointing finger to my bed, and I take three steps back and perch on it. “I raised you better than this. I raised all y’all better than this. I know this lifestyle and your . . . manager . . . sometimes makes you forget how to behave yourself, Aidan, but I’ll be damned if you’re gonna stand under my roof and talk about Jessie like that. A girl you’ve known almost your whole sorry life. I couldn’t give your father’s left testicle if you don’t like her or if y’all are still fighting from grade school. But if you’re gonna go through with this silly plan, you’re sure as hell gonna treat her like a lady and not a piece of trash. And that means takin’ off that goddamn T-shirt, pressin’ a shirt until it’s crisper than bacon on a Sunday mornin’, and watchin’ your mouth when you’re out with her.”
“Yes, Mom.”
“Here.” She turns and opens my closet, pulling out a white shirt and throwing it at me. “Get yourself the iron from the laundry room and make that presentable.”
Tail between my legs, I pull it from the hanger and stand up, laying it over my arm. Shit, I’m well and truly chastised.
“And, son?” Mom puts her hands on her hips. “You’re a gentleman. Act like it. You better hold her door open and carry her purse and kiss her hand when you help her from a car. You got that?”
“Understood, Mom.”
She narrows her eyes. “I’m Mom when I’m your friend. I’m ma’am when I’m kickin’ your sorry little ass.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I reply, scooting past her.
Fuck me.
I love her, but sweet Jesus. I haven’t been yelled at like that since the time the ant farm I was hiding under my bed broke open.
I guess I’d better be on my best damn behavior tonight, because I wouldn’t put it past her to book a table at the restaurant for herself just to keep an eye on me.
Down the hall, I walk into the laundry room to see the ironing board is already set up with the iron turned on.
Damn. The woman has a sixth sense, I swear, and it goes way beyond that “mom sense” she tries to claim. She’s a fucking psychic.
I press the shirt until there isn’t a crease in sight and put it on. I do up the buttons and roll my sleeves up to my elbows, the tree tattoo curving around my wrist and snaking up my forearm exposed. Running back upstairs, I reach to grab my stuff from the nightstand, but I catch my reflection in the mirror.
My arms don’t fill out this shirt.
And . . . shit. I don’t wanna be the guy that works out before the date, but hot damn, Mom just verbally shoved my balls back up into my gut, so a workout it is. I unbutton my shirt and throw it on my bed then drop to the floor. I get into push-up position and drop my body, doing ten in quick succession. Glimpses of my reflection in the mirror show tensed muscles. Then, I grab the shirt and put it back on. This time it’s much-better-fitting around my arms, so I grab my stuff before I go back down and all but run out of the house to avoid any more awkward run-ins with my family.
The last thing I need is another once-over from my mom.
I have got to get my own apartment.
I drive across town, doing my best to ignore the black car that came into view just behind me almost as soon as I left my house. Looks like Ella followed Marc’s instructions and tipped off the media about tonight’s date.
My stomach twists as I turn off Main Street and make it through the intersection just before the light goes red. The black car gets stuck behind it, and my lips tug up into a smile. I’m fucking delighted about it, and my laughter continues as I pull up outside Jessie’s house and jump out, leaving the truck still running.
The front door to her house opens and a girl’s voice rings out “Screw you!” before it slams. I hover by the truck, simultaneously hoping the screw you was and wasn’t to me, and wait.
The click click of a pair of high heels sounds, getting louder as they get closer, and I look up as the gate opens.
Her red hair is curled and swept over one shoulder, contrasting with her bright blue dress in the most stunning way. Her eyes are brushed with nothing but mascara, and her lips are as red as her hair, pursed and pouty. Her dress flares at her hips, stopping just above her knees, and as I drag my eyes down farther, I swallow at the sight of the black heels hugging her feet. The same ones I fucked her in, I’d bet anything.
“Are you tryna kill me?” I ask, opening the door of my truck for her.
She quirks an eyebrow. “Right now? No. But don’t push your luck.”
Her feistiness makes me laugh, and I take her hand, helping steady her as she pulls herself up into the truck. “I’m just being a gentleman,” I tell her when she shoots me a suspicious look. “And I’m under orders to make this as believable as possible, so if you see camera flashes, go with it.”
“How very gentlemanly of you,” she retorts dryly, swinging her smooth legs fully in and setting her purse on her lap.
I press my lips to her fingers and wink. “I’m a work in progress, sunshine.” I grin mischievously and walk around to my side, feeling her unamused gaze on me. By the time I get in and pull away, she looks like she wants to torture me by peeling off my skin, layer by layer, and throwing me into a pit of pure vinegar.
I glance at her as I drive through town, but she’s ignoring me. Her eyes are fixed on the side-view mirror. The reflection of the black car fills it, and Jessie purses her lips as she studies it following us.
“Company already. Nice.” The words are dripping with sarcasm.
“You knew what you were getting into when you—”
“Careful how you word the rest of that sentence, rocker boy.”
I smirk. “—decided to fake date me.”
“Yes. Which just happened to coincide with the moment you declared yourself my boyfriend in front of Shelton’s biggest gossips.” She rolls her eyes.
“I said it before, and I’ll say it again. You looked like you were about to lose your shit, and my hero complex kicked in. I can’t help bein’ this alpha.”
Jessie scoffs. “Well, Mr. Hero Complex, not every woman is a damsel in distress. We don’t all need a knight in shining armor to gallop in on his alpha horse and save the day. Some of us are perfectly capable of saving ourselves.”
“Next time I’ll leave you to it.”
“Sure you will. That’s why we’re here at some dumb fancy restaurant. It doesn’t have shit to do with your hero complex. It’s so you can use me for publicity to promote the album you don’t even have songs written for yet.”
Her honesty strikes through me like a knife.
She turns in her seat, finally bringing her eyes to meet mine. Blue and bright and scathing, she glares at me with enough anger to make my balls shrivel up into my gut. “Yeah. You forget I’m friends with your family. You might not listen to them, but I do.”
A hint of vulnerability is running through her voice. It mixes with the truth of her words, and guilt snakes its way through my veins. She’s right—Ella did try to tell me. And I didn’t listen.
Jessie reaches over and puts her hand on the steering wheel as the lights turn red. “You know what? Take me home. I didn’t agree to be your public bitch, Aidan. I didn’t sign up to be your freakin’ publicity stunt. I’m not fancy dresses and high heels and perfectly coiffed hair. I’m Spanx and bare feet and a messy twist on top of my head. I’d much rather slob it out on my sofa than go and impress a ton of people I don’t care about. I’m not the girl your manager wants me to be.”
“Are you wearing Spanx right now?”
“Excuse me?”
I smirk at her squeak and glance at her, a grin threatening when I see her jaw go slack and her eyes widen. “Are you wearing Spanx right now?”
“What does that have to do with you taking me home?”
“Just answer the damn question, Jessica Law,” I demand, seeing the restaurant we’re going to.
“It’s Jessie!” she snaps. “And yes! I am wearing Spanx!”
“Okay.” I pull into the parking lot. “Can you run in those shoes?”
“They’re five inches tall. I can obviously run a marathon.” Amusement glimmers through the annoyance in her eyes, just for a second, and her cheeks twitch as she fights the obvious curving of her lips.
“Trust me.”