As Dust Dances

  The thought made me ill. The casual way she spoke about using my mother’s death as my excuse. That’s what this life was like. Nothing was sacred. Everything was fodder to be used first before the other guy used it. I was shaking, I was so angry. “I told you I don’t want to talk about my past.” I turned to Killian. “You promised.”

  Our eyes locked, mine pleading, his full of turmoil. “Fuck,” he hissed, pushing back out of the chair to pace.

  I didn’t like the pacing. It suggested thinking and there was nothing to think about. We had an agreement! “Killian?”

  “Skylar . . .” He stopped, bracing his hands on the back of Jaclyn’s chair. “They’re going to keep coming until you give them something. If we don’t handle this, it could completely overshadow the launch of the album.”

  Feeling betrayed, I stared at him incredulously. “You said that you wanted to sign me because the initial furor would be good for the album.”

  “Well, reality is a bit different. I’ve read what they’re saying.” He gestured to the projector. “Your fans feel betrayed. They want answers. Without them, they’re not going to support you.”

  “I don’t owe them answers!”

  “Yes, you do,” he bit out. His tone caused the room to fall completely silently. “Skylar, as a collective, they’ve invested millions of dollars and time and emotion into you. You do owe them.”

  Rage rushed through me and I flew out of my chair so fast, it rolled back and slammed into the wall. “Your office. Now.” I blew past him before he could argue, thundering down the hall and into his office.

  As soon as he followed me in and closed the door, I threw up my hands in disbelief. “What happened to this morning? Everything you said to me I said to you! And you told me it would be okay. Suddenly we have an audience and you change your fucking tune?”

  Killian held up his hands as if trying to placate a wounded animal. “I hadn’t seen the news yet this morning. I hadn’t seen you trending on Twitter.” He winced and I wanted to smack the sympathy right off his face. “It’s not good.”

  “It’s the first day. Give it time.”

  “Time isn’t going to help. I think we both know that. If you don’t make a statement, if we don’t orchestrate this down to the smallest detail, this is going to run away from us. And you’ve worked too hard and come too far with this album to see it fail.”

  And just like that, the whole explosion and invasion of my privacy felt like small change.

  Because I’d realized that Killian O’Dea had lied to me for the first time.

  He had no intention of protecting me from this. Of putting me first. Not if it meant destroying the album launch and whatever chance he had of forcing his uncle to acknowledge that he was the best thing that ever happened to this label.

  This time you pick a guy who cares more about your happiness than he does about his own.

  The fight fled me as Micah’s words came back to haunt me.

  I was trapped again.

  In love with a man who loved his career more than me.

  Tied to a contract I couldn’t get out of.

  Hounded by the press.

  Suffocated.

  And it had been less than a day.

  Last night with Killian seemed like some long-forgotten dream.

  “Fine,” I whispered, unable to look at him. “I’ll do the interview.”

  He exhaled slowly in relief. “It’s the right thing, Skylar. And you don’t have to worry about a thing. We’ll write you a script and we’ll make sure we get final say over what questions the interviewer is allowed to ask.”

  “Okay.”

  He approached me and I tensed as he tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. “I promised I’ll take care of you and I will.”

  My smile was more of a grimace but it seemed to appease him because he pressed a kiss to my lips. Stupidly I reached for something deeper that he gladly provided. I held on as I kissed him like it was the last time I ever would.

  In that moment, I hated him because I still wanted him. I still loved him. It was easy to, looking into his eyes and seeing his love for me.

  But like Micah, it wasn’t enough.

  Killian didn’t love me enough.

  * * *

  I MOVED INTO A HOTEL.

  Killian wanted me to move in with Autumn but I had money now. Money I could burn on an expensive hotel suite indefinitely.

  Everyone wanted to hover, including Killian, but I wanted space to hear my own thoughts. Brandon, Micah, and Gayle all called to see how I was coping with the media storm. Micah wanted to come back over to support me, but I told him that would only make things worse.

  And I finally got hold of Austin. Apologizing to him, catching up with him, was a much-needed distraction. Apparently, he’d hated every minute of the nature trail, which didn’t surprise me, but he loved Selina so he’d put up with almost anything for her.

  That shocked the hell out of me and I didn’t mind telling him so. He said she was different. She was a college graduate he met in Berkeley who was bartending during the summer until her postgrad courses started. Her complete and utter lack of interest in him as a rock star did it for him.

  “I knew when I finally won over her over, it was because I won her over, not the guy with the guitar. She’s so fucking smart, it’s frightening, Sky. She takes none of my bullshit,” he’d told me with more than a hint of satisfaction.

  I was glad. She sounded like exactly what he needed. I said I wanted to meet her and we made it a promise that I would.

  Talking to Austin was the only joy I felt in the forty-eight hours since Skylar Finch officially belonged to the world again.

  I’d been stuck in this hotel suite since yesterday afternoon with nothing but my thoughts to distract me. They weren’t fun thoughts, I’ll tell ya.

  Throwing myself across the huge bed, I picked up the notes from Lois for my interview with one of the biggest morning talk shows in the UK. I’d agreed to it, but I’d also asked Killian for some time. He granted me three days.

  “How generous,” I muttered.

  He’d also banned me from looking at social media. A few months ago, that would’ve been fine by me. The incessant buzzing that used to fill my brain back when I was in Tellurian had returned. So was the constant sharp tightness in my chest.

  I was beginning to suspect it was anxiety.

  It had never occurred to me before, but Mandy had anxiety and had described it to me once. I wasn’t an anxious person. I didn’t think I had an anxiety disorder. But now, feeling those feelings again and remembering Mandy’s description, I guess I did.

  It wasn’t a constant thing for me—I supposed life in the spotlight was my anxiety trigger.

  The physical symptoms were accompanied by the all-too-familiar feeling of impending doom. It was horrible. It was a sickness in my gut. That doom weighed on me. It made me feel brittle, like one tap would shatter me into pieces.

  Back then, the only way I knew how to cope when it was bad was to push people away, isolate myself, so I didn’t have to worry about my band or family noticing that I wasn’t myself. I went through periods, especially when we were touring and I was too busy to overthink, of being okay. Some days I felt almost normal. Other days were bad.

  Today was a bad day.

  Yesterday had sucked pretty hard too.

  Thankfully, Killian couldn’t be spotted coming to my hotel room late at night so I didn’t have to deal with my heartbreakingly complicated feelings for the man.

  It was another reason he wasn’t happy I hadn’t chosen to stay with his sister.

  No nookie for Killian.

  I sighed and flopped onto my back, glaring at the ceiling. Killian didn’t care about getting laid. I knew that. I was just . . . I guess I was trying to vilify him. Make it easier.

  None of this was easy, and it wasn’t any less difficult being in the dark about what the fans were saying online. A few months ago, I didn’t want to know. But now I nee
ded to know. I reached over for the phone on my bedside table and called the concierge.

  Five minutes later there was a knock at the door. I opened it to find an immaculately dressed staff member in a gorgeous skirt suit. She smiled as she held out an iPad.

  “We’ve created a user account on one of our hotel iPads for you, Miss Finch. Should you need anything else, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

  “Thank you.” I shakily took the iPad from her and closed the door.

  My gut churned.

  “Here we go,” I muttered to myself.

  It took me a while to access my accounts because I’d forgotten a couple of passwords and had to reset them before I could log in.

  My heart pounded as I opened the Twitter homepage and saw under the side bar titled “Trends for you”: #FecklessFinch

  Bracing myself, I clicked on the hashtag.

  There was a barrage of tweets accusing me of deliberately scaring fans and then having the audacity not to speak up now that I was outed as “alive and well.” People had retweeted the interview on YouTube with the band where Brandon got upset. They called me a coldhearted asshole. Fans asked why the guys had forgiven me. Someone even tweeted:

  I wish the bitch had died. I’d rather mourn her than be this disappointed in her. #FecklessFinch #FuckYouFinch

  Beneath it I could see people call the person out for crossing the line, but it still made me throw the iPad onto the bed. I wasn’t sure how I could still be stunned by that shit, but I was. I scrubbed a hand over my face, wishing for once, just goddamned once, that a pair of ruby slippers that sparkled and glittered and took you to a magical place called Home really did exist.

  I slid down the wall until my ass hit the carpet and I stared unseeing across the suite.

  Four days ago, I was gloriously happy. I thought I was home.

  Then I’d made one call, one phone call, and I’d lost everything. Because I had lost everything, hadn’t I?

  My cell rang, jolting me out of my miserable thoughts. I forced myself off my ass to answer it.

  It was Killian.

  I considered ignoring it, but that would only bring him to the hotel to check on me, and that might make things worse.

  “Hey,” I said, curling up in an armchair.

  “Hey yourself.”

  I squeezed my eyes shut at the sound of his voice, savoring it.

  “I wanted to check in. I wish I were there.”

  “I know.”

  “Have you eaten?”

  “Yeah,” I lied.

  “The hotel is temporary. We’ll find you somewhere else to live.”

  I didn’t mind the hotel. “I slept in a tent in a cemetery for five months. The hotel is fine.”

  “How are you feeling about the interview?”

  Like I want to stab you in the eyeball for making me do this. “Fine.”

  “Lois’s notes make sense?”

  “They’re fine.”

  “Look, there was a lot to discuss yesterday so I didn’t want to overload you, but we think we should move up the schedule for the album cover photo shoot. It would be nice to have it when you do your interview so fans get your apology and the promise of new music. Does tomorrow sound good?”

  Is that why you really called? “Fine.”

  “From there, we’d like to shoot the video for ‘In the Wind.’”

  So you’ve decided that’s my first single without discussing it with me? “Fine.”

  He was silent a moment. “Is that the only word you intend to say ever again?”

  “I’m too tired to say anything else.”

  “Skylar, you don’t know how hard it is for me to see you have to deal with this. You don’t know how hard it was that the bastards surrounded you and I couldn’t even comfort you afterward.”

  But it’s not enough. “I know that.” Tears burned my eyes; I blinked them away. “Hey, listen, I’m really tired. I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”

  “Of course, get some sleep. I love you.”

  That tightness in my chest became almost unbearable.

  I hung up without saying it back.

  Guilt made me feel sick to my stomach. Then I raged at myself for feeling guilty for inflicting pain on him because he’d inflicted pain on me. Unlike mine, however, I knew his wasn’t intentional. Complicated bastard. I huffed and walked back over to the bed where Lois’s notes were.

  They had it all planned.

  I read through what she wanted me to say. Anger gripped hold of my hands and crushed the papers. The iPad lay on the bed, the screen now blank. I reached over and tapped it. The horrible tweet glowered up at me. I glanced at the crumpled papers in my hand and then back to the iPad.

  Killian was right. I did owe my fans an explanation and no matter if I never released another song again, that explanation would have to happen.

  However, I wasn’t the Skylar Finch I was back in Tellurian. I’d been seventeen when we signed our first record contract and I was only twenty-two when I lost my mom and quit the band. I’d listened to everything Gayle and our publicists advised. All of it. I did it their way. I let myself be controlled and manipulated. I didn’t think Gayle or any of them meant anything by it. They were doing their jobs, trying to make us a success.

  But two years of living alone, living rough, seeing how the other half lived, had changed me. Whether I wanted to admit it or not now, Killian’s and Autumn’s kindness toward me had also changed me.

  I wanted to be stronger.

  I wanted to be braver.

  And most of all, I wanted to own myself again.

  I was done doing it their way.

  I grabbed the monogrammed notepad and pen from the bedside table and began to write furiously. I wrote everything I wanted to say. It was extremely personal and it was difficult to give them all of it; however, I decided that it was better I did than let other people make damaging speculations.

  When I was done, I read the words over and over until they were solidified in my mind. I then opened the camera on the iPad and began to film in selfie mode.

  “Hey, everybody. This is kind of a video letter to you all, and it has been a long time coming.” I sighed, running my hand through my hair, my expression filled with self-reproach. “There aren’t enough sorrys in the world to express my regret that it has taken me this long to reach out to you. My fans want to know where and why I disappeared and the truth is, I owe you an explanation. You’ve all been so loyal to me over the years and I haven’t been very good at paying that loyalty back.

  “I was very unhappy while I was in Tellurian. Don’t misunderstand—I loved my guys, Austin, Brandon, and Micah. They’re my family, you know. And I loved the music, I loved my fans, I loved being on that stage. I didn’t love having my personal life splashed all over the internet and magazines for the world to see. As it turns out, I’m a very private person and I guess I didn’t really understand that about myself at seventeen when we signed our first record deal. All I cared about then was performing and writing music. The first time I realized I didn’t have what it took to be a ‘celebrity’ was the first time I saw myself splashed across the front page of a tabloid magazine, the first time I got random, unnecessary negative comments on a benign Instagram post. The truth is they tell us to ignore it, let it wash off us and move on, because attention in any form is good.

  “But I found that hard. I was a kid and I was going through all the stuff kids go through, but I was going through it live, in front of the world. Don’t mistake me, I was grateful for the opportunities I was given, grateful to be able to support my family financially and make them proud . . . but . . . well, I guess there’s no way to really explain how I felt without sounding ungrateful. People will make up their own minds about that, and that’s okay. We all have our opinions.

  “The point of me telling you all this is that I hid my unhappiness from everyone. I didn’t reach out to someone to tell them I was depressed. And I . . .” I took a breath, not wanting to cry.
I wanted to be calm and clear and say my piece without breaking down. I blinked back tears and turned back to the camera. “I kept my feelings locked away from the one person I loved the most—my mom. You guys probably know from all the interviews the band did that we credit Angie Finch, my beautiful mom, with supporting us like no one else ever did. My mom had the kind of faith in me that was extraordinary. I mean,” I laughed softly, “who really believes their fourteen-year-old kid is going to make it as a rock star? I sometimes think—no, I know—it was my mom’s belief that got Tellurian to where they are. We didn’t have much growing up and my mom spent a lot of money she didn’t have on my dream. So when I realized that this life didn’t make me happy, I hid it from her because I felt like I’d failed her somehow. The last couple of years before my mom’s death . . . well, I avoided her. She was my best friend. I knew if I let her in, she would see how unhappy I was and I couldn’t let her down like that. Our relationship was the most important thing in the world to me, and because of me we were not in a good place before she was killed.

  “Then,” I took a deep, shuddering breath, “as you all know, she and her husband, Bryan, were murdered. They were shot in the house I bought, for a stupid painting I bought as an investment. A painting. A goddamned painting.” I glared at the screen, not caring if they could see my anger. I was angry. I’d never stop being angry about it. “I got through those first six months by concentrating on finding the people who did it, so when the cops told me that their leads had gone cold . . . I’m not ashamed to say that I went off the deep end.

  “The only healthy thing I did was to do what I should have done a long time ago. I told the guys that I was unhappy and that I was quitting the band. They’re amazing people. They were so supportive, and I won’t ever be able to thank them enough for always having my back, even when I didn’t deserve it.” I stopped, feeling my heart race harder the more I thought about this going live. I willed myself to be calm, to continue. “I took off backpacking through Europe. The guys knew I needed time away, but they had no idea how long I’d be gone. For just over a year, I traveled around Europe, staying in hostels, staying away from social media, avoiding the news.