It felt warm and comforting…and confusing as fuck.
After all the introductions, champagne was poured and all of them—thirty or so people—gathered in a large carpeted room that was mostly white with cathedral ceilings. There was a stark black fireplace at one end of the room, two white loveseats, and two white chairs. There were other chairs scattered throughout, ones that seemed temporary, and they all faced a long table near a wall over which two large monitors were hung. Just as everyone found a place to sit, there was a bit of commotion in the other room—and then Mal appeared.
The chatter among the guests stopped as they looked up at Mal making a grand entrance. He wore his usual blazer over a snug t-shirt with jeans outfit, looking much the part of a busy manager. “Sorry I’m late,” he said, as he made his way through the room. Although he nodded at Raine and Quentin standing over to the side, he found Russ and Tristan and stood near them, talking with them quietly.
Minutes later, Russ broke away and walked to the front of the room. He gave a short introduction while Hunter and another man pressed a few buttons on a laptop. Soon, both screens displayed a title in large font, letting listeners know what the song was called.
It was “Ripped Away,” the first song Quentin had coaxed out of her.
Fuck. Why were they playing this one first? She already knew it wouldn’t be a single. She suspected the label wouldn’t want to make a big deal of it, because in the lyrics were echoes of her onstage scandal in August.
But all the people there seemed to like it. As the song progressed, they began talking quietly, one or two people here and there, other people making small noises of—was it delight? Still others were nodding, seeming to be pleased with how it sounded.
Maybe they weren’t listening to the lyrics.
Where she and Quentin stood off to the side, not sitting in any of the plush seats, she had a good view. Although she hadn’t told Quentin he had to be with her, he stayed by her side. Several people had offered them chairs, but she couldn’t sit. For one, she was too goddamned nervous, and that wouldn’t change until she was the fuck out of here. And, more than that, she didn’t want people staring at her while her voice came from the monitors up front.
She already felt like too much of a spectacle.
Quentin’s body was so close to her that she could feel the warmth emanating from him. He acted like he wanted to protect her from everyone here, but she sure as shit couldn’t read his face—or anything. Maybe it was all an act to him.
Then, of course, there was Mal. He glanced over once in a while but didn’t smile. And she couldn’t help but notice that he didn’t clap even when everyone else did. Well…maybe he’d figured out the song was about him.
They wound up playing six tracks all together, and they all seemed well received—but could she really know how people felt? Were they just giving lip service? And, even if not, would this help revive her career in the long run?
People again approached, now looser for having had a glass or more of champagne. But they all took their time, some of them talking amongst themselves until their turn to talk to Raine and Quentin. Of course, Russ stood close by, probably in an attempt to make sure the couple stayed on script.
Most people not only complimented the music, but they complimented the two of them.
As a couple.
Like Raine had been a nobody before Quentin.
She didn’t know any of these people and she wouldn’t remember who they were later—but, right now, they acted like they were her best friends. And the worst part was all of the gushing about her fake relationship with Quentin. When one of the influencers, a thirty-something woman with sleek black chin-length hair, said, “What a beautiful couple you are,” Raine felt almost hollow.
Because were they? Sure, they could act the part.
People were really believing it…but Raine was struggling, because it was starting to feel like nothing more than a lie.
The label did choose “Ripped Away” as her first single. Maybe, concerned about “optics,” they thought it might explain her behavior at the charity concert.
But Raine and Quentin had to focus on the task at hand, and the next two weeks flew by as they finished up the album—all but the last song. Every time they had to do something public, Quentin appeared to be the dutiful boyfriend but, back in his home in Joshua Tree, he was shut off: distant and quiet, as cold as the nights in the desert. When they spoke, it was all business, nothing more.
She refused to blame herself…but it was hard not to.
When she browsed through social media, the fans were talking about the supposed relationship, and based on their comments, she knew they believed it all. So did the press, publishing one article after another about how her relationship with Quentin had brought a supposed maturity to Raine’s music.
More than once, Raine tried talking with him, but Quentin was always too busy for her. If he wasn’t answering emails, he was taking a call or working on another tweak to a song.
He seemed to be making sure she couldn’t ask the questions she wanted to.
As work partners, they were solid. In the studio, he got her and she got him, and they made magical music together. Of course, the world would read so much into that.
But she wasn’t so sure they really were together…and she didn’t know how to broach the subject.
Still, she had to try.
One morning during the first week in November, she knew she needed to make an effort. Walking into the kitchen, she caught Quentin cleaning a plate in the sink. She made her way to the cabinet and pulled out a cup. As she filled the kettle with water, she asked, “How’d you sleep?”
