Tell Me Why It's Wrong Read online

  Studying the grainy image, I realize he’s wearing the same clothes as that morning too. But instead of the anger I’d seen plastered on his face when he told me to leave, there’s shame. What could a man like Garrick have to be ashamed of?

  Everything else posted about him lately is simply speculation. Sources that claim one thing or another about the Australian singer, and photos from the band’s world tour this year. Nothing important is given away, and I’m not sure if I should be grateful or disappointed. After what happened earlier this week, I doubt any “in” Sarina thinks I have with the band will work. Garrick didn’t even recognize me from my previous involvement with Zayne, and I highly doubt Zayne will speak to me about what the media outlets are saying. Not that I blame either of them.

  Blowing a piece of fallen hair out of my face, I remember the way his fingertips felt against my flushed skin when he moved hair behind my ear. Something as simple as that shouldn’t have gotten a rise out of me, so I blame the lack of male attention I’ve gotten over the past few years. My last boyfriend was hardly serious, lasting only a few months, and the farthest we’d gone was him grinding on me one night in bed while touching my boobs.

  I drop my head down and let my hair waterfall around me. “Better luck next time,” I tell myself, nibbling my bottom lip.

  I’m about to close my computer and throw away the remainder of my uneaten meal when I see a message pop up from Moffie.

  IceQween:

  Have you found a new place yet?

  Frowning at the question, I debate on pretending like I didn’t see it to avoid hurting her feelings. It’d be easier than explaining why I haven’t even looked yet. As far as Moffie and my family know, I have steady work. The last article I got paid big for was a piece on some up-and-coming star who was caught coming out of a hotel room of a married record producer. It wouldn’t have been that scandalous if she hadn’t been 18 and he hadn’t been one of the judges of the singing competition she won.

  The article paid a lot because of the heat it got, leaving her to be stripped of the first-place title when the show’s team felt it wasn’t rightly earned. Last I heard, the runner up got everything—the trophy, title, and shiny record deal. And I got more opportunities to break similar stories for fast cash.

  IceQween:

  I know you’re on, Rylee. DON’T IGNORE ME!

  Well, there goes that idea.

  CannonIsMine95:

  I’m still looking

  I cringe at the lie, feeling bad as I hit the enter key and watch it turn to read before the bubbles appear on the screen she as types a reply.

  IceQween:

  I found some that could work for you. I’ll send links!

  Moffie is ten times more organized than I am and always on top of things. I tend to wait last minute, and it irritates her. But how am I going to explain the places she finds won’t work no matter how good of a deal they are?

  Instead of being honest, I take a different approach before bailing as quickly as possible.

  CannonIsMine95:

  Thanks, Moff. Gotta go. Ttyl!

  I’m thankful she didn’t call. She’s most likely in her classroom right now, using her work computer as the kids work on something. If she heard my voice, she would know in an instant that things aren’t okay and demand the truth.

  Packing up my things, I pull out the keys and see the Women’s United Homeless Shelter pamphlet fall onto the floor. I’ve managed to avoid the inevitable for this long, but I’m starting to realize my other options are limited.

  Go back to the east coast.

  Or go to this shelter.

  It isn’t like it’d be the end of the world either way, but if I decided to walk into Women’s United I’d feel like a fraud. I have somewhere to go, even if it’s clear across the country. My parents would welcome me with open arms and help me figure things out with sound reasoning, but then I’d feel like a failure.

  Which is worse?

  Realistically, I know the answer. Failure is subjective—there are always other opportunities out there I can explore. My parents believe in optimism and positive thinking and used to say that failure wasn’t the opposite of success but part of the journey. My mindset has always been different than theirs, though. I’d like to think I’m a glass half full type of person, but deep down I know I’m really the one who accidently drops the glass and watches the contents empty onto the floor, making the point moot.

  I’m walking to the car when I notice the sun setting already. I hadn’t realized I’d been working so late.

  Back home, I used to watch the sun go down through my bay window where Dad built me a writing nook. I wasn’t big on reading even though both my parents are big book nerds, but I’d always bring my journal or laptop to the window and write whatever was on my mind while the daylight faded.

  I miss the simplicity of childhood. Back then, the only thing I had to worry about was getting homework done on time and being home before dinner so I wouldn’t be given extra chores or grounded. Now, life is constantly throwing curve balls at my face waiting to see if I’ll hit it or strike out.

  Everyone takes advantage of the things they have because none of us realize how easily it can all be taken away. The innocence, ignorance—everything that makes life seem so peaceful is gone in a flash when reality takes a hold of you. And its claws are currently inches deep into me, refusing to let go.

  During my lost thoughts of past naivety, I find myself pulling up to curb outside the homeless shelter. I’ve driven by it twice since getting the address and always find myself driving away in the end, talking myself out of it.

  Another night in the car wouldn’t hurt.

  Other people need it more than me.

  I have other options.

  My hands grip the steering wheel, squeezing and twisting until an unruly sound comes from the motion. Putting the car in park, I stare at the front doors. The building is welcoming—well kempt with a bright yellow door and trimmed grass. Their white sign on the front lawn is lit up with lights surrounding it so anyone can see it during the nighttime, with the OPEN 24/7 in clear bold letters.

  Swallowing, I turn off my car, examine the messy contents thrown about it, and grab my bag from the passenger seat.

  “You can do this,” I tell myself with a nod of the head before getting out and locking the vehicle. I don’t have many valuable things, mostly sentimental pieces given to me by Grandpa Al and Grandma Birdie that made the move to Cali, but nothing anyone would want to take if they had the opportunity. Even my parents said some of the stuff is junk, but it’s my treasure simply because of who it once belonged to. “One night, Rylee. One night and you can figure out what to do in the morning.”

  I’m halfway to the door when I hear a familiar accented voice ask, “Do you always talk to yourself?”

  Yelping, I spin and swing my bag around in defense. It smacks the tall, lean body standing behind me and the person in question stumbles back from the unexpected blow.

  “Hell, sweetheart.” Garrick steadies himself while I stare wide-eyed at him and try calming my erratic heartbeat. One of my palms flattens against my chest and I feel the hammering slowly start to go back to normal. “What is in that thing? It packs a punch.”

  I shake my head in disbelief at the six-foot-something singer. “What are you doing here lingering by a homeless shelter?” Readjusting my bag over my shoulder, I take a deep breath and exhale to calm down. “Do you volunteer here or something?”

  It’d be a cruel joke fate is playing on me if I get sent to the one place Garrick Matthews volunteers.

  The small snort that comes from him tells me I’m way off. “No. Though, I’m sure my management team would love to set something like that up to make me look good. Maybe I’ll bring it up to Michael when I get home.”

  Not able to stop myself, I roll my eyes. “I think the media will probably have a way to negatively spin the Garrick Matthews volunteering at a women’s homeless shelter out of all t
he places this side of California has.”

  The grin on his face stretches, showing two identical dimples and perfectly straight white teeth. It’s only then I realize the banter we’re having is one of old buddies. Our last interaction surfaces, and an invisible fist grabs my heart and crushes it, reminding me to stop the conversation.

  Sensing the mood change, he steps toward me. “I’ve come here every night for the past week, actually.”

  I gape. “Why?”

  Now his eyes roll like I asked if the chicken came before the egg. “Because of you. I need to apologize for what happened. I feel like a complete dick for what I said.”

  The similar sense of discomfort coats my skin as I evade his eyes by staring down at the tips of my shoes.

  Suddenly, a pair of brown leather boots come into my line of vision. Hesitantly, I shift my gaze upward from the expensive looking footwear until I meet his eyes. “I’m sorry, Rylee. I jumped to conclusions and I may have been wrong.”

  May have. “You still think I was doing drugs in your house,” I state, refusing to let the hurt bombard my tone.

  “In my defense,” he replies casually, “I don’t know anything other than your first name, that you sleep in your car, and that you most likely have some sort of medical condition. And yes, the garage owner told me. Well, Zayne told me first but he’s friends with Taz, which is how I know Ta—” He winces at his rambling. “It doesn’t matter. What I’m trying to say is that I don’t know you, but that doesn’t mean I should have assumed the worst. For that, I’m sorry.”

  Blinking at his flustered apology, I absorb his words slowly. He didn’t have to say any of that or track me down, but he did both.

  My throat tightens at the emotion welling inside it. “I appreciate that.” The words get stuck, causing me to clear my throat. “But you didn’t have to find me. It was an honest mistake. Like you said, you don’t know me.”

  There’s a brief pause between us that makes me uncomfortable, so I take a step back to get some air. His presence is overwhelming, and I can’t figure out if it’s in a good or bad way. When someone like Garrick Matthews pays you any attention, those blue eyes find ways to lock you in and make it hard to focus.

  It’s when he softly says, “You don’t have to go in there” that has my breath catching. His head tilts, eyes warm yet demanding as they settle on me like he’s trying to will me to agree.

  Maybe that works on some people, but not me. Not when I feel like I’ve exhausted all of my other options at this point, short of dialing my parents and telling the truth.

  Feet feeling pinned to the ground, I let my shoulders drop a fraction. “We both know I do.”

  For a moment, Garrick looks over his shoulder at something. It gives me time to study him a little better and I can see why he’s graced just about every magazine cover there is in existence. He’s won Sexiest Man Alive twice, and always has more features than his bandmates when Violet Wonders gets interviewed. Something tells me it’s the sharp jaw and patrician nose paired with those eyes that can make anyone turn stupid in a heartbeat. He’s a heartthrob whether he wants to be or not, molded to be everybody’s weakness.

  When his focus turns back to me, he shakes his head. “I’ve got the room, and with my schedule, I won’t be around too much to bother you. But there’d need to be ground rules.”

  Is he…? “I can’t—”

  “Before you say no,” he cuts me off, “at least come get some dinner with me. I’m hungry and I do my best talking when my stomach is full. One dinner, Rylee. That’s all I’m asking.”

  “But why?” My brass question has him arching his eyebrows. If I had money to spare, I’d bet not many people have questioned him. “You have no idea who I am, so there’s no reason for you to waste your time to help me. I’m nowhere near your level of fame or wealth. In fact, we’re exact opposites. It doesn’t make any sense why you’d take me on like a charity case when you can be focused on anything else.”

  Saying it out loud only makes me more doubtful of his motives. It isn’t like a kind celebrity is unheard of. You hear about those types of good-natured human interest pieces surrounding stars all the time, but it’s almost always attached to an ulterior motive. Very few people in this industry are genuine.

  “I never want to hear you call yourself a charity case again,” he informs me, voice low like the not untrue label offends him. “I used to hear people call my mother that growing up. It’s common knowledge by now that I started from nothing, from the very bottom. Food stamps. Near homelessness. I was helpless to do shit and my mother was prideful. I still hate when people think getting help means they’re worth nothing more than somebody else’s charity.”

  I blush over his explanation, feeling bad that I struck a nerve when he means well. But I don’t get a chance to apologize before he tells me, “It’s your eyes.”

  Instinctively, my fingertips flutter to the bags I know are under them from the bad sleep I’ve gotten over the past couple of weeks.

  His hands go into the pockets of his jeans, ones that fit his long legs a little too well, as he lifts his shoulders. “You know how people say that the eyes are the mirror to the soul?”

  I nod once.

  “Well, your eyes are kind. Sad, but kind. Genuine. And…hopeful. You remind me of some of my favorite people in life, and that makes it hard for me to miss an opportunity.”

  A dry, doubtful laugh bubbles past my lips as I cross my arms over my chest. “And what opportunity is that?”

  There’s not one moment of hesitation from him. “To help you.”

  I stare.

  He stares back.

  I let out a breath.

  He gestures behind him. “Dinner. Everyone needs food, and I’ll buy. Hear me out, Rylee. If you don’t like anything I have to say, then you can come here and do things on your own. But I’m more than willing to help in any way I can.”

  It’s hard to think when he’s watching me with a close eye, speculating what my answer will be. I want to tell him no because I’m stubborn—to find some way to back out of what he’s willing to do.

  “I don’t want to be an ‘opportunity’ to you either,” I inform him.

  “Everybody is an opportunity to somebody else,” he counters confidently. “The difference is how you let the moment unfold. I’m not here to use you for anything, but I am offering you that curtesy.”

  Pressing my lips together, I turn to face the building again and study the distant silhouettes of people inside. If I decide to walk away from Garrick, then I’d be walking into a warm place to sleep, somewhere to eat free food, and feel less embarrassed than if I walked away with the singer who’s waiting for an answer.

  So even I’m surprised when I say, “One meal, that’s it.”

  And even as I say it, the conviction in my tone laughs at me like it can taste the lie.

  The tongs of the fork scrape against the ceramic plate as I move around the vegetables. I know the man sitting across from me is staring, but I don’t feel like paying him any attention.

  After a while of listening to the soft, classical music playing from somewhere in the room, and the soft-spoken chatter of other customers around us, I stab one of the carrots and say, “You should eat before that gets cold.”

  His steak smells amazing, but it was also the priciest thing on the menu. I’ve never liked taking advantage of others when they’ve offered to pay, even if they insist. Next to the antipasto salad, this chicken dish was the next cheapest item.

  Suddenly, my plate is pulled away from me and a new one appears. The juicy meat I was eyeballing as soon as the waiter dropped it in front of Garrick is now taunting me mere inches from my face.

  I have no option but to look at him for the first time since a waiter dressed in fancy garb seated us. “Why did you do that? I wasn’t done eating—”

  “You ate two carrots, love. And you looked absolutely miserable doing it.” He picks up his fork and knife and starts cutting the sea
soned chicken breast I ordered. “You were eyeing my steak like I eye most women. I was a little jealous to be honest. First time I’ve ever gotten green over a slab of meat.”

  My lips flatten. “Stop doing that. Your charm isn’t going to work on me.” Lie. “And I agreed to dinner so we could talk but you’ve barely said anything.”

  Half his lips curl upward. “Conversations usually work both ways, you know. Unless you’re crazy, then I suppose you only need one person.”

  “You’re the one who suggested we get something to eat and talk. This is your proposal.”

  His fork halts halfway to his mouth before he lowers it. “And you’re the one who doesn’t have anywhere else to go.”

  I start to say something but resign to the fact he’s right. Sinking into my chair I blow out a reluctant breath. “Fair point.”

  Garrick chuckles and sets down his utensils. “I’ll put it bluntly. I have a house with plenty of room for you to crash in until you’re back on your feet. But there are things I need to know before we make that commitment.”

  Commitment. The word makes me nibble the inside of my cheek. How many times had I scared off potential boyfriends with that word? Hearing it from the man sitting across from me does things to me that I’d rather not think about.

  Swallowing past the ball of nerves in my throat, I nod. “Okay…”

  “Do you do drugs?”

  Our waiter comes back in that very instant to refill my water, one brow quirked as if he’s also waiting for an answer. It isn’t until he leaves that I train my eyes at the man who asked the question. “No. Not unless you count my methotrexate and other prescriptions I have to take every day.”

  He taps a finger against the table as he studies me like those blue orbs are lie detectors. “Would you take a drug test?”

  It’s a bad time to take a sip of my water because I choke on it as I hear his inquiry. In a hoarse voice, I blurt, “You don’t believe me?”

  He blinks.