Tell Me Why It's Wrong Page 8

  Luckily, I keep everything well stocked in the kitchen, and for the most part it’s all healthy. Chase doesn’t think I know that he hides Captain Crunch in the back of the cupboard, but I’ve seen it. Same with the Swedish Fish he keeps tucked away that he’s stopped trying to hide at this point.

  Then again, I can’t tease him. I’ve had a sweet tooth for as long as I can remember, and ever since I stopped using I’ve found myself craving some of my old childhood favorites like sugar is my fallback. When Dad sends care packages, he still includes Caramello Koalas because I’d always begged for them when I was little. I rarely share whatever I get with the guys when they see anything arrive from Dad, and only let Chase dig in because Mum would give me the eye if I hoarded it all myself.

  But for whenever my stash is gone, I keep Lifesavers in my pocket to suck on. Or anywhere, for that matter. The guys tuck them away in the studio in case I ever run out, and the smartasses even made the poor stagehand on tour bring me wild cherry flavored ones every night, all picked out from the variety pack bag because nobody told the poor bastard that you could buy bags of only that flavor. He looked pale when I found a different flavor in the mix he’d sorted.

  After a few moments of contemplation, I decide to bite the bullet. Being around Rylee is still off-putting knowing what she did, but I can’t completely blame her. Zayne was the one drinking and doing drugs, and he was doing it publicly. Anyone could have snapped a picture and sold it for a decent amount that night. It just happened to be the girl I felt for that perpetrated the event.

  And the more I think about what she said to me at the restaurant, the harder it is to stay upset with her. Anger has no place in my mind, especially when I was the one who supplied the drugs the night that picture was taken. Zayne had taken them off my hands and I was stupid enough to believe he’d get rid of them so nobody could use them the way I’d wanted to.

  Rylee makes a strong point about people like me and the guys having the means to get the help we need if we want to. I’m just as guilty over what consequences followed that article, so holding a grudge is pointless.

  I approach the cracked door of the room she’s staying in. It’s in a hallway offset by a few other guest bedrooms, a bathroom, and an open living area that doesn’t see much use unless there’s a party. I try keeping people on the first floor if there’s a gathering, but there are always a few people that linger if they get the opportunity. It’s why I’ve stop hosting if I can help it, not wanting to lose control of what happens in the walls I’ve created as my sanctuary.

  During the welcome home bash we had, I’d fought tooth and nail to have it anywhere else, but Zayne’s newest house was under renovation, Jax’s is too far out of town, and Manning and Cal’s house doesn’t have the kind of security needed for us to get together. Zayne promised he’d keep things regulated, but spent more time buried between random women’s legs that night than helping me stop the plus-ones from roaming upstairs and nearly trying to break into my room.

  Brushing off the irritation over how that played out, I focus on the woman currently on the other side of the wood door. She’s been here two days now, and we’ve had barely any interaction. I told her where to sleep, where to leave her dirty laundry—which she insisted on cleaning herself after asking where the laundry room was—and to help herself to any food in the kitchen. Beyond that, we’ve stuck to our own spaces.

  “…love you too. Bye.” I knock and prop a hip against the doorjamb, crossing my arms on my chest as I watch her set the phone down on the mattress. She’s made the bed almost as perfectly as the woman I hire to clean the house, and she’s kept the room spotless like it usually is despite telling Yasmin, my housekeeper, she didn’t need to clean it.

  Rylee gives me an awkward smile. “Hi.”

  “Hi, yourself.”

  “Before you say anything about that being some kind of lover who could offer me a place to stay,” she begins, making me cringe at the doubt she immediately thinks I have, “it was my best friend Moffie.”

  “Moffie?” Can’t say I’ve heard that one before and California supplies some unique names with celebrities trying to outdo one another with the outrageous bullshit they slap on their offspring’s birth certificates.

  A nod. “We’ve known each other since we were little, but she lives across the country in New York.”

  New York. Huh. I never detected an accent from her, not eastern or western. Not like I do on Cal and Manning who are both from downstate near the Big Apple. “Is that where you’re from then? I rather like the east coast. Too cold in the winter though, yeah?”

  She shrugs, playing with the throw blanket resting on her lap. “You get used to it, but I don’t miss the brutal winters. We were more central, so we got a lot more snow and ice than other places.”

  I gesture behind me. “Well, I was coming up to say you can get some food anytime you want. I know that’s important.”

  She blinks, a small smile forming at the corners of her lips. “Food is important?”

  I chuckle at myself. “Food and eating are generally important, but people with your circumstances shouldn’t break habit because I’ve made you feel uncomfortable. I read about it.”

  I’m surprised when that almost-smile curls downward. “You haven’t made me uncomfortable. If anything, that’s what I’m doing to you. You’ve still offered me somewhere to sleep, and I appreciate it more than you could know. More than I’ve let you know.”

  All I manage to do is tip my chin before glancing down the hallway. I’ve never taken well to serious conversations. After a few minutes, I clear my throat and scratch the side of my neck with one of my fingers. “Yes. Well then…” I step back. “Chase and I will be in the den if you need us. Get something to eat if you’d like.”

  I don’t wait for her reply before I walk away, hands digging through my pockets to pull out a hard lolly and pop it out of its wrapper. When I find Chase waiting for me, I drop down next to him and accept the controller he offers me.

  Without looking in my direction, he quietly asks, “Want to talk about it?”

  And all I say is, “No.”

  I’m not sure what time it is when I hear the creak of floorboards from footsteps that are too light to be my brother’s come from behind me. Looking over my shoulder, I notice Rylee creeping down the stairs in an oversized sweatshirt that goes half-way down her sweatpants-clad thighs and hides the soft curves that I’ve noticed one too many times in the short time she’s stayed here.

  She startles when she sees the flicker of the TV screen light up the otherwise dark room with me sitting in front of it. “I didn’t know you were up.”

  One of her hands grips the staircase railing like she’s contemplating going back up, but she remains still.

  “Couldn’t sleep so I figured I’d watch something. This infomercial suddenly makes me want to buy an air fryer.”

  Slowly, her eyes trail to the screen. “I’ve always wanted one of those.”

  I pat the couch. “Come have a watch.”

  Her hesitation doesn’t surprise me, so I shrug and turn back to the commercial like it doesn’t bother me. In reality, her presence makes me hyperaware of everything. Chase snorted when Rylee walked downstairs yesterday after I went to her room and saw me smooth my hair down like it mattered what she thought of its naturally unruly waves. I elbowed him, he elbowed me back, but didn’t say a word.

  “You don’t have to join me,” I relent casually. “Just thought you might not be able to sleep either. What better way to exhaust yourself than watching people try to sell you mundane things you don’t need?”

  “I don’t know. It sounds like that woman is close to selling you on the Ninja air fryer.”

  She’s got me there. “Don’t tell anyone or I’ll deny it, but I ordered a Snuggie once because of these commercials. It’s in my closet.”

  Rylee stops at the end of the couch, closer than I expected her to get. “Did you really? Not even I have one of those and
I’m always freezing.”

  I gesture toward her outfit. “I can see that. Do you always sleep in that? It looks…cozy.”

  Oddly, she can pull it off. I’ve seen many women of all shapes and sizes and enjoyed exploring just about every body type offered to me, and I’ve never really cared about what they wore because I was more focused on what was underneath. But Rylee looks cute in the too-big clothes hanging off her body, and it’s almost endearing to see her fidget.

  Tugging on the sweatshirt, she shifts on her feet until she decides to sit down on the arm of the couch. “Mostly. My old roommate used to get annoyed with me because I liked keeping the apartment warm. She thought it felt like hell, and I’d be in at least two layers with a blanket on me.”

  The tidbit interests me, so I don’t let the opportunity slip away to ask about her previous situation. “Is this roommate still around?”

  She shakes her head. “She moved to New York City to chase her dreams. I’m happy for her, but that was sort of the end of the end for me. My best friend sent me a ton of potential places I could look at, but I’d need a roommate still to split the costs and there’s a lot I need to consider before I commit.”

  “Like?”

  Her lips rub together, her eyes aimlessly staring at the TV. “My job. Steady work. I don’t want to get somebody’s hope up and then let them down by not being able to keep up my end of the deal. That’s not how I was raised. Tiffany would have to pay a little more than her half on the months I couldn’t get paid what I needed for my share so we wouldn’t lose the apartment. She never complained, but still.”

  I respect that, even if I still don’t appreciate her type of employment. “Are the places your friend found around here?”

  Her eyes trail off. “Yeah. Most of them aren’t horribly priced, either. I’ve been looking on Craigslist—”

  “Craigslist?” I cut in, staring at her in disbelief. “Are you a snag short of a barbie, love?

  “Am I a…? What does that even mean?” She blinks, her nose scrunching as she gives me a confused look. “Do you just randomly remember that you’re Australian when you talk sometimes? It’s hard to tell.”

  I roll my eyes. “Are you stupid? Daft? A moron? Some things sound better the way we say them. Less insulting, in this case.”

  “What sounds better?”

  “Things like…brekkie.”

  “Brekkie,” Rylee repeats slowly, eyes narrowing. “Is that breakfast?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why can’t you just say breakfast?”

  “Brekkie is shorter. You Americans always make things longer than they need to be. Australia is a mouthful too, but I won’t go into the specifics of why we don’t waste our time with proper names because that’s not what we’re talking about.”

  “It could be.”

  I eye her. “Craigslist is the worst place to find a roommate. There are actual killers on there. You’d be better off asking around.”

  “Killers exist everywhere,” she points out matter-of-factly. “I could randomly meet someone and think they’d be the perfect roomie, and then find out the hard way that Ted Bundy is their idol. And who am I going to ask? I don’t really know anybody here besides the people I’ve worked with or worked uncovering.”

  One of my brows arch. “Uncovering, huh? Perhaps your job is more interesting than I gave it credit for.”

  “You know what I mean.” She sighs, sliding onto the cushion closest to her and curling her legs toward her chest, hugging her arms around them. “I know you don’t like what I do, and I get it. I don’t always like it either. But it is a job. For now, at least.”

  I can’t help but wonder, “Is this what you’ve always wanted to do?”

  There’s a moment of quiet, contemplation swirling in her eyes as she stares off. “Yes and no. I’ve always wanted to write. I thought I’d be a journalist, not a tabloid writer. But when opportunity knocks…”

  We fall into silence, save the television on as background noise. I won’t reprimand her for doing what she has to because I have no right. Everyone does something they’re not proud of at least once in their lives. At least Rylee has the sense to feel bad about it.

  Eventually, she breaks the quiet. “My family doesn’t know that I lost the apartment. Or that I’m struggling.”

  Shifting my body to face her, I ask, “Why not?”

  “Do you like worrying the people you care about?”

  Fair point. “No. It’s never fun.”

  She gives me a pointed look. “They’ve always supported me in my endeavors and made sure I knew I had a home to come back to whenever I needed it. But I was determined to prove to them I’d make it on my own out here. And I’ve done a fairly good job up until recently. The last thing I want to admit is defeat at 25, even if they’d get me the first ticket they could and welcome me home.”

  I watch her for a moment, noticing the way her soft features ease when she talks about her family. I can relate. “You’re close with them.”

  “Yes.”

  I smile. “I am with mine too.”

  She cringes. “I know.”

  “Ah.” I suppose someone in her position would know that. “Right.”

  Resting her chin on her bent knees, she stifles a sigh. “I love my family, but I love being here and being independent. Except, I’m not independent anymore because my job hasn’t been picking up any of my stories, I have no insurance, I’m constantly worrying about if I can afford my medicine, and it’s…” Words fading, she shakes her head.

  Hearing the waver of her tone, I offer what little comfort I can. “You can still be independent while letting people help you, Rylee. Nobody can strip that from you.”

  Her tongue pokes out the side of her mouth, like she wants to believe me but doesn’t know if she can. Swiping it over her bottom lip, she gives me a terse nod. “I guess.”

  Both of our attention turns back to the television, where the host has moved on to the Ninja grill. “Guess we missed our shot,” I joke, getting a small smile from her.

  “It isn’t like I have the money for one anyway,” she replies easily, eyes darting to me for a moment before turning back to the TV.

  We don’t say much more than that, watching television mindlessly until she decides to try going back to bed. I wish her a goodnight, she offers me the same, and I watch as she walks up the stairs, focused on the way her short legs take small strides with each step.

  She can’t be much over five feet—barely coming up to my chest when she stands in front of me. Yet she walks with a sense of authority, a power that I can see even in those baggy clothes.

  Rylee may think that her current situation has stolen something from her, an integral part that I can tell she holds on tightly to, but she doesn’t show it in the way she carries herself. She’s sure of who she is and what she wants, and fights for how she lives.

  Not many people can say the same, especially to people like me.

  Everything about her intrigues me, and it isn’t just because of the innocence she exhumes. The girl disappearing into my guest bedroom doesn’t look at me like most women do—where my fame is front and center along with the things they can get from me by acting like they genuinely care. At least she admitted what she did to Zayne rather than trying to hide it. She may have a questionable job, but at least she’s honest about it.

  Rylee knows that there’s no real difference between fame and infamy, because the second we’re given the money and attention, we’re bound to make mistakes. Most people wouldn’t think twice about extorting that in the press, but there’s something unique about the woman upstairs that makes me think I don’t know the half of what makes her tick, but I want to.

  And the urge to figure out everything I can about the petite blonde becomes tenfold as I turn off the TV, grab a glass of water, and head to bed myself.

  8

  Rylee

  I’m walking into my boss’s office in the heart of the city feeling anxiety creep i
nto my throat as I raise my hand to knock on her door. I twisted my hair into a neat braid, slipped on my best pair of black skinny jeans, tucked the olive-green button-up into them, and slid into a pair of flats that don’t look like they’ve been through a war. Forgoing makeup because I woke up late and knew I’d get stuck in traffic I paint a smile on my face and hope my nerves don’t show.

  “Come in,” Sarina calls through the door.

  I’ve always had a hard time liking Sarina Cunningham. She has a no-bullshit attitude that I can respect, but there’s nothing else about her that I resonate with. The 35-year-old woman constantly wears a scowl on her perfectly done-up face like she hates the world, and I can’t fathom why.

  “Hi, Sarina.”

  “You’re late.”

  I glance at the clock hanging on the wall, cringing when I see she’s right. “I’m sorry. There was an accident on—”

  “I don’t care.” She looks up from the paper in front of her. “You know why you’re here. I need updates.”

  Clicking my tongue, I nod once and take a seat across from her, trying not to show how uncomfortable I am with her strong brow arching with impatience. “I’ve been looking into what angle I can take with the story. There’s no indication that there’s going to be a Violet Wonders split like everyone is claiming. The band is working on their album regularly—”

  “Have you spoken to Zayne Gray?”

  I pause, taken aback by her abrupt question. “Um…no.” Why would she think he’d have anything to do with me after what happened? “I don’t even have his contact information anymore. Even if I did, I’m sure he would have changed it by now or blocked me.”

  Sarina leans back in her chair, posture straight and shoulders squared as she regards me. Her lips are bright red, her eyes are lined perfectly with brown liner, and her cheeks are tinted with a perfect shade of pink that makes her cheekbones pop. Sometimes I wonder why she’s behind the scenes when she looks like she can be the type of celebrity we write about.