Lost Angeles (50 page)

Lore doesn’t even break her indoor voice on the words, but they snap with electricity nonetheless. She’s still pissed, that much is obvious, and when I don’t make any move to close the distance between our thighs, she averts her face, folding her arms over her chest and staring out the window.

I tilt my head to the side until I hear my neck pop. “You’re either in or you’re out, babe. I don’t do shit halfway, and I don’t drag people along by the hair. You want to half-ass your way through life, be my guest, but it’s not going to happen in my house or in my bed or on my dick.”

Her jaw clenches so tight I wonder if she’s going to break a tooth. “You. Didn’t.
Ask.
” The last word lashes out at me like a whip-crack. “And don’t you dare tell me I agreed to everything because I don’t remember most of it. Your distinct advantage in last night’s little game, Xaine, means you’re more than a little bit
culpable
.”

“That’s a big fucking word.” I crinkle up my forehead up like English isn’t one of many languages I speak fluently. “To be honest, I was pretty shit-faced. Did we even
consummate
the marriage?”

“If we did, it was about as memorable as the rest of the night,” she says. “Which is to say, not very
.
”

I stare up at the neon-lit dome of the carriage, making thoughtful noises. “I remember fucking someone
.
Might have been you. Might have been Noah. He’s built like a girl.”

“Well, that’s special.” Lore’s smile is brittle. “Did you ask
him
before you fucked him
?
Or are we looking at criminal charges on top of civil paperwork?”

“Naw. Pretty sure if I’d fucked him, that would have ended up on YouTube, too.” I stretch out, like I’m enjoying this hugely instead of wishing my brain would tell my mouth to shut the fuck up. “Cheer up, cupcake. Next time you get married, you’ll remember every bit of it. Someone’s backyard, with a big dumb bohunk and a tiny ring tied to the stupid-hairy dog the two of you walk together. Or maybe in the church you went to as a kid, with all those people back home who warned you and warned you
and warned you
what would happen if you moved to a place like LA. Then you’ll squirt out a few kids, and all of you will sit on the porch in your rocking chairs, drinking lemonade and reminiscing about That Time You Married An Asshole.”

The worst part is that I can picture every bit of it, and I know that’s better for her than anything I have to offer.

Our pumpkin coach pulls up to the curb. The red carpet got traded for white. There are rose petals everywhere. It’s lit up like the Magic Kingdom down that aisle, and I pause only long enough to add, “Whoever he is, Lore, he’s seeing
all this
on television right now. I guarantee it.”

Hauling myself out of the carriage, I don’t wait to see if any of that hits home, and I don’t bother giving her a hand down. Instead, I saunter along the carpet with my hands jammed in my pockets, lyrics already spinning out in my head.

“Happily Never After.”

Song writes itself.

Xaine’s parting shot stops me, ripping the quips and the anger and the smart-assed everything right out of my mouth. My body goes still, my mind goes slack, my lips stick together slightly as they part, the lipstick still tacky although the stylists swore it’d last all night. Hand to god, I can feel my heart and my guts and every single piece of
me
shred like the glittery confetti Xaine’s stirring up on that stupid, white carpet.

He doesn’t even stick around for the fallout, instead taking himself and his self-righteous indignation from this Twilight Zone version of our lives, stomping down that runway like he owns it.

I don’t know how to make it make sense.

I don’t know how to make him understand that I don’t want this because
he
doesn’t want this.

Oh sure, he thinks he does, because he looks at me and sees Elizabeth. But what happens when he’s spent enough time with me that the illusion wears off? What about tomorrow? Ten years from now? Twenty? Forty? When my ass and my tits and my face start to sag? When I’m no longer young and pretty and the perfect piece of talented arm candy? What happens when there’s nothing left of me but the memories of the girl I once was? There’s no pound, no shelter
,
no rescue society for washed-up ex-singers who tried to hold onto immortal rock stars.

It’s madness. And I certainly feel like I’m going mad, one carefully-counted heartbeat at a time.

Slowly, I grasp hold of one of the footmen and step down from the carriage; the second my red-soled heel touches that white carpet, I’m hit in the face with a couple dozen camera flashes. Glancing about, I can see Lonan looking a little worse the wear after last night, Rebel scowling at the crowds, and the rest of the team spaced at intervals along the walkway. Even in the Vegas heat, they wear dark suits, cut so the holstered guns don’t print, but I know they’re under there. Earpieces, too. The PFC guys should be a source of reassurance, but not by much, because there are people everywhere, reporters everywhere, photographers everywhere.

Because I’m here, because I came this far, I paste on a pleasant smile and strike a pose, holding my sparkling silver clutch and standing in just
that way
that’ll be in all the magazines tomorrow. The way women in those pictures always stand to show off their dress and their figure and their giant, pink wedding ring.

“I notice that you and Xaine aren’t walking the carpet together,” says some nard from one of the entertainment programs. “Trouble in paradise already?”

Waving one hand at the pumpkin carriage, I offer up the charming nothingness of any professional celebrity. “He’s all about the roleplay.” Then I lean in like I’m imparting a secret. “
Very
disappointed that I wouldn’t wear the glass slippers.”

There’s a collective bark of laughter from the people closest to me. A glance down the carpet offers up Xaine’s slightly irritated face, his dark brows drawn together, those sky-blue eyes fixed on me for one burning second before we both look away. He’s halfway down the gauntlet now, ignoring the clamors for his autograph, to turn this way and look over here and can we get a smile? Charging through it all like an angry bull, which probably isn’t so far from the truth.

Another reporter shoves a mic under my chin, recapturing my attention. “This is a fairly large event for a single song debut. What do you think about this whole red carpet roll-out?”

“Well, I think the carpet is white,” I say, eliciting another round of chuckles from the throng. “And you know Xaine…” My eyes find him once again, but this time I only catch the tense line of his shoulders. “Nothing by halves.”

You’re either in, or you’re out.

“Rumor has it that the two of you are planning on adopting a baby from China,” another reporter says.

All I can do is stare blankly, because I don’t know what the hell to say to that. “Um, if you’ll excuse me…”

“Hey!” The voice over my shoulder is accompanied by the lightest touch at my waist. It’s enough to make me jump out of my skin, then jump again when I twist around to find Noah Carmichael grinning down at me.

Holy shit
.

The first time I met Xaine, there wasn’t really an opportunity for my
shy
to kick in full-force; circumstances and other things got in the way. But here and now, looking up at the other guy whose posters I had pinned to my bedroom wall?

Holy. Fucking. Starstruck.

I swear I gape at Noah’s face until he hits me with a low chuckle that has
playboy
written all over it. Granted, he’s had time to get used to all of this, but the moment it becomes apparent that my mouth is still open and no words are coming out, he looks almost sympathetic.

“You don’t remember me?” he asks.

“Remember you, no,” I tell him. “But I’d have to be living under a rock not to know you. I mean, not
know you
, know you, but I… uh… er…”

Noah’s face goes a little inscrutable. “You don’t remember
any
of it, do you? You have no idea—”

“Oh,” I say, quick to stop him, lifting my left hand to show him the giant, pink diamond. “I have
some
idea
.
”

“But the wedding? The reception?”

“There was a
reception
?” The words tumble out of me before I realize that five microphones are hovering not a foot away. Lowering my voice, I lean in and hiss, “Why on earth didn’t you stop it?”

He looks puzzled. “The reception?”

“No, the wedding!”

Noah’s laugh startles me slightly, and I wonder who else heard it.

Everyone, Lore, every-fucking-body.

Even Xaine. He’s looking back and frowning, his gaze bouncing between me and Noah, whose current expression is entirely contemplative.

“I
did
ask you,” he says. “Right before I walked you down the aisle. Told you I’d toss you in a limo and take you wherever you wanted to go. You pointed right at Xaine and said
that
was where you wanted to go.”

“Because bleary-drunk is the best state of mind for making life-altering decisions?” I fix him with a stern look.

Noah pauses, exhaling through his nose like he’s thinking. “Look, I’ve known Xaine a while, and I’ve seen him a lot of ways: careless, angry, manic, mean. Hell, I’ve even seen him sad. I’ve never seen him like
this
.” His dark eyes twinkle when he adds, “Couple months back, he nearly put my face through the back of my skull. A few weeks later, he ran Reille Reece through a wall. But honestly, I think he’d cut off all his fingers one by one and lay them out in the sun to fry before he’d hurt a hair on your head.” Then, as if it excuses everything, Noah adds, “And he seemed sure. About all of it, but especially about you.”

I know what I want, even if you don’t
.

With a sigh, I track Xaine’s progress down the white carpet. I’ve felt everything from smitten to exasperated with him, but I’ve never felt unsafe. Even when he was out of his head and tearing Benicio limb from limb, I never once considered he might turn on me. He’s dangerous in every possible way, but of all the things that might have happened last night, I guess it could have been far worse than standing me up before God and Elvis.

“So, you seriously don’t remember the karaoke bar?” Noah says, drawing my attention back.

“No?”

Hello, not-a-question question. It’s been a while.

He grins again in the sort of way that tells me I’m not going to like where this is headed. “You have zero recollection of getting up to sing ‘Cry, Heaven’?” At my empty stare, he continues, “Just a big ol’ duet-shaped blank spot, huh?”

“I sang a duet?”

“
We
,” he clarifies. “
We
sang a duet. And it’s already
huge
. You’re like, viral video magic.”

My brain stutters to a complete and utter halt. “Are you telling me that I sang ‘Cry, Heaven’ with Noah Carmichael and I don’t remember it?” The words come out louder—
oh, my god, so much louder
—than anticipated. The flush that hits my face a second later is hot, hotter, hott
est
, and I can feel it traveling across my bare shoulders and down my chest.

Noah can’t begin to comprehend my complete and total mortification in this moment, because his eyes crinkle at me like I told him the best joke he’s heard this week. “You want to do a dramatic reenactment? We could totally Shatner the thing. Except, drunk as we were, I’m not really sure that’s possible.” He clears his throat, giving me the look that says
I dare you.

“No.” Emphatic, firm, I am
not
doing this.

“C’mon, it’ll be like old times!” he taunts.

Wry as anything I say, “It was last night.”

Noah grins, waggles his eyebrows a bit, then opens up and let’s loose. “
So, cry heaven, and don’t go. I need your grace to get me home…
”

Top of his lungs, clear as day, and there’s a sudden shift in the decibel level coming from the spectators cordoned off behind metal barriers. Listening to him, they go absolutely berserk, screaming and crying, waving pieces of paper around like flags of surrender.

I can’t blame them really.

Noah stops singing, smirking at me like an asshole. “What? Haven’t seen the YouTube videos of it yet?” I give him the glare to end all glares, but he just leans in close, turning me around until I’m facing the crowd of rabid groupies. “I bet
they
have.”

Cheek-to-cheek with Noah, I watch the teenagers jumping up and down with Sharpie markers in their hands. These are the fans… and not just Noah’s fans, but Xaine’s fans.
My
fans. The people who heard the song, liked the song, bought the song, and now they’re standing in the Vegas heat clutching pictures and pens and excitement to their chests like armor.

“Lourdes!” someone shouts. I turn my head to look; it’s an instinctive action. “Over here!”

“You should go say hello to the adoring public,” Noah tells me, then plants an impulsive kiss on the side of my face. “I’ll catch you later.” A wink and a smile. “Try to remember me next time. It’s Noah Carmichael…Carmichael spelled with a C.”