“Where’s Simone?” Kevin asks the minute I enter the studio as he whisks past me like his ass is on fire. Or rather, how us junior associates are required to act regardless of whether there’s a fire or not.
But he’s not a junior associate, so that tells me the pep in his step is because Xavier is already here.
“You’re getting me tonight.”
His step falters for half a beat as he cranes his neck over his shoulder and flashes a quick smile. “I’m not going to complain about that. You know we all fight over you. Life is way easier when you’re assigned to our events.”
“I’m touched.” I place my hand over my heart and wink as he holds up a finger telling me he’ll be right back.
“Excuse us,” comes from my right. I step out of the way from a few grips who are hurriedly pushing the black, wheeled cases that exist on every sound stage I’ve ever been on. After they pass, I scan the oversized space to try and get a hint of who this hush-hush client is.
The room doesn’t give me much more to go on other than I’m clearly at a sound stage (they’re a dime a dozen in the Los Angeles area), and there is a hell of a lot of people here. Sound engineers with their headphones hanging on their necks and pieces of random tape stuck to their all-black clothing from where they’ve taped mics to someone. The hair and makeup team stand whispering furtively in one corner with their belts loaded with brushes or hair accessories either clipped around their waists or worn like a cross-body purse. The lighting crew is on ladders as they adjust moving heads and spotlights toward the middle of the stage area. Toward the far side of the room is a huddle of people where Xavier stands very much in the center, clearly in control given the rapt attention of everyone around him.
There are a few closed doors behind the huddle, but it’s too far for me to read the printed pieces of paper in the acrylic holders that typically identify whose door the talent belongs to.
And there are a dozen or more other people milling about who look important—or from my experience, are trying to look important for their own egos’ sakes.
I quickly try to call my mom and check on Jagger, but as per usual, her cell goes unanswered. What I’d give for the woman to take it out of her purse and off do not disturb so she can actually hear when I call her.
“Bristol.”
I shove my phone in my pocket and look up when my name is called from across the room. Kevin is standing beside Xavier, and they are both intently looking at me. Kevin waves for me to come over.
With a huge gulp of here we go, I make my way across the large space, ever aware that they are blatantly scrutinizing me as I go.
I’m too old to worry about Xavier and what he thinks of me. Most of the junior associates with McMann are five to seven years younger than I am and have a lot less backbone.
Both serve as a blessing and a curse for me.
Being twenty-eight means I need to be amiable and not piss off any of the senior associates or managers. It also means I’m old enough to have a good sense of self, a pocketful of experience to pull from, and have dealt with enough bullshit that I’d prefer not to tolerate any more of it.
Like I said, a blessing and a curse. Especially when my mouth opens to stand up for myself without thinking, when my younger counterparts would most likely nod with a smile and suck up whatever shitty task has been set before them.
There’s a definite yin and yang, and I’m sure as shit still finding the correct balance to it. One that won’t get my ass fired.
It’s a weird thing to be a mother, in control of all things when I’m at home, and then to come to work and take orders from everyone else.
“Do you think she’s too old?” Xavier asks as I’m within earshot.
A purse of Kevin’s lips. A tilt of his head. A bristle of my shoulders in silent rebuke.
This is the only industry where scrutinizing a person’s looks is perfectly normal and accepted.
I listen but look over my shoulder to see who they’re talking about.
“Nah. Her hair can be fixed to look right. Her skin is flawless. Great coloring with no wrinkles,” Kevin says.
“The issue isn’t her skin.” Xavier’s smile pulls tight, his eyes averting from me. “The body type is off.”
Kevin shifts on his feet as I stop before them. “True, but body inclusivity is a big thing right now. It might make a statement that looks good for him. The ‘all body types are beautiful’ type of thing.”
“You have a point.” Clearly Xavier isn’t a fan of this idea by the strained smile and muscle ticking in his jaw.
“I mean, by no means is it what we had planned, but we’re in a pinch, and no doubt she can do what needs to be done.”
“Who can do what?” I ask, looking from one to the other and then back.
“Our lead actress is sick and casting isn’t getting a response from our sourcing firm.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning we might have you stand in until we can get someone here,” Kevin says while I process the subtle critiques they were just giving about my body—because that’s exactly what every woman wants to hear . . . said no woman ever.
“Wait. What?” I ask.
“I believe they’re saying that they want you to fill in as my love interest.”
The deep tenor at my back has my heart beating fiercely because I’d know that gravel dipped in velvet-sounding voice anywhere. And as much as I hope that I’m wrong, when I turn around to face its owner, every part of me stands at attention when I’m proven right.
Vincent Jennings.
Dark hair. Light eyes. A sleeve of tattoos that peeks up and past the neck of his trademark black T-shirt. That fuck-you curl to his lips that’s always been there—taunting and seducing simultaneously.
I’m relieved to see shock flashing across that gorgeous face of his. At least I’m not the only one being thrown for a loop right now.
“Hey, Shug.” Shug, short for sugar—a nickname I originally despised but that he somehow made mine over our time together. It’s a name I haven’t heard in years that has my heart clenching and rejecting it and him all at the same time.
Or trying to, because in that one look, a million feelings come rushing back. The bittersweet feeling of first love and the soul-crushing despair of first heartbreak. The utter humiliation of rejection and the constant reminder that I will always somehow be indebted to him. Not that he will ever know.
I stand frozen in surprise with my head and heart racing, but my first words aren’t to the man who has owned my life in ways he doesn’t even know. Rather they are directed at Xavier and his curious gaze. “I-I d-don’t understand. We don’t take on rock stars. McMann doesn’t do that. We manage movie stars. And Food Network chefs. And social media influencers . . . but not him.”
Kevin sucks in a quick breath as Xavier crosses his arms over his chest and narrows his eyes at me. “We represent whoever it is that I say we do,” he says in that authoritative, soft tone of his. The one that says don’t question or fuck with him. “Or have you forgotten it’s my name on your paycheck?”
“Yes. I know. I mean . . .” Stop, Bristol. Just stop. My tongue feels like it weighs a pound while my entire body vibrates with the adrenaline coursing through it. “But not him.”
Kevin’s quick clearing of his throat is a warning. So are his eyes flitting between the four of us as if he’s taking stock of who I’ve offended more. “What I think you meant to say was how exciting it is that McMann Media Management has decided to venture into representing musicians now. And how lucky we are that the super talented, rock god Vincent Jennings is going to be our first client in that realm.”
“Our client?” I mouth as realization breaks through the heavy fog seeing him again has weighed me down with.
“Yes. Our client.” The muscle ticks in Xavier’s jaw as he stares at me. “One who may not feel welcome given your delightful reception.”
“It’s good to see you again,” Vincent says to my back, completely disregarding Xavier and his sarcasm, as if he and I are the only ones in the room.
His voice has always owned me, and this time it’s no exception regardless of the ocean of history the two of us are treading water in right now.
Expectant eyes stare at me as I force myself to turn and face Vince. Eyes that ask a million questions in that one simple exchange.
How are you?
What are you doing here?
How come it’s been so long?
This is so not a good thing—you being here.
I’ve seen him on television, in the tabloids, at award shows more times than I care to count, and yet standing here, face-to-face with him, I’m on that razor-thin edge of bittersweet nostalgia and indifferent disbelief.
Indifferent.
Isn’t that what I promised myself I’d be if we were ever face-to-face again?
Then why is my heart racing? Why is my mouth dry? Why am I telling myself he can’t be here—that this can’t happen—all while being unable to tear my eyes away from him?
Why is it so hard to be indifferent when I’m standing before him?
“Vincent.” I nod as my head swims with memories. First kisses. Linked fingers and shoulders for support. Midnight farewells and endless tears. Desperate sex to make up for lost time. Final words I’ll never forgive or forget. I shake my head, trying to focus on the here and now. On doing my job and not letting him screw up my plans.
“Bristol.”
“I don’t understand,” I say when my rational mind catches up. “What are you doing here?”
Vince’s lips curl up on one side, a dimple I know all too well denting in one cheek. “Pretty self-explanatory. We’re shooting a music video.”
My smile is halfhearted as I look over his shoulder because it hurts too much to look at his eyes. They’re too familiar. Too overwhelming.
Time and life experiences may have dulled the hurt, but it doesn’t erase it or my own participation.
“We have big plans with Vincent, here,” Xavier says, stepping forward, his chest puffed, his smile in full-on big-dick mode as he pats Vince’s shoulder. “Tonight, we’re shooting a video for his up-and-coming single Heart of Mine. The rest of this week will be various brainstorming sessions with your PR team. Then we’ll start working on some behind the scenes for the documentary. We’ve got a lot to do with him while he’s in town.”
“Documentary?” I snort. Vince isn’t exactly the documentary type. And it’s way easier to focus on that than hear that he’s going to be in town for an extended period.
“Yes. About Vince. As you know when you control the narrative, it makes it easier to do damage control,” Xavier says. “It’s better if we have the paparazzi on our side instead of with their blood on our fists.”
“He had it coming to him.” Vince rolls his eyes.
“And that’s why we’ll do the talking for you,” Xavier admonishes but with a smile.
Vince’s chuckle is a warning I’m certain Xavier believes he can pacify and that I know from experience he can’t. “No one talks for me.”
Xavier nods, clearly placating Vince. “The documentary will and we’ll make sure it says exactly what we want it to say.” His smile is quick and unwitting when he looks at me. “When we’re done with his campaign, everybody who doesn’t already know his face will recognize him.”
“And hopefully that translates into a monster release week for his first full solo album,” Kevin interjects, trying to wiggle his way back into this conversation.
Vince is the bass guitarist for one of the biggest bands in the rock scene, Bent.
Was.
He was the bass guitarist for one of the biggest bands on the rock scene.
A year ago, Bent took a break to pursue individual projects after years together. Passion projects, I believe they’d called it.
Vince has released an extended-play album since then—a few songs on a mini album. They did well, but not anywhere near as successful as Bent’s music. But he’s summitted all the peaks before with them—he’s won Grammys, topped the Billboard charts, sold out stadium tours, had albums go platinum . . . so why this new push? Why is he so desperate to prove himself when he already has? “Sorry to repeat myself, but why does Vince need—”
“Because no press is bad press?” Vince answers. It may have been years since we’ve last seen each other—almost seven to be exact—but I know the man standing before me well enough to see the shadow in his eyes hiding behind his flippant answer. There’s more to his reasoning.
And I’ll be damned if I want to know what it is. Or even care what it is.
“Exactly,” Xavier says. “Reinvention is the key to this business. Vince here did incredible with Bent. We’re here to ensure that he kicks ass as a front man. I mean, who knew the guy could belt out a tune like he does, right?” Xavier pats Vince on the shoulder. “And now McMann is going to help take him to the next level. Let the world see the man outside of the spotlight. Keep the aura of everything that is Vincent Jennings while making people feel that they know the real person beneath.”
I nod, used to Xavier’s ego-stroking bullshit, but what am I missing? Why did Vince switch agencies? Why is he here? Why is McMann diversifying to musicians now? Why after why after why?
“Sounds perfect,” Vince says but he doesn’t move, his eyes still locked on mine.
I wondered if this day would ever come. I’ve rehearsed and imagined what I’d do and say. How I’d feel. If that visceral punch to the gut that seeing Vince has always made me feel would still be there.
The answer is yes.
It’s always been yes.
“Can you give us a minute?” Vince asks.
“Sure.” Gladly. I’m about to move out of the way so Vince and Xavier can talk when Vince reaches out and grabs my arm.
“Not you,” he says to me before looking at Xavier and Kevin with raised eyebrows.
“Oh.” Clearly miffed and confused, Xavier startles momentarily at being pushed aside. He narrows his eyes at me before looking at Vince. “Yes. Of course. Is there something I can do for you?”
“Yes. Give us the privacy I asked for,” Vince says, effectively dismissing them and making waves with my boss I’m not exactly thrilled with.
With gritted teeth, I watch them walk away while trying to ignore the feeling of Vince’s hand on me. His touch . . . it always affected me differently than anyone else’s.
Even now when I don’t want it to.
Fear and confusion snake their way up my spine. The two emotions force a decision. They pressure me to react—to choose self-preservation after everything we’ve been through, or to just accept what’s always been between us and cave.
But there is only one option this time.
There is only one way to keep him at arm’s length and—preferably—out of my life.
It’s fight or flight time and I choose fight.
“Are you trying to get me in trouble?” I yank my arm from his grasp the minute we’re out of earshot.
“Trouble? With who? That douchebag?”
“That douchebag is your new representation and my boss. Why the hell did you even sign with him if you don’t like him?”
“I needed a change. He’s supposedly one of the best.” His shrug tells me he’s not convinced of that yet.
“You had CMG. They are of the same caliber and better suited to manage you properly.”
“Things change.”
“Exactly. They change.” I’ve changed. I cross my arms over my chest. “And that doesn’t explain why you’re here in my space, in my company, pushing my boss away, and putting a huge goddamn spotlight on me—and not the good kind. Don’t you smirk at me like that.”
“Like what?” He holds his hands up, his face a mask of feigned innocence.
“Like that.” I shove a finger in his direction. “The last thing I need is to get fired and—”
“I’ll take care of him for you.”
“I don’t want that, Vince. I don’t want you ‘taking care of him’ for me. Not with my boss . . . just not ever.”
I know Vince hears my words, the conviction and determination behind them, because his smile fades and his eyes narrow. “You’re actually upset with me, aren’t you? It’s been years since I’ve seen you—”
“Seven to be exact, but who’s counting?”
“Clearly, you are,” he murmurs, crossing his arms over his chest and cocking his head to the side to study me. And in that brief moment of scrutiny, my insecurity rears its ugly head. There is Vince Jennings looking even better than the last time I saw him. Tall and tan and by the biceps straining the cuffs of his shirt, still as sculpted as my fingertips remember from running over them.
And then there’s me, in desperate need of a good cut and color, the bare minimum of makeup, and a little softer around the edges than the last time he saw me.
Seconds pass that feel like minutes as we wage a visual standoff.
“I thought we were fine with how we left things the last time we saw each other. We agreed beforehand that—”
“I know what we agreed on, thank you very much,” I snap at him and then hate that I do. But agreeing to no strings beforehand and then dealing with the emotional turmoil of the aftermath are two completely different things.
But he doesn’t know that.
He can’t know that.
“Still snarky, I see.”
“Still sarcastic, I see.” I lift my eyebrows in challenge as his eyes search mine.
“You look incredible, but then again, you always do,” he says, knocking the proverbial wind from my sails.
Wind that I needed to keep that wall of mine fortified . . . so he couldn’t knock it down like only he knows how to do.
I take a deep breath and close my eyes for a beat. Why can’t he see that he doesn’t get to say shit like that? Shit that makes it hard to be mad at him when that’s the only way I know how to be so I can keep him at a distance?
“How have you been, Shug?”
“Stop calling me that.”
He purses his lips and nods, but I’m under no impression that he’ll listen to me. Vince always played by his own rules, always got away with it, so it’s naïve of me to think he’s any different now.
“Old habits die hard. Especially with our history.” His smile softens as does his stare and that familiar ache in my chest returns.
“It’s just that. History. In the past where we belong,” I say harsher than I should as I try to find my footing. To try to not fall under the Vincent Jennings spell. We’ve had our chances to make things work. It didn’t. I’ve had years to accept it. Years to question what if? Years to learn to love the life I’ve made. The last thing I need now that I’m finally settled is for him to show up and blow my carefully crafted world to smithereens.
“So much easier to say. So much harder to do,” he says and takes a step toward me that has me tensing and preparing myself for his touch that doesn’t come.
It used to be so easy between the two of us. Effortless. Carefree. Real.
Until it wasn’t.
And that until it wasn’t part is what I hold tight to as I look at the man a part of me will always love in some way, shape, or form.
“Don’t do this,” I whisper.
“Do what?”
“This,” I say emphatically.
His chuckle is a low rumble. “What is this? Talk with an old friend? Ask her how she’s doing? Wonder why she’s a—whatever it is your position is here—instead of running this damn company like you should be?”
Shame heats my cheeks. A million excuses for why I’m not where I should be in my career fill my head but remain silent on my lips.
“You know what I’m doing here, Bristol, but you haven’t told me what it is that you’re doing here.”
“Working.”
It’s his turn to give an exasperated sigh, but he doesn’t get to waltz in here and play the I’m-a-god card and think I’m going to answer every question he asks me.
I don’t owe him a thing.
“That’s not what I meant—”
“Excuse the interruption, Mr. Jennings, but we’re ready for you.” We both look to our right at a woman we didn’t even realize was standing there. Her headset, clipboard, and no-nonsense expression tell me she’s the assistant director or first AD or second AD. Some position to that affect where stress is something she thrives off.
“Of course.” He gives a polite nod. “Let’s get the show on the road. It’s going to be a long night. You ready?”
“For what?” I ask, my mind so scattered that I’ve already forgotten how this conversation started.
“To be my love interest in the video,” he says. The way his face lights up has me immediately shaking my head.
“No. You’re crazy if you think—”
“Fighting. Kissing. Making up.”
“Absolutely not.”
“For old times’ sake.” He shrugs, his boyish grin in full heart-stealing mode. “We used to be really good at it.”
I know. Believe me, I know. I chuckle and then take a deep breath to calm myself. This man is so damn frustrating. “It’s not part of my job description.” I take another step back. “And I sure don’t get paid enough to—”
“It’s a moot point.” We both turn and look at the AD when she silences our banter. “Casting pulled through last minute. An actress showed. She’s the gorgeous blonde standing over there who fits the part.” She hooks a thumb over her shoulder to highlight said woman. And when I look back to the AD, her eyebrows are raised in what I try not to take as judgment but do anyway. “See? You’re no longer needed.”
Relief rushes through me followed by a slight streak of envy that I have absolutely no right to feel. Or want to feel.
“Perfect,” I say with a flash of a smile that I’m more than certain doesn’t reach my eyes. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”
“That’s it?” Vince asks, reaching out for my arm again but missing when I take a step to the side. He’s not used to women walking away from him. That much I know to be true. In fact, I’m pretty sure that’s his forte.
“That’s it.” My smile is tight. My shrug unapologetic. My heart thundering in my chest.
Is his doing the same?
He nods subtly, and I can’t quite read the look he gives me. “Good seeing you, then. Maybe I’ll see you around again while I’m in town, and we can have a drink to catch up on old times.”
“Maybe.” It takes everything I have to turn my back and walk away when it should be the easiest steps of my life.
One foot in front of the other, Bristol. Take the space. Create the distance. Don’t let him through your guard.
But I only make it a few feet before I turn back around, conflicted and feeling like I need to say more to him. Out of guilt? Out of responsibility? Out of—never mind. It doesn’t matter because Vincent is already walking to where the rest of the room patiently awaits him to begin the long night.
Statuesque blonde all but bouncing on her toes in excitement, included.
I’m not sure why I expected him to be standing there still looking at me. Waiting for me. Wanting me.
Isn’t that what I thought the last time we saw each other? That the connection between us would be so strong he’d still be there?
I emit a nervous laugh, the taste of rejection I shouldn’t feel a bitter tang on my tongue. A tang I remind myself is necessary when dealing with Vince.
An old friend.
His label hits my ears again and makes me feel ridiculously stupid and soundly put in my place.
Here I was thinking and worrying while he was staring at me, talking to me, that we’d fall right back into what we’ve always been. Connected by an undeniable chemistry we never could ignore. That I’d have to stand my ground and tell him I’m not interested.
All that gusto for nothing.
I’m just an old friend. Pfft.
A woman among many to him who he had a little more history with.
But didn’t I already know that’s where I stood? Wasn’t that what we agreed to the last time we were together? So why does emotion burn in the back of my throat?
Because a small, foolish part of you held an iota of hope that maybe he thought of you as more. Seeing Vince again only reaffirmed that hope was as ridiculous as me thinking it.
Besides, we live two completely different lives in two vastly different worlds. It would never work. We would never work.
For reasons besides the obvious.
