Sing For Me by Rachel Schurig
Eva
Sitting in the back of the limo on my way to my first event in more than a year, it’s everything I can do to keep from throwing up.
“You’re fidgeting with the dress again,” Marissa says next to me. I can tell she’s trying to project a spirit of calm for my benefit. But from the way her eyes keep darting to my face every two minutes, it’s obvious that she’s every bit as nervous about this as I am.
“Thanks,” I mutter, smoothing down the now-puckered fabric of my satin evening gown.
Silence settles over us, thick and oppressive, as the driver navigates the streets of downtown Los Angeles. “Look,” Marissa blurts out suddenly, breaking the tension. “Are you sure you want to be doing this tonight?”
I twist in my place on the bench seat to face her. “Mar—”
She holds up a hand. “Seriously, Eva. You don’t have to go to this thing. I don’t care what Dennis said.” Her face twists in distaste when she says my manager’s name.
“It will be fine,” I say, wishing I felt half as confident as my words. “I need to get back into the swing of things eventually. This event is pretty low pressure. That’s why he suggested it.”
She snorts. “Low pressure? Half of the fucking industry will be there.”
“It could be worse. It’s not like he’s asking me to give an interview or go to an awards show or something. This isn’t a public event. No red carpet.” I attempt a cheesy double thumbs-up and Marissa shoots me her patented don’t-try-to-shit-me expression, honed over many years as the personal assistant to various celebrities in this town.
“If I recall correctly, he did ask you to give an interview. More than once. In fact, I’m pretty sure he tried to book you on SNL just last month.”
I shift in my seat. “This event is our compromise.”
Marissa’s jaw flexes several times before she speaks again. “You don’t have to compromise, though, Eva. This is your life. No one should be pressuring you to do anything right now.”
“It’s been more than a year.”
Her eyes flash in the dim light of the limo’s interior. She doesn’t say anything, but I know exactly what she’s thinking—time since the incident is irrelevant when I’m still walking around like a basket case most days.
Irritation flickers to life in my chest. “I need to work, Mar. I can’t just let this…this…sabbatical or whatever go on indefinitely.”
“It’s not a sabbatical,” she snaps. “You’re recovering.”
“I’m fine.” My voice is sharp, not at all the way I usually talk to my PA. Of course, Marissa is much more than that—she’s become a true friend in the years since I hired her. Her loyalty in the last fourteen months, in particular, has cemented her role in my life. I honestly don’t know if I would have made it through in one piece without her.
She studies my face for a long moment, probably taking in both my annoyance and the stab of guilt I feel for snapping at her. “I know you’re fine,” she finally says, more gently now. “I just want you to remember that recovering is a process. It doesn’t happen in a straight line. If you don’t feel like you’re up for this—”
I reach over the seat to grab her hand, interrupting her. “I know,” I tell her, voice soft. “But I feel like I’m ready. I really do.” It’s a lie and we both know it, but what choice do I have? I’m not willing to sacrifice my entire career, all the things I’ve worked so hard for, just because I had a really bad night fourteen months ago. “Besides,” I add, managing to inject more certainty into my tone, “this is a really good cause. I would much rather attend a charity event than some stupid meaningless label party.” I squeeze her hand. “Okay?”
She lets out a long breath. “Okay.” Her grip tightens in mine. “But if you need to get out of there, you let me know, okay?”
I laugh at that. “Like you would need me to tell you. Pretty sure you developed a sixth sense for my freak out ages ago.”
The car begins to slow and I look out my window, stomach dropping as I realize we’ve arrived at the hotel where the gala will be held. The driver pulls into a long line of limos and town cars dropping off attendees so I have a few minutes to try to get myself relaxed.
As we crawl along towards the front entrance though, relaxation is the furthest thing from my mind. Up ahead I can see bright lights. Swarms of people crowd behind metal barriers, the consistent flash of cameras lighting up the sidewalk.
“That fucker,” Marissa hisses, her gaze fixed on the scene ahead, her expression outraged.
My heart has started a familiar too-fast rhythm, my breathing getting shallow. Attendees step out of the cars in front of us, waving to fans and stopping to pose for pictures in front of the line-up of photographers and reporters.
“I thought he said no red carpet?” she rants. “I could just kill that asshole. Why on earth would he think springing this on you as a surprise would help the situation?” She shoots me a worried look. “I’ll talk to the driver, find us a back entrance or—”
I hold out a hand. “No. It’s okay. I can do it.”
“Eva.”
“Seriously.” I take a deep breath, and then another. “We’ll just be quick.” I manage a weak grin. “You haven’t lost your skills, have you?”
She narrows her eyes. “I can get you through a press line-up in sixty seconds flat if I need to,” she snaps. “But that’s not the point.”
We’re almost to the front of the line, which means the time for making a decision is at hand. I can either ask the driver to get the hell out of here, or I can get this over with. Marissa does have mad skills when it comes to dealing with the press. I don’t have to approach the fans. I can give a few waves, pose for a few pictures, and hurry inside.
I steel myself, determined. “We can do this.”
She studies me, her expression filled with apprehension. Maybe she sees some of my determination reflected in my face, though, because she straightens suddenly, getting into game mode.
“You have any problems, you just signal me and I’ll get you inside immediately.”
I nod, heart beating madly now, mouth dry. We pull to a complete stop and Marissa reaches for her door handle, swearing softly to herself as she climbs out. I take a last steadying breath, waiting for my door to be opened from the outside. I bend over to run a hand down to my ankle, brushing my fingers over the still-healing tattoo. Calm, I remind myself, picturing the lavender in my mind’s eye. Just be calm.
Of course, touching the tattoo also has me thinking about Will, who apparently decided he didn’t want to use my number after all, because I sure as hell haven’t heard from him in the nearly two weeks since. But I have no time to worry about that now. The driver is opening my door, immediately overwhelming me with the sound from the madness outside.
You’ve got this.
I fix a smile on my face, the camera-ready expression feeling stiff and rusty, as out of practice I am. Then I take a breath and accept the waiting hand of the driver.
As soon as I step out of the car, a rush of noise rises up to meet me. A few feet away, the waiting fans go absolutely nuts. Every photographer in the line turns to me, shocked expressions registering on their faces just before they swing their cameras up and start taking shots.
“Eve!” Reporters call out to me, their voices mixing with the screams of the fans. “Over here!”
I ignore all of it, holding up a hand to wave at the fans who get, somehow, even louder. A few feet away, I hear Marissa barking out instructions to the press coordinator. “Two minutes of pictures,” she says, her tone offering zero room for argument. “She’s not talking to any reporters. No interviews, no shouted questions. Nothing. No trip to the rope line. Pictures and then she’s inside. Got it?”
I take comfort in Marissa’s no-nonsense competence. She really is good at her job. The coordinator nods, speaking into her headset, and Marissa reaches for me. “You’ve got this,” she says, moving me along the carpet to where the reporters and photographers wait.
My face feels numb and I can no longer tell if I’m smiling or not. In fact, most of my body feels numb, all except for my heart, which is pounding painfully in my chest. A flash goes off right in my face and I wince before plastering my pro smile back in place.
The reporters and photographers are shouting questions my way, the overlap of noises making me confused. Bright lights are hot overhead and I can feel my body temperature ticking upwards, a drop of sweat slipping down my back.
An image flashes through my mind without warning. Screams. Strong arms pushing me down. Weight on my chest, cutting off my breath. The air too hot.
I dig my fingernails into the skin of my palm, hard. This is not like that, I remind myself. Out in the blur of photographers, I find Marissa’s face, expecting to see a look of horror there as she realizes what’s happening in my head. Instead I find the same no-nonsense, work-mode expression she’s been wearing since the limo stopped. Apparently my mini-flashback wasn’t obvious even to her.
But I know I’m treading on thin ice right now. If I don’t want to make a complete fool of myself, now is the time to leave.
I nod at Marissa and she snaps into action, muttering into the coordinator’s ear and nudging the woman towards me. I smile towards the photographers and reporters, wave at the fans, and allow the handler to guide me away from the throng.
Curious looks follow me into the hotel lobby as gala attendees recognize me. But the light and the noise aren’t so overwhelming here, and I pull in several long lungfuls of air.
“Well done,” Marissa says, taking the handler’s place at my side. “I’m impressed.”
“Really?” I let out a weak laugh. “I couldn’t even tell if I was still smiling by the end.”
“Muscle memory is a hell of a thing. You looked great.” She watches my face, the way my chest heaves with every rapid breath. I don’t bother trying to hide my nerves now. “You need a minute.” It’s not a question and I don’t argue with her, instead allowing her to grip my elbow to lead me towards a bathroom.
We take a minute in the nearly empty room, Marissa standing in front of me to block any curious eyes so I can run my wrists under the cold water. “Better?”
“Much,” I tell her. “Now I could really use a drink.”
She grins. “That can be arranged.”
I was expecting the cookie cutter charity event set-up, so I’m surprised when we step into the ballroom. The lighting and decor make the space look more like a night club than a stuffy hotel ballroom. Instead of formal dinner seating, high top tables dot the space while waiters circulate with trays of fried shrimp and what looks like mini sliders. Instead of the typical elevator music, a jazz band is set up on the stage, a fifties pin-up styled woman crooning softly into the mic.
“The Ransome family knows how to throw a party,” Marissa mutters next to me. “Is that an ice cream sundae station?”
“I’m going to gain five pounds tonight,” I say, watching a teenaged kid piling crushed candy bars onto a mountain of ice cream. “But liquor first, please.”
But one look at the bar has me grimacing. Apparently, that’s where half the guests have gathered to network. Half of the men, at least. The thought of trying to push my way between all of those tall, broad bodies has me sweating again.
“A waiter will come around,” Marissa says, correctly reading my body language. But hovering at the periphery of the party isn’t going to help me either. Already a few people are looking my way, gazes curious.
“Here’s what we’ll do.” Marissa leads me to a much quieter corner of the ballroom where several long tables are set up. There’s barely anyone over here, and the few couples that are appear to be studying whatever’s on the tables.
“Silent auction,” Marissa explains. “You can pretend to take a look at the donations while I run over and get us a drink.” She’s trying to give me time to get acclimated to the social setting, and I could hug her for always knowing exactly what I need.
“Sounds good.”
She gives my arm a final squeeze and darts off, leaving me to take my deep, measured breaths in relative peace.
Wanting to keep my mind occupied so it doesn’t spin off into unwelcome directions, I study the different auction items. Right off the bat, I see a spa collection that I know Marissa would love and jot down my name on the auction sheet. A few spaces down there’s a one-on-one session with some celebrity pole-dancing expert. I snicker as I add my bid, knowing Geoff will kill me when I present this gift for his upcoming birthday.
The donation required to get in here tonight was pretty high, but bidding on a few items isn’t going to hurt my bank account. And I’m a firm believer in paying good karma forward. So I write my name below several more items—a designer purse I think my sister would like (but would never allow me to buy outright), a weekend getaway to Aspen for Luke, who’s nuts about skiing.
It’s not until I’m halfway through the donations that I see the item that makes my heart stutter. A certificate worth five hundred dollars to be used at Ransomed Ink.
Will. That’s Will’s shop. Just like that, my party anxiety switches over into that dull, gnawing ache that I’ve been feeling—and trying to ignore—on and off every day since I met him. I had been so sure that we’d had a connection, so sure that he was flirting with me. The fact that I had actually allowed him to take my number was way more out of character than he could ever know.
But he hadn’t used it. And that hurt worse than it probably should have.
I run my finger over the bottom of the bid sheet, considering. What would he do if I showed up there again? Of course, I don’t need to win an auction item to see him if I wanted to. I could go to his shop any time. Hell, I could call him. He’d given me his number, too.
But I know I’m not going to do that. There’s out of character and then there’s just plain unheard of. It had been hard enough for me to open up to him the little I had that day. No way can I put myself out there enough to call him when I already feel so rejected.
I move my hand away, feeling a fresh surge of disappointment. I’m not going to see him again. And from the way I reacted just minutes ago to a few cameras, that’s probably for the best. I’m clearly nowhere near out of the woods yet when it comes to the whole being-a-hot-mess situation.
I sigh, prepared to move down the table to the next donation, when a shadow falls over the bid sheet in front of me. Expecting Marissa, I look up, some quip on my lips about my urgent need for booze.
But it’s not Marissa. It’s a towering man in a tuxedo and I immediately step back, the way I always do when in close proximity to a man, my heart beginning its now-familiar rapid dance.
“I thought that was you.”
I force the fear back far enough to stay in the moment, looking up into the stranger’s face. And find that it’s not a stranger at all.
“Will?”
His eyes are scanning my face, expression inscrutable. “No one mentioned you would be here,” he mutters finally, looking away.
I frown up at him. Why would someone tell him the details of the guest list? Why is he even here? But the confusion is quickly eclipsed with annoyance. And hurt. From the look on his face, it couldn’t be clearer that he isn’t pleased by this surprise.
“Sorry to disappoint you,” I say, stepping around him to leave the alcove. I’ll just go find Marissa at the bar. Fuck the crowd.
I don’t make it three feet before long fingers wrap around my forearm. Just like in the tattoo shop, the warmth of his skin stops my breath.
My immediate reaction to being grabbed—particularly from behind—is to jerk away. Maybe even scream. But I’m somehow able to keep it together, reminding myself that this isn’t a stranger, that I’m safe.
“I’m sorry.” His low voice is close to my ear, close enough to feel the brush of hot breath against my neck, and I shiver involuntarily. “I didn’t mean to sound like an ass.”
Trying to fix an unaffected expression to my face, I turn to him. “I wasn’t expecting to see you, either.”
He nods, smoothing his hand over his beard. It looks a lot less scruffy than it had a week and a half ago, and there’s something oddly appealing about the idea of him cleaning up for the fancy party.
“Look, I’m sorry I didn’t call,” he suddenly blurts out, and the weird warm feeling quickly shifts to embarrassment. The last thing I want to do is to listen to him awkwardly apologize for the rejection.
I hold up a hand. “It’s fine. You don’t owe me anything.”
For some reason, my words have him scowling. “I do, though. I really wanted to see you again, it’s just—”
Oh, God. Forget embarrassing. This is like, cringe-level mortification here. “Will, please. I don’t need you to explain. No big deal, I promise.”
The scowl grows. “It’s a big deal to me.”
That pulls me up short. He’s staring at me the same way he had in his shop. With those intense blue eyes that look as though they can see clear into my heart.
“Then why didn’t you call?” I hear myself whisper and I want to kick my own ass at the vulnerability in my voice.
He smooths his hand over his beard again, something I’m getting the feeling he does when agitated, and looks away. “I just…when we talked that day, I didn’t know who you were. And then one of the other artists mentioned you looked familiar.”
My stomach bottoms out. Just like that, I feel a hundred times worse than I did out there in front of the hordes of photographers. Exposed and vulnerable and so very close to falling apart.
“You decided I was probably too fucked up to be worth your time, right?” My voice sounds flat, hollow, and Will’s gaze snaps back to mine, his eyes wide and surprised.
“What? No. Of course not.”
But I don’t see what other conclusion I’m supposed to make. He realized who I was, probably remembered hearing something about the poor pop star who’d been at the center of a tragic fire. Maybe he even looked me up. Read about how I hadn’t performed ever since. That I was rarely seen in public anymore. The speculation that I could have been disfigured, too scared and broken to be a pop princess anymore.
“Eva.” His voice is low, urgent, and he reaches for my arm again. This time, I do jerk it away, and he winces. “I promise, it has nothing to do with you. If anything, I’m the one who’s a fucked-up mess.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Which you somehow realized after finding out who I was?”
“No.” I watch his jaw flex a few times, frustration bleeding off him. “I don’t have the best track record when it comes to the whole celebrity thing,” he suddenly blurts, the words coming fast like he’s eager to be rid of them. “The music industry can be a really messed up place.”
I have to bite back a bitter laugh. He definitely doesn’t need to tell me that.
He bends his knees a little so he can look more fully into my eyes. “I just freaked out. It, uh, brought back some not so pleasant memories. But it has nothing to do with you, okay? I promise.”
I study him for a moment. He certainly looks sincere. I might even categorize his eyes as pleading. But what does it really matter? He clearly doesn’t want to have anything to do with me, whatever his reasons might be. And tonight is hard enough without having to stand here and hash out all the reasons why.
I manage a nearly honest smile. “I believe you. It’s fine, really. I’m fine. You can stop worrying about it, okay?” I nod over at the bid sheet, forgotten on the table. “I hope your donation brings in a ton of money. That was really cool of you, offering up your time like that.” I take a step back, and another. “I’ll see you around, okay?”
“Wait.”
I gesture behind my back. “My friend is out there, I should really—”
“There you are,” a voice booms behind me, and we both turn to see a man approaching. Like Will, he’s wearing a black tux. But where Will went with a black-on-black ensemble—black jacket, black dress shirt, black tie—this man is wearing a suit in deep midnight blue. A color that sets off his equally dark blue eyes.
Eyes that look exactly like Will’s.
“Your mother’s been looking for you,” the man says, gripping Will’s shoulder. He’s shorter by several inches, but there’s no denying the similarity between the two.
There’s also no denying the fact that I know his face. I’ve seen it plastered on countless magazine covers throughout my life, not to mention on talk shows, award show performances, the freaking hall of fame induction concert a few years ago.
The man is none other than Cash Ransome, lead guitarist for one of the most famous, celebrated bands of the last quarter century.
And he’s also, quite clearly, Will’s father.