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“A heads up would have been wonderful. I can’t believe he didn’t tell me.” I knew he had been dating Emilia for the better part of six months but Jesus Lord in Heaven, I did not expect this. It’s not like Manuel and I are on speaking terms but it seems like common courtesy to tell a woman you were with for years that you’re going to be marrying someone else.
My mom doesn’t say anything; she just looks at me looking at the invitation again. I know she’s still conflicted with me for breaking things off with him, but would she rather me stay with a cheater? She knows what I walked in on that day. I would be lying if I tried to convince myself that I’m over him or what he did to me. Cheating has always been my number one deal breaker.Always.And I can’t imagine my mother wanting me to stay with one.
“Nena, I know you loved the boy. We loved him, too. Part of me still does. He was like a son to me, you know. The line is blurry but you come first. I want you to be happy and if you don’t want to go to the wedding, you shouldn’t. But if you want to go, your father and I will be there by your side. We can show him that he doesn’t hold any power over you anymore.”
I smile at my mom, my heart panging in my chest. I love her so much. Of course she’s on my side, she’s always been. But she’s right. With the lifelong friendships intermixed in my heartbreak, it’s a touchy situation to say the least.
I finger the invitation in my hands, wanting to rip it to shreds. Holding it brings about a finality that I never realized would happen with us. Three years with him and all I got in the end was an invite to his wedding to someone else.
SEVEN
Bordeaux
“Okay, so, I talked to Frankie and your hours are going to be Tuesdays from three until nine and Saturdays nine until three. Does that work okay with school and whatever else?” I ask her, and she nods.
It’s been two days since she initially came in for her interview. Two days and I’ve been thinking about her non-fucking-stop. It’s not normal for me to be hung up on some random woman. But when that woman looks like an exotic bombshell who belongs in a Sports Illustrated magazine, when she talks like she does about music and when her lips look the way they do—plump and fucking perfect—it’s hard to ignore her.
“Works for me,” she says, running her fingers through her long, dark curly hair.
We had the schedule discussion during her interview. She told Frankie about being in college, studying music, and Frankie and I sat down and came up with her schedule after she left.
“Who will I be working with?” she asks.
“You’ll be with Kennedy on Tuesdays, and I plan to work on Saturdays until you’re up to speed, or tour starts, whichever comes first. You’re getting the best of both worlds with the two of us,” I tell her, giving her a cocky smile, testing her just a little, wanting to see her sense of humor.
“You really think highly of yourself don’t you?” she quips and I’m instantly taken aback. People don’t talk to me like that. Not ever.
I have to admit though, even if only to myself, it’s fucking hot.
My smirk grows wider and her eyes automatically light up. I can tell it eggs her on and I feel a thrilling rush explode in my veins.
“Do you really think having two men teach me anything about music is the best of both worlds? Do you know just how many men have royally fucked up good things in music?” she asks, flinging a hand in the air and resting it on her hip.
I lean back against the wall of the shop, covering my smile with the back of my hand and biting down on the side of my finger. This woman is really testing me. I can’t help but let out a small laugh because she’s fucking cute.
“Marilyn Manson ruined Baby One More Time,” she says, cocking her head. “Should we just ignore the fact that Johnny Cash totally fucked over Dorothy Love Coates when he turned the song she wrote aboutherhardships into something about himself and ran with it?”
I start to tell her that Baby One More Time was never good to begin with but she cuts me off, holding one blood-red manicured finger in the air.
“And before you even tell me that was decades ago, how about Kesha and Dr. Luke? Taylor Swift and Scooter Braun? I could go on and on and it would only reiterate my point that learning from two men is not, in fact, the best of both worlds.”
I swallow back any further comment because, I’ll let her win this one. And I don’t let anyone win anything.
“You sure you aren’t going to school to be a lawyer or something?” I ask, and swear I see the faintest smile on her face.
* * *
Isla Robles is a goddamn firecracker and I am an innocent bystander being assaulted by her flare. I don’t know what to make of this woman. She isn’t a normal rockstar groupie; she doesn’t fall at my feet, practically begging to blow me with her eyes. I’d think something was wrong with her if I didn’t remember how things were prior to being signed by my label. Not all women are infatuated with musicians. Some of them actually despise us and the reputation we hold. Isla might be one of those women. And that might be a good thing. For the both of us.
If I can’t take her home with me and fuck her senselessly and have her leave in the morning, knowing I’ll never see her again, we probably shouldn’t do any fucking at all.
Still, my dick aches for release in my pants as she rattles off facts about the music industry. This woman is fucking unreal. And I don’t like admitting that, even just in my own head.
I glance around the shop as Isla goes to shadow Kennedy, my eyes scanning the windows that lead to the sidewalk out front. There are dozens of fans and a few paparazzi with their cameras pointed inside. My team does their best to allow them to get their shots but then asks them to leave. The fans are another story. I don’t want them asking any of them to leave. They buy our music and our merch, they purchase concert tickets and support our dreams, and I can’t ask them to leave a public space. If they were inside disrupting Frankie’s business, sure, there are lines that shouldn’t be crossed, but if fans want to stand outside of the store, they can. There’s no harm in it.
I glance over at two women who are pretending to shuffle through records but are, in all actuality, just ogling me every few minutes. Freddy, one of my security guys through Hellfire, my record label, stands in a corner. It still blows my mind that there are people being paid to protect me. Four years into this and I’m still in shock over a lot of what goes on. I watch as Freddy eyes the two women and glances at me. I wave him off because they’re not bothering me.
Women like to come in here and just hangout. Even if they don’t like music. I remember the place being full of girls even before our band blew up big. I was here all the time, just trying to play my music and escape my drunk of a father. Frankie owns the bar upstairs, too—Iconic. It’s a bar and music venue so bands frequent our space. Women are like moths to a flame in Iconic, and it just so happens they sometimes venture down here, too.
