Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 62972 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 315(@200wpm)___ 252(@250wpm)___ 210(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 62972 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 315(@200wpm)___ 252(@250wpm)___ 210(@300wpm)
Maybe that’s why I say, “I’m listening.”
BRON
Rafe and I stand at Conal’s back as he pounds on Alan’s door. We ditched our security guys, which may have been a mistake. I hope Rafe and I can keep Conal from doing too much damage, which is going to be tricky when I’m ready to choose violence myself.
Alan opens the door, and Conal bursts in. We follow him and I shut the door behind us.
We’ve never been to Alan’s place before. It’s full of Black Pythons memorabilia: posters on the walls, collectibles on the tables and shelves. It’s like a shrine to the band. Kind of weird, but I guess it makes sense, since we’re his only clients and we’ve made him a wealthy man.
Conal doesn’t bother with small talk. He grabs Alan’s shirt front and slams him up against a wall. “You son of a bitch,” he snarls.
“What’s going on?” Alan’s trying to play it cool, but his eyes are a little too wide for that. He’s scared. He should be.
“You staged the whole thing.”
Alan frowns in apparent confusion. If I didn’t know better, I’d find him convincing, but we’re here after verifying the facts. “What are you talking about?” he asks.
“Celeste,” Rafe says, and there’s an undertone to his voice that I’ve never heard before. “She wasn’t trying to sell stories to the press. She didn’t leave me for a Hollywood producer. You made it all up. She was just a sweet girl, and you used her.”
He shakes his head frantically. “No, I—”
“Don’t lie to us!” Conal yells. He gives the man an extra wall slam for emphasis.
“Okay!” Alan holds his hands up. “Okay. But it was for your own good.”
“Fuck that,” I say. “You don’t get to decide what’s good for us.”
“Guys.” He tries to sound reasonable. “You have a rabidly devoted female fan base. You’re their ultimate fantasy, but that all goes away if you’re not single.”
“Bullshit.” Conal presses even closer and Alan shrinks back, trying to make himself one with the wall. “They can still fantasize all they want. And even if it did cost us fans, it wouldn’t matter. Because you. Don’t. Control. Our private lives.”
Alan can see he’s fucked, so he tries to make a last-ditch effort. “Hazel—”
All three of us growl simultaneously. Alan isn't responsible for what happened with Hazel, and maybe he's taking the brunt of our current frustration, but he did fuck with us—and with Celeste—and it's not going to happen again.
“Don’t even think about trying to smear Hazel.” Conal releases him and steps back. “And you’re fired.”
“I have a contract,” Alan says, which is pretty ballsy of him under the circumstances.
“You’ve probably breached it in a dozen different ways,” I say. “Our lawyers will be in touch. If you’re lucky, we won’t sue you.”
With that, we walk out. I give us a mental pat on the back. We were very well behaved, all in all, given what Alan deserved.
HAZEL
This has been the worst week of my life. I alternate between beating myself up for being so naive and gullible, and crying my eyes out because I still love my husbands.
Mom and Ember have both talked to me again, and mainly encouraged me to give myself time. Neither one of them has condemned the men or said how awful they are, which seems significant to me. When I asked them straight out what they saw when we visited them, they both say that the men seemed to respect me and genuinely care for me.
It reminds me of what Conal said, that there was something real between us right from the start. Mom and Ember also said, however, that only I can decide what to do, and that they’ll support me whatever I choose.
Bliss texts me regularly—not about the men, but funny videos, cute animals, and anything else she thinks might cheer me up. It helps, a little, but the mood boosts don’t last long.
Despite my fatigue, I can’t sleep. I’m trying to force myself to read a book when Ember calls. “You need to go to the band’s channel,” she says.
“Why?”
“They’re debuting a new song, live. I think you should listen.”
Has Ember been talking to them behind my back? But I’m too curious to grill her about it. I end the call and pull up the Black Pythons page.
Sure enough, there they are in the studio, just the three of them. Conal and Rafe are sitting in chairs with acoustic guitars, and Bron is behind them with his drum kit. My heart pounds to see them, and I want to cry, but I force the tears back and focus.
“We’ve got a new song for you,” Conal says. “The most important song we’ve ever written.”
They start playing then, and it’s slow and sweet, the chords gentle, inviting. My heart is full even before they start to sing.