Page 5 of Last Chorus (A Perfect Song Duet #2)

CHAPTER FOUR

evangeline

I ’ve spent a lot of time in Los Angeles over the years—it’s an inescapable leviathan of the music industry—but living here has made me lose appreciation for the climate everyone else loves.

Case in point, it’s New Year’s Eve and a balmy sixty-four degrees.

I don’t even need a coat. Which, given the minuscule dress I’m wearing, is unfortunate.

It’s also deeply unsettling, like my body knows something is wrong.

I felt the same way waking up on Christmas morning and eating breakfast outside in the warm sunshine.

Clay says it will take time for me to adjust. Maybe he’s right.

But while the barely changing weather disturbs me, I doubt I’ll ever get used to the migraine-inducing smog and constant traffic, or the fact there’s more dirty cement here than trees or actual dirt.

Or the dreaded Celebrity Tax, a joking term that really isn’t funny.

While the price of celebrity certainly isn’t unique to L.A.

, in my experience, it’s more acute and constant here than in Seattle, Austin, or even New York.

Anonymity is next to impossible thanks to the weather and further exacerbated by the city’s culture of exploitation.

Not only does the public have the right to stalk, dissect, criticize, and confront me every time I leave the house, but I’m supposed to be immune to it or at the least, never complain.

Even among those who experience the same daily pressures I do, there’s no respite. Every conversation is inherently dangerous. Laden with hidden agendas and context.

Like the one I’m having right now.

Poppy Cole is a twenty-year-old pop star. Blonde hair. Piercing blue eyes. Unquestionably beautiful. Our fanbases have minimal overlap, so her barely veiled animosity makes no sense. I’ve literally never exchanged words with her before tonight.

“My stylist showed me that dress as an option for tonight,” she says, her heavily made-up eyes flickering down my body. Her smile is fixed and completely fake.

Maybe it’s the dry winds blowing across the crowded outdoor patio and irritating my eyes, or the uncomfortable heels Clay insisted I wear, but I can’t summon the polite pretense required for this game. The one where I pretend we’re hitting it off for the sake of appearances.

Another thing I’ve learned about L.A., or at least Hollywood: it’s high school all over again. Cliques and social climbing and nonstop cattiness.

Poppy’s eyes glitter with annoyance, probably because I’m not rising to her bait but merely staring back at her.

She makes a second attempt. “I’m glad I didn’t wear it.”

I take a small sip of champagne and say mildly, “It’s definitely not a style that suits everyone.”

When her smile freezes, I suffer immediate guilt. Fame in this city is a designer toxin for young, ambitious women. I was spared the worst of it living like a recluse in the Pacific Northwest, but apparently the smog is slowly sucking out my kindness.

I open my mouth to apologize in the usual way, by complimenting her dress, but she speaks first.

“We should do lunch sometime. I’ll introduce you to my esthetician. She’s amazing at…” She twirls a fingertip around her face, eyes radiating false sympathy.

Ah, age-shaming. Nice.

“Oh, look! It’s Olivia. I have to say hello. So great chatting with you, Eva. Call me!” She gives me a little wave and sashays away.

I don’t bother saying goodbye.

Around me, forty or so people mingle or lounge on stark-white furniture in the cement backyard of an ultra-modern Hollywood Hills mansion. I hear Clay’s laughter and track the sound to a nearby group of men. The tableau could be the intro to a joke: a lawyer, a judge, and an actor walk into a bar…

Clay glances at me, the skin around his eyes pinching when he sees I’m alone. I instantly hear his voice in my head reminding me of the importance of networking.

I paste a pleasant smile on my face, then wish I hadn’t when the stretch of my facial muscles activates an urge to yawn.

My scheduled nap today was a bust, and even the IV drip of vitamins, antioxidants, and electrolytes I had after lunch failed to dent my fatigue.

Gritting my teeth, I overcome the reflex and look around for a friendly face. Or at least a familiar one.

What I really want is to ask Clay if we can go home.

Ring in the new year on the couch in our pajamas.

But I know better. He isn’t a homebody like me—this is his happy place.

Asking him to leave would not only ruin his night, it would worsen his growing concerns about my sleep. Or rather, my lack of it .

If I don’t get a handle on my insomnia soon, I’m afraid history will repeat itself. I’ll be given a choice between a stint at a private clinic or sleeping pills at home that give me nightmares and make me feel like a zombie all day.

Tension tightens my shoulders as I glance at Clay again. He’s still watching me, body language projecting an intent to excuse himself and come over. If he does, I’ll be stuck to his side the rest of the night, guided from group to group until my head spins.

I look around again, a bit more desperately, and sigh with relief when I spot a familiar man sitting on a couch on the other side of the patio. Maybe I do have one friend in this city. Seizing the opportunity, I walk toward him. If it weren’t for the icepicks on my feet, I might even run.

Even surrounded by fashion-obsessed partygoers, Martin Page stands out.

He wears a shimmery silver vest with no undershirt, the pale color highlighting his warm brown skin and trim physique.

Snug, matching pants with fringe down the sides and white cowboy boots complete his ensemble.

On anyone else, the look could easily be kitschy, but on Martin it’s effortless high fashion.

I’m probably the only one here who knows he likely found the outfit at one of his favorite resale shops.

When he spies me approaching, a smile overtakes his face. “Eva!” He shoves at the man next to him, who gives him an annoyed look but scoots down to make room for me.

After depositing my half-full glass of champagne on the table, I sit carefully, keeping my legs sealed so I don’t flash the party.

Bending as much as the restrictive dress will allow, I rub at my ankle where a tiny strap has cut into my skin.

When the sting only gets worse, I give up and lean against Martin’s shoulder.

I whisper, “You hate my dress, don’t you?”

“It’s hideous,” he whispers back.

I laugh over an abrupt urge to cry. “I miss you.”

He drops his head against mine. “Same.”

Martin was the up-and-coming stylist who took Lily and me under his wing six years ago. The instincts of our publicist, Anita, were right when she surmised we’d be perfect for each other. Over the following years, Martin became more than a friend. He was family.

My heart still aches at the memory of the day last year when he tearfully informed us he needed to part ways.

Lily and I were blindsided, heartbroken, and confused.

Friendship aside, our professional relationship had always been mutually beneficial.

After dressing us for our first Grammys, Martin became one of the most sought-after stylists on the West Coast, and since then his name has been synonymous with edgy elegance.

Until last year, his name was also synonymous with Glow.

But despite the lingering pain of his sudden departure and vague reasonings, there’s no world in which I wouldn’t be happy to see him.

“How are you?” he asks softly.

A lie sits on my tongue, but the truth leaps over it. “Tired.”

Martin drops a hand to my knee and squeezes gently. “Come down to my place in Baja for a week. We’ll drink margaritas and float in the pool all day. How about next month?”

I suck in a breath, my first instinct a resounding yes . But then I picture Clay’s reaction and my chest deflates. There’s no way he’d be okay with it, not with so much up in the air.

Before I can think of a way to say no, the man seated on the other side of Martin asks, “Is that who I think it is?”

Martin straightens and looks around. “Who? Is it Miley? Because if it’s not Miley, I don’t care.”

“I can’t believe it,” someone else murmurs, while a woman on a nearby love seat slaps her friend’s arm and says, “I knew tonight was going to be epic. Where’s my phone?”

The energy of the party shifts fast, conversations dying off or lowering to murmurs as more and more people turn to observe the newcomer. I still can’t see them, my line of sight blocked.

Whoever they are, I’m both grateful for the distraction and feel sorry for them. I’ve been in their shoes more times than I can count. While fame can be thrilling, especially at first, eventually it gets old being treated like a product instead of a person.

Lost in my thoughts, I jerk in surprise when Martin swivels toward me. His eyes are wide, lips pursed in distress.

“Honey, you’re not going to like this.”

“Huh?”

Frowning, I glance over his shoulder right as a small group disperses, revealing the man standing near the back door of the house.

A fiery, pins-and-needles sensation crawls over every inch of my skin.

“What’s he doing here?” I whisper.

Martin squeezes my burning fingers. “Not a clue.”

It’s been years since I’ve seen Wilder in such close proximity, my exposure intentionally limited to glimpses at fifty feet during award shows or the occasional, accidental sight of him on social media or in a magazine.

I want to look away, need to , but I can’t. I can’t even blink. The sight of him has frozen every inch of me, skin to marrow.

Clearly his stance on conformity, and fashion in general, hasn’t changed.

He still dresses like he’s twenty-five. I wish I could say the forever-casual look isn’t attractive anymore, that it makes him appear immature or slovenly.

But it doesn’t. In a sea of sparkling silverfish, he stands out like a tiger shark.

Unapologetically unpolished. Magnetic, sensual, and irreverent.

Worn jeans hug his lean hips and long legs above combat boots.

A faded black T-shirt showcases the sculpted contours of his chest and arms, the latter’s surface almost fully obscured by tattoos.

Unruly dark waves frame his face, enhancing his striking features.

I’m grateful I can’t see his eyes—until I see the woman he’s looking down at, who’s suctioned to his arm like a frilly pink octopus.

Poppy .

My jaw grinds and a spark of pain erupts behind my right eye. Through a veil of static, I register snippets of conversations taking place around me.

“…even hotter in person.”

“…definitely my hall pass.”

“She doesn’t look so good…”

“…clearly not over him.”

“…you blame her? He’s a god in flesh. ”

I finally drag my eyes from Wilder to see people staring at me. A lot of people, with expressions ranging from pity to pleasure.

“Let’s go inside,” Martin says urgently.

When I nod, he stands and pulls me to my feet, then guides me away from the couch.

I barely feel the throbs of protest in my ankles.

I’m a marionette, relying on his arm around my waist to keep me upright and moving.

People scatter from our path as we make our way toward the house.

Thankfully, there’s another entrance closer to us, so we don’t have to walk past him .

Then, like a different puppeteer takes control of my body, my head snaps to the left. From twenty feet away, dappled-forest eyes bore into mine.

I hate you .

And like he heard my silent scream, Wilder nods.

I know.