When Raine left Los Angeles a week later one early afternoon, the anger buried deep inside hadn’t left. But it was more than that…and she allowed herself to feel the rage so she could ignore it.
Trying to stay calm at a red light, she turned on the satellite radio and tried to lose herself in the tunes. But it was hard, because she kept coming back to why she was in the car in the first place. The only reason why she was leaving L.A. was because the motherfuckers in charge didn’t give a shit about her and didn’t believe in her.
But she had to do this. She had to get back on top and she was going to do it.
Usually on a bus or flying, Raine hadn’t realized just how it seemed the city never ended, instead just blending into other communities—suburbs and neighborhoods that looked a little different and yet had so many things in common. Worse, she’d had to deal with bumper-to-bumper traffic for the first chunk of her trip.
But, after about an hour spent in her black Range Rover, she was finally driving through Redlands. The traffic was still thick but not a snarl, and the roads seemed wider. Plus she could see plenty of nature and swaths of green past the asphalt and buildings. It didn’t hurt that much of the haze had cleared. Switching the tunes from Olivia Rodrigo to Phoebe Bridgers, she suddenly felt lighter as the wheels kept humming down the highway.
Lighter? Hmm.
And then she began to climb. It was gradual for quite a long time as the mountains in the distance grew bigger and bluer as she got closer. There were still buildings here and there and lots of palm trees—but she felt so much freer. The higher she got, the fewer palm trees she could see, but there were plenty of other trees to take their place—and, for a few moments, she allowed herself to absorb the feeling of liberty, of not being tied down or obligated, for as long as she could.
Soon, everything seemed to change. The landscape became browner, drier. And something in the song she was listening to struck a painful chord, so she switched the music off. The tires made a rhythmic sound on the pavement as she pushed the SUV to over seventy miles per hour. Even though she wasn’t eager to get to her destination, she wanted to get out of her head, and staring at the road in front of her had made her introspective.
It wasn’t until she was in Whitewater and took another highway that she began to really climb, seeming to leave everything she knew behind. She was headed north now on a smaller four-lane highway—and a green sign told her she was less than twenty miles from her destination.
And as she got closer and closer, it hit her just how far away this place was from everything. Yes, there was still asphalt, streetlights, and a sense of civilization…but it might as well have been on the other side of the world. There were cacti and weird trees and even the occasional palm tree, but what green she could see was faded, not vibrant and alive like she was used to. Everything she could see looked pale and washed out, even with the vibrant blue of the sky filled with puffy white clouds as a backdrop.
Why the fuck would anyone in their right mind choose to live here?
What did that say about the man she was soon going to be working with?
She was surrounded by hills, but any majestic mountains were far in the distance…and that feeling of peace she’d briefly experienced early in the drive was replaced with dread. She didn’t see any businesses or signal lights or anything she was used to and then she realized…this was her punishment for speaking the truth, for daring to open her mouth and not be the good little girl they’d all wanted her to be.
Clenching her jaw, she turned onto a dusty, unpaved road. Not long after, she had to turn again onto another dirt road, but that one was a private drive. After a bit, as the road bent, rose, and then flattened again, she could see what looked to be a modest house in the distance. The landscape had looked completely empty until the building appeared.
This guy had once been rich and famous? It sure didn’t feel that way, not out here in the dusty dry desert. The house made of dark wood and lots of glass felt like it belonged exactly where it was. It was surrounded by those weird fucking trees and big boulders, smaller plants—and dirt.
As she parked the car, she reminded herself that this was temporary. She’d be here long enough to record her album and then she’d get the fuck out of this miserable place. If she could record her album here. Had any of those motherfuckers even seen this place? She had a hard time believing there was a recording studio here.
Gritting her teeth, she got out of the car and stretched. She’d been on the road a little over two hours and needed to move. Immediately, she noticed how much hotter it was here, even in the late afternoon. It’s the Mojave Desert—of course, it’s hot. Although she’d packed two suitcases, her clothes were chosen with L.A. in mind, not Joshua Tree.
And no one had bothered to tell her that sort of thing.
Taking off the black leather jacket, she instantly felt cooler in her black tank top, jeans, and boots and she was grateful she’d pulled her now pink hair back.
But she felt bare…almost as much as the landscape surrounding her.
As she began pulling the luggage out of the back of her car, a tall man with dark brown hair came out of the front door. Dressed in a dark gray short-sleeved t-shirt, dark blue jeans, and brown work boots, he gave off the air of a ranch hand, not a music producer. Raine glanced at him and knew immediately that this was Quentin Russo, regardless of his attire. She’d seen plenty of photos of him—but he looked different now. Older. Faded tattoos on his arms. His hair was slightly longish and his face had a stubbly beard—not one that he’d lazily neglected but had carefully trimmed. His body was more filled out here and there than in his old pictures—not chubby but less lean, much healthier.
But she was wary. She knew this man’s reputation and, try as she might, she was still furious that she had to be here. Most of all, she needed to be careful while also making sure she wasn’t going to take any shit.
As he approached her, there was a confidence in his gait, the heavy boots audible with each step he took. “Raine Dennison?”
Refraining from rolling her eyes because he should know her on sight, she simply said, “Yes. Quentin Russo?”
Nodding, he put out a hand and shook hers. His hand was warm and too firm, causing two of her rings to bite into other fingers—but she wasn’t about to admit it. He asked, “Can I help you with that?”
“Yeah, sure.” She handed him one of the suitcases and kept the other, following him up the flagstone path that led to the front door.
Once inside, she could tell that he had money, something not evident from the outside. But money or not, the interior was…austere. That was the only word she could think of to describe it. The floor in the front room looked like it might have been made of concrete under the high, warm polish, and a plain fireplace at one end of the room almost made her laugh. It was over one hundred degrees outside and she didn’t think there was such a thing as winter in the desert. But rich people sometimes liked to have things like fireplaces just to show off, even if they never used them. Most striking was two walls that were nothing more than glass and steel. The other walls were plain wood, and there was only one piece of art on one wall, just a picture of one of those weird trees she’d seen here. There was a dark gray sofa, a wooden coffee table, and one chair—but it faced a window.
So barren and so strange…just like the outside.
Although the living area opened up to a kitchen space, she wouldn’t have a chance to check it out immediately. “Let me show you to your room.” Down a stark hallway that led to the back of the house, they reached stairs. From the outside, she hadn’t realized that the back was split level, and he led her down the stairs rather than taking the ones that went up. “Here’s the bathroom,” he said, flipping on a light switch in a room to the right. Unlike what she’d seen thus far, at least that room looked a little more…inviting. It was decorated in warm browns, the fixtures white in contrast. But before she could take in more details, he was already moving down the hall. “There are four bedrooms down here, so if you don’t like this one, you can pick another. And the laundry room is through the door right across from the bathroom. Use it any time you need to. I usually do my laundry on Mondays.”
When he opened the door, she tried to picture herself spending time in there. Everything she’d need was there—a closet, dresser, bed, nightstand, and a mirror. The twin bed had a simple earth-tone comforter and two pillows. And, even here, there were still lots of windows. At first, she thought she’d be completely exposed here, but she noticed the cornice at the top no doubt hiding some sort of window covering. That felt strangely comforting.
