Page 6 of Drum Me Away
“You’re going to have to be more specific,” she said from the other end of the couch, where she sat with her nose buried in her phone, using one thumb to scroll through whatever was on the screen. Her Insta feed, if I had to guess.
“Your morning coffee.”
She glanced up at me and then dropped the phone onto the cushion. “I’m still pissed at you for leaving without telling me. Regardless of your reasoning.”
What had Gabe told her? I’d never asked, and I hadn’t alerted Faith, either. I hadn’t been in a good place then, just like now.
“Because you didn’t have anyone to make your coffee?” I asked, covering my own unease with a playful tone.
She rolled her eyes, and I watched a smile tease at her lips. I fought the urge to melt a little. From a fucking half smile. God, I was pathetic.
“It was so embarrassing,” she admitted. “I spent an hour that first morning, trying to figure it out. And then I got so frustrated, I threw on a baseball cap and drove to the nearest Starbucks. The chick in the drive-through line recognized me, and I sort of freaked because I didn’t have on any makeup or even a bra. I was literally in my pajamas, driving through Starbucks at ten in the morning.”
“I don’t think that’s all that unusual.”
“Yeah, but it’s me. Could you imagine if photos had shown up online?” She scrunched up her face and stuck out her tongue.
I shrugged. “Dahlia would have figured out a way to turn it into good publicity.” She always did. Hopefully, she’d maintain that trend while getting Faith and me out of this fake relationship.
Faith shook her head. “I panicked and took off without my order and called Gabe and begged him to bring me a coffee. He did, and of course teased me mercilessly. Now, I have a standing GrubhubÓ order, every morning. You didn’t notice that they showed up the first day you were back home?”
Back home? Yeah, right. This was no home. Sometimes I thought of it as a prison. A place where I was tortured by her presence, day in and day out.
“Must have been while I was out jogging.” I usually went jogging much earlier in the morning, before it got crazy hot, but since returning from Missouri, I planned my exercise routine deliberately so that I left the house right before she came downstairs.
“That makes sense,” she said, nodding. “So anyway, I’ve now canceled the order. Welcome back.” She grinned like…like we were buddies or something. Except we weren’t.Weweren’t anything.
And Dahlia was going to help ensure the rest of the world knew it, too.
And I could finally be free.
CHAPTER3
Faith
Dahlia breezedinto the house without knocking, like she usually did. She was all too aware that the likelihood of her walking in on something she didn’t want to see was next to nil.
She was Filipino, with striking features and thick, dark hair with two bold red streaks framing her face. She favored tight suits with micro-mini skirts and stiletto heels that added inches to her height.
She was a highly sought after publicist on the LA scene because she was a wizard when it came to making people look good—or bad, as the preference sometimes was. Like mine had been when we’d first formed the band. My tight-ass, high society image was so not appropriate for this lifestyle, yet I’d had no clue how to change it. But Dahlia had, and, per her usual, my new look had been a hit with our fans.
I wondered how she’d feel when we announced our desire—well, Lucas’s desire—to break up. We couldn’t deny that her idea had helped grow our fanbase. My bank balance didn’t lie.
But if Lucas had fallen in love, I had no right to insist he keep up the pretense with me. He deserved to live his best life.
Dahlia waved her phone as she strode into the room. “I barely have to do damage control on this morning’s botched press conference,” she said, and then pointed the device at Lucas. “Nice job with that look over your shoulder, that pissed off expression on your face, telling everyone you were going to practice for the upcoming tour. Got an alert that another arena sold out shortly after the first video was posted online. Not a coincidence, I assure you.”
Lucas scowled, and Dahlia kept walking, blowing right past us and striding into the dining room. She was at the wet bar, based on the clinking of glasses and what sounded like ice being dumped. A few moments later, she returned to the living room carrying a tray laden with champagne flutes, a jug of orange juice, and a bottle of sparkling wine stuffed into a bucket of ice.
While she expertly popped the cork, Lucas said, “That little show was worthy of celebrating?”
“Nope,” Dahlia said, popping the P and pouring bubbling liquid into three tall flutes. “But it’s before noon, and the only things I drink before noon are mimosas and bloodies.” She handed us each a glass and then tipped up her own, draining half of it in one swallow. I wasn’t worried that she was about to get hammered and possibly give us bad advice; Dahlia had an alcohol tolerance higher than pretty much anyone I knew.
After refilling her glass, she plopped onto the overstuffed chair perpendicular to the couch Lucas and I shared and pulled her iPad out of her purse.
“So, four years of some of my most brilliant work and you want to flush it all down the drain. Is that my understanding?” she asked, her eyes on her iPad screen.
I winced and glanced at Lucas. He sat there, stony faced, but I could tell by the way he gripped his glass that he was angry. He’d perfected the unaffected rocker persona, but I lived with the man. Before this whole charade, we’d been practically best friends. I knew his moods, even if he did a damn good job of trying to hide them.
