“Great. I appreciate you coming with me to talk to the rest of the band.” They’d all been devastated but not stunned when he’d broken the news. “And when the police contact Ryan’s parents and you get the details of his funeral, let me know.”
She nodded. “Absolutely.”
“Thanks. So…I guess you’re canceling all my appearances for a while?” When she nodded, the career-driven part of him grimaced. The rest of him exhaled in guilty relief. He hadn’t had a day off in years.
“I’m afraid you won’t be laughing it up with Jimmy Fallon to promote this album,” she quipped. “In fact, I think it’s better if we proactively back out on these appearances for now, citing grief over the loss of your friend. We’ll have an easier time rebooking in a couple of weeks, once this crap has died down.”
“Wait. Maybe I should use those appearances to tell everyone that I had nothing to do with it.” But he couldn’t deny that on plenty of nights in the past, it could have been him—and everyone knew it. The fact that Maddy Harris had died in his hotel room simply splashed another stain on his bad reputation. And it made him feel so shitty. What a waste of life…
“That’s not what they want to hear. ‘Rock Star Overdoses Underage Fan on Sex and Heroin’ makes for a juicier headline. Until the police finish their investigation and release the details, people will assume you had a hand in the incident.”
Jesse stared at the tinted glass and saw his own reflection staring back—hollow-eyed, wrecked. Strip away Ryan’s name and that headline could have been his. Thirteen months ago, it almost certainly would have been. He’d been wasted, reckless, too far gone to check an ID or notice if a girl stopped breathing beside him. The only difference between him and Ryan was a resolution to clean up his act and live better.
But that didn’t matter. The girl was still dead.
He sighed. “So what do you want me to do?”
“I’m going to issue a statement expressing your grief and deepest apologies to the Harris family. You’re going to disappear—way off the radar—until I say otherwise. No swanky resorts. No high-profile outings with other celebs. And absolutely no backsliding into intoxication. Think sober monk.”
The sober part he had down now. But monk? “Will anyone believe it?”
“Good point. Hey!” She snapped her fingers and excitement lit her eyes. “I’ve got it. You can go to rehab.”
Jesse scowled. “I’m not an addict. Never have been.”
But for over a decade, he just hadn’t wanted to see the reasons he should curb his partying.
“So? It would look good. Repentant.”
“It would also be pointless. Everyone goes to rehab and no one cares. No.” He glared her way. “If I hole up, this dies down.”
“All right,” she said grudgingly as the limo stopped in front of the executive airport outside the city. “But I don’t want to see a new pic of you on X or Instagram for at least the next two weeks. Once we’re back in L.A., hide out in your house. I’ll tell you when it’s safe to come out.”
His ultra-contemporary mansion was decorated with every luxury and technological delight known to man, not to mention blessed with sick city and ocean views. But it had never felt like home. Despite the place being eight thousand square feet, Jesse couldn’t imagine being cooped up there for the next fourteen days. It would only remind him of everything wrong with his life or the fact that he had no one he trusted to share it with.
“Paparazzi know where I live. If I get on that plane with you and go to L.A., they’ll figure it out. So will fans.” Even now, he imagined that if he looked at his phone he’d find a full voicemail box and hundreds of text messages. He couldn’t deal with anyone else’s expectations right now when he’d done so poorly at meeting his own. “If you really want me to disappear, we’ll have to come up with another plan.”
“You’re well known on every continent but Antarctica. The press will spot you almost anywhere you travel, especially if you take a security detail. They seem to have eyes and ears at every airport. I…” Candia huffed. “I need to think about this.”
“I’ll give it some brain power too, come up with a few ideas.” Though he had no idea what to suggest, Jesse did know that what he’d done in the past—disappearing into the bottom of a bottle with some recreational blow and a woman under each arm—wouldn’t do a damn thing to clean up his image.
“Ideas?” She sounded as if that horrified her. “You? No.”
“I’m a grown-ass man. And I’ve learned a few things over the years.” He lowered his sunglasses and stared at her over the rims. “Go. You handle the press. I know how to disappear.”
When the driver opened the limo door, Candia grabbed her bag and turned to him. “You sure? Can I really trust you not to fuck this up?”
“Yeah. I understand how much is on the line. Call me when the coast is clear.”
Chapter Two
Tyler, Texas
* * *
Jesse wiped his palms down the front of his jeans, then rang the doorbell. Hell, he didn’t even know if Kimber Edgington, now Trenton, was home. And that scary bastard she’d married—had it really been almost five years ago?—wouldn’t be thrilled to see his wife’s ex-fiancé, especially this late at night. If he was lucky, Deke Trenton would slam the door in his face. More likely, the big operative would try to beat the shit out of him.
After a gut-tightening moment, the porch light flipped on and the door swept open.
