Famously First: A Second Chance Romance Page 8

  Finn stops abruptly, shakes his head then tries that last part again with different lyrics. Then with a bit more freedom in the melody. That’s when I realize Finn’s writing a song in front of me.

  I close my eyes, and let the music sink into my skin. I feel like an animal storing warmth for the cold winter ahead. I don’t know if it’s the song or the moment, but my chest feels tight. If I was designing my heaven? It would be something like this. A little sanctuary filled with soft, clean morning light and the man I love.

  Not that I love Finn. Not anymore. Not ever again. Sure, he’s not the villain I made him out to be after the break-up. He was an ass, but he was also a kid, just like I was.

  And yes, we still have chemistry.

  So. Much. Chemistry.

  But that’s not enough. When it comes down to it, I’m not the kind of woman who lets a man break her heart twice.

  So I keep my eyes closed and try to memorize everything about this room - the rumpled sheets, the soft carpet, the blue of the sky.

  And the man in the corner. A scruffy, tattooed man whose hands create miracles. A man who looks out for the people around him but has trouble believing in himself. A man who can walk on stage in front of thousands of people without a hint of fear, but who needs me to hold his hand while he writes a song alone in his room.

  Although maybe he doesn’t need me anymore. He seems to be doing fine now. More than fine. You’d never know that less than 24 hours ago he had no hope of finishing his album and was begging his personal nemesis for help.

  I shift in bed, as if I can roll away from that thought. Because that’s my story, right there. If I’m going to do the job False Prophet hired me to do, that’s what I tell everyone. I can see the headline now. The Secret Story of How Finn Ryan’s New Album Almost Didn’t Happen. Add in the part about Finn hiring his ex-girlfriend in a desperate attempt to write again, an ex-girlfriend who was an undercover journalist, and the story’s almost worth the $20,000 they’re paying me for it.

  My stomach sinks as I realize I’ve got the recordings of him trying to write his first song in years on my phone. That’s the kind of content that goes viral.

  I physically tense against the idea. I can’t do this to Finn. I can’t.

  But can I really give up money that could literally change my life and give me a chance to do my dream project, just because of one night with an ex-boyfriend? An ex with a history of abandoning me to follow his own dreams? An ex who hasn’t said anything about dating, or the future, or hell, even staying friends after the tour is over?

  If he hadn’t been creatively blocked, I probably would have never seen him again. He needed me, and I needed him, and at the end of this he’ll have an album and I’ll have $20,000. It should feel like a fair trade, but instead, it just feels ugly.

  Finn stops playing, and there’s muffled footsteps, followed by the bed shifting as he sits down next to me.

  “Hey,” he says softly, smoothing out my frown with his thumb. “Shh. It’s alright. Nothing bad’s going to happen to you. I’ve got you, Charlie.”

  I blink my eyes open, to see his face above me, concerned.

  “Hey, she’s awake,” Finn’s face clears, and he drops a kiss on my forehead. “You’ve been having bad dreams for the past three hours.”

  “And you just … what? Hung out for three hours writing a love song and watching over me while I slept?”

  Finn laughs, “Sure. Let’s go with that. I definitely didn’t leave to go get you donuts and coffee from that place the bellhop was raving about yesterday.”

  “Oh you beautiful, beautiful man,” I take his face and give him a quick kiss, before rolling away to find my clothes and get some donuts.

  He hasn’t said anything about actually caring about me. But he asked me to stay and brought me donuts. And for right now, that’s all the encouragement I need to shove False Prophet to the back of my mind.

  A week later I’m crouching at the side of the stage while Finn tears through a guitar solo that has the crowd roaring. It’s our second concert in Chicago. Tomorrow we fly to San Francisco. It hasn’t been that long since I joined the tour, but I feel like I’m part of the team now. Mariana and I exercise together in the morning, speed-walking around the city like a couple of sprightly grandmas, before rewarding ourselves with donuts. Karmine gives me lectures about how I should be taking better care of my clothes. Owen shows me photos of his cat, and gives me a daily play by play of which of his cat’s kittens have been adopted so far. I know I’ve made it into his good graces when he tells me I could have one if I wanted.

  I even heard Bridget tell a joke the other day. I mean, she didn’t tell it to me. But she said it in my presence, so I think we’re getting closer.

  Actually, I’m getting closer to everyone. Now that I know what Finn’s secret is, I don’t have to dig for a story anymore. I can just get to know people.

  I forgot how much fun it is to have coworkers. Not clients. Coworkers.

  And then after rehearsal, Finn and I write songs. Sometimes we roam the city so I can take photos, and he can get fresh ideas. Other times we hole up in his room, him working things out on his guitar, me editing photos. Neither one of us need the Study Game anymore, but somehow we always end up in his bed. Even when one of us works until four a.m., and we’re too tired to have sex, I still stay the night.

  He doesn’t ask me to stay. He just leaves the t-shirt of his I’ve been sleeping in on my side of the bed, neatly folded. At first I thought it was just the hotel maids tidying up the room, but I caught him carefully putting it out a few days ago.

  Thinking of it makes something in my chest flutter.

  If I’m telling the truth, I haven’t been this happy in a really, really long time. And I know it won’t last. I’ve been ducking Shaun’s calls, but when the tour ends, I’ll need to give him a story, or give up half a year’s salary and burn a bridge with one of my most reliable clients. And even if I do decide not to betray Finn, how much longer would that even buy me, once Finn’s finished the album, and I’m not shooting for him? We might have grown up on the same block, but we live in fundamentally different worlds, and it’s only a matter of time before Finn remembers that. Hell, before I remember that.

  Whatever. That’s what denial is for.

  I narrow my focus to what’s on the other side of my lens and let every other worry fall away.

  It’s exhilarating, to lose myself in the moment. To capture Owen’s quiet smile when he finishes a solo, Mariana’s blur of motion as she hits the cymbal. Not to mention all the fans at the foot of the stage, so happy to be alive and here and singing along to these songs.

  Of course, the best part is shooting Finn. I’m getting pretty good at it too. I’m not just getting the decent shots any good photographer could get. I’m getting the shots that show him. Bold and commanding on the stage, but intensely introspective when he’s writing. Teasing his bandmates, and giving directions to tourists who have no idea who he is. Fighting with me for the pure pleasure of it. That look on his face right before he shoves the camera out of my hands and kisses me silly.

  Forget a pinup calendar. I’ve got enough shots of Finn to storyboard a romantic comedy.

  They finish the song with an electric crash that sounds like the guitar and drums are having hate-sex, and the crowd cheers. I go to take another picture and realize my SD card is out of memory.

  Shit. My back up card is in my camera bag just off stage.

  I ease off stage and hurry to my bag. This is what mind blowing sex with your boss does. It makes you forget to check your photography equipment.

  I’m digging for the card when Karmine swoops down on me.

  “Oh thank God,” she says, shoving her phone in my face. “It’s some man who says it’s an emergency. He’s been trying to get in contact with you, there’s been some kind of accident with your parents—”

  My heart plummets, and I grab the phone with shaky hands, “Yes? Who is this? What’s go
ing on?”

  “Oh, so you are alive,” a man drawls, and I’m so disoriented it takes me a few moments to place the voice.

  “When someone signs a contact with me for twenty grand, I expect them to answer the phone when I call.”

  Oh hell. It’s Shaun. Relief and anger is replaced by a different sort of panic. Karmine is standing right there watching me, worry and sympathy in her eyes.

  I lower the phone, “Could I have a moment of privacy? It’s not as bad as he was making it sound. Everyone’s fine. But I do need to take this call.”

  “Sure, honey!”

  Karmine backs far enough away that she can’t hear my conversation. Which, given that we’re backstage at a rock concert, isn’t actually that far.

  And now that she knows everyone is all right, her worry has turned to blatant curiosity.

  “What the hell are you doing?” I hiss. “Are you trying to let them know I’m working for you?”

  “Well I don’t know, are you?”

  “Of course I’m still working for you!” I say. “But I can’t exactly answer the phone when someone’s right there next to me.”

  “Someone’s next to you at midnight? Because that’s the last time I called you.”

  I swallow. Either answer I give him is bad. If I tell him I’m with someone from the tour, it’s only a matter of time before he figures out it’s Finn. Shaun’s a little slimy, but he’s not stupid. And once he figures it out, he’ll absolutely put it in the story.

  But the alternative is to admit I’m dodging his calls.

  “I was sleeping,” I lie. “It was after midnight.”

  “Oh give me a fucking break—”

  “What did you need to talk to me about? Because I’m supposed to be onstage with my camera right this second.”

  There’s a moment of silence. Finally he says, “Our source is back in touch again. He says Ryan hasn’t written a damn thing for an album that’s due in less than a month. It’s not as juicy as I was hoping for, so see if you can dig up anything else. Maybe he didn’t really write the songs on his first album. Or maybe he’s behind on this one because of a drug problem.”

  I roll my eyes, “Trust me, Finn doesn’t have time to have a drug problem.”

  “Are you really that naive? Everyone has time for a drug problem. Unless you’re with him all day long and watching him sleep, there’s always a possibility …”

  “I’ll look for something juicy. Got it.” But I can’t resist adding, “But I wouldn’t get my hopes up.”

  “De Luca. You do want to expose him, don’t you?”

  “I’ll do the job I was hired to do.”

  “Come on! How about a little enthusiasm? This is the man who dumped you. He’s a rich, selfish, talentless hack,” Shaun says. “What was it you said, about taking him down? You called it ‘a bonus.’”

  I don’t say anything.

  Shaun’s voice hardens, “Ok, I was trying to do this the nice way. Because I like you, Charlie. I really do. But you signed a contract saying you would do this job, and you’d do it discreetly. If you refuse to do the job you’ve been hired to do to my satisfaction, I will tell every editor and marketer I know not to work with you. And if you think that’s an empty threat, I want you to think about how long I’ve been working in this industry, in this city. And how long you’ve been here. How long do you think you can survive in New York once I cut off most of your sources of income?”

  “You wouldn’t,” I say, and it feels like my heart has literally stopped.

  “Don’t try me,” Shaun says.

  Finn and the band are finishing the third verse. I’ve missed almost a whole song. Apart from everything else, I need to get out there or Finn will ask me where I went tonight.

  Oh God. The thought of lying to Finn about this twists my stomach.

  On the other end of the phone, Shaun sighs. “Look Charlie, you’re a good kid. I don’t wanna be your bad guy. Just think of it like this: if I win, you win. It’s as simple as that. If you make me lose …” he trails off, the threat hanging in the air, rancid as a stink bomb.

  “I understand you. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “Ten o’clock sharp,” Shaun says and hangs up.

  I lower the phone and realize my hand is shaking.

  Karmine’s by me in an instant, taking the phone back, “Oh honey. Are you sure everything’s fine? You look horrible.”

  “It’s fine. Just a misinformed man sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong.”

  I fish out my memory card and escape onstage.

  I aim the camera at Finn, shifting the depth of the picture until he comes into focus. Checking the way the light and shadows fall across his face helps calm me. Finn starts to introduce the next song, and I’m staring through the camera at him, waiting for my next shot, when Finn looks straight at me and winks.

  It catches me off-guard, and my stomach leaps, like I’m the nerd getting noticed by the cool guy in class.

  That’s when my brain catches up with what he’s saying.

  Finn’s introducing a new song.

  He’s introducing one of our new songs.

  And suddenly my heart is racing. I’ve been telling Finn Relax, and Just write, and Don’t worry, it doesn’t have to be perfect, but what do I know? What if I’ve set him up for failure in front of thousands of people?

  Between this and the call from Shaun, I want to run off stage and go hide back in my hotel room. It feels like mine and Finn’s happy bubble is cracking, and the world is rushing in, drowning us.

  But all I can do is be here with Finn if it goes horribly. And do the goddamn job he hired me to do.

  Finn starts playing, and now that the song has a bass, and drums, and Mariana on backup vocals, I almost don’t recognize the first song Finn and I wrote together, about a girl who’s like writer’s block.

  Finn’s polished it. It’s still got that messy, what-the-hell energy, but Finn’s tightened the lyrics and shifted something in the chorus so that it flows perfectly. Like something you’d hear on the radio. My heart is still beating fast, but now it’s because I’m watching the world premiere of something brilliant.

  And a world premiere deserves to be documented.

  I widen the frame so I’m getting the whole stage and start shooting like a mad woman. Once I’m sure I’ve gotten the big stage picture, I start zooming in on the details, trying to catch the feeling of the moment. Finn’s magical fingers on the guitar neck. Mariana’s head thrown back as she sings. The look of awe on a fan’s face.

  And of course, Finn. Although it’s hard to get a good photo of him, because instead of ignoring me, like he normally does onstage, like he’s supposed to do, he keeps looking at me, checking to see my reaction when there’s a part he’s changed, smirking at me when he gets to the part where he took my shirt off.

  He hasn’t touched the verse I wrote at all, although he’s given it to Mariana, so she’s singing lead while he sings harmony underneath. I think it might be the first time Finn has let someone else sing lead anywhere on one of his songs. The effect is rough, swoony magic that feels oddly romantic when compared to the rest of his catalogue, and the crowd is loving it. Everything about this song is fun and sassy on the surface, but the way he’s arranged it makes it feel like it’s built on something good and real.

  If I hadn’t picked the song topic myself at random, I’d think it was about a real woman, who was a perfect match for him, and as hard to catch as a difficult song.

  Finn takes the song back from Mariana on the bridge, and his voice feels even stronger, more charismatic, when it’s set against hers.

  “Did I say too much/ Did I leave us exposed/ Cause I put it all out there but your smile says no/ So if I’m going too fast/ Honey take my shirt/ Write this fucked up song with me/ Darling just say the word,” Finn sings. “I’m half a rhyme without you/ and it’s been ten years/ so darlin’ give me your word.”

  My finger freezes on the button. Ten years? That�
��s how long it’s been since we … is this song about me? I assumed the take my shirt line was just something he thought of in the moment since I was literally wearing his shirt, but the ten years line is something he added when he was honing the song. When he was intentionally shaping it.

  I shake the thought off and go back to photographing. So what if the song’s about me? And so what if it’s not? It’s just a song. A song he was hired to write. It doesn’t mean anything more than the pictures I’m snapping of him.

  I can tell myself that all I want, but when Finn looks straight at me, and sings the last line, I want you so bad/ It’s un-fucking my life/ But cards on the table/ You’re the song I never get right, my pulse pounds like Mariana’s drums.

  Does it mean he knows we’re a long shot, but he wants to keep trying to get it right anyway? Or does it mean the opposite, that he already knows he won’t get it right, so why try?

  I realize the song has come to an end, and I’m not breathing. The crowd’s whooping and roaring, and Mariana and Owen are smiling like kids who just got A+ ’s on their papers.

  But Finn’s focused on me. Waiting. And I don’t think he’s breathing either.

  I lower my camera and give him an unguarded smile, because whatever else is going on between us, the man just broke through his writer’s block in a hell of a way. I’m so proud of him, I can feel it in my chest.

  As soon as I smile, he relaxes and turns back to the crowd, slipping back into his rockstar persona so smoothly I’m not sure anyone else noticed he took it off.

  The rest of the concert goes off without a hitch, which is unfortunate, because I need something to distract me from the words chasing themselves around in my head.

  I want you so bad.

  Give me your word.

  How long do you think you can survive in New York once I cut off your income?

  If you win, I win. But if you make me lose …

  And finally, You’re the song I never get right.