There’re so many damn things I need to face that I don’t even know where to start.
The police are still looking to question me about the fight I had with Jeremy, so there’s that whole mess, which I’m sure will result in me going to court. Jane Ann has been all over television and social media pleading with the public to give her information and claim the fifty-thousand-dollar reward if she finds me. Some people would sell their own mother for that much dough, which is why I need to be more careful than ever. I don’t know why I ever thought running away from everything would make things easier. I know I’m a highly intelligent man, but taking off wasn’t very smart on my part. It’s only made shit ten times harder.
I wish Iris was here. I wish I could hold her. I wish things could go back to how they were a few weeks ago, when we were still together, still anonymous.
I lie back against my pillow and turn on the news channel, hoping to catch a glimpse of her face, and I’m shocked when I see her sitting across from Linda Bronson, that same reporter who has been stalking me since Mom died. The woman makes her living digging into the lives of celebrities that the public is dying to know about.
I didn’t realize at the time what a media frenzy walking away from everything would create, but I felt like I didn’t have any other options at the time. Mom was dying, and I was going to get to her, and no one was going to stop me.
I sit up on the edge of the bed and stare at Iris’s beautiful face. Her dark hair is pinned up, so I have a clear view of her mesmerizing green eyes. It’s plain to see the pain in her eyes. It may not be clear to the general public, but I can tell she’s hurting. It makes me want to believe that she didn’t mean what she said about not wanting me anymore—that she still wants me—needs me, and that she’s not afraid of me.
“Iris, thank you so much for agreeing to finally sit down and talk to me,” Linda says with a sly smile on her face.
I don’t trust that woman one fucking bit. I think she’d sell her soul if it meant getting the best story.
Iris doesn’t say anything, just simply pulls her lips into a tight line and smiles politely.
“You’ve avoided telling your side of the story since the news broke about you and Ace White over three weeks ago, so why end your silence now?”
Iris slowly licks her lips and sits a little straighter in her chair. “I haven’t had any contact with Ace since the day he left. Besides the fact that I’m missing him like crazy, I need to see him to apologize—to tell him I didn’t mean some of the hurtful things I said.”
My heart does a double thump against my ribs and I swallow hard. She misses me? Wants to apologize? Does this mean she still wants me?
“What did you say?” Linda probes, wanting more specifics about our fight.
Iris doesn’t speak, just simply shakes her head. “That’s not information that I’m willing to share.”
Linda leans in, like she’s really wanting to pick at poor Iris’s brain. “Do you think he’ll come back if he sees this, Iris?”
Iris shrugs. “I don’t know, but I’m leaving Willow Acres soon. The state is going to seize my home due to unpaid taxes, so I’m going back to New York and, well . . . I guess I just wanted him to know, and this was the only way I knew that I might have a chance to reach him since he isn’t returning any of my phone calls.”
Linda’s face morphs into a dreamy smile as the camera pans back to her. “It sounds like the two of you had quite the love affair. Tell me, Iris, do you love him?”
“Yes,” she whispers, and warmth spreads through my chest as I find myself leaning toward the television. “I love him very much. I just want him to know that.”
“I love you too, Iris,” I say, even though I know she can’t hear me, but wishing that she could.
“Let’s hope Ace sees this and makes contact with you. We’re all still worried about him,” Linda tells Iris and then looks into the camera and signs off with her typical catch phrase.
As soon as the channel flips to a commercial, the same thought runs through my mind over and over—getting back to Iris.
I’ve been absolutely miserable without her, but she hurt me bad. On one hand I want to prove to her that she’ll always be safe with me, but on the other I hate the fact that she’s able to believe that I’m some kind of monster after how much I’ve opened up to her. The woman knows everything about me.
The more I replay the things Iris just said on TV, the more I find myself getting angry. If she loves me so much and misses me, why did she push me away? It’s like she’s the one making decisions about our relationship. She gets to determine when I need to be pushed away and hurt, and then it’s also up to her when she gets to plead for me to come back by pronouncing publicly how much she loves me and that she’s sorry. I don’t like being someone’s puppet. I don’t like my feelings fucked with any old time someone feels like it.
She broke her promise to me about sticking by my side. Why isn’t it up to me to decide if I can still love her? She shouldn’t go on television and make me seem like an uncaring asshole who just ran off.
Besides, I don’t know if I can I ever trust her again after all this. How will I know she means what she promises after that?
Does she mean what she just said in the interview about being sorry and missing me and loving me, or is she somehow using me for publicity after I tried so hard to protect her from that very thing?
So many fucking questions rattle through my brain.
It would be so easy to pick up the phone and call her—to hear the words straight from her mouth that she wants me back and have her explain why she pushed me away like she did, but I can’t bring myself to do it. When I have any communication with her about what’s going on between us, it needs to be face-to-face. I need to see her expression when I ask her if she still loves me. I need to see for myself that she means it and isn’t bullshitting me for some fucking camera.
I flop back against the pillow and sigh heavily.
I shouldn’t have gotten involved with her. It’s complicated the hell out of everything.
It’s hard knowing that the media are tormenting her with questions about my whereabouts, because I don’t know if she’s enjoying the attention or if it’s beating her down the same way it does me. If it’s interfering with her life, it makes me feel even worse for being a selfish bastard and taking her. I knew that this scenario was probable the moment she agreed to be with me. I pray the havoc I’ve released into her life doesn’t affect her when she goes back to New York. The last thing I ever wanted was for her career to become overshadowed by the fact that she’s been with me. Hell, it’s already made national news, and the longer I keep holding out on facing my life, making everyone wonder where in the hell I am, the longer the press will continue to hound her.
Iris is so insanely talented and deserves every opportunity to achieve her dream without the likes of me tainting her chances.
But maybe if I fix things—clear the air with Mopar Records and Jane Ann—Iris might have a shot of getting out from under the press’s microscope and not have Broadway completely ruined for her.
My eyes snap to the prepaid cell phone that I bought when I first started my undercover adventure. I could take all this pressure off Iris with one phone call, exposing myself to the world.
My palms sweat as I pick up the phone. This is the right thing to do. Everything has gotten out of hand, and it’s time for me to fix it.
The moment I enter the numbers in and hit send, I close my eyes, waiting for the voice I’ve been dreading for the last four months to answer.
“Who is this?” Jane Ann’s shrill voice snaps onto the line.
“It’s me. It’s Ace,” I say. “I’m ready to talk now.”
The moment I get past the security checkpoint exit at LAX I’m nearly blinded from all the camera flashes. In the middle of all the madness stands Jane Ann, wearing a smug smile that matches the flashy sequined black dress that’s sure to attract attention from every ang
le. One of the security guys who usually accompanies Wicked White to events stands beside her, doing his best to keep the paparazzi away.
She holds her arms open wide to me and more flashes go off, all of the photographers hoping to catch our reunion on film. “Welcome home, Ace.”
She’s fucking unbelievable.
I shake my head and push past her, not willing to put on the show she wants for the cameras. I’m not here to answer questions or to gain the public’s sympathy. I’m here to get my shit squared away.
Jane Ann follows close behind me, leading the trail of paparazzi our way. “Ace, at least give the camera a sympathetic smile.”
“Screw that. You know I’m only back to get this all squashed. I could care less about how this will affect my career. I told you over the phone that I’m done being your puppet,” I fire back.
The hulking security guard ushers us through the automatic doors leading outside and then into an awaiting black limo.
I slide inside and Jane Ann immediately follows, and we’re shut in. The reporters shove their cameras up to the windows, attempting to get a shot of us inside the dark-tinted glass, but I refuse to give them much to report. I keep my head down with my sunglasses on, doing my best to hide my face.
As soon as the car pulls away from the curb, the weight of Jane Ann’s heated stare hits me full force.
“What?” I ask in a harsh tone as I turn to face her, readying myself for her to start bitching at any moment.
Her blue eyes narrow at me. “Do you have any idea the hell you put us all through? I’ve had to work my ass off in order to convince Mopar that you’ve had some sort of mental break after it came out that you were alive and well.”
“I don’t give a shit about what you’ve been through. If you haven’t noticed, I just buried the woman I consider to be my mother and I’ve been yanked away from the girl I love, so excuse me for not really giving a shit about what you’ve been through.”
Jane Ann sighs. “Look, Ace. I’m sorry about that. I should’ve handled things a little differently, but you should’ve too. We both were wrong, and now we have to fix what we’ve screwed up. We have to make the label happy. The label is ready to sue, Ace. They lost a lot of money after nearly four months of canceled shows. The best thing you can do now is beg for the mercy of the public, claiming to have had a mental break over the death of—”
“No!” I assert with authority. “I will not use my mother as an excuse for walking away from everything. I left because I’m tired of being your fucking puppet. I’m sick of being something that I’m not.”
Jane Ann scrubs her forehead with her hand, clearly flustered. “What is it that you want, exactly? I mean, what was so bad that you felt like you had to walk away from everything in order to make your point? You’re the star of the band. What more could you want?”
I laugh harshly. “Where do I even start? I hate everything Wicked White. I hate the kind of music I’m forced to sing. I hate the clothes I’m forced to wear. The way I’m paraded around and not allowed to refuse things that I’m not comfortable with. All so you can make a buck off me. You won’t even give my ideas a chance.”
“I’m doing what’s best for you.” Her face twists in anger. “If it weren’t for me—”
“I’d still be in Ohio and happy,” I quickly cut her off.
“No,” she counters. “That’s not true. You were hungry for a music career and you wouldn’t have been happy until you got one. So, Ace, honey, you would’ve been in Ohio, still plugging away on that frivolous philosophy degree, dreaming about having a career like the very one you’re on the verge of losing.”
I lick my suddenly dry lips as the words from her mouth hit me as a possible truth. She’s right. Dreaming about making it in the music industry was something I always did, and in truth, that’s mostly why I agreed to signing a deal where everything was dictated to me. I knew going in that I would have absolutely no creative control, but I was hoping that would change over time—that Mopar would trust in my talent enough to give me a shot at writing and performing the kind of music I love.
In reality I’m what the industry refers to as an indie rock artist. I want to march to the beat of the soulful drum that moves me and not play this lame pop shit that I’ve been forced into.
“You’re right,” I whisper. “I hate admitting that, but you are.”
Her eyes soften. “Ace, I know you want to write and perform your own music. I promise, if you stick with me and work through this little hiccup in the road, that I will make sure that you get to do more of that.”
“You will?” I ask, surprised.
“Yes.” She nods. “I’ll do everything I can, since you’re obviously so unhappy with the way things are going. I’m sorry about how I treated you before, and I’m asking you to trust me to guide you in the right direction, just like I have been over the past couple of years when I took your career to this level.”
I bite the corner of my thumbnail as I think about what she said. Mr. Stern confirmed that my contract states that I’m still obligated to fulfill concert dates and record two more records, but he also said there was a clause in there allowing me to have creative control of my brand. I don’t mind being on the road. Of course I’ll miss Iris, but I know that the sooner I get my shit back in order, the sooner I can track her down and salvage what’s left of our relationship.
“What do I have to do in order to save myself the headache of having to fight Mopar Records on a lawsuit for breach of contract?”
Jane Ann’s mouth pulls up in a halfhearted smile. “We need to get your side of the story out there. I need you to be honest with the world—tell them you were upset over your foster mother and apologize—to everyone. I’ll arrange a sit-down interview with Linda Bronson from Celebrity Pop Buzz Nightly since she’s been following your story so close. If we get you seen, things will get back on the right track.”
Two days later, after consulting with an attorney on what I should and shouldn’t say, I sit down in an oversize white chair facing the reporter who gets under my skin like no other.
I unbutton my gray jacket and try to relax in the seat and pretend that the hot lights shining down on me like the blistering sun aren’t causing me to sweat.
“Just try and be natural. Viewers tend to believe you more if you seem comfortable with what you’re saying,” Linda Bronson says as she double-checks her bright red lipstick, which stands out against her platinum-blond hair and black dress suit. “You’ll want the viewers on your side if you’re hoping to win back your fans’ trust and get your career restarted.”
I nod stiffly and roll my shoulders, attempting to force the tension out, because I do owe the fans an apology for standing them up. It was wrong of me to do that. I know I let a lot of them down.
“Linda, we’re on in five,” a woman standing just left of the camera tells her and then takes a step back, counting down from five.
Linda tosses her hair, plasters the biggest grin on her face, and sets her eyes directly on the camera lens focused on her. “Good evening, America. I’m Linda Bronson with Celebrity Pop Buzz Nightly, coming to you live from the California home of Ace White. You might remember Ace as being the front man of the famous band Wicked White, but what he’s gained worldwide notoriety from is his recent disappearance. Many thought he had met with an untimely demise, while others like his tour manager, Jane Ann Rogers, held out hope that he was alive.
“I, myself, have been covering the story of Ace White’s disappearance from the very beginning, following up on every lead, and I was getting nowhere. It wasn’t until a domestic disturbance in an Ohio mobile home community was reported to authorities that Ace’s whereabouts were discovered. He had been hiding out, living under his true name of Ace Johnson, working as a handyman. Today Ace White sits down to tell us his side of the story and just why he walked away from a successful career.”
Linda turns to me with an over-the-top expression of pity in her eyes. “Thank you
so much for being here with me, Ace.”
I rub my sweating palms on my thighs and immediately see Jane Ann shaking her head. I freeze instantly and then simply rest my hands against my legs. “Thank you for having me, Linda.”
“So, Ace, I’m going to get right down to it. Can you please tell us what happened on the day you walked out on a sold-out crowd?”
I lick my lips, not wanting to reveal the problems of my life to the world, but I know at this point I have no choice. “I received a phone call from a police officer in Columbus, where the woman who raised me lived. Sarah Johnson was my foster mother, and I loved her like she was my real mother; the state even allowed me to take on her last name as my own when I was sixteen. She wanted to adopt me, but we found out that if she did that, I would lose a lot of the state funding for my impending college education, so the state agreed to grant me the name change. In my eyes, that was just the same as her adopting me. It signified that we were really a family and that she thought of me as her son.
“Anyway, the officer told me that they had found Sarah unresponsive and had transported her to the Grant Medical Center in critical condition.”
Linda clutches at her chest. “You poor dear! What happened after you got that call?”
“Naturally, I wanted to hop in my car and speed off to be with her. She was my only family, and I wanted to be there for her like she was for me while I was growing up. It was important to me to be there, so against the wishes of my bandmates, tour manager, and label, I took off.”
“That’s completely understandable. I think a lot of people would do the same thing if they were in your position.” She tilts her head. “What was with the dramatics—flipping the band the middle finger before going on this hiatus? What caused that?”