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“Reign, is it true you’re back?”
I lift my sunglasses and stare right into the camera. “It’s true. I’m back and you aren’t ready for what I have up my sleeve.” I slide into the car, laughing as they chase me for the final money shot.
Picking up the whiskey in the back, I down a gulp, hating when my manager’s voice slips into my mind. “Don’t be seen drinking too much during the day.” I down another gulp out of spite.
Fuck him. Fuck them all.
It’s the dawn of a new Reign, baby, and this time, I’m doing whatever the fuck I want, whenever the fuck I want, starting today.
* * *
I know I was photographed during the shopping spree yesterday, and the images went viral within minutes. My arms were laden with designer bags as I was chased by store employees holding more. Then again, more pictures were taken last night after dancing and drinking the night away in an exclusive—but not too exclusive—club and chasing mayhem, then again in the early hours this morning as I entered a hotel with three men—a drummer, a bassist, and a singer from a rock band I respect.
Hours later, I left and waved to the cameras, and I can’t help laughing as my phone blows up. My face is plastered everywhere. I lie on the sofa in last night’s dress and makeup, sucking on a lollipop, with cum dripping from my ass and pussy, and I can’t help but claim victory, especially when my phone rings.
“Speak,” I answer, knowing that the tone is for William and William alone, but instead, Willow’s voice answers.
“We will not be played, but we accept your conditions. We will . . . work together”—I bet it killed him to say that—“starting with this new music. The studio is yours. Produce it and we will come up with a plan. Reign, I’m glad you’re back.” Surprisingly enough, he actually sounds like he means it.
Hanging up, I twist my tongue around the lollipop once more as my face flashes across every channel on the television.
Oh, it’s good to be back.
THREE
“Shit. I mean, shit, Reign, this is good,” Jack remarks.
He’s the only person I feel bad about leaving months ago. I would call him a true friend. Despite being one of the most successful songwriters and producers in the business, he never let it get to his head, and when he first heard me, he instantly aligned himself with me. Throughout the years, we created magic, until my lyrics dried up.
It pained him when I would come into the studio drunk or angry and I couldn’t even get anything out. It led to more than one argument, and when I disappeared, we weren’t even speaking. He only wanted the best for me, and he told me more than once that he saw the industry swallowing me up and he hated it. I thought about him a lot when I was gone, about how I treated him, and I knew when I came back, he was the only one I could trust with my new music. More than that, I want to prove to him that I’m okay.
When I turned up this morning, I was nervous and prepared to apologize, but he hugged me like no time had passed and without waiting, he told me to show him what I had been working on. That’s Jack for you. You can go five months without talking, but once you are together again, it’s like no time has passed at all. No excuses or apologies are necessary; there is just understanding.
Eight hours later, I’ve sung every songtwice and explained the arrangements and my ideas.
He leans back on the sofa in the room opposite the recording studio. “This shit is . . .”
I wait silently because his opinion is the only one I care about. He’s a genius, an actual genius who belongs in the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame. His way with words can rip you apart or put you back together again, and I know I wouldn’t be where I am without him. I silently promise to get him where he belongs—up on those walls with the greats.
“The best shit you have ever written.”
“Really?” I almost leap to my feet.
He grins and rubs his head shyly. “Shit, Rey, it’s better than my stuff.”
“Not a chance.” I laugh, and then he sobers.
“I’m glad you’re back. Don’t get me wrong, kid, I’m even happier to see your excitement for music again, but are you okay? I’m your friend above everything else, Rey. Fuck the producers and the label. Are you okay?”
“I am.” It’s true. “I wasn’t before. I’m sorry about leaving without a trace—”
“We do what we have to do to protect ourselves. I’ll admit I was hurt, but I was also proud of you.”
“Proud?” I repeat, picking up my Chinese food once more and crossing my legs under me.
“Very.” He grins. “You fought back and stopped letting them walk all over you. Jesus, Rey, in the last year, I could tell I was losing you. You were so lost. You weren’t Rey anymore. You were going through the motions, but seeing you alone in here, grinning and excited, is better than any music you could ever compose. You’re alive again, Rey, and I’m so glad.”
My heart melts. “Soft bastard.” I chuck an egg roll at him, and he laughs as he catches it and shoves it into his mouth.
