Page 155 of All Twerk, No Play

Where the hell had Kate gone?

"You Make Loving Fun," Fleetwood Mac

Tori

Epilogue: Two years later

Ican’tbelievehetalked me into this.

The stylist steamed the sheer cape sleeve of my black silk chiffon dress as Adriana teased the hair around my face into a feathered pouf, leaving the rest flowing down my back. I smoothed the handkerchief skirt, glaring at the most unbelievable part of the whole outfit: ballet flats.

When theVanity Fairarticle revealed my identity as Cruz’sCobrecita, the two of us became a pop culture phenomenon: the tattooed musician who sang love songs to the buttoned-up CEO. And when my groveling video went viral, the record executives begged me to perform on his debut album and join him on tour, but we declined. He wanted to build his reputation based on his talent, not my name, and I respected the hell out of that. I’d support him however I could, but music was his career, not mine.

But after Cruz's debut album topped the charts and he excelled as a headlining act,Rolling Stonecalled. Cruz was so excited, he ran a victory lap around our Brooklyn Heights neighborhood. When he joked that we should recreate the famous Fleetwood MacRumoursalbum cover, I rolled my eyes with a dry, “Obviously."

So here I was, dressed head to toe in black silk chiffon like Stevie Nicks’ signature ‘gypsy’ outfit.

Rock on, Gold Dust Woman.

“Your grandfather had seventeen magazine covers, right?” Connor asked, checking the list on his iPad. “So this one ties his record?”

“Does it?” I’d done the math years ago … but after Cruz and I got back together, I’d stopped counting. I was too happy to worry about that dumb shit.

Connor ticked them off, starting with the business ones, including a secondForbescover I shared with Alex. He wore a crisp suit with a cornflower blue tie to match his eyes, just like I always imagined. The article described our business partnership—and more importantly, our friendship, including a photo of Cruz and me singing at his wedding.

As Connor read them aloud, my smile widened with all the non-business opportunities that I never dreamed of, magazines where I could share the spotlight.

Women’s Health,laughing as Cruz coached me into an impossibly low Good As Hell squat.

Glamour, looking straight into the camera lens with all my freckles on display. The article featured Adriana’s advice about emphasizing unique features instead of concealing them.

People, sharing the cover with three-time Emmy-winner Dominic Martin, highlighting his new nonprofit, supported by a generous contribution from the Regina Sinclair Blackstone Memorial Foundation.

Cosmopolitan, wearing Kate’s Magic Dress. They printed the full sex contract in an article explaining that safe sex is more than birth control, it’s also about clear expectations and boundaries. They interviewed Mallory Clarke for tips to confidently pick up a guy instead of waiting to be approached … and if you’re unsatisfied, how to dump his ass without guilt.

And now:Rolling Stone.

When I agreed to this shoot, I hadn’t even considered Richard’s covers. I was here because it was an easy way to support Cruz’s career and fit easily into our schedule, especially for this easy commute to a studio in Dumbo. We split our time between our Saratoga penthouse and our new Brooklyn brownstone, halfway between my Manhattan office and his mom's house in Queens—although his sisters both crashed at our place regularly, including watching Jurisprudence when we were both out of town.

“Richard would roll over in his grave if he knew I tied his record in this,” I said, the chiffon tickling my armpit.

“Probably not, he had a soft spot for musical women,” Cruz teased, strolling on set from hair and makeup. His sister had slicked his hair into a long ponytail and trimmed his beard, replicating Lindsey Buckingham’s look on the album cover. He looked like a bohemian pirate in his black vest over an unbuttoned white shirt, revealing his muscular chest scattered with tattoos.

The past two years hadn’t been easy. For the first year, he paid his dues as an opening act, then worked the festival track last summer. His hard work paid off because next year he would finally headline his own tour in mid-sized venues. I spent weekdays in New York then traveled most weekends to attend as many shows as possible, usually watching from the wings … but occasionally he surprised the audience by calling me out to join him on piano.

When Darius the photographer joined us in the studio, I promised that I’d be a much easier subject than theForbesshoot, when I’d been barely holding back tears. As he tested the lighting, one of the crew members turned on Fleetwood Mac’s 'You Make Loving Fun.'

Cruz scrunched his eyebrows to mimic my anger from the night we met. “Is that FleetwoodFuckingMac?” he snarled, then wrapped his arms around my waist to lift and spin me, singing along with mirthful excitement.

As my head tilted back in laughter, Darius snapped candids. “Hey, I wasn’t ready!”

“Don’t overthink it, baby,” Cruz said, sliding me down his body until my ballet flats touched the floor, then muttering about how short I was without my pumps and tapping my head to muss my hair.

I reached up to mess his right back. “I know Lindsey’s hair was in a ponytail on the album cover, but I think we missed the opportunity to do the full 70s afro.”

“Say the word, sis!” Adriana yelled from the crew area, where beside her, Gloria and Luisa cheered. Even my dad, in his semi-retirement, took a long lunch break to visit the set, standing beside Margot, since she oversaw all my marketing efforts. The photoshoot ran smoothly, with plenty of staged shots to replicate the album cover—and dozens more of the two of us just goofing off.

“Perfect, we’ve got plenty of options for the cover,” Darius called, reviewing his screen previews. “Great work, Victoria. Now, let's move on to the solo shots."

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