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Sitting across from them for sixteen miles hasn’t awarded me any more knowledge than my five-hour stalk in the plane. They’re as opposite as night and day.
Cocky and sweet.
Showy and humble.
Taken and fucking taken, so stop looking and do your damn job!
With Knox’s raised brow matching the sentiments of my conscience, I jerk up my chin in farewell like I’m planning to place more than two feet of distance between the SUV and me before sliding out the back passenger door.
There are no flashing bulbs to contend with, nor a rush of heated bodies priming for the best shot. If you exclude the beggar seeking a dollar, there isn’t a single soul on the footpath separating the SUV from the old theater about to host a dress rehearsal for Nicole’s upcoming shows.
“Now do you understand why I said what I did on the plane?” Knox asks, startling me when he sneaks up on me unawares. “This studio is booked under Nikki J. The private jet was on loan from Rise Up. The two are not the same.”
Stealing my chance to reply that they could be if he loosened the reins a little, he bobs back into the SUV to assist Nicole out before once again guiding her steps by placing his hand on the small of her back.
12
NICOLE
When a frustrated sigh whizzes from my nose, the makeup artist preparing me for my first full dress rehearsal says, “It could be worse. You could be doing the makeup for the artist instead of preparing her for gigs with the who’s who of late-night broadcasts.” As I flash her an apologetic stare, Bonnie adds, “It’s fine. I’m not at all envious.” Thankfully she smiles during her reply, or I’d have no clue she is being playful. That’s how mellow her tone is. “We all pave our own road to success. Some just get lucky a little sooner than others.”
She stops there, but I know the words she can’t express for fear of reprimand.
She believes I am only here because of my connection to Rise Up.
The sucky part is she’s right.
Nikki J isn’t scribbled on the whiteboard outside my dressing room.
Nicole Reed is.
Knox said it was an accidental slip-up on the tour organizer’s behalf.
I don’t believe him.
When we entered the performance hall without the fanfare of the private airstrip, his ego slipped off a steep cliff. He wants the hype more than I do, and he gets it when two backup dancers spot my name on the door before it’s fixed.
“Oh em gee!” the tinier of the duo screams, almost shattering my eardrums. “It’s you, isn’t it? You’re Nicole Reed…” The part I always loathe arrives quicker since she only needs to read the malicious gossip made up about me instead of manufacturing it. “You’re the woman who almost ended Nick and Jenni’s relationship.”
“That isn’t true,” I bite back before cursing my stupidity to hell.
I'm meant to deny any connections to Nicole Reed by reminding fans that everyone has a twin, even someone as famous as Jenni Holt, who is often mistaken for Slater's deceased sister, Serena.
“I can’t believe this,” squeals the pack leader. “I can’t believe I’m dancing for someone who intimately knows the band members of Rise Up.”
After snapping my picture like permission is no longer needed, she hooks her arm around her friend’s elbow, then skips down the hall, telling everyone and anyone who will listen that they’re about to meet Rise Up.
With my frustration extending further than my shirt collar, I yank off my wig before scrubbing a hand over my dry eyes.
My eyes aren’t burning because I flew across the country in the equivalent of a sardine tin. They’re dry from how often I dragged them to Laken’s half of the plane during the five-hour trip.
I wanted to ask him why he took my songbook and what his plans are for the song he stole, but since I also wanted to kiss away the crease his forehead hasn’t been without for a second today, I kept my stalk to a distance.
The fact I care about his crinkle frustrates me more than having my stage name thwarted so early into our West Coast tour.
The dubbed “Hannah Montana Ruse” was doomed from the start, but I thought I’d at least get a handful of lesser-known gigs under my belt before being forced out of the cloak of anonymity a stage name offers. Then people might have attributed my presence at social events to my talent instead of my association with Rise Up.
There’s no chance now.
