When Easton asked me to sing for him back in my kitchen that one night, it caught me by surprise when that was the song I chose. For him, it might have been a simple ballad, but for me, it represented a caged love that yearned to be set free. I don’t let myself think too hard on what that means. The only thing I’m sure about is that Easton has a knack of coaxing things out of me that I never see coming. Even something as simple as picking a song.
“I promise, next time I pop by, I’ll let you know in advance,” Owen replies, snapping me out of my thoughts. “Or should I do that anyway, because of your new boyfriend?” His left brow cocks up high in question.
“I’m not sure what you mean. I don’t have a boyfriend,” I retort tensely.
I quickly turn my back to him and sit in front of the vanity, making a big show of removing my makeup instead of facing his probing question head-on.
Owen is good at picking up on lies, and I’ve always been a terrible liar.
“Are you sure? Easton Price sure seems enamored with you,” he retorts perceptively and places his hands over my shoulders, leaving me no choice but to stop what I’m doing and look up at his reflection.
“How did you find out?”
An all-knowing look surfaces on his handsome face, making me mentally slap myself for uttering such an idiotic question. Owen Turner knows everything. Of course my relationship with Easton would have made its way onto his radar eventually. His pretty little spies are quite good at their job.
I should know.
I’m one of them, after all.
“Will he be a problem?” Owen asks a bit more sternly, his piercing gaze fixed on my face through the mirror’s reflection.
I shake my head.
“Good. We wouldn’t want a little fling to damage all we have worked for, now would we? Not when we have made so much progress.”
My forehead crinkles at his vague statement.
“And just what progress is that?” I ask, nervously fiddling with the pink belt of my robe.
“No need to concern yourself with that, sweetheart. Just keep doing what you are doing, and leave the rest to me.” He throws me one of his playful smirks as he begins to take the bobby pins out of my hair.
Although I’ve been working for Owen for a year now at The Brass Guild—a club he owns outright, even if very few people know about it—there is still so much that eludes me. What I do know is that, from time to time, I can expect him to show up for one of my shows, only to interrogate me afterward, asking me what I saw, or what I heard that night and every other night in between his visits.
The first time this happened, it knocked me a little off-guard. Owen had come to me with the idea of how I could sing, like I always dreamed about, without having the nasty side effect of people knowing who I was. Once he ensured complete anonymity, I jumped at the chance of singing at his club. He never once asked for anything in return when he was trying to convince me to take the job, but soon I discovered the strings attached to our secret deal.
When after one of my shows the same cross-examination happened a second time, and then a third, I made sure to keep my eyes peeled as well as improve my eavesdropping skills. Anything I thought would be of interest to Owen, I made sure to make a note of it. Even if the information seemed innocent to my ears, I’d end up telling him that, too. I never knew what he was looking for. Just that it was my job to get it for him. I pay even closer attention when Ruby requests that I spend some time with one of The Brass Guild’s VIPs. Anytime I can repeat, word for word, a conversation I have overheard at the said VIP table, it always brought a satisfied grin to his face.
Once Owen removes all the pins, he lightly trails his fingers through my hair, disentangling it as best as he can. I can feel his forlorn sadness prickle the nape of my neck as he picks up a brush and begins to comb it gently. I don’t say a word as I anxiously wait for him to recover from the sentimental reverie he’s absorbed in, hoping he soon returns to being the man I care for. Once he’s finished, he slowly spins the chair his way, palming my cheeks tenderly with his hands. The softness in his eyes unnerves me somewhat, and that’s all because I know it’s not me he’s seeing right now—it’s her.
“You look so much like Angela,” he whispers, making me swallow dryly. But just as quickly as he let himself be consumed by whatever memory plagued him, he pulls himself out of the nostalgic haze. He lets go of my face, taking one full step back to give me some needed space. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
You never mean to, and yet, you always do.
“I know,” I mumble, rather than vocalizing my thoughts.
“It’s just hard sometimes. As each year passes, the uncanny resemblance is staggering,” he laments on an exhale. “I miss my best friend, Scarlett. I trusted her with my life. I just hope she’s looking down on me and sees that I will do whatever I need to take care of her life, too.”
“I know that, too,” I repeat sullenly.
Unfortunately, I already know this grief-stricken rant by heart. Why he feels the need to repeat it constantly, when these awkward moments arise, is beyond me. My gut feeling tells me it’s not me he’s trying to convince, but himself.
“I don’t want you to think the feelings I have for you are anything but noble.”
“I don’t, Owen.” I try to assure him, placing my hands in his, giving them a light squeeze.
When Mom left Asheville, she might have turned her back on her family, but never on Owen. He was always a prominent fixture in my life. Be it with calls, birthday cards, Christmas presents, or even, on occasion, the odd surprise visit to see us in Vegas. Before I moved here to live with my uncle, Owen had been the only true paternal figure I had up to that point. I know what he feels for me is fatherly affection and nothing more.
But sometimes, just sometimes, when he sees my mother’s reflection on my face staring back at him, it makes me wonder.
Is it me he sees—the little girl he taught how to ride a bike when she was five—or is it the ghost of a lost love he will never get a second chance with?
“So, Easton, huh?” he asks with a more lighthearted tone, trying to move past the uncomfortable moment. “Are you sure that boy is good for you?”
Yes.
No.
“I don’t know,” I finally confess with a shrug.
“Hmm. Just be careful, Scarlett. I’ve known that boy for a long time. He has some demons in him.”
“Don’t we all have them to some degree or another?”
“Yes, but some of us can’t outrun the vicious grip they have on our lives. Don’t let yourself get too mixed up with his. I’m not sure you’d win.”
My forehead crinkles at the ominous remark, and before I’m able to ask what he means by that, a throat clears just at the door of my dressing room.
“Well, isn’t this cozy,” Easton slurs, leaning against the door frame.
My heart leaps to my throat, happy to see the boy who has smuggled his way into my heart, only for it to be crushed with the hateful glare in his eye. That’s when I realize that I’m still holding Owen’s hands in mine. I release them at once, fixing my robe so it doesn’t rise up when I stand.