Page 4 of Can’t Say No

“Caroline, why would I know? Go ahead and tell me if it’s so damn juicy.”

I grab the final pair of dumbbells I need for my last set and return to Caroline grinning up at me from her place on the mat. Cocking my brow, I wait for her to give up the dramatic pause.

“Delaney James.”

The whole gym reverberates with the sound of my weights hitting the ground.

Delaney James, the ultra famous pop star with a rebellious streak splashed all over tabloid headlines.

Delaney James, the former Ridgecrest resident until her rise to superstardom eight years ago.

Delaney James, my old next door neighbor and childhood best friend.

My Delaney James.

3

DELANEY

What the hell are you supposed to wear on the first day of school as a scorned twenty-four-year-old pop star paying penance for pissing off one too many people? The closet in my old bedroom is overflowing thanks to my stylist shipping half my wardrobe from my place in Los Angeles, but I highly doubt stilettos and lace body suits are appropriate attire for teaching choir at a high school.

Dad really meant it when he said “next flight out.”

I was back in bum-fuck-no-where Tennessee faster than my buzz wore off. He had me nursing a hangover on the uneven back roads that led to my childhood home.

0/10 — do not recommend.

Calling this place “home” feels like the wrong word for a multitude of reasons. A former working farm turned sprawling estate by my parents, it has always felt empty and cold rather than cozy and homey. And even before I left at sixteen, it was never a place I rushed back to.

In fact, I tried to spend as little time here as possible.

The chime of a text message interrupts my mental spiral and has me throwing piles of clothes off of my bed in pursuit of my phone. Swiping to read the text, I can’t help but smile.

Matty: Happy first day of school! I hope you hook up with all the hot teachers!

Matthew, my best friend in L.A. Another text pings through.

Matty: Actually, scratch that. Lay as low as possible so your punishment will be over and you can get back to L.A. with me.

My punishment, as Matty so accurately put it, is to help some old lady teach choir at Ridgecrest High. Remi and my dad came up with this whole plan to show that I’m “a sweet, small town girl who wants to help others.” Definitely not a selfish brat who overstayed her welcome on stage when Molly Jo was the headliner.

And certainly not a washed up pop star whose shine is starting to fade.

The fight hardly seemed worth it, so I agreed. If I had tried to argue my fate, I know my dad would have pushed back harder. Remi might be my manager on paper, but it’s a known fact that my dad is the real puppet master.

And he holds those strings real tight.

Shuffling through the stack of jeans on my bed, I’m reminded how much I appreciated the uniforms at Boyd Prep. Oxford button downs and plaid skirts are a choice, and not one I’d make again, but it made getting ready for high school so much easier. It almost made up for the daily forty-five-minute commute. When I was a kid, my parents turned their noses up at Ridgecrest High. As their only child, they poured all of their resources into making me the best of the best, and public school wasn’t going to cut it for the life they had crafted for me.

But apparently volunteering at the local public high school is good enough now to clean up my image. The irony isn’t lost on me.

My dad brokered some kind of deal with the school board and principal. They hire me as the choir assistant, release a couple photos that make me look charitable and down to earth to the tabloids, and then write a glowing article at the end of the semester, in exchange for an undisclosed donation from my team.

I’ve felt like a pawn in someone else’s game for a while now, but I’m pretty sure this takes the cake.

Sighing, I finally settle on dark wash jeans and a white square neck top. Basic, unassuming, and classy.

Exactly who they want me to be.