Page 10 of When the Stars Rise

It scared me so much that I left Texas and moved to LA to live with Dean for my senior year of high school. That wasn’t the only reason I left, but it was one of them.

After ensuring that Chris’ eyes are on the road, I slink down in my seat and pop a pill, washing it down with bottled water from an artesian well in Fiji. I don’t know why I’m hiding it. It’s only Xanax, so it’s not like I’m doing anything wrong, but I’ve gotten so accustomed to hiding my pill consumption that I do it out of habit.

The rain tapers off when we reach Dean’s neighborhood and drive past stately homes on a leafy, elegant street, but I’m still on edge and only start relaxing when I see the black Ducati parked in front. Dean must have given Noah the code because there’s no sign of him.

Tall hedges and black iron gates surround the white mansion with black shutters, pillars, and wrought-iron balconies set back from the street by a manicured front lawn. Two stone lions guard the front door.

Dean doesn’t spend a lot of time at this house. When he’s not on tour with me or doing his own tours, he lives in Malibu. He bought the house in New Orleans ten years ago and said it was more symbolic than anything.

“Nobody thought I’d ever amount to anything,” Dean had said. “This house is a fuck you to my Pops and all the other assholes who tried to keep me down.”

Dean Bouchon and Shiloh Leroux grew up in Louisiana on the bayou. A couple years ago, Dean took me to see the swamp shack Shiloh grew up in.

The house where I was born. It’s a far cry from this Greek Revival-style mansion in New Orleans, but the first time I visited this city, I felt like I was returning to my roots.

Shiloh told me she wanted to name me Ophelia, after her mom. I immediately thought of the tragic Shakespearean heroine.

Who would that girl have been? Ophelia Leroux Bouchon. How different would my life have been if Shiloh hadn’t dropped me off at that hospital when I was only a few days old?

But I always come back to the same thought.

If Shiloh had kept me, I wouldn’t have met Noah McCallister.

And that’s just too sad for words.

CHAPTER FOUR

Hayley

I dartacross the back lawn barefoot and jog up the steps to the terrace, wringing the rainwater out of my hair. I love the scent of rain and fresh-cut grass, and I’m trying to fill my lungs with fresh air, storing it up for the next six weeks on the road.

The spring air smells sweet with the scent of rain and heady from the magnolia blossoms carpeting the backyard. I wish I could bottle up the scent and take it with me.

I’m debating whether to go inside and search for Noah when he steps out of the French doors with the latest issue ofVanity Fairin one hand and a towel in the other.

“Saw you dancing in the rain,” he says with a smile like it makes him happy to see me dancing, and he hands me the towel.

“You should have brought your shower gel and joined me.” I run the towel through my hair, drape it over my shoulders like a cape, and sit cross-legged on the porch swing next to him. He pushes off the floorboards with the sole of his Vans, the chains creaking as the swing rocks.

It’s as soothing as a lullaby.

Sometimes, I fantasize about growing old with Noah. Maybe we’d live in a house like this with honey-wood floors, tall windows, and a long history. Whenever our children and grandchildren would visit for the holidays, we’d tell stories about our childhood and my life on the road, playing sold-out arenas. We’d talk about Noah’s adventures. All the far-flung places he traveled to and all the crazy, daring things he did.

When I look at him, I’m still imagining a future I’m not sure we have. He’s reading the feature article inVanity Fair, his brows furrowed as if trying to make sense of the words.

I snatch the magazine out of his hand and fling it across the porch. It lands with the cover facing up. A photo of me on a vintage floral sofa wearing couture Chanel stares back at us.

“I was reading that,” he protests but leans back in his seat and makes no attempt to retrieve it.

“If you want to know anything about me, just ask.” As if he doesn’t already know everything about me. Well, almost everything.

He squints up at the ceiling fans. “I read the part where you talk about the inspiration behind your new album.”

I study his profile, trying to gauge his reaction, but get sidetracked by his sheer beauty. Sometimes, all I can do is stare at him.

I want to lick him. Claim him as my own.

He’s freshly showered, wearing frayed cargo pants and a faded blue T-shirt. He looks like a California boy, even though he was born and raised in Texas. He always wears the black and silver Phiten Takuwa bracelet on his left wrist—his good luck talisman. I gave it to him for his nineteenth birthday.