TIME to go.
Remy’s fingers were numb. Nothing was wrong with him, not physically; all the doctors agreed. But he was a fucking wreck. Ever since that night in Athens over four months ago, Remy had tried to ignore it. The racing heart, the loss of feeling in his fingers, and the constant churning dread. Anxiety. That was what the doctors decided. Stress-induced anxiety. Tell that to his fucking lungs that constricted with every breath. And the shrinks didn’t help. Remy needed to get ahead of it all, somehow. Just get ahead of it, calm the fuck down, get it together. Then he’d pick up where he was before.
He studied his home while he waited for the limo. It was on a sizable property, a true McMansion on the shores of Malibu, where he owned three acres of prime beachfront. The property boasted an infinity pool, tennis court, and garage full of vintage cars. It had seven bedrooms, each with a private bathroom, and a game room that had pool tables, pinball, and a giant theater area. Being too busy staying at the top of the charts, Remy had never spent more than a handful of days inside it—until now.
He’d bought the mansion sight unseen, signing the papers on a whim, a fantasy of being barefoot on the beach. In reality, onstage he wore boots that pinched his toes, and he couldn’t recall the last time he actually swam in the ocean. Most of his free time had been spent amid the mansions of Los Angeles, where the young and beautiful sipped martinis around immaculate pools, comparing selfies and counting calories while ignoring the sea only steps away. And everyone there wanted to fuck him because he was a star.
Didn’t matter. None of it did. Not the gossiping parties with spray-tanned models eager to screw him, not the grueling hours, the bad road food, jealous bandmates, and social media crap. None of that mattered if he had his music; he could take anything. He used to be able to jam all night. Hell, the songs used to pour out of him. Too bad the music was betraying him. He was frozen, so fucking dead inside.
What if the music never returns?
Remy ignored the cold sweat on his back. His fans thought he tossed songs together in mere hours. If they had any idea how Remy agonized over every chord he wrote, how he struggled to find the right vibe for his stage appearances, how every post was checked first…. While he always loved being on stage, Remy hated the hours before a show. He needed it to be perfect. And now? Perfection was a joke.
A plaintive meow interrupted his thoughts.
Oscar wasn’t used to cages. Remy had always let his cat roam free on the tour bus. But Buddy had arranged a private jet. Since Remy didn’t know whose jet he was borrowing, he thought it rude to let Oscar leave his fur all over the seats.
The limo pulled up to his large circular driveway. Frank, his driver, nodded to him as he loaded Remy’s belongings into the trunk. Remy gave a stiff nod back. How much did Frank know? Did Buddy tell him where they were going? The Coke that Remy drank for breakfast churned in his stomach, and he slid his sunglasses on.
“Isn’t it a fabulous day, Frank? Love this weather, even if it’s a little hot.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you have such an amazing tan. What sunscreen do you use? I live for my sunscreen information. Gotta take care of the skin, right?” Remy laughed nervously. “Moisturizers and sunscreens.” His stomach took another low dip.
“I suppose so, sir.” Frank might be tanned, but his comb-over and crooked front tooth indicated that beauty products might not be in his morning routine.
Frank opened the door, and Remy, feeling foolish, scurried inside, away from the relentless LA sun and into the welcome frigid air of the limo. Sunscreen? Why was he babbling to his driver about sunscreen?
“So? What now?” Remy asked Buddy in greeting. He plopped into an oversized seat and put his feet on the one in front of him. Did his slacker pose appear convincing? Hopefully, he could fake it with Buddy better than he’d done with Frank. “Has the press gotten a hint I’m leaving town?”
Remy didn’t even know his destination, but he trusted Buddy because Buddy had been with him since he was a stupid kid.
And now you’re a stupid adult.
Remy blinked. The ugly voice he was running from came into his brain so easily. All his adoring fans, all his platinum songs, and none of it stopped that voice. Since Athens, it had gotten louder.
Buddy finished whatever he was texting—he looked at his electronics as another limb—and then answered. “Lisa took care of it.”
“Cool.” Lisa was Remy’s PR expert. Remy could only dream of being as tough as Lisa. With her freckled face void of makeup and her love of gingham dresses, combined with her equal love of money and her killer instincts, Lisa was like Laura Ingalls on steroids. Remy never actually hired Lisa. At her interview, she informed him that she was hired. Lisa was a pro at spinning stories. Not to mention she made an unholy eggnog at their Christmas parties. “If Lisa is taking care of this, maybe I don’t need to hide out?”
“Lisa’s great. But she can only hold off the press for so long. It’s been weeks since you did any sort of PR. Your life belongs to them and is up for grabs in many ways. Your fans can’t get enough of you. They try and follow you when you take a piss. They go after anybody who they think betrays you. Remember the Rolling Stone article?”
Remy nodded. When Rolling Stone didn’t name him Sexiest Pop Star of the Decade—he was in the top five—his fans went berserk, tweeting their outrage, boycotting the magazine, saying ugly, personal crap about the writer of the piece, making Remy’s stomach twist.
“It bothers the shit outa me when they do it.”
“I know,” Buddy soothed him. “What happened on tour disturbed you, but this is the reality you live in as a huge pop sensation. And this is what we always planned, isn’t it? For you to be huge. If they think that you need them, that you’re hurting and afraid—”
“They love me, for now. I’m as good as my next song.” The trouble was the next song was not coming. Nothing was coming these days. Buddy was as frustrated as Remy over his stage anxiety, which only made him feel worse, to be letting Buddy down.
The fans were demanding, but they always had been. It was Remy who had changed. In the past, flanked by his bodyguards, he had always stopped to make time for the gaggle of fans who attended every event, but the last time Remy had been out in public, attempting to be his old self, he’d hidden his eyes behind sunglasses and tried not to cringe. He never should have given so much. He should have set more boundaries. Already he woke to massive numbers of messages on social media asking when the next song was going to be released. When, when, when? It felt toxic.
“They will always love you, pal. Stop talking that way. I’m telling ya, a rest is all you need. Recharge. Regroup before giving some concerts. Trust me, this will work.”
“It has to work. People are counting on me. You, Lisa, the band, the crew, so many people….”
Buddy didn’t deny it, and Remy gazed out the window a moment and drew a long breath. They drove by palm trees and Spanish-style mansions, many as empty as Remy’s, a shopping mecca that resembled a fake Tuscany village, and a private golf course, all before Frank turned onto the highway to the airport. The car ate up the miles. How many miles had he traveled? How many countries? And all those places, had he really seen them or just their hotels and concert halls?
Buddy returned to multitasking on his phone. Taking care of business. Taking care of him.
“Sorry, Buddy. You’re counting on me too. And I… I appreciate… hell, everything.”
Buddy didn’t look up from his phone as he answered, “Sure thing. You’re my guy, Remy. You know that.”
“I feel like a block of ice, empty since—”
“Hold on a sec.” Buddy furiously texted something as Remy waited, then put the phone in his lap. He gave Remy an easy smile. “You’ll perform again. It’s a minor delay, right? And I called the people at Dove. They agreed to wait. Oh, and be sure to mention Dove any chance you get. Say you used it for years. But they’re fine with the plan—no worries. Everybody thinks you’re worth waiting on.”
“Thanks.” Dove had asked Remy to be their first male spokesman. They were designing a whole host of beauty products around him for next spring. Their rep couldn’t get over Remy’s olive skin and light hair color, a genetic jackpot combination from his Swedish father and Italian mother. The rep had also hoped to take Remy out dancing and maybe share his supply of quaaludes, but Remy wasn’t into that shit. Not anymore.
“Do you want me to call Nicky? He left a few messages for you.”
“What? No. I have zero need for Nicky.”
“Maybe he’s worried for you? He sounded sincere in his messages.”
“Nicky doesn’t understand the meaning of the word sincere. He’s in the past. For good reason.”
It still stung that the only person Remy had ever been in a real relationship with had used him to elevate his own star status, then dumped him… on Twitter, for fuck’s sake. After Athens, he’d called Nicky out of desperation for a friend. He wasn’t looking to get back with him, just to talk. Nicky had been too busy. Then he’d done an interview with Good Morning America, rehashing their relationship in detail and how he felt bad for Remy. The good part was that Nicky’s tell-all interview had taken the focus off Athens for the fans. They mainly wanted more intimate details about them. Sex details, which Nicky was only too happy to blab about.
“Nicky’s over and has been over a long time. He’s the last person I need. Believe me.” If Nicky were messaging Buddy about him, it was because Nicky must have sensed drama.
“Yeah, but you haven’t dated much since,” Buddy pointed out. “And you were both young and have done some growing up. Besides, it was fan gold. When you came out, your fans were so supportive, and it was really a great moment, an honest moment,” Buddy pushed. “And the way they adopted the two of you as a beloved gay pair. They adored you! Calling you guys Nemy… and the fan fiction they wrote—”
“Can you stop? Or are you forgetting Nicky went on to fuck me over?” Remy barked. “I don’t want to relive all that bullshit.”
“Sorry.” Buddy had the good sense to look sheepish. “It just was good for business. And Nicky’s new song is hot right now. It’s number three on the Billboard and climbing!”
Remy’s mouth thinned. “Whatever.”
Nicky was a tool, and Remy was done with relationships.
Before Nicky, Remy had done the usual—booze, cheap sex, pretty boys with underwear model careers and good abs—but when the alcohol and late nights began to affect his voice, Remy got frightened and stopped. He put all his energy into his work. Right when Remy was launching the start of his solo career, Nicky had pursued him. It had taken Remy a while, it wasn’t a love match at first, but eventually he’d fallen for Nicky’s persistence. When they first met, Nicky didn’t look like a star in the making. He’d had this round face and nervous smile. Remy had befriended him on the set and helped him dress better and move better on stage. And when Remy became his lover and Remy helped Nicky as far as he possibly could, Nicky had no more use for him. What Remy had thought was real, Nicky had seen as an alliance. Afterward, Remy didn’t trust guys for shit. He proved himself through his music. He focused on his European tour, which ended in Athens….
Jesus fucking Christ. He might only be twenty-five, but Remy felt ancient.
He swung his feet off the front seat and straightened. “Let’s move on to bigger questions. Like where the hell I’m headed.”
“I have a place in mind. It’s isolated and a good place to recover. I’m afraid it lacks culture. No Indian food or fancy salons. No clubs. Not even a strip mall.”
“Sounds like an alternative universe,” Remy said.
“Might as well be. It sure the hell felt like it to me.”
“Where is this magical land? Now you got me curious.”
“Do you remember the summer we met? I took you home for two weeks to my family ranch?”
“That’s where we’re going?”
“That’s it.”
“I remember it. Your kids were a few years older than me.”
“Yeah, Melanie and Jed.” A wistful look crossed Buddy’s face, but he quickly shook it off. “My ex is in Portland with Melanie and her kids, but Jed is there on the ranch. There’s nothing but land for miles. It’s perfect.”
Remy couldn’t help flashing on an image of Buddy’s son, Jed. God, Remy hadn’t fully admitted he was gay, not even to himself, not until that summer, seeing Jed, so rugged and capable, riding up to them on a horse. One look at Jed’s piercing blue eyes and extremely broad shoulders and he’d been a goner.
“I don’t know if this is a perfect solution.”
“Got a better one? You need to rest in privacy and get your damn mojo back already to make yourself happy, right? And I need to keep the press and sponsors happy. Not to mention clueless. Lisa did a hell of a job spinning Athens, right? Nobody blames you for that… unfortunate shit. But enough is enough. We don’t want Dove or other sponsors backing out. So we’re doing this.”
“What about your son? He’s agreed?”
“It’s fine. Jed is handled and won’t say anything. Don’t worry about it.”
“I guess it’ll be okay. As long as you’re there.”
“Me?” Buddy chortled. “Hell, I can’t go with you to the ranch.”
“Why not? It’s your son and your plan. What the fuck, Buddy? You’re leaving me there?” To his embarrassment, his voice cracked slightly.
“Jed won’t want me. Believe me, kid, this is better for all involved. And despite the ranch being remote, we should take a few precautions. If you really need privacy? We could cut those famous golden locks of yours to a buzz cut, get you some Western clothes.”
“Buzz cut? I’m not going into the Army.”
Of course, if Remy’s career tanked, he might give entertaining the troops a try. Hot soldiers and all.
God, what a joke. He was too numb to fuck anything lately, hot or not. And he was sick of waking up with somebody who didn’t give a shit about him as long as he signed an autograph and posed for a selfie.
“It’s your signature look,” Buddy replied. “The first thing everybody recognizes about you. Well, besides that singing voice of pure honey.”
“Cut my hair?” Remy held up a thick strand between his fingers. “How will I do my fabulous hair flip?”
Okay, so he was vain and only partly kidding, but man, this whole fucking plan was getting worse and worse. He should continue to hide out at home, only leaving for his therapy session. On the other hand, the press hadn’t given him enough privacy, not with helicopters circling overhead for glimpses of him.
“As long as you grow it back in time for the Dove commercials.” Buddy grinned. “Chop those curls, Goldilocks.”
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“Maybe a little.” Buddy’s face grew serious. “One more thing, Remy. No contact with your mom and Aunt Marina for a few days. Don’t fly out there or anything, okay? That’s the first place reporters will go. What did you tell them about this trip?”
“Just that I’m delaying my concerts for a rest. Sort of the truth.”
“Sort of.”
Remy flinched. “I couldn’t say any more.”
His folks had Remy in their forties, where he’d been their happy surprise after years of infertility. Growing up, they were old enough to be his grandparents, a fact that had never bothered Remy until his father died when he was twelve. That was also when the bullying began. Remy shut his eyes. He used to write songs for himself back then, when he was down or lonely or lost in grief.
“You okay, pal?” Buddy frowned at him.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m good.” Remy pulled at the strings of his woven bracelet, a gift from his old hippy aunt. She had made him several in various color combinations. Lately, he’d gotten into a bad habit of unraveling them, pulling apart the threads.
“You sure? You look kinda pale. Are you eating? Sleeping?”
“I’m just… thinking about my mom.”
It wasn’t a total lie.
His mom and aunt’s idea of excitement was a night of Chinese food and a bargain movie, not fighting off tabloids looking for a scoop. They were everything to Remy. He had no one else, and he wasn’t going to worry them.
“So I’ll arrange the new tour dates and the Dove commercial. Right?”
Remy wanted to say no, don’t.
But he said nothing.
His life was coming apart. And Remy had no clue what to do to fix it.
AFTER leaving Buddy and Frank in the limo, Remy headed to the private jet for boarding. He held Oscar’s carrier in one hand while a cart full of luggage and his guitars were loaded onto the plane. So okay, he was going to hide out until this crap got resolved, despite preferring to stay in a city, which he loved, and not some desolate ranch.
As Remy boarded and greeted his private attendant, he thought of Buddy’s son. Jed didn’t resemble Buddy. He had his mother’s dark hair and blue eyes. Intense blue. Jed hadn’t been exactly handsome in the traditional sense, but when that direct gaze had focused on Remy’s for the first time—God, no girl ever made his dick as stiff as Jed Riley had within minutes of being introduced. And on top of that, Jed had been kind to him at a time when Remy had desperately needed kindness.
He’d been so anxious to impress Jed. Remy had had few interactions with the outdoors. Jed seemed to live and breathe nature. Remy—artsy, scrawny, younger—hadn’t impressed Jed one bit. Imagine that.
Not that it stopped Remy’s dick from pointing upward every night. That entire summer, the days were hot, but Remy’s nights were hotter. He set records in how many times he jerked off those nights. And he took a whole lotta cold showers every morning. Buddy and his wife had teased him for being so fastidious about showering. Jesus, if they had only known why.
Fuck it. Jed Riley was a lifetime ago. The minute Remy found fame, he took full advantage of it, earning his wild reputation. Before Nicky, he hadn’t even recalled their names. A thought occurred to him. Was this the bitch of karma? Was the music deserting him as payback for being a shallow prick? But he wasn’t that guy, not anymore.
Back then, trouble had already been brewing in the Riley family. Even Remy sensed the tension between Buddy and his wife, so it was a weird time to be a guest on the ranch. Buddy had taken Remy with him because that was the summer Ma became a widow, and Buddy had stepped in, offering to take Remy, making Ma forever grateful. Later, when Remy hit the big time, there was no question Buddy would stay his manager. As he recalled, Buddy was supposed to show Remy how to ride, but he was usually holed up making phone calls. That was when Jed had been kind and brought Remy along. Ignoring that Remy was puny and shy, Jed had chased off any taunts from the other boys and included him. At home, Remy had no escape from his tormentors, who two months after his father had died, sensed Remy’s despair and attacked… but at the ranch that summer, there had been Jed….
Remy went on to be cast in a new Disney production, High School Heroes, a musical show where the kids all sang or danced, and the show led to fame and fortune. It also led to Nicky and all his lying bullshit. Remy had never looked back. He had been young and vulnerable when he first met Jed, but now he had seen and done things as a star that left a hard knot where his heart should be.
Fuck, time for some champagne.
The flight attendant grew giddy when Remy asked her for help buzzing off his hair. Or maybe it was being so close to Remy? Although, from her demeanor when Remy boarded, she was clearly used to the rich and famous. No, it must be she liked the idea of cutting his hair, given that she had her own hair spiked into decorative swirls laced with streaks of blue.
Whatever. Remy was chugging bubbly and didn’t care. His face would still be recognizable, but Buddy wasn’t wrong to say his hair was a big part of his image. As the attendant held the razor to his neck, Remy wondered what his mom and aunt would say, but it seemed the smartest thing to do. Although he was expected to stay in seclusion at the ranch, he might run into locals now and again. And maybe, just maybe, cutting off his hair would free him somehow. It had been his character on the Disney show who was supposed to be a long-haired, singing surfer dude, not Remy who’d wanted it, but over the years, who Remy actually was and who he was required to be had blurred. When was the last time he’d done anything not centered on stardom?
“Ready?” the attendant asked with a wide smile. Despite the growing chasm of numbness inside him, Remy returned her smile with a big pasted-on grin. “Sure, why not. I’ll still be gorgeous, won’t I?” He winked.
The haircut followed. Remy asked the flight attendant, whose name was Kristy, questions about her life. He listened to her trouble with a sister who always competed with her while growing up, and her plans to save money and buy a condo for herself and her young son. As far as flight attendants went, Kristy was funny and cool. Remy even relaxed a little as she talked. The champagne helped too. Pretty soon, she took a step back and held up a mirror.
“You like it?”
“Sure, I look fucking awesome.” Remy ignored the mirror.
He offered a generous tip that made her jaw drop. “For your future condo.”
“Thanks! And you like the haircut?” she asked, pocketing the money.
“Love it, sweetheart.”
He didn’t, really. Remy felt exposed without his hair. But he was good at pretending. Giving everybody what they expected. Some days he was so good at it Remy nearly believed it himself.
AFTER trading his champagne for some espresso and enduring a bumpy flight, Remy landed in the small airport and rented an SUV that would take him the rest of the way to Diamond Creek. Arranged by Buddy and paid for with discretion, Remy easily left the airport with no trouble. Some days Buddy was worth every cent he paid him. Speeding along, he got there in no time. Remy liked his fast and flashy sports cars better than the SUV. But when was the last time he’d taken one of his cars out for a spin? Or even driven himself anywhere?
He blasted some head-banging heavy metal and accelerated. Surprisingly, the SUV had a good pickup, so good that he watched the speed as he neared town. The last thing Remy wanted was the paparazzi getting wind of where he was before he even got there.
The town itself, if you could call three main streets a town, was like a throwback to the gold rush era. They deliberately tried to keep a Western look, with wooden buildings that boasted signs like Tucker’s General Store and Murphy’s Saloon and Restaurant. Remy supposed it had charm so a person didn’t mind that everything closed by nine o’clock. An old-fashioned clock stood in the town square, as if everybody didn’t have watches and cell phones, and the town was full of American flags proudly displayed, from the barber shop to the library; the entire town was a sea of red, white, and blue. Kids pedaled their bicycles without supervision to the ice cream shop. There were no visible fast-food joints or cell towers, although they had to be someplace hidden away from the main town. Maybe on the highway just north of here?
Remy couldn’t imagine no Burger King or Sprint stores. He did see one small Walmart, not a super center, and a Home Depot. He supposed the cobblestone sidewalks and neatly kept shops were cute. If memory served, the ice cream was rich and delicious too. But where would he buy a decent latte? Where would he pick up his favorite lube that did not come from Walmart? Compared to the swanky, expensive stores and late-night shops of LA, Diamond Creek was another planet.
Remy glanced around as he drove across the town toward Jed’s place. He couldn’t deny the scenery was beautiful, especially the rugged mountains. He slowed down enough to look. The sunlight highlighted everything as he drove. Lowering his window, Remy inhaled the fresh air. Maybe some time in nature, away from the craziness, would be just what he needed?
The ranch was quite a distance from town. The road became a dirt one. Remy no longer had time to wonder how he’d get his daily comforts or appreciate the beauty of the land; he had to focus on the GPS and maneuvering the twists and turns.
Just like my life. Twists and turns. He could navigate the road, but he couldn’t figure out his own shit.
Even when he found the ranch, the acres and acres of land made Remy wonder where the main house was, already. The one time he’d been here, he had slept on the drive. Or maybe being a kid, he’d not paid attention? In any case, Remy didn’t remember this much land. Maybe Jed had expanded?
The house was well cared for and lovely, and Remy smiled at the wraparound porch, which had been his favorite spot to read or play his guitar during that summer visit. Then his smile faded. Getting even one chord right was like pulling teeth these days.
Remy parked and stood just outside the porch. He was looking around, hands on his hips, when the front door flew open with a bang.
Jed Riley—with a decidedly sour look stamped across his face. He stood there forbiddingly, dressed in old jeans and a flannel shirt, his muscles defined as he crossed his arms at his chest, his shoulders wide. Just like that, Remy’s long-ago attraction returned in a hot, messy rush.
It was the first real feeling Remy had experienced in months.