Page 66 of Reality With You (Arden Beach #1)

A s it turned out, Lennon could still nail an interview, even when her life was falling apart.

After everything she’d been through that day, convincing someone she could wait tables at a snazzy cocktail bar was a walk in the park.

They hired her on the spot and scheduled her to start training in two weeks, although her hours would be limited until a full-time position became available.

At least it took some financial pressure off and gave her time to decide what to do about the show.

Whenever Lennon tried to think about it, a rush of anxiety spilled out and she pushed it away.

A conference of some kind had let out as she was leaving the hotel, putting Lennon behind a large group of women, at least fifty or so, in heavy makeup and brightly colored athleisure waiting to hand in their tickets to the valet.

Lennon pulled her phone out as she waited, toggling the “Do Not Disturb” mode off to check any messages she had missed while in the interview.

Two missed calls from Carol Anne loomed at the top of her notifications.

Her stomach knotted. She’d call her back later—

The phone rang in her hand. Carol Anne.

Sighing, Lennon accepted the call to get it over with. “Hey, Carol Anne. What’s up?”

“What are you playing at, Lennon? Did you think we weren’t going to find out?”

“I’m sorry, what?” Lennon pressed the button to turn up the volume on her phone, assuming she hadn’t heard her correctly through all the noise from the crowd. She plugged her other ear with her finger.

“Your contract with Goldrush,” Carol Anne explained, her tone clipped. “You should’ve told us everything.”

“I did …”

“What about the exclusivity clause?”

“What are you talking about?”

“The one that prohibits you from recording anything without Goldrush’s permission. We can’t release the song you recorded without paying them an exorbitant fee. Thank God we cut it from the show, otherwise, we would’ve been fucked.”

The blood rushed in Lennon’s ears. For a moment, the world around her stopped, pressing into an unimaginably small point. “That can’t be right,” she said. “The contract was terminated. It was all terminated.”

“Not everything. Didn’t your lawyer tell you anything?”

“I … don’t have a lawyer.”

Carol Anne released a short, humorless laugh. “Well, you might want to get one. We’re taking the money for that day at the studio out of your paycheck. Is there anything else we need to know?”

Lennon held her stomach, fighting back the urge to vomit. “No.”

The line went silent. Lennon glanced at her phone screen and saw the call had ended. She stood immobile among the chattering, lively crowd, her heart banging a hollow drum in her chest as the ground seemed to sway beneath her feet.

Lennon stood reeling in the valet line long enough for all fifty women to disperse. But by the time it was her turn, she decided not to turn in her valet ticket yet.

She needed to take a walk.

And she needed some advice.

A few blocks later, Lennon stood in front of the Alonsos’ imposing doors, pressing the call button below the camera.

They’d given her the code to the gate in case she ever wanted to stop by.

She’d never expected to use it, but here she was.

It wasn’t until that moment, between her finger pushing the button and watching Agueda’s shadow approach through the glass, that panic spiked.

Lennon wondered if she’d just made another mistake in the heat of distress.

Before Lennon could run back down the stairs, Agueda opened the door and greeted her with a smile as she dried her hands on a dish towel. She wore an apron over a bright, floral maxi dress. “Lennon! What a nice surprise.”

“Hi, Agueda. I hope I’m not overstepping or imposing,” she said apologetically.

“I was just … in the area and wondered if I could talk to Mr. Alonso for a minute. If he’s free.

I realize I should’ve called first.” Lennon’s eyes fluttered shut, inwardly admonishing herself for not thinking this through more.

She probably looked like a desperate fangirl with boundary issues showing up at their door. “You know what, I’m sorry. Nevermi—”

“Come in,” Agueda said, waving a hand as she held the door open.

Lennon’s brain lagged for a second before she fully comprehended that she was actually being invited inside.

“Last I checked, he was with Bebe. I’ll see if he’s available to see anyone,” Agueda said as she led her to the living room. “Wait here, darling.”

As Agueda disappeared down one of the corridors, nerves skittered all around Lennon’s organs. Who was Bebe? He wasn’t married and didn’t have any kids. Another artist? A girlfriend? Someone who knew how to make appointments with him rather than randomly dropping by his home?

Agueda popped around the corner a minute later and Lennon straightened, preparing to graciously exit.

“This way,” Agueda said, waving her hand.

She led Lennon to one of the outdoor spaces.

Not the one they’d dined on with Raquel Rosas—Lennon still couldn’t believe that had happened—but another with a lap pool and a cozy seating area.

Oscar sat on the edge of a chaise in a guayabera shirt and shorts, a dark-haired teacup Chihuahua sitting alert at his feet on the polished stone floor, sporting a tiny diamond collar.

Her large, round eyes focused intently on the treat between Oscar’s thick fingers.

He said something in Spanish and the dog suddenly hopped up on her tiny hind legs, spinning in a circle.

His gravelly laugh drifted through the open French doors as they approached.

“Can I get you anything? Water, tea, coffee. Oh, I made fresh lemonade this morning,” Agueda offered.

“Lemonade sounds nice. Thank you.” Lennon’s walk from the hotel in the hot, afternoon sun had left her mouth feeling like sandpaper.

Agueda warmly touched her on the shoulder and then went on her way.

Lennon stepped out onto the large terrace. “Hi, Mr. Alonso.”

“ Buenas tardes, bonita . Watch this.” Oscar told the dog to sit again, and she plopped herself down in front of him.

He gave her another instruction in Spanish, and she responded with a lift of her front paws, sitting back on her hind legs.

She then put her tiny front paws together and began to lift them up and down in a waving motion.

A deep, joyous belly laugh poured out of Oscar as his freckled face lit up with pride.

“So smart, isn’t she?” he mused as he rewarded the dog with a treat.

Her ears folded back against her apple-shaped head as she took the treat, her little tail wagging rapidly.

“Her name is Bebe. I trained her myself.”

A smile touched Lennon as she watched the two of them. It almost made her forget about the pit in her stomach.

“So, to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?” Oscar asked, stroking Bebe’s back as she lapped up water from the bowl beside his feet.

“Thank you for agreeing to see me. I’m sorry for showing up without warning like some kind of stalker. I promise, I won’t take up much of your time—” Lennon stopped as he waved her off.

“I told you, my door is always open,” Oscar insisted in earnest, putting her at ease. He studied her. “You look troubled.”

“That’s an understatement.” The breath she took pulled tight across her chest, shame sitting cold in her belly.

“I did something really, really stupid. I didn’t have a lawyer look over my contract before I signed with Goldrush, or when it was terminated.

Honestly, I couldn’t afford one, and I stupidly trusted them because they’re such a big label and …

I was excited to have a deal. Which, looking back—” Lennon shook her head in disgust. “I should’ve known better.

They had an exclusivity clause in the contract that’s still active. ”

Oscar briefly closed his eyes, a barely perceptible nod following. “For how long?”

Lennon pushed past the lump in her throat. “My original contract was for ten years from the date signed.”

“Those vultures,” he said with a sigh.

She blinked back the tears framing her vision, maintaining her composure. “Is there anything I can do or am I completely screwed?”

Agueda returned, delivering a glass of lemonade to Lennon and an iced tea to Oscar. She then excused herself.

Oscar squeezed a lime wedge into his drink, stirred it, and moved to the larger armchair adjacent to Lennon’s spot on the sofa.

He relaxed back, considering her question.

“Goldrush is a huge label, like you said. Their lawyers will have done everything they can to make that contract ironclad.” A rush of panic raced up Lennon’s sternum.

“But in my experience, every contract has a loophole. And if it doesn’t, one can usually be negotiated.

It’s finding the right buttons to press. Everybody has some.”

“How do I do that?”

“You’ll need to start by getting your own lawyers, ones big enough to take on theirs.”

Lennon sighed with her whole body, deflating. “I don’t have the money for that. I don’t know what I’m going to do. Ten years, I—I can’t imagine putting my dreams on hold for ten years .”

“Then, you have to find a way to fight for them.”

Lennon stared out across the balcony to the endless stretch of blue. She’d been fighting for years. She didn’t know how much was left in her.

The show was painting her as a villain to the public.

Goldrush owned all her music. To fight this, she would have to agree to the show’s second season if it was picked up so she could afford the legal fees.

The thought of being stuck under Nolan’s, Huey’s, and Kelsey’s thumbs any longer—going along with their game—made her want to hurl herself off that balcony.

And what if she went through all that, only to end up losing the legal battle against Goldrush?

Maybe this was the universe’s way of telling her this wasn’t the path for her.