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“Well, we bought cereal and Pop-Tarts.” Against my better judgement. But Ivy talked me into staples that would last a little while. Even if they could make my abs disappear like a magic trick. “Or I can make scrambled eggs or vegetable omelets.”
“Pop-Tarts.” She makes an obscene gesture with her eyebrows. “While I sit naked in your lap and we see what else pops up.”
“You’re going to kill me, baby.” I groan as I set up the toaster on the counter and pull out three different flavors of Pop-Tarts. “I wish we had the time. But I have to be at Rebel’s in an hour.”
“Later then?”
“I’ll come get you once I’m done,” I promise. “It might be a while though.”
“That’s okay. I need to spend a couple of hours in Narnia,” she says. “And I thought I might have coffee with Ben after.”
“Narnia?”
“Costumes. Instead of the lion, the witch, and the wardrobe, it’s the shy one, the queen bitch, and the wardrobe. Once you enter the wardrobe you’re transported to the magical land of Fabulous.” She tosses what’s probably imaginary glitter into the air. “It’s transformative.”
“That’s cute.” I chuckle. “Now which flavor?”
“Strawberry Milkshake.”
“Weirdo,” I tease her, but I open the box and hand her a packet to put in the toaster while I choose apple cinnamon. Okay, so I am a big kid at heart. And the girl in front of me, she gets me.
Somehow she ends up sitting on my lap while we tear into the searingly hot and gooey pastries, and I do consider blowing off my twin and Marty. But Alec Hawthorne’s days as Hollywood’s golden boy are numbered. He’s going to rue the day he fucked with my family. And I am going to play my part in making sure he’s taken down publicly.
Chapter Six
Rogue
Dog hobbles across the driveway as I pull the Jeep to a stop. By the time I’ve climbed out of the vehicle he’s waiting for me. He sits at my feet, tail thumping against the gravel. Tiny stones roll to get out of the way. I pat the old boy’s head and he groans like it pains him, but we both know he loves the affection.
Rebel’s Corvette is parked in the driveway next to Riot’s Kawasaki and Rochelle’s black Mercedes G Wagon. A strawberry-colored Mini Cooper with beaded necklaces hanging from the rearview mirror is parked with them.
Fucking Marty.
I understand that we need her journalistic integrity and name on Rochelle’s tell-all. It’ll make the difference between our story sounding like hearsay and finally putting the blame on the guilty party instead of my twin.
But that doesn’t mean I have to like her being here, up close and personal. Inserting herself into our business. Looking for the next story after this one. Looking at Ivy like she is that next story.
It wasn’t just friendly curiosity that had her asking about Ivy the last time I brought her to the house. Which is why I was more than happy to drop Ivy home on my way here. I don’t want Marty anywhere near her. I don’t want any of these media hounds anywhere near her.
“Morning.” Riot stands at the top of the steps, one hand resting in the band of his motocross pants as I climb toward him with Dog on my heel. His other hand is thrust into his dark locks that are still damp from being shoved into a full face helmet. A chain hangs down his chest over his black tank; a cross and a tiny skateboard deck hanging from it.
“It’s been a while,” I acknowledge the look he’s rocking today. “When was the last time you took the bike out?”
“Been too busy.” He stretches as we cross the threshold. “Band practice. Tour. Spend time with Ro. Repeat. But I was antsy this morning. So I took a spin around the track.”
“Did it help?” Because I’m feeling it too, this antsy bullshit. It crawls under my skin like fucking gnats. Invisible but enough to make me itchy. Keeps me awake. Going over everything with Marty. Waiting to see if Hawthorne will make another move, or if he’s just a coward who makes empty threats against women. Worrying about the media freaking Ivy out. Waiting for them to find out who she is. Waiting for her to realize she can trust me with all her fears and hopes and dreams.
I’m not good with the waiting. Patience isn’t my strong suit. I’m trying, dear Lord, am I trying, but if I had my way we would be done with the part where I’m not sure what Ivy is hiding.
“A little,” he says as we head toward the voices coming from the kitchen. He claps a hand to my shoulder. Squeezes. “The only way through it is through it.”
“Really fucking insightful,” I mutter as I watch Dog wander into the games room and heave his ancient three-legged body onto his favorite beanbag in the sun. Riot’s right, but it doesn’t help. I can’t change the fact that I have to do interview after interview for the movie. Or that this article withHollywood Juicewill only intensify the spotlight on our family and friends. The public will want to know everything. They’ll want to scrutinize every move we’ve made and will make for the foreseeable future.
I was prepared for that before Ivy came along. Actually I didn’t give a shit about the rumor mill since it’s been working overtime since we became Hollywood’s most loved troublemakers. But with the increased interest in us Maddoxes, it’s only a matter of time before someone works out who Ivy is and camps outside her house to get the kiss and tell.
Or worse. “The paparazzi chased us when we left the expo the other night. It was insane.”
“They’ve done that before.” His brow furrows as he grabs the T-shirt that is hanging out of his back pocket and layers it over the tank. The band logo stretches over his torso. “Nothing we haven’t handled.”
