“The studio is his pride and joy.” I bend down to open the fridge. “What do you want to drink? We’ve got beer or a range of seltzers—pineapple, blueberry, mango…”
“I’m good with beer.” He takes a seat in the swivel chair, his attention raking over the equipment in the room while I grab our drinks. “This studio must have cost a fortune.” He takes in the bass traps, acoustic panels, rack system, and numerous amps. “How long has he had this setup?”
“Years.” I hand over his beer and open my alcoholic seltzer. “He upgrades equipment whenever he gets the chance. He loves playing with new toys.”
“He won’t mind that I’m in here?”
We clink drinks and both take a gulp.
“Not at all. He enjoys showing it off.”
For the next hour, we get to know each other musically, delving into our preferences—the songs we like and those we hate. Linden gives me a brief outline of what he’s aiming for with our project. He wants something sexy. Explicit. Borderline scandalous.
That cheat sheet wouldn’t have been a problem years ago… but it is now, seeing as though I’ve steered clear of those descriptors since my life hit the dumpster.
“My loudest audience are women between the age of sixteen and twenty-four.” He gives a sly grin. “And as much as I hate to play the sex-sells card, it hasn’t let me down yet. I want to ride that wave a little longer until I’m a household name.”
“You do sex well.” I open my second seltzer after handing him another beer. “But is it safe to assume you want to kick it up a notch?”
“Multiple notches if possible.” He pulls out his phone and plays partials of his bestsellers, pointing out which parts gained the most attention. “The hotter, the better.”
Shit. It looks like I’m going to be forced to fake it till I make it.
I keep drinking, hoping the alcohol will help dislodge my anxiety and encourage the lascivious ideas to percolate.
Linden hums a melody every now and again, the same tune lulling my tipsy mind.
“Loose lips and swaying hips will get you into my bed…” He takes a gulp of beer. “But can you be the girl who… Scrap that.”
“No, it’s good. But how about—loose lips and swaying hips got you into my bed. But fucking you a thousand times won’t get you out of my head.”
One side of his lips kicks. “I like it.”
Confidence simmers inside me. I used to be that woman. The one with loose lips and swaying hips. I didn’t realize how much I missed that part of myself until now.
“If you can add a good girl reference in there, you get bonus points,” he adds.
“A ‘good girl’ reference?” I don’t even try to wipe the confused grin from my face.
“Yeah. It’s a thing.” He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, this extremely talented man clearly at odds with two simple words. “I said it during sound check to a journalist on a breakfast talk show once. It slipped out. Entirely unintentionally. So, obviously, they played it on air, which resulted in a viral meme with every underage female in the world wanting me to call them a good girl.”
I frown. “I think I vaguely remember that happening.”
“I’m not surprised. It’s the only thing that put me on the map. If it weren’t for an abundance of the population having a praise kink, I’d be back busking by now.”
“You can’t really believe that.” I brush him off with a wave of my hand.
“I’m certain.” He takes a gulp of beer. “We weren’t getting any traction beforehand. There were even whispers the record label were going to rip up the band’s contract for the second album. Then boom, I mistakenly call some woman a good girl, and the panties of an entire nation drop.”
“Nations,” I correct. “Didn’t you hit the charts in the UK and AU with your first album?”
“Yes, but only for a few days.”
“A few days is enough to change someone’s life.”
“Believe me, it did.” His eyes turn hooded. Intense. He looks at me as if he wants to taste me. Devour me.
He relaxes back into his chair, increasing my temperature the slightest bit as his teeth rake over his bottom lip. “That’s when this whole ‘smooth player’ persona was born.” His tone holds an exaggerated drawl. “My PR team thought it would help me get more airtime.”
I laugh. I can’t help it.
I laugh at how well he plays the role.
I laugh at how my belly tingles at the charade.
And God, do I laugh at how unbelievably great it feels to be back in the studio in the company of someone I earned on my own merit. All that plus the alcohol feeds my buzz. Mason and I have barely touched a sip of liquor since his liver injury. Turns out, a year sober makes you a lightweight.
I shake my head. “The exposure might have helped you gain an audience, but your talent is what made you famous. And trust me, publicity isn’t always a good thing. I’m the poster child for that.”
His persona fades. Pity takes its place. “They came after your career with pitchforks, didn’t they?”
“Don’t forget misogyny and sexism.” After all these years, the sex tape is still the thing I’m most famous for. Not the Grammy or the renowned lyrics.
“What backlash did Mason receive?”
I scoff. “He didn’t. He got accolades.”
“That’s fucked up.” Linden takes another drink. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s in the past… Well, at least I thought it was.”
“Until…?”
“That woman out there.” I tilt my head toward the door. “She’s here to write a manuscript for a film based on the beginning of our relationship.”
“That’s not a good thing?”
“Mason seems to think it is. He’s really excited. Problem is, I didn’t find out until a few minutes before you arrived that the woman writing it is also one of the people who penned an article to tear me to shreds when the video went viral.”
His eyes widen, but he doesn’t attempt to fill the growing silence. He doesn’t offer placation or condemning aggression, because what would that do to help the situation? Nothing.
“Anyway…” I paste on a smile. “I don’t know how we got to this point in the conversation, but we need to get back on track… You should name this song ‘Good Girl’? Your fans would go—”
“Why don’t we get out of here?” He downs the last of his beer and pushes to his feet. “You shouldn’t have to be creative in the same space as the woman who tore your ass apart.”
I stiffen. Swallow. “That’s a delightfully colorful description for what happened, but—”
“Come on. It’ll be more fun out in the open with noise and atmosphere.”
I wish I could. To be able to go out in public. To be seen without being judged.
It isn’t possible. Especially if I’m with a handsome man who isn’t my fiancé.
“I can’t.” I give him an apologetic look. “I won’t risk being tabloid fodder again.”