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THORNE
Mystomachsunklikea rock as I took one last look in the mirror. A man in a tux, hair neatly combed into place with a clean-shaven jaw and dark shades, stared back at me. I was ready to walk the red carpet, so why was I so nervous? It’s not like I never attended one of these events before, but this time felt different. What would Scarlett think? And more importantly, why did it matter to me so much?
I shook my head and stepped away from my reflection.
It didn’t, I told myself. All that mattered was making a good impression and solidifying our relationship for all of Hollywood and everyone at home watching. I only hoped Scarlett was strong enough to handle what would come of publicly dating me, because although a huge part of my fanbase would be thrilled about it, there were bound to be just as many haters.
Luckily, she had her family and friends for support. People who valued more than her pretty face and her body or what she could offer them. Unlike me, where the only people who had my back were on my payroll, precisely the reason my mother agreed to help when I called her.
Normally, I’d do just about anything to avoid involving my mom in my personal life, but I was desperate. Only a week had passed since Mr. Rees agreed to Scarlett dating me, only a week since she’d been ungrounded, and if there was any chance of her accompanying this awards show with me, it was through parental guidance. Which meant I had to pull out the big guns.
The knot tightened in my chest at the knock on the door to my hotel suite.
Speak of the devil.
Exhaling, I left my bedroom and headed for the door. When I swung it open, my mother stood there, blonde hair piled high on her head, dressed in a cashmere sweater dress and boots, looking half her age.
My gaze swept over her. It had been almost a year since I’d seen her last, and time had been good to her. Or maybe it was all the money I’d sent. Either way, when she smiled, it reminded me of all the reasons I stayed away. Because she wasn’t good for me. Though she meant well, she had a way of reminding me of how far I had yet to climb instead of celebrating all my successes. Forever pushing, comparing my career to others, while using my fame and money like it was her own because she always wanted what I had.
“Mom,” I greeted as she leaned in and gave me an air kiss.
“Went with the tie, I see.” She pursed her lips, her eyes on the black tie of my tux that I chose instead of a bowtie.
“I know you prefer a traditional tux, but I’m far from traditional, Ma.”
“Traditional is classic, and classic never goes out of style,” she said with a wave of the hand.
“Right. You ready?” I asked, trying hard to not sound as irritated as I felt. Why couldn’t she just say I looked nice? Or that she was proud of me?
“Well, I thought you’d invite me in, offer me a cocktail at least.” She swept into my room without an invitation, making a beeline for the bar with the crystal decanter.
“Mom, I’m nineteen.”
“Never stopped you before,” she quipped, pouring herself three fingers of whiskey.
“I don’t drink anymore.”
Mom snorted. “Since when? I saw all about the golf cart incident on TV. Which you would’ve known,” she said, taking a sip of her drink, “had you returned my calls.”
“That was a lapse in judgement,” I said through gritted teeth. One I wasn’t proud of and was determined not to repeat. But Mom was my worst critic. She acted as though I was an alcoholic, despite the fact that it was she who first introduced me to alcohol underage.
“Well, whatever it was, it was stupid. But maybe this girl you’ve gotten yourself involved with will do you some good. Lord knows I’ve tried to convince you to take your career more seriously.”
If by serious, she meant taking every single high-paying role tossed my way, she was right. Last year, I hadn’t even blown out the candles on my eighteenth birthday cake when a producer offered me the starring role in what was to be an erotic film, posing as a teen romance, with a fourteen-million-dollar price tag. When I said no, Mom ignored my calls for months.
I glanced at my Rolex before I ran a hand over the building tension in my neck. “We need to go, or we’re going to be late.”
With a sigh, she sat her glass down. “Fine,” she said, drawing the word out like leaving was the biggest inconvenience. “You said something about meeting the parents?”
I nodded and opened the door, holding it out for her. “We need to stop by her parent’s bakery first. I already spoke with them, but I promised we’d drop by so they could talk with you in person and feel more comfortable.”
“A bakery, huh? How cute.”
I bit my tongue as I closed up behind her.
“A little overprotective, don’t you think?” she continued. “I mean, to insist on meeting me? Heavens to Betsy, you’re already providing a chaperone. You’d think that’d be enough. Is she made of glass?”
No, Mom,I wanted to say.Newsflash, some parents actually care about what their kids are doing or who they’re with.
