Tell Me Why It's Wrong Read online

  Before she says anything, I try offering her what little I do have. “Garrick Matthews may be my in. I can’t really discuss why or how, but I crossed paths with him, and I think I can get something straight from the source.”

  One of her thinly plucked brows raises. “I suppose you have a pitch for me?”

  My lips part, hesitation over what I’m about to propose heavy on my tongue. “Well…I know you wanted the gossip on whatever is going on between him and Zayne, but I don’t think there’s a story there.” She waits for me to continue, displeasure on her face. “The reason nobody has gotten the scoop is because there isn’t one. But what if we did a human-interest piece instead? Like, instead of trying to get what everybody else is, we can do something that shows a lighter side of the singer. A lot of people love that kind of stuff.”

  When I’m met by silence, I shift in the seat. I cross one leg over the other, wait a few seconds, and then put it back down while she stares at me. I can’t tell if she’s considering my idea or debating on how to fire me.

  “What sort of story?” she finally asks.

  I lick my lips. “The media has reported on Garrick’s public displays for a long time. You know, the partying, drinking, drugs, women, but what if that isn’t who he is? We can uncover a side of him the world would fall in love with. Things like that go viral all the time.”

  A noise raises from her throat turning into a dry laugh parting her painted lips. “Rylee, the world already loves Garrick Matthews. Women go crazy over the bad boy. Why would they want to know he secretly loves kittens and volunteers at soup kitchens behind the scenes?”

  It’s hard not to be amused over that given my conversation with him outside the women’s shelter. “People like feel-good stories,” I reason to no avail.

  “But that’s not what we do here.” She sits forward, elbows resting on the edge of the desk with a pen in her hand. “We write about who the stars are dating, who they’re fucking on the side, and how many times they’ve been arrested. We get the dirt, not the broom that sweeps it up.”

  I swallow, knowing this isn’t going in the direction I’d hoped for.

  She clicks the pen and brings it down to the paper, marking it with edits. “You’re going to get me something good by the end of next week. I don’t care what it is, but it needs to be in my hands and ready for print. With men like Zayne Gray and Garrick Matthews, there is plenty to write about. Find something like you did last time.”

  Her dismissal as she focuses back on her edits tells me it’s time to leave. The unspoken threat of ‘or else’ is clear, so I don’t even bother saying a word as I sulk out, gripping my bag in defeat.

  If I don’t get the story, I’m done.

  What did I expect? The L.A. Free Press has had posts go viral hundreds of times. Our best-selling issues are ones that talk about the celebrities in rehab and those who’ve gotten into public brawls over something stupid like women, cars, or awards. None of them focus on who the celebrities are, but rather what they do to cause a scene.

  Standing outside, I take a deep breath and let the sun soak into me. “What am I going to do?” I ask myself, squeezing my eyes shut.

  I wish Grandpa Al and Grandma Birdie were here. They always gave me the kind of advice that made everything seem better—like I could do anything even if it seemed impossible. Even Moffie would give me a pep talk that would encourage me to figure something out before I threw in the towel.

  But I have nobody.

  Emotion creeps up my throat, but I shove it back down. “Deal with it, Rylee,” I tell myself firmly. “You’ve come too far to give up now.”

  But that doesn’t help battle the eerie feeling burrowing itself into the pit of my stomach.

  Garrick has helped me more than he knows, so how am I supposed to get Sarina the story she wants without breaking what little trust he’s given me by allowing me to stay?

  There aren’t any cars at the house when I pull into the normal spot mine occupies. Normally Chase’s spotless BMW is parked here, but Garrick mentioned that his brother has been spending more time out of the house lately.

  I try to keep my distance from the boys so I’m not in their way, but I’ve been told in the past that makes me look standoffish. Who knows what Chase Matthews thinks of me. He hasn’t exactly been warm, but I haven’t put in the effort either. He probably doesn’t like his brother taking in strays—a joke Garrick made to Chase after the whole dog comparison went awry the first night the Aussie rocker brought me home.

  Sitting in my car, I stare at the pavement surrounding the front of the white house and frown. Everything out here is a blank canvas. In comparison, the backyard is on a solid piece of land with flower bushes, shrubs, and a decent-sized private patio that nobody seems to use very often considering it’s a quiet space. We’re far enough away from the 405 where traffic is barely noticeable, and none of the neighbors are close enough to just show up. Yet, I’ve been the only one who likes going out there after the sun goes down and enjoying the subtle breeze and peaceful silence as I watch the wind caress the greenery.

  Blowing out a breath, I walk toward the door and realize I don’t have the key code to get inside.

  Or Garrick’s number.

  Shit.

  Readjusting my bag on my shoulder, I look around in contemplation. The back is gated off and I’m not coordinated enough to jump it to get to the backyard, not that it would matter. I know for a fact the sliding glass doors off the back hall between the kitchen and den are locked anyway when nobody is home, and I don’t even see Yasmin’s—the woman Garrick hired to clean his gigantic house—car anywhere which means she probably already left for the day.

  Just my luck.

  I pull out my cell phone and bite my lip trying to figure out what to do. Considering I don’t know anybody who knows I’m staying here my options are limited. I drop my head forward and let out a long groan, doing nothing as my bag rolls off my shoulder and onto the pavement. Nudging it over with my foot, I sit down on the step leading to the front door, rest my elbows on my knees, and prop my chin up on the heel of my palm.

  Scrolling through my phone, I notice a few news alerts from Hot in Hollywood claiming they’re doing a live interview with all of the members of Violet Wonders next week. Spine straightening, I stare at the article in disbelief, wondering why Garrick hasn’t said anything.

  He doesn’t owe you an explanation.

  I close out of the alert and sigh, wondering what they’ll ask him. The media has been speculating something new every single day, so it shouldn’t surprise me that their PR team wants a reputable source to ask them questions and clear up any rumors. There’s nobody better to do that than Penny Gomez.

  So why do I feel betrayed?

  Garrick and I don’t talk that often—we’re not even a step above acquaintances as far as I’m concerned. I’m the homeless girl with a questionable job that he took in because he felt bad, so he doesn’t need to tell me what he does or doesn’t do. But a warning would have been nice since he knew where I was going today. He’d stopped at the end of the stairs I’d descended from on his way to the garage door, gave me a slow once-over that had made my toes curl in my flats, and said, “You look lovely today, Rylee.”

  He wasn’t pleased when I told him I had a meeting with Sarina, but didn’t voice his objections either, especially when I told him I had my reservations about it.

  In the almost two weeks I’ve been staying here, the man from down under had made it clear time and time again that he’s no longer the hardcore partier he once was. He’ll still get pictured with random women on occasion, that much is clear from the Instagram photos he’s tagged in every day and the articles that surface online, but they never look like he just hooked up with them somewhere public like old times. Not once has he stayed out late or come home drunk or tweaked like I would have expected the younger version of him did, and he even goes to bed earlier than I do claiming he has an early start to his days that he needs r
est for.

  It isn’t like I don’t put an effort into having conversations with the Matthews boys. The few times I’ve talked with them, it never lasted beyond me asking if their days were good or if I could help with something around the house. Chase would always give me a funny, cautious look, and Garrick would simply smile and tell me what he did. But not before his little brother would give him a quick glance of warning, as if anything they say could wind up in the next breaking news story their phones chirp with when something juicy happens.

  It’s a reasonable reaction, which is why I try to stay out of their way and stick to my room as much as possible. I don’t want to act like I’m prying or digging up anything for Sarina or the press to dissect.

  Usually, the moment I close my bedroom door I walk over to the double pained private balcony doors—which Garrick said every bedroom has to show off the beautiful view—and sit in the sunlight to research other story ideas and new apartment listings that I can’t afford yet. Garrick has invited me to eat with them sometimes when we’re all home, and I’ll typically agree so I’m not rude, but nobody says more than a general thanks for the food.

  Last night, Garrick made my favorite homecooked meal after he found out I loved meatloaf and mashed potatoes, and although I’d never admit it to my mother, his beats hers by a long shot. I even had seconds which is rare, making the man who cooked it beam in ways I’ve only seen Moffie do when someone tells her they love her quirky outfits.

  Chase always goes out after.

  Garrick escapes to his room or the small home gym I discovered he had after looking around once when I was home alone.

  Moffie and I will text back and forth almost every night before bed to check in, never breaking our routine once. I never tell her where I am or what’s been going on, and I pray she can’t tell that there’s cause for concern or else she’ll spend her hard-earned money to fly here and check in on me in person.

  It feels like hours go by as I sulk against the front door and read through various news articles when the front gates open. I perk up, expecting to see Chase’s BMW roll in, but it’s Garrick instead.

  I stand up, joints stiff from sitting for so long, when he parks his Mustang next to my car and quickly walks over to me. “What are you doing on the— Shit. I never gave you the code for the door, did I?” He’d given me the gate code and told me he’d write down the one to the door too, but he got distracted when his manager called him, and they got into some argument about doing interviews to balance out the things being said online ever since audio was released of what sounded like Zayne’s drunken voice telling someone he didn’t want to be in the band anymore.

  I never pushed Garrick on the code because I didn’t want to demand anything from him. Taking a bed, a space in the home he got by all his hard work, is enough.

  I offer a measly, “It’s okay.”

  He shakes his head, eyes hard. “How long have you been out here? I would have expected Chase to be home by now.” His eyes go to the fancy smartwatch on his wrist. “He was only supposed to look at a few estates today, and that was hours ago.”

  I brush it off, trying my best to pass it off as no big deal. “He’s been out more. And I haven’t been out here that long. But I do need to use the bathroom so…”

  I’ve had to pee since I got here but distracted myself with photos of Zayne that have been making waves across social media. It hurts to see the tall, good-looking drummer in some of them knowing the short time we spent together years ago. In most of the ones he’s tagged in on Instagram, there’s always women surrounding him, some perched on his lap, others kissing his neck while he grins, and all of the beautiful women looking like the exact opposite of me.

  When I’d first taken on the story Sarina wanted, I knew I’d have to blend in, but no amount of tight clothing and done-up hair and makeup gave me the unashamed confidence these women have. They see what they want and go for it, and I wish I had even a fraction of that.

  I remember the first time I met Zayne was after I’d studied his routine and went to his favorite café in the city. I’d purposefully bumped into him so he’d notice me, and he’d definitely noticed the way my shorts had been a little too short and my top a little too tight and revealing. I felt awful about playing him, but Moffie had told me he did the same with hundreds of women which barely made me feel any better. He’d flirted with me, made me genuinely blush with his focused attention, and then asked me out. The word ‘no’ was on the tip of my tongue before I’d forced out the opposite, smiling like he’d made that day the best day of my life.

  It didn’t take long to realize Zayne Gray was, and still is, a great person. It was obvious that he loved his friends and bandmates, and I enjoyed hearing about his passions outside of music that I hadn’t known about previously.

  Maybe that’s the biggest reason why I’ll never forget the day I approached the bathroom at the club we’d gone to together feeling something heavy pressing against my chest as I opened the door, lifted the camera, and snapped a few pictures of him bent over the counter with the line of white powder covering it.

  He didn’t deserve it, and I know that.

  Nothing Moffie could say when I deposited the money from the article made me feel better, and she’d flown here to console me, bringing my favorite foods and movies to binge while we locked ourselves away in my apartment until she had to go back to New York.

  And now here I am, online stalking him to make sure he’s happy, that he’s okay, while staying at his best friend’s house.

  When I look down at the time on my phone, I realize that nearly two hours have gone by since I got back from Sarina’s office. Time flies when you’re stuck in your head wondering what other job you can get once your well-known boss fires you for not getting her a story on time.

  Garrick taps my arm, causing me to blink at the hand resting on it. “You all right, Rylee? You spaced out.”

  Blushing, I give him a small smile of reassurance. “Long day. Sorry.”

  I follow him inside, listening as he talks and sets his things down on his way to the kitchen. “I’ll write down everything you’ll need so this never happens again. You should have my number too, in case of an emergency.”

  My face twists, and I’m thankful his back is to me so he can’t see. “You don’t have t—”

  “You keep saying that, but you’re not listening to my answer,” he cuts me off, amusement clear in his tone. “But you go do your business, and we’ll discuss that when you’re done because clearly you need it drilled in your head a little more.”

  Slowly nodding despite my hesitancy over the conversation he wants to have, I set my bag down on the couch and head to the small half bath off the kitchen. I can hear him shuffling around, opening and closing cupboards, running water, and scraping back a chair as I wash my hands.

  When I walk into the kitchen he gives me a once over and says, “You look beautiful. I like your hair like that.”

  I fight the heat from sliding into my cheeks, flattening my shirt with my palms. “You told me that this morning.”

  “And it’s still true.”

  Biting down on the inside of my cheek, I walk over and take the seat across from him, wondering if it’s just second nature for him to pass off compliments with that flirty charm of his. “My boss is a stickler for looking professional even though nobody will meet her standards.”

  Skepticism crowds his face. “Why?”

  I must make a face because he snickers when I say, “She looks like the love child of Elvis Presley and Gisele Bündchen and dresses like it too. Legs for days, skinny, never a hair out of place or an outfit that she recycles. I’m convinced her closet looks like an outlet store.”

  “You sound envious,” he remarks.

  “No…” Okay, so maybe I’m a little jealous of her. “Well, I wouldn’t mind the clothes. She does have nice taste. But I’m not so sure I’d want the height.”

  “Why not?”

  His puzzled face
makes me snort. “It’s not like I have anything against tall women. My best friend is five-ten. But there’s an advantage of being short, like not being hassled at the grocery store when people can’t reach things.”

  Garrick laughs at my introverted nature. “But wouldn’t you be the one doing the hassling if you’re too short to reach things on the shelves?”

  “You just climb them.”

  He gapes at me.

  I shrug. “We do what we have to.”

  “You’re not even that short, Rylee.”

  “The shelves are really high.”

  We stare at each other before smiles crack our otherwise serious expressions.

  He leans back in his chair. “So what happened at work? You said you had a long day, so it must have to do with Gelvis.”

  Confusion smacks me in the face. “I’m sorry, what?”

  One of his shoulders lifts. “Gelvis. You know, Gisele and Elvis combined. I don’t know her name, love. Work with me here. I’m trying to keep up the conversation.”

  “You make her sound like a Marvel character. Her name is Sarina.”

  He waits for me to answer him.

  Sighing in reluctance, I obey. “She wants me to pitch her a story next week, and I’m stressed. It’s nothing.”

  “Doesn’t seem like nothing.”

  I debate on what to do. I could skirt around the conversation, but something tells me he won’t give it up that easily, and I’ve already divulged the worst I’ve done at my job. “I tried getting out of doing some sort of exposé on you that she wants me to write. You’re all big news right now because everybody thinks Violet Wonders is officially breaking up after that audio released of Zayne talking about leaving. I’m sure you’ve seen it all.”

  His arms cross and rest on his chest. “I tend to avoid looking up anything to do with us actually. But I’ve heard some things from our people. Not that the audio circulating everywhere proves a thing.”