Anywhere You Are (16 page)

Her gaze shot lower and then she saw it. The mike clipped to his T-shirt.

Another season of The Evergood Life.

And then she got it. “No, Dad. Not you, too.”

“It's okay, Grace,” he told her gently. “They can edit it out.”

But it wasn't the same. Everything—even a conversation with her dad—was being recorded, caught on camera for everyone to scrutinize.

“I can't,” she told him, and turned away, not wanting him to see the furious blinking of her eyes.

This evening was shaping up to be a complete disaster. She needed to find Crystal so she could get out of here.

She pushed her way through the crowd, trying desperately to locate her friend in the crush. The dim lights and the tears in her eyes weren't helping matters, either. She went past the stage and made her way to the back of the bar toward the private rooms. She leaned against a worn wooden door and pushed it open, scanning the faces. No Crystal. She tried the next room. No Crystal there either, but her brother Axel was there, high already, his eyes glazed over.

She went over to him. He was handsome, with dark hair, light eyes, and a rocker style that made him look like a mini Jer. Unfortunately, he'd seemed to have inherited all of their dad's style but none of his substance. Unless you counted getting drunk and acting stupid as a profession.

“Axel,” she said, tapping his cheek with her hand. “You okay?”

His eyes managed to focus for all of three seconds. “Gracie!” he said happily, right before his gaze clouded over again. “She's my sister,” he slurred to the man next to him, who was evidently also drunk off his ass.

Grace sighed. There was nothing to do for Axel when he was in this state except to make sure he didn't harm himself. Unfortunately, she was in no position to do that, so she turned to get her dad.

As she made to leave, she noticed her other brother, Tobias, locking lips with a gorgeous redhead.

No. She just couldn't bear to deal with both of them tonight. She turned, praying that they didn't see her, but unfortunately, one of Toby's friends, a guy named Ollie, who'd been trying to hit on her for years, spotted her.

“Gracie, hey!” he said, his eyes lighting up. “Long time no see. How've you been, girl?”

She shook her head. Ollie was twenty-two, a wannabe rocker with the tattoos to match. Unfortunately, the kid had no talent. Still, that didn't stop him from hanging out with Tobias and his friends.

He'd said her name loudly—too loudly—and now Toby had stopped kissing the girl and had turned to her. His handsome face lit up as soon as he spotted her.

“I didn't think you'd make it tonight, sis. Come here,” he said, gesturing for her to come over.

What possessed her to go over there she had no idea, especially because people were starting to whisper and talk.

Toby seemed oblivious. “I want you to meet my girlfriend.” He turned to the girl, a wisp of a thing with long, straight bangs. “This is my sister, Grace.”

The girl was looking at her with huge eyes, clearly awestruck. “You're…you're…so beautiful. And tiny.” She turned to Toby. “You didn't tell me she was so tiny.”

“Yep, that's me. Tiny Davingham,” Grace said, trying for humor to lighten the awkwardness of the situation.

The girl laughed loud and long. “You're so
funny
! Tobes, you didn't tell me she was so funny!”

Grace looked at Toby, who simply shrugged, as if he didn't understand how awkward this all was.

The girl sobered suddenly. “Can I take a picture of you…with me?”

“Uh—”

“Sure,” Toby said brightly. “Pics or it didn't happen. I'll take it.”

“Wait a second, I—” But before Grace could protest, the girl was standing next to her making a duck face.

“Got it,” Toby said with satisfaction.

“Killer,” the girl said, already tapping on her cellphone. “All of my followers are going to love seeing you. What's your username again?”

Grace swallowed hard. This was her brother, using her. It hurt. A lot. “I have to go.”

“But—”

“One thing. Make sure Axel's okay later on. I'll text Mom and Dad about him and I'm calling you to check in to confirm he gets home okay. You're responsible. Got it?”

Toby nodded. “Got it.” Her brother knew the drill. He wouldn't let anything happen to Axel.

She turned and walked out, not able to look anyone in the face. Where the hell was Crystal? All she wanted was to get her friend and get out of here. The evening couldn't possibly get any worse.

And then it did.

Just outside the door, a familiar voice called out her name. Zig. She froze, unable to move. Unable to speak, even. Because even though she'd known it was a possibility that he might be here, the hurt still ran so deep.

Slowly, she turned, taking in his appearance. He looked almost exactly the same as he had the last time she'd seen him—that is to say, amazing. His hair was long and dark, perfectly mussed, as if he'd just come from a club…or from a woman's bed. His eyes, so bright, so blue, pierced through her, shredding her from the inside out. And that mouth, curled at the edges—in apology? Or regret.

“Grace,” he said, his voice warm. “It's been a long time.”

“Zig,” she said numbly.

“Damn,” he said, his eyes walking up and down her body, “you look incredible.”

God, he was good. So smooth. So slick. Treating his betrayal like it never even happened. Like he hadn't sold her entire life to the tabloids to feed his gambling habits.

She didn't respond. She couldn't. Just stood there like a deer in headlights.

“I never got a chance to say how sorry I was that things…well, that things happened the way they did.” He ran a hand through his hair, artfully mussing it up even more. “I cleaned up my act. I'm different now.”

She finally found her voice. “I'm glad. Now if you'll—”

“I never meant to hurt you.” His voice sliced through all the noise. “You have to believe that, Grace.”

“Why me? Why my life, Zig?”

His gaze slid to the wall. “I was stupid.”

“Yes. But that still doesn't answer the question as to why.”

He didn't respond. “I'm walking.” She started to turn away, but he grabbed her arm, holding her there.

“Fine. I did it because I could. Because I was closest to you. Because you were living so big, so open, and everyone wanted a piece of that. So did I. I wanted a piece of you, Grace. I always wanted a piece of you. But you wanted something more than me.” He looked sad now, a little lost.

Grace blinked. “So you thought I wanted the publicity?”

He gave her a searching look. “Didn't you?”

She thought hard. It seemed like everything happened so long ago, but distance made things clearer. In times past she would have reveled in a party like this. Taken hundreds of photos, then agonized over which ones to post to her social media accounts. So maybe she had wanted the publicity. But she'd wanted it on her terms, which was ridiculous. It was like her dad said—once you put yourself out there, you didn't belong to yourself anymore. You belonged to the people. And the people demanded it. Wanted more of you, all-access, all the time.

She'd been as culpable as anyone else—and as naïve. In her mind, there had been a difference between seeking fame and seeking profit. But when it came down to it, really, it was all the same. Zig had hurt her, but she'd hurt him, too.

“I'm not that person anymore,” she told him.

“No, you're not. You're better. And so am I.” He stepped forward. “I've missed you.” Then he gave her the look—the smoldering one that never failed to light her up. But instead of it turning her on, all she felt inside was numbness.

An image of Marc's face flashed in her mind. He'd never have used her to advance himself. He'd have earned whatever he achieved. And he'd never expect an all-access pass to her body or her mind, simply because she was who she was. He'd have called her on her shit instead of using her.

Marc.

He'd never betray her.

He made her want to be a better person.

“Grace?” Zig was closer now. “Come on. Why don't we find a quiet place to talk? Just talk. For old time's sake.”

No.
“I'm sorry, Zig, but I can't,” she told him. “I'm done.”

Laughter sounded, right nearby, and then someone bumped into her, making her lose her balance. She fell forward, and a surprised Zig caught her in his arms.
Wrong man.
She shoved at his chest, pushing him off, and he let her go almost instantly.

All at once, the walls began to press in on her, stifling her, choking her. She gasped for breath. Air. She needed air.

She turned and stumbled away. “Grace!” Zig called out. “Wait!”

She ignored him amid the laughter and the yelling. The music was almost deafening. She pushed her way through the crowd and thankfully, mercifully, ran into Crystal.

Her friend must have seen the look on her face, since she grabbed her by the arm. “What happened?”

“I just need to get out of here. Please.”

Crystal didn't even hesitate. “This way,” she said, starting to elbow her way through the crowd like a pro. “Coming through, coming through! One side, there you go.”

In moments, they'd emerged out the back door into the alleyway behind the club. Grace leaned up against the brick wall and took deep breaths, the warm air entering her lungs the freshest, cleanest thing she'd felt all night.

When she was done, Crystal was waiting for her, like the true friend she was. She didn't even blink.

“What now?” Crystal asked. “Your call.”

“Home,” she said, tears filling her eyes. “I want to go home.”

“My place?”

Grace shook her head. “Eastbridge.”

Jet lag was a bitch.

But it was nothing Marc hadn't dealt with before or wouldn't deal with again. Besides, four hours was plenty of sleep; at least that's what he kept telling himself.

Wasting days getting back on track was a luxury he didn't have, so he propped himself up with copious amounts of coffee and hauled his ass out of his apartment bright and early on Friday morning, and made his way down to the ground floor of his building to wait for his car.

“Good morning, sir,” John, the concierge, said to him. “It's good to have you back.”

“Thanks, John,” Marc replied. “It's good to be back.”

“Staying this time?” John quipped, a running joke between them.

“I have another trip planned in a week.”

John tsked. “You've been spending an awful lot of time on the road lately.”

“I know. I just need to get things in order overseas and then I'll be here more often.”

He glanced down to the marble that made up the concierge station. The
Post
was on top of the stack of newspapers.

“Gracie's back!” the headline screamed.

He grabbed the paper, flipped it open, and there, in full color, was Grace, her hair long and loose, her tight jeans showing off the curve of her ass, her boots making her legs look longer.

And she was in the arms of another man, a handsome devil.

What the hell?

White-hot rage burned in his chest and it took every ounce of effort not to rip the paper in half. He skimmed the blurb—
party, album, club, Evergood
—but it gave him little real information.

“Never pictured you for a
Post
man,” John said with a laugh.

“I'm not,” Marc said curtly, tossing the paper back on the marble and ignoring the hurt look in John's eye.

“Right,” John said quickly. “
Financial Times.
I have it here for you, sir.” He slid it atop the counter. Marc took it and shoved it into his valise.

“I'm still a bit tired,” Marc said by way of apology.

“I understand, sir. I'd be tired too if I went plane-hopping the way you do.” John peered around him. “Ah, I see your car's here. Fred will see you out. Have a good day, sir.”

“Thanks. Same to you.”

Fred was holding open the door to the town car when he stepped out onto the curb.

“Good day, sir,” Fred said, giving him a small salute with his fingertips as he slammed the door shut behind him.

But Marc was still fuming, the picture of Grace and that guy burned on his brain.

Why was he so jealous? Because they'd had sex? So what? Lots of people had sex.

But with her, he'd thought it was something more. Something deeper.

He'd worked himself up into a lather by the time he reached Briarwood, and what he found there did not make him any happier. Outside the big gates by the main road, a group of people had gathered and were chattering. They were huddled together in groups, their voices growing louder by the moment. They must have come directly from the town hall meeting—the one Preston North had organized to tell Briarwood's side of the story and to get people on their side.

He guessed it hadn't gone as well as he'd hoped.

The town car drove through the gates and continued down the long driveway that wound through the course.

He had the driver drop him off in front of the clubhouse, then went immediately to Jake's office. He found Jake inside, a cup of coffee in his hand, staring out the window at the green.

“Gaffney,” he said in greeting.

Jake turned and glowered at him. “About fucking time you got here.”

“Hello to you, too.” Marc dropped his valise onto the floor and stared down his friend. Jake might intimidate everyone else, but he sure as hell didn't intimidate
him.
Not much did, these days.

Jake scrubbed a hand across his face. “Sorry, man. We just got steamrolled, so I apologize for jumping down your throat.”

“Sounds like I missed a hell of a meeting. What happened?”

“North did a bang-up job. Said everything right. Handled the crowd like a pro. But those fuckers served us anyway.” Jake crossed the room and thrust a brown envelope into Marc's hands.

“What's this?”

“They just slapped us with papers demanding a temporary restraining order. We have to halt all renovations on the golf course until the bird issue is resolved.”

“What?” Quickly, Marc skimmed the documents. It was all there, every “i” dotted, every “t” crossed. “So the hearing's on Monday?”

“Yep.”

“Okay, fine. So we'll have our lawyers deal with it this weekend.”

“That's what Press said.”

“Press is right. And look,” he said, pointing to a page with a signature on the bottom, “the declaration supporting the request for the TRO is kind of thin. It's the same guy—this George Arbor—saying that he saw the bird and it's a protected species. I'd be shocked if this held up in court.”

“We'll find out, won't we?” Jake said grimly.

“This kind of stuff happens all the time. In the scheme of things, it really isn't a big deal.”

“It sure feels like a big deal. I've put my heart and soul into Briarwood, and it's never enough. This place is going to eat me alive.”

“This is just a temporary setback. The truth will prevail in the end. And I swear I'll do everything I can to make that happen.”

“I'm just sick of all the pushback we've been getting,” Jake said. He drained his cup, then slid it onto his messy desk. “Look, I gotta get out of here. Join me for a drink?”

“Sure. A drink sounds good.” It was the truth.

First that photo of Grace in the
Post,
then this minefield at Briarwood. The worst part was, he knew which hurt more…and it damned sure wasn't a stupid bird. He hated feeling this…this…emotion. He hadn't even known he could have feelings like this anymore.

Like Kiera.

No, Grace wasn't like Kiera. She
couldn't
be. Unless she'd been playing him all along, though she'd have to be the world's greatest actress to have pulled that off.

He didn't want to think about that.

They walked to Jake's truck, which was parked in the staff lot to the side of the clubhouse. He slid into the passenger seat and Jake started the engine. As they drove down the long driveway, Marc looked out at the empty course. They'd closed the back nine for these renovations, angering the members to no end. Now the renovations had screeched to a halt, which would probably piss people off even more.

“Just as soon as I thought we were done with the board shit, something else comes to bite us in the ass,” Jake said.

“That's usually the way it works,” Marc said. “Bad news piles on.”

“Did you think this was going to go down like this?”

“That we'd have angry environmentalists banging down Briarwood's door? No,” Marc admitted. “But we can handle it. Remember that until they have proof that the bird's on our property, it's all hearsay. We'll make sure our lawyers have what they need to fight this.”

Jake clenched his jaw. “What if the bird is really here?”

“Doubtful, but we'll work around it, just like we talked about. I'm telling you, in the scheme of things, this isn't a big deal. We just have to handle it calmly and rationally.”

Jake eased the truck through the gates. The picketers were still there, and since Marc had entered Briarwood, they'd somehow worked themselves up into a rage. As soon as the mob saw that Jake was driving, they started chanting louder.

“Save the bird! Save the bird!” they yelled, one big mass of humanity all completely, utterly opposed to him and everything he stood for.

Jake had to drive slowly to get through the crowd without hitting anyone, so Marc got a good look at their faces, skewed with anger, and the signs they had on poles. Some said, save the bittern. Others said, down with big corporations! Still other signs had pictures on them.

“What a shit storm,” Jake muttered. “Our lawyers had better be damned good to get us out of this mess.”

People were still chanting, and it was even louder now that they were pressed up against the sides of the truck. The crowd was incensed, livid that he and Jake were going to drive right out of there without a confrontation.

Marc didn't want to make eye contact. It would just give them a reason to scream louder, make him the enemy. But one of the protesters smacked the side of Jake's truck, plastering his poster right up against Marc's window.

It was a painting of a bird…an American bittern, if he wasn't mistaken. And it looked remarkably familiar.

Oh
hell
no.

“Stop the truck!” he demanded.

“No fucking way,” Jake said.

“Do it!”

Jake gritted his teeth but did as he asked.

Marc pried open the door and leapt out. Immediately, he was surrounded by picketers, screaming and yelling about the environment.

A woman holding one of the bittern signs waved it in his face. “This is what you're destroying!” she screamed. “This helpless, endangered bird, part of the fabric of our state, a true natural resource that big corporations are killing without any—”

She went on, but Marc barely heard her, his gaze riveted on Grace's damned picture, taunting him, mocking what they'd shared together. His blood boiled.

“We're not killing anything,” he said, with a calmness he didn't feel. He wouldn't crack. He'd never crack. Not for this. Not for anyone.

The protesters parted and then a reporter—a woman with caked-on makeup and a too-bright smile—was front and center with a cameraman and a microphone.

“Mr. Colby, Mr. Colby,” she said. “Would you mind answering a few questions?” she asked, but she didn't wait for his reply. Just turned to face the camera. “We're here live with Marcus Colby, one of the owners of the Briarwood Golf and Yacht Club. Mr. Colby, we understand that Grace Davingham, a passionate environmentalist, donated her painting to the cause. How do you feel about going up against one of the biggest families in music?” She shoved the microphone in his face.

It had been a bad idea to get out of the truck. No, the worst.

“No comment,” he managed to grind out, before turning and pushing his way through the crowd to get back in the truck.

He slammed the door shut, the protesters' hollering echoing inside his hollowed-out brain. It was her picture—
her picture!
—and it was being used to take Briarwood down. To take
him
down.

He turned to Jake, who'd started up the engine once again. Jake's grip was tight on the wheel, his jaw clenched.

He got them off Briarwood's driveway and eased out onto the road.

Jake shot him a look. The one that said
you're a fucking ass.
“Not a big deal, huh?”

Marc slouched in the seat and crossed his arms over his chest, knowing his expression was dark. It so was.

Cold-blooded, my ass.
He was about to explode. All thanks to one infuriating little rock 'n' roll princess who'd made him see red.