“You’re gonna have to take off your wedding ring, Ace.”
I look at Vince like he’s grown an extra head.
“The reporters are gonna be here soon for the interview,” he reminds me. “Promotion is part of the job, remember? And with promotion comes a shit ton of cameras.” Vince’s eyes return to my wedding ring.
I sigh as I look at the unassuming metal band around my finger.
Crazy how this tiny thing can affect so much.
I slip it off and tuck it away into my pocket.
So then why does it feel so wrong?
Vince rubs his hands together, clearly pleased. He walks behind me and places his hands on my shoulders, pushing me out into the hallway.
“Wardrobe is waiting for you big guy,” he says. “You’ve gotta be looking good for all of our loyal fans.”
“The horny single ladies, you mean,” I say.
“That’s what I said.”
I let myself be pushed along so that I can be styled into the sex-god image that the world expects to see.
“Thanks for having me,” I say, the cookie-cutter reply armed and ready.
The reporter sits across from me, her long, shapely legs crossed in front of her. I’m sure she introduced herself before the cameras started rolling, but I can’t for the life of me remember her name.
The room is packed with lights, and the wire of the mic they hooked me up to is chafing my skin.
I nod along, the picture of attentiveness and interest.
I can feel Vince’s gaze from the corner of the room. I guess he’s here to make sure I don’t slip up.
The reporter smiles and nods.
“Well, being part of Vagabond, I’m sure there’s a lot more good than bad.” She laughs.
I laugh right along with her.
“You’d be surprised.” I shoot the camera a wink for good measure.
Vince nods, satisfied.
“What kind of bad things could the lead guitarist of Vagabond have?” she wonders. “Too many women clamoring for your attention, maybe?”
I try to laugh the question off.
“Nah, nothing like that.”
But the reporter won’t let me off that easily. She leans in, sensing something there. These damned media people can smell a story like a shark can smell blood in the water.
“Or maybe you’ve found that special someone?” she wonders. “You’ve been a hard man to find, Ace. Rumor has it that you’ve settled down.”
Out of the corner of my eye I see Vince tug at his collar.
Hell, I’m feeling it too. Were these lights always this hot?
“Spill, Ace. Do you have a Mrs. Flanagan tucked away?”
Sophie reaches out toward the TV as she squeals with delight.
“Yup, that’s Daddy,” I coo.
I kiss the top of her head as she grasps at the air, her chubby little arms swinging around.
“I miss him too, baby.”
I lean back into the couch, surveying the disaster zone around me.
It looks like a battlefield in here—pillows and blankets scattered about, abused toys and stuffed animals piled in heaps around the room.
I’ll have to clean it all up once Sophie finally falls asleep.
But for now I’m content to watch Ace’s interview, my daughter in my arms.
The reporter who’s interviewing Ace is beautiful. She laughs and banters with my husband, and I think that she’s laying it on pretty thick.
Do they have to place their chairs that close to each other?
Sophie, evidently sick of her pacifier, decides to pop it out of her mouth and toss it onto the carpet.
“Sophie,” I admonish her.
She giggles brightly as I bend down to pick it up. I’m about to get up and give it a rinse in the sink when something the reporter says catches my ear.
“Spill, Ace. Do you have a Mrs. Flanagan tucked away?”
I look at the screen as the reporter leans forward, the generous V-neck of her dress showing off an eyeful of cleavage.
Ace stays cool and composed.
“Come on,” he grins devilishly at the reporter. “Do you really think one girl could hold me down?”
My eyes narrow.
The reporter leans back. Her smouldering gaze could cook up an entire steakhouse.
“So you’re saying that single fans like me might have a chance?”
This time it’s Ace’s turn to lean in.
“Ask me again when the cameras are off,” he growls.
I turn off the TV when they cut to the reporter blushing.
Sophie cries out in protest.
“Sorry, baby, but this isn’t kid-friendly programming.”
I try to push down the irrational surge of anger and jealousy that rises inside of me.
I sigh, annoyed at myself. Ace is my husband and the father of my child. I need to lift my chin up and stop being so insecure all the time.
I place Sophie down on the couch and march over to the kitchen.
I have a pacifier to clean.
The hours roll by at the studio as each of my bandmates go through their interviews.
Being last is always the worst.
I have to wait around until everyone is finished. By the time I’m getting mic’d up and the lights are set, everyone else is already done with their day and chilling at home.
But we drew straws, and I got the shortest one.
It’s only fair.
The reporter in front of me rattles off a few questions, and I answer all of them completely on autopilot.
Usually I actually kind of enjoy these interviews. I see it as a chance for people to get to know me off the stage.
But today my mind is somewhere else.
I can’t stop thinking about Willow.
Who is she?
What caused those bruises I saw on her neck?
“Grady?”
I blink, focusing on the interviewer in front of me.
“Huh? Sorry I spaced out for a second there.”
“Can’t wait to get back to the studio, right?” the interviewer laughs, covering for me.
I nod, smiling the awkwardness away.
“Album isn’t gonna finish itself,” I say.
The interview continues, but my mind keeps wandering back to Willow.
I splash some water on my face in an attempt to erase the smell of burgers and fries that seems to be stuck on my skin.
It’s been a few weeks since I moved to Newland Beach.
The people at the shelter had been kind to me, and they’d been able to pick me up when I was down.
Thanks to them I’d gotten the strength to will myself into finding a job and an apartment. It was only luck that I’d found one so quickly—and that my roommate also happened to be one of my new coworkers.
I glance at the clock. Carrie’s probably coming back from her shift now.
I wash my face and look at myself in the mirror.
The woman staring back at me looks like a stranger. She still has my green eyes, but the brown hair is going to take some getting used to.
The hair color isn’t even the most shocking difference, though.
It’s her skin. It’s clear. Unblemished.
Free of bruises.
Tears spring to my eyes but I wipe them away angrily.
I decided when I left I’d never cry again.
God knows I’ve done enough of that.
I’m finally taking control of my own life. I won’t let thoughts of him—
My phone buzzes, and I break out into a cold sweat.
I take a deep breath and glance at my phone…
…And instantly drop it.
It’s from an unknown number, but I know it’s him.
My phone lands faceup, and a text message shines up at me. More messages come as I stare at the screen. A silent threat.
