“What are you doing?”
Reagan stepped out of her hotel bathroom with a short towel wrapped around her naked body. Even though we’d been sleeping together since New York City, still seeing her in nothing but a towel stopped me dead in my tracks. She made wringing out the excess moisture in her hair sexy.
“Writing,” I answered, tapping the pen against the journal.
She hopped on her spot in the bed and pulled my face closer to hers so she could kiss down the column of my neck. I tilted my head backward for a second as she sucked on a good spot, sending goose bumps down my whole body. I guess my answer to her question really excited her.
Yup, this had been my life for the past few weeks. Lots of cuddles. Lots of kisses. Lots of sex. It was a beautiful thing.
“A song?” She pulled her face away. “A new song? Can I take a look?”
“No.”
“Why?”
I laughed at my reply that contorted her face into a frown. “Because you’re successful, and I literally just wrote it. It’s probably still garbage right now.”
“Doubt it.” She held her palm out for the journal, and I slammed it closed so she couldn’t see it. Just because we were sleeping together didn’t grant her access to my sacred journal, especially since she had all the hit songs in the music industry, fresh from winning three Grammys, and had the biggest tour of the year. “Please let me read it. I promise to be nice.”
“No. It may or may not be about you.”
Her eyes rounded. “Well, now I have to read it.”
I groaned because I knew her insight would actually be beneficial, but my gut told me not to show her. This was practically my heart we were talking about.
And then I had an idea. My eyes widened thinking about it before I said it out loud.
“I have a crazy idea,” I said.
“Crazier than sneaking into a pool after hours?”
“Psh. Please. That’s nothing. This is way crazier.”
“What is it?”
“What are your thoughts on collaborating? On our album we’re recording—”
She grabbed a hold of my hands. “I would love to collaborate.”
“Really?”
“Can I tell you a secret?”
“Of course.”
“I’ve been wanting to write with you for the longest time. Ever since I heard the songs you wrote with the Radicals. And then that song you wrote with Isaac Ball really got to me. You know I’m putting my money on it that you’ll be nominated for a Grammy?”
“Okay, you win. That’s the craziest idea.”
“I’m serious, Blair! That song is amazing. You know how often I hear it on the radio?”
It had to have been the greatest compliment of my career. “Well, geez, you should have told me that you wanted to collaborate.”
“I was waiting for the right time!”
“Naked under the towel really is the perfect time.”
“So, you wanna write a song?”
“A thousand times yes.”
“Now, does that mean I can see this journal of yours?”
“You only get to look at the page I show you. But just, like, be nice when you read it, okay? I literally whipped it up so it’s not all finished—”
She sat upright in her spot and snatched the leather notebook off my lap. I sank farther into the bed, wanting to bury my face underneath the duvet as she whipped opened the notebook to the last page of song lyrics. Since the spine had worn in its place, it easily fell open to the page I recently worked on.
She read it silently, and all I could do was watch her eyebrows slowly scale her forehead after she read each line.
Then, with a click of her pen, she hovered the tip over a word, and then eyed me. “Can I make a light suggestion?” she asked.
“Um, go for it.”
Without scratching out my word, she wrote in tiny handwriting her suggestion and did this a few times throughout the eight verses.
“Okay, so I know there are tons of verses, but it was just brainstorming, and obviously, I’ll delete some,” I said.
She smirked and then kissed my cheek. “I love how insecure you’re being. For literally no reason because this song is sexy as hell.”
“Is it?”
She nodded. “I think this should be the song we collab on. If you’re down.”
I was stunned. Reagan Moore branded herself as this PG—once in a blue moon PG-13 with a mention of “damn” in her songs—pop singer who would occasionally have a hit song here and there about lust but disguised enough to make the teenagers think that she was singing about just wanting to kiss someone. Now, she was verbally signing herself up for a song that was clearly about sex.
I kind of loved it, and man, would her older fans love it too.
“Now, let me read the rest,” she said as she turned back a few pages.
I slammed my hand over hers. “Don’t. I said you get one page.”
She laughed. “Blair, I’m sure they’re all great. You write songs for all the big names. You have nothing to hide.”
“Those are lyrics about their life. These are lyrics about mine. I don’t even share the whole journal with Miles. He gets one page too.”
“How about this,” she suggested while closing the book over the hotel pen. “I’ll forget about the journal for now only if we have sex, you know, for research, and then play around with this tomorrow on our way to Boston?”
“I’m all for being studious.”
She simpered and then jumped on top of me. I quickly loosened the towel around her and got rid of it like the nuisance it was.
* * *
Boston was the last American stop of the summer. Then Reagan was off to tour Europe for the next month with a British boy band, the Radicals. I cowrote their first album with them three years back. They were huge across the pond, so I had no idea how two big names would combine over there, but those fans were in for a real treat.
Reagan’s camp was already thinking ahead for the next world tour, and the goal was a stadium summer tour. So, to test out a stadium show, our tour stopped in Foxborough to perform at Gillette Stadium with a whopping one hundred and ten thousand people packed into the home of the New England Patriots.
We were all nervous. Stomachaches paining us all day. I had to take a Xanax the night before because I was already on edge. And then in our green room at the stadium, Reagan made a surprise appearance, giving us this terrified expression and asking for a shot of tequila.
Yes, Reagan Moore asked us for a shot before a show.
We’d already taken our two shots, but for a show that was ten times the size of what we were used to on this tour, a third shot was justified, especially when Reagan asked for one.
“You do realize you’re going to kill it out there, right?” I said when I handed her a shot glass of Patrón.
“I mean, it’s probably no different from the other shows,” she said and then looked down at her shot. “Okay, let’s cheers.” The three of us huddled in a circle, holding the shots out together. “To our first sold-out stadium show,” Reagan said.
“With a hundred and ten thousand people,” Miles reminded us.
“At least there will be fireworks,” I added.
We clinked, pounded back the shots, and I made sure I enjoyed the sight that was Reagan Moore tossing back that tequila as if it was no big deal, as if this wasn’t her first rodeo. I was dying to see her pound back shots of tequila like that more often. It was hot, not going to lie.
All throughout the stadium, over a hundred thousand lights sparkled from the lit-up bracelets each person got upon entering the stadium. It looked as if all the stars in the universe sat in the seats, twinkling in blues, purples, and greens. It was easy to forget how many people were actually in front of us each show. When the lights went out, they became one massive entity. But when you stuck a glowing bracelet on them, you actually saw every individual person in that speck of color. They engulfed us. The whole time we performed, the goose bumps wouldn’t go away because the fans were so loud and filled with energy, I couldn’t stop smiling.
They were even louder when Reagan called us back on so we could perform our cover together. For Gillette Stadium, we decided to do “Dream On” by Aerosmith. Reagan and I had the harmonies down, my Fender wailing out the electric vibrations, Miles getting lost in the clashing of the cymbals, and for an added effect—because we had to take advantage of being outside—the flamethrowers ejected bursts of giant orange flames when the climax came around, jolting out every time Miles pounded on the bass drum and cymbals. The crowd was ecstatic. They gave us the loudest and strongest concert sonic booms of our lives. Hearing over one hundred thousand people roaring for us, it totally redefined the concert sonic boom. That was a sound I could keep listening to on repeat for hours and never get tired of it.
With the fire illuminating the stadium, I scanned the enormous crowd, seeing specks of people all around me, above me, extending out in front of me. I couldn’t believe this was happening. Miles and I went from performing in our high school talent show to smoky bars filled with people not even listening to us to our little shows of two thousand people and now to performing alongside Reagan Moore, flamethrowers projecting balls of fire up in the air to one hundred and ten thousand people in a sold-out American football stadium.
It had to be the coolest night of my life.
* * *
To enjoy the end of the summer and to record the new song the two of us wrote, Reagan invited both Miles and me down to her summer home in Gaslight Shores, South Carolina, a resort town right on the Atlantic Ocean. I might not have been an expert when it came to celebrities, but I was aware of Reagan Moore’s Labor Day parties, which were thrown at this very summer house. The gossip media loved to cover her four-day-long rager with her closest celebrity friends, and I was all ready to witness it and pound back more tequila shots like in Foxborough.
Before her ten other A-list friends filled up the mansion for the last weekend of summer, it was just the three of us in her monstrous oceanfront house with its own saltwater pool as long as the outdoor patio; about an acre of freshly cut, bright green grass as her backyard; and to add to the pristine scene, she had a studio in her house. Her very own recording studio. You know, every musician’s dream.
And it was unbelievable.
In the control room, she had a vocal booth, two Mac computers, audio interfaces, studio microphones in the vocal booth, MIDI controllers, and synthesizers, and a massive digital workstation that you would find at an actual recording studio took up most of the length of the wall. She had the works. Miles and I had to stop ourselves from crying about how beautiful her studio was at least seven times.
“This is where I wrote and produced my third album,” she said as the two of us practically drooled all over the workstation, cupping our hands to view the dark vocal booth through the glass door.
She was twenty-three and wrote and produced her third album all by herself. The third album that had a sold-out world tour that we got to open the American leg for. Now she wanted to produce a song she cowrote with me. The song wasn’t even made yet, and I knew with Reagan’s talent and name, it’d be a hit.
We recorded the whole song from start to finish in those two days before all her celebrity friends joined us. Our song, “Patience, Love,” sounded amazing, and the best part, we each had our moment to shine. Reagan and I cowrote the lyrics, all three of us added some of our own flair to the melody, I played all the instruments on the track—with the exception of the drums because Miles was way better than me—and even though we each had a say in the producing, Reagan and Miles took the lead on polishing the song. Layered vocals that flitted between our alto voices in the verse and our falsettos in the chorus. Pulsating beats from the bass I played and Miles’s bass drum brightened by warm synths that added another sound of subtle flirting.
I couldn’t wait to play it to the label when we got back to LA.
After those two work days, Miles flew back to LA to send his sister off to her first day of high school at our alma mater. I told him he was going to miss a hell of a weekend of drinking and beach, but I guess he was being a good brother to his one and only sibling. It was up to me to handle a whole weekend with Reagan and all of her gorgeous friends I’d recognized from all over the internet and award shows. They arrived at the mansion with their designer suitcases, glasses perched on the top of their heads, and beauty after beauty filling up the four walls of the house. From models to actresses to heiresses to singers, Reagan’s crew touched every industry in Hollywood, and they wasted no time throwing on their bathing suits, grabbing a margarita from the kitchen, and sprinting outside to the backyard where the pool was warmed up and ready for them to jump in with a backdrop of rentable inflatable slides and a bounce house in the grass.
A part of me worried that this Labor Day weekend in Gaslight Shores would mean that Reagan and I had to pretend that nothing happened or was happening between us. That she would spend more time with the friends she didn’t see on a regular basis than me, but that wasn’t the case at all. I felt as if the only time Reagan left my side was when we went to the bathroom. We always sat by each other in the group—she even sat on my lap a couple of times, not giving a care in the world about the glances and suspicious smirks her friends subtly made. She was extra handsy with me when we did the inflatable slide races, tackling me to the floor of the slide, completely hidden behind inflatable walls. She crawled on top of me, and in our little secluded world, we made out for a few minutes until the slide started moving from her friends staggering up the stairs.
Honestly, it felt like she was my girlfriend, and I was shocked that it didn’t scare me as much as I thought it would. It was…exciting. It drew me closer to her every moment we shared.
The second night, by popular demand, I whipped up a homemade dessert for everyone since Reagan kept begging me to do so. Nothing too extravagant, though, since I actually wanted to be a part of the party. A simple strawberry cheesecake to impress the party, and I made another batch of mango margaritas that we’d all been drinking like smoothies throughout the day.
While making the cheesecake, I noticed her friends circled around her in the pool, occasionally tossing glances at the large kitchen windows overlooking the pool and backyard. I only assumed they were grilling her with questions about me. I didn’t mind, though. Imagining and hoping that she told them that she actually had feelings for me added more warmth to my already sunburned skin.
Then Reagan’s best friend, Bristol Perri, came strutting in, wearing an extra-large T-shirt that soaked up the remnants of pool from her bathing suit. She was an A-list actress who’d won an Oscar three years before when she was only twenty-four. She was a beautiful—shocker, I know—familiar face on all the fashion magazines, and what the entertainment media called “The Next Meryl Streep Under Thirty.”
“Blair,” she said and leaned over the granite kitchen island as I poured the tequila into the blender.
“Bristol,” I said suspiciously. From her relaxed eyes and flushed cheeks, I sensed she was feeling pretty good on margaritas, much like the rest of the party. We all started drinking at eleven, and it was now three p.m., so all of us were feeling it. Myself included. Besides saying a few words to each other in a larger conversation with the group, we hadn’t spoken one-on-one yet, and her devious tone warned me she was about to yank some info out of me.
“A little birdie told me you’re sleeping with the host.”
My smooth self flinched at the sudden confrontation, and about a shot’s worth of perfectly good Patrón spilled on the counter. This was The Next Meryl Streep Under Thirty we were talking about, so she was doing a really good job pretending to be the lead interrogator at the Gaslight Shores Police Station, all hidden within that famous smile that graced the silver screen.
She drunk-cackled. “So, that spill confirms the rumors?”
“Was the little birdie the host?”
“Maybe.”
“My lips are sealed.”
She pointed a ruby-red painted nail at me. “You passed the test. Just so you know—as Reagan’s best friend—I gotta protect her from dirtbags because the last few people she dated were narcissistic dirtbags.” Her words slurred a little bit, and I tried hiding my laughter that she was drunk-grilling me about my intentions.
“I’ve heard,” I replied and poured her the freshly made cocktail, hoping that by giving her the first taste of the new batch, maybe I’d win a couple of extra points with her. “But Reagan and I aren’t dating.”
She accepted and took a sip. “But then why are you here? Staying in her bed? Getting handsy all fucking day long?”
“Hey, I was fully prepared to pretend like nothing’s going on, but little did I know, she likes the PDA.”
“And she usually doesn’t, for the record. But she’s been all over you. We’ve all been talking about it.”
I raised an eyebrow. “We?”
“Yeah. All of us. She’s out there telling us everything about you guys. It seriously took you that long to kiss her?”
I rolled my eyes, poured myself a shot, and tossed it back. Bristol tilted her head back in laughter and followed my lead in drinking more of her margarita.
“What else did this little birdie tell you?” I asked.
“That she likes you but you don’t want a relationship.”
Why did I wipe up that tequila when I could have easily taken the shot from the counter? Because with that new information Bristol Perri spoon-fed me, I needed another shot of Patrón right about now. This was uncharted territory we just discovered. She actually liked me? She wanted a relationship? God, I thought we were only sleeping together. Where did all of this come from?
“I just got out of—but she doesn’t—she doesn’t want one either,” I said defensively because I had no idea where else to start with this load of knowledge. “There was a whole Vogue feature about it.”
“She likes you, Blair. I asked her the lowdown last night while you and Annie were on the unicorn pool inflatable. I asked her what was up with you guys, and she told me that you two were sleeping together but she thinks she actually likes you more than that. But you just got out of a relationship and made it clear this was only sex.”
“She’s never told me any of this.”
“Yeah, because she’s an actual child when it comes to her feelings. Like, she won’t do anything about it.”
“So I’ve noticed.”
“Just a heads-up, don’t expect her to tell you how she feels, especially after her last three relationships. She put herself out there, and they treated her like crap. She legit told me after Jessie dumped her that she wasn’t going to seek out anyone again. She was tired of it. I can’t really blame her.”
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with all of this info.”
“Easy. If you really like her, you need to tell her because she won’t tell you; as much as I lecture her about how immature she’s being, that’s where she is right now. Refusing to put her feelings out there. So, if you’re just in it to hook up, please don’t fuck with her.” She said it as if her best friend’s love life drained her energy. “It might seem casual to her, but I got different vibes.”
I couldn’t tell if Bristol Perri was trying to fish out information to give back to Reagan or if she genuinely wanted to take the initiative to protect her friend’s heart. For most of the night Reagan sat next to me. At one point, her legs were on my lap, arm locked around mine, and anytime the two of us snuck away to make out in various spots of her property, whether it was in the kitchen, her bedroom, or the inflatable slide, Bristol Perri’s dark eyes focused on me as if telepathically trying to tell me she would cut me if I hurt her friend.
I had no idea what we were doing. Bristol probably needed more clarification from Reagan on exactly what we were doing because Reagan didn’t really give me any indication we were anything more than just sex on tour…even though I could feel my chest tighten anytime she walked into a room, or I caught her stare, or someone brought up her name.
All signs I was getting feelings.
I guess our feelings were mutual.
Fuck.
* * *
Sunday morning, before the whole house woke up, Reagan shook me awake so I could join her on a bike ride around the empty boardwalk during sunrise. And as much as I wasn’t a morning person and loved sleeping in until eleven, I couldn’t pass up a bike ride through a sleepy Gaslight Shores with her. I hadn’t ridden a bike since my Nashville days when I had the space of empty country roads. It’d been eleven years, and to say I lost my balance on two wheels was an understatement. As I tried to get my bike groove back, Reagan circled me, trying to steady her balance as each laugh jerked her handlebars. She offered to give me a helmet and kneepads, but I refused because a twenty-four-year-old woman shouldn’t be acting like she discovered a bike for the first time. When I finally got the hang of the bike, we pedaled into town, zigzagging through the desolate streets lined with small beach town shops, and journeyed over to the quiet beach. We tossed our bikes into the sand, and Reagan wasted no time frolicking down to the tide. I trailed behind her, noticing that it was so hard to force the smile back in.
“I love coming out here during the sunrise,” Reagan said as she took a seat in the cold sand, collecting a handful of it and letting it fall through her fingers. “It’s like the one time I feel safe to come out in public because the town is still sleeping. Every now and again, I see runners or bikers, but it’s just for a split second. I’m practically a stranger in a split second.”
Her head rested on my shoulder, and the two of us gazed up as the pinks, oranges, and yellows of the sunrise brightened the sky into a light shade of blue.
“The fans every night are pretty great, but so is this,” I said. “Right now. Empty beach. Beautiful sunrise. And you.”
She lifted her head from my shoulder and assessed me as if a revelation sprouted in her mind. “Thanks for putting up with all my friends this weekend,” she said and kissed my shoulder before looping an arm around mine. “You’ve been quite the trouper. I know we’re a lot.”
“It’s been a lot of fun. Lots of margaritas. You’re kinda adorable when you’re drunk.”
“It doesn’t take much. I only let myself loose every now and again, and this weekend is the weekend. I’d figure you’d enjoy that part.”
“Oh, I have. Don’t you worry about that.”
She let out a long sigh. “I can’t believe summer is over. I can’t believe I’m going to be in Europe for a whole month. Without you.” She faltered for a moment and positioned her chin to rest on my shoulder. “Is it weird to say that I’m gonna kinda miss you?”
My mind transported me back to her kitchen the day before with Bristol Perri. If it weren’t for her insider knowledge, if Reagan still told me that she would miss me, my stupid brain wouldn’t have picked up on the giant clue right in front of my face that she actually had feelings for me. But because I did have that information, it was a clue to me that we shared the exact same feelings. As the weekend flew by, I could feel a dull tug in my chest getting stronger the closer Monday came.
“Why would that be weird?” I said.
She shrugged. “I don’t know.”
I held my breath, waiting for her to follow up with a statement as to where we stood. An explanation for what we were. I didn’t even know what I wanted us to be. After finishing up a few things back in LA for a week, she was going to spend three weeks in Nashville to be with her family before touring Europe for a month. Was I allowed to see other women? Were we going to keep in contact during those six weeks? Was she going to find someone else to fill my void in her tour bus?
“I’ll miss you too, if that makes you feel any better,” I said with a nudge. “But only a little.”
“Yeah, same. Just a little. Nothing too significant.”
And we laughed, and then zigzagged back to her house to say good-bye to all of her friends who would leave that day to fly to different parts of the world. When we finally had the house to ourselves for one more night, we had a cookout on her patio. I grilled up some burgers; she made the side dishes. I made the margaritas. She drank all of them, and seeing her buzzed was hilarious because she became extra quirky and talkative and spoke even faster than she did when she was nervous. We floated in the pool illuminated by lights when dusk fell, looking up at the sky to find stars popping through the darkness—stars that I’d forgotten even existed since my Nashville days when I could actually see a shooting star in the dark, suburban skies. And then, we started kissing in the pool and then peeled each other’s bathing suits off so we could fully bask in the wonderful touch of our nakedness one last time before we resumed the rest of our North American shows in February.
I was definitely going to miss her. More than for it to be an insignificant hiccup.
The next morning, we woke up bright and early to take Reagan’s private jet back to LA.
Yes, the girl I was sleeping with had a private jet.
A jet with beige leather seats; a long, beige leather couch; and a bathroom that could actually fit two whole people in it, unlike commercial planes. Maybe if we got bored, we would join the mile-high club? That was something that would be fun to cross off my bucket list.
As I rested my head on her lap, she leaned back on the couch to answer work emails, and I checked my phone only to find that Miles blew up my screen with three simultaneous text messages. Each text was a different article from a trustworthy entertainment news source.
Reagan Moore Gets Handsy with a Lady Friend This Labor Day Weekend.
Reagan Moore Spends the Long Weekend with a Mystery Girl. Who is She and What You Need to Know About Her.
Is Reagan Moore Dating Midnight Konfusion’s Lead Singer Blair Bennett?
“Um, Reagan?”
“Hmm?” she said, eyes still on her phone as she typed.
I shoved my phone screen in her face. “What the hell should we do?”
She took my phone for a better view of the articles. But instead of the reaction I was thinking would play out in front of me, like chucking her phone into my lap, hyperventilating, and calling the pilot for an emergency landing, instead, she rolled her eyes and handed me my phone.
“For starters, you should stop reading the internet,” she said. “It’s really bad for your mental health.”
I was confused. That was her first thought about drones invading her privacy? Hovering over her fenced-in backyard? Did she remember that we had sex in her pool the night before? Did the drones record that?
“You do realize your stalkers this whole weekend were drones, right?” I said as I sat up since this conversation couldn’t have been done with my head in her lap. “That this whole conversation about you liking women has started?”
“They’ve been questioning my sexuality from the beginning. I’ve said in interviews before that I’m attracted to the person, not the gender. I’m not really worried about that at all. And you seriously didn’t see the drones flying around?”
“You did?”
“Blair, they were flying around the tree line, hiding right in there. It’s why Bristol was shooting off fireworks during the day. It wasn’t for patriotism.”
“But they have photo evidence of this whole weekend.”
“Bristol was on my lap, too. They’ll probably say I’m dating both of you. Hey, go me.” She patted herself on the shoulder.
“What about the things you said about Zeke and Jessie? You worried about it then.”
“I was in relationships with them, and the media storm was a million times worse than a pesky drone and a few articles online. Paparazzi were stalking me around every turn. I had rumors about marriage and cheating and pregnancy one month into dating Zeke, and I was nineteen years old.”
“You don’t think drones flying around your house isn’t stalking?”
“I mean, that’s kind of bad, but I’m used to it here. It’s why I’m asking for a pellet gun for Christmas.” She laughed at her own joke.
“So, you’re not taking this invasion of privacy seriously because we’re not together?”
“Pretty much. There’s less to lose.”
A dull heat found its way to my stomach. I don’t know why the comment bothered me so much, but it did. There was less to lose because everything Bristol Perri told me was apparently for intimidation purposes and not at all the truth. All the cuddling, sex, lap sits, secret kisses in inflatables, and arms locked while watching the sunrise didn’t mean anything. It was just sex. Nothing more than sex in her pool, and I was an idiot for having this hope that it actually did mean something more.
“Yeah, you’re right,” I said, hearing the own disappointment in my voice. “Two completely different things.”
Reagan creased her eyebrows. “Yeah…my point exactly.”
“Okay, cool. Glad we’re all clear now.” I lay on my other side, using my own arm as a pillow instead of her lap.
“Blair, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Just tired and want to take a nap.”
“Do you want a blanket?”
“I don’t care.”
She fanned out the red, green, and yellow plaid blanket she got from the linen closet next to the bathroom and placed it delicately on me, tucking me into my nap.
“You sure you’re okay?”
“Totally fine.”
She paused. “Can I nap with you?”
“If you want.”
“Okay…” I could tell with the uncertainty in her voice and the drawn-out pauses at the end of her comments that she knew that I was upset. “Can I big spoon you?”
“Sure.”
My heart betrayed me and fluttered when I felt the warmth of her whole body pressing up against my back and her arm sliding over my side. I was so terrified that I let her beauty and the thrill of chasing her turn into actual feelings. But then I told myself this cuddle wasn’t anything worthy of protection. The drones could film us all they wanted; it was as meaningless as if she spooned Bristol Perri.
If she had nothing to lose with me, why did it feel as if I had a lot to lose with her?