I am ashamed.
Just for a moment, I was back in time,
to a place where I belong.
Where dreams could lead you everywhere
and wishes could make you strong.
But then I wake up and my eyes are open wide.
Because of you
I see clearer than I ever have.
Because of you
I can’t let anyone inside.
Because of you
I learned how to be alone.
Because of you
I am ashamed.
Every day I lose
more of who I am.
Afraid to cry, afraid to hurt because
you taught me it was wrong.
Someday there’ll be nothing left,
just a shadow of who I was.
Because of you
I see clearer than I ever have.
Because of you
I can’t let anyone inside.
Because of you
I learned how to be alone.
Because of you
I am ashamed.”
The silence in the room is deafening as Brady finishes up the last line of the song and slowly closes the leather book. I can feel his eyes on me, but I can't do anything except stare in horror at my feet.
I wrote that song when I was in rehab for trying to overdose on sleeping pills. It was my twenty-first birthday and I had just found out that even though I was legal in the eyes of the law, everything I had and everything I was, belonged to my mother.
It was childish and immature, and I regretted my actions as soon as the last pill made its way down my throat. I immediately forced myself to throw up. By the time I had managed to purge some of the pills back up, the rest had already started to do their thing, and I could feel my body shutting down as I sunk to the floor of the bathroom.
Before I passed out, I managed a slurred, confusing call to Finn. After having my stomach pumped and my name splashed across the tabloids, courtesy of my mother (“All publicity is good publicity”), I woke up two days later in an exclusive rehab center in southern California where all of the stars go for some “rest and relaxation.”
I wrote those words in the quiet of my room, alone. Words that I knew would never see the light of day because my mother most likely slept her way through the Hummingbird legal team to make sure my contracts were ironclad. I would never have a say in the songs I sang and I would never get to choose the lyrics I produced.
As much as I initially hated the idea that Brady was just here as my mother’s lapdog hired to do her bidding, I am painfully reminded by the words of that song that I am the quintessential puppet for my mother. I do what she says when she says it, and I do it with a smile on my face. I take her criticisms and her threats and I let them mold me into the person I am today.
It doesn’t matter if I really have a stalker or if his threats against me are real or just contrived by my mother for publicity. It doesn’t matter if Brady really wants me or he just wants to protect me because that’s the type of person he is.
As long as my mother has a say in it, I’ll always be the poor, little rich girl who had it all and tried to throw it away. I'm scared to death that Brady will read those words and finally see the real me and realize I'm entirely too damaged for him. But those words aren’t really me. They can’t be. My mother won’t let them be.
“Layla, this is amazing. Did you write all of these?” Brady asks in awe as he flips through a few more pages. I don’t even care about stopping him at this point. I know what he’s going to say next, probably even before he does.
“I don’t understand. Why the hell aren’t you singing this shit? This is YOU. This is what people want to hear. They don’t care about partying on the weekend or random hook-ups; they want real life. They want the real you.”
A cynical laugh bubbles past my lips, and I turn away from him, taking my coffee cup to the sink to rinse it out.
“You’re right. You don’t understand so don’t bother trying.”
He comes up behind me, and I see him set the book down on the counter next to the sink out of the corner of my eye.
“Hey, don’t do that,” he tells me softly.
“Don’t do what?” I ask angrily as I shut off the water and whirl around to face him. “Don’t be honest?”
“Don’t push me away!” he shouts back. “I just found a book filled with songs that make me want to rip out my own heart. Words that are real and deep and fucking amazing and yet here you are, week after week, singing shit songs that have no meaning. I just want to know why?”
He’s so close to me that I’m pinned against the counter and it’s too much. I need space and I need to breathe. I put my palms on his chest and push him away from me so I can move out from around him to the other side of the kitchen table across the room.
“You don’t want to know why. You just want to fix what’s broken. You can’t fix me, Brady. What you see is what you get. I sing what I have to. End of story.”
He advances on me and for the first time ever, I’m glad to hear my front door open and my mother snapping at me from across the room.
“Why aren’t you dressed? The meet-and-greet starts in two hours and hair and make-up will be here any minute.”
Brady gives me one last burning look, pleading with his eyes for me to tell my mother where to go or to just prove to him that the woman who wrote those songs is real.
I turn my back on him and head upstairs to my room to put on the outfit my mother has chosen for me and have my hair and make-up artfully constructed the way my mother insists.
The woman who wrote those songs may have been real at one point, but she doesn’t exist anymore. It was foolish of me to think that with Brady’s help I could find her again.
When Layla comes back downstairs after getting ready, all traces of the woman I'm slowly getting to know and truly like are gone. Her hair is perfectly styled, her make-up overdone and sparkly, and her clothes are practically painted on, showing enough skin that she might as well be going to this thing bare ass naked. What the hell happened to the fresh-faced, jeans and T-shirt wearing woman who smiles easily and wants to be a fighter? The pop star robot has taken over and that woman is long gone. I’m not even sure she really exists.
The surprised look on Eve’s face when she finds out I'm tagging along to the signing is quickly erased, and she graciously asks if I’d like to ride in the car with them. The way she fawns all over me and kisses my ass only proves she is just trying to make sure I won’t out her to the world and tell everyone what a raging bitch she really is. Instead, I follow Layla in my own car. I can see Eve turn around in the passenger seat every so often, no doubt lecturing Layla about something. Finn keeps his eyes on the road and continues to drive. As soon as we are a block away from Capitol Records, I can hear the screams through the closed car window. Aside from Layla’s concert a few weeks ago, I’ve never seen so many screaming people in one place.
The tension between Layla and Finn is still so thick, like a wall of tungsten steel that nothing can penetrate. I'm used to seeing them talk and joke with one another, and frankly, it makes me want to punch a wall because all I can think about is the two of them naked in bed, laughing and joking with one another. Right now, I don’t know which is worse. The two of them ignoring each other is almost as awkward and uncomfortable as imagining them screwing. Gwen had said there were rumors about the two of them hooking up for years, but in the time I’ve spent with them, I haven’t seen anything indicative of that relationship―unless you count Finn acting like a jealous asshole this morning. I’ll definitely be talking to Layla about that later. When she starts sharing my bed, I won’t be sharing her. Period.
I hadn't wanted to make it worse for Layla by adding to the tension and riding in the car with them, but now I'm regretting that decision as I finagle my car into a parking spot and look around at the mob scene. Safety in numbers might have been the right way to go. People are lined up o
n the sidewalk as far as the eye can see. They hold signs that claim they love Layla, a few have marriage proposals on them, and one even asks if they can father her babies. As soon as they see Finn’s black SUV pull up to the curb, the shouts and crying that ensues could have broken the sound barrier.
Local police are there to help keep people behind the barricade so Layla can walk through the crowd and inside the store, but it still makes me fucking nervous to see her out in the open like that, where anyone can take a shot at her. Finn and a few of the officers who aren’t busy holding fans back usher her quickly inside, but I watch as she graciously pauses a few times to shake hands and smile and laugh with a few people before being rushed through the doors.
It's sheer and utter madness, and I have no idea how she does it. Especially now that I know what’s really in her heart and mind after reading through that song journal. I know it was wrong to pry into her life like that, but I couldn’t help it. After a short time, I feel like I know her so well, but after reading those words and seeing her reaction, I obviously don’t know her at all. She gets up on the stage week after week, shaking her ass, wearing skimpy clothes, and singing about teenage woes when she should be sharing what’s in that journal instead. It’s like being around two completely different people. The one today with perfect hair and make-up, wearing tight, black leather pants, black fuck-me shoes that are a mile high, and baggy, layered tank tops that show off a lot of sun-kissed skin, that’s the Layla designed by Eve―the one the public knows, and the one I know she hides behind.
The real Layla, if she actually exists, wears jeans with holes in the knee, old concert T-shirts, and no make-up to cover her beautiful features. She smiles effortlessly, laughs regularly, and she let's go of the diva pretense just long enough to suck me in, making me never want to let her go. That’s the Layla who kissed me last night, the one who wrapped her legs around my hips and begged for me to make her come. That’s the Layla I thought I would find in the kitchen this morning, but as soon as she saw that I held her journal in my hand, I could almost physically see the wall she put up in her eyes. Her laugh turned cynical and her smile was forced. She hasn’t said two words to me since her mother walked in the door and began making her demands. Like a puppy, she hangs her head, puts her tail between her legs, and does as she's told without an argument. I don’t understand any of it. I don’t understand how a person with so much fire and passion could just let someone walk all over them.
“Hey, Brady!”
A shout over the roar of the crowd breaks me from my thoughts, and I turn to see Adam Koonz, one of the guys from the force I used to work with. We shared a few words earlier the previous night when he came to Layla’s house to take her statement about the attack.
I meet him right by the entrance to the record store, and we walk in together, the quiet of the lobby a much-needed relief from the madness going on outside.
“I just wanted to let you know, we ran some preliminary tests on the brick that came through Layla’s window last night,” Adam tells me as we stand just inside the door.
I glance over to the table set up on the other side of the room where Layla is already seated and speaking to a few people from Capitol Records while someone primps her hair and freshens her make-up.
“Yeah, I heard. Nothing solid to go on, and you guys are just going with it being a prank from a few teenagers out for a laugh,” I reply, turning back around to face him.
Adam furrows his brow and looks at me in confusion.
“No, where did you hear that? We had a handwriting analyst take a look at the writing on the brick and compared it to those letters Layla’s been receiving from that Ray guy. They were a match. The DNA test from the scrapings under her fingernails is still at the lab, but I’m going to give them a call later today and see if I can get a rush on it. I have a feeling the scratches she said she gave him might pull up a hit. I guarantee this guy is already in the system. Also, they found some faint traces of blood on the brick. Going by what Layla told us in her statement, she bit that guy pretty hard on the hand when he grabbed her. It’s looking good that this all the same guy.”
It's my turn to stare at Adam in confusion after he finishes with his explanation. My gaze slides over to Finn, where he stands a few feet from Layla with his arms crossed in front of him, feet spread apart, and a pair of dark sunglasses on so no one can see his eyes.
Why in the hell would he lie to Layla about something like that? Something that could easily be verified.
I thank Adam and shake his hand, giving him my card so he can call me immediately when the results from the DNA test come in. There is no fucking way I want them calling Finn so he can lie about it again.
Walking across the room, I stop right next to Finn and take up the same pose as him, scanning the room and keeping an eye on Layla at the same time.
“So, I just had an interesting conversation with my buddy, Adam, from the police department,” I say quietly so no one else can hear me. “You remember Adam, right? He was the one that took Layla’s statement after the attack yesterday and the one in charge of running the tests on the brick.”
Finn makes no outward sign that he’s heard me, but I can see a muscle tick in his jaw, and I know I’m getting to him.
“Funny thing about having friends on the force. They actually tell you the truth.”
Finn’s nostrils flare and if he didn’t have sunglasses on, I’m guessing he would be rolling his eyes at me.
“Is there a point to this? I’m kind of busy here,” Finn states, the irritation clearly evident in his voice.
“I’m just curious why you would lie to Layla. The tests prove the guy who’s been writing her those notes is the same one who threw that brick through her window. Do you make it a habit of lying to your so-called best friend?” I question him, my eyes still scanning the room like the conversation we’re having is no big deal.
“My relationship with Layla is none of your fucking business,” Finn seethes. “I do what I think is right to protect her. You’ve known her all of a few weeks, so don’t come in here acting like you know jack shit.”
He turns and walks away from me without another word. The buzzing of my cell phone in my pocket momentarily distracts me from keeping an eye on him.
“Brady,” I answer curtly as I stare at Layla.
After a few seconds, her eyes meet mine across the room. There are people talking on both sides of her and someone is speaking in my ear, but I can’t take my eyes off of her. She’s smiling and nodding to whatever they are saying to her, but the smile doesn’t reach her eyes. I want to walk over to the table, scoop her up in my arms, and carry her out of here. I want to strip her out of those stupid clothes, wash the shit off of her face, and just be with the person underneath it all―the person who can write lyrics to a song that breaks my heart and puts it back together all at the same time.
“HELLO! EARTH TO BRADY! Did you hang up on me?”
Gwen’s voice bellowing through the phone causes me to blink out of my trance, and I reluctantly look away from Layla before I can’t stop myself from following through with the idea of carrying her out of here.
“I’m here. Christ, stop shouting.” I sigh into the phone.
“I see someone hasn’t had their five cups of coffee yet today,” she replies sweetly, and I can almost see the sarcastic smile on her face through the phone.
“Did you call for a reason or just to bust my balls?”
She tsks me a few times and calls me an ungrateful asshole before finally getting to the point of her phone call.
“Well, I sprayed myself down with Lysol and took a preemptive dose of penicillin and called Austin for a favor. When you said that there weren’t any hits on the brick that came through Layla’s window, I figured we should have our own people do some testing just in case,” Gwen explains.
“Yeah, don’t worry. I already confirmed with the police department. Finn is a lying sack of shit, and the handwriting was a match to
the same guy sending her the letters. We’re just waiting for the DNA results.”
“Yes, well, when you have a sister as awesome as me, you don’t need to wait. Austin hacked into the lab’s computer system and got the DNA results,” she states.
“Do I even want to know what you had to promise him so he’d do this favor for you?” I ask reluctantly.
“No, you probably don’t want to know. He lives like three thousand miles away, so it’s not like I’ll ever have to make good on that promise. And thank God for that because I don’t even know where one purchases pomegranate flavored edible underwear.”
Seriously going to kick Austin’s ass the next time I see him.
“Get to the point before I throw up in my mouth. What did the DNA results show?”
I can hear the rustling of papers through the phone as Gwen sorts through the pages looking for what she needs.
“Well, the DNA under Layla’s fingernails was inconclusive, so we didn’t get any hits in CODIS. There just wasn’t enough of a sample there. But there WAS a small trace of blood on the brick. They ran it against both you and Layla since you two were the only ones to handle it after it came through the window. Are you sitting down for this?” Gwen asks mysteriously.
“Get to the point, Gwen. In about two minutes, there are going to be hundreds of screaming fans in this room.” I watch three security guards head for the doors and prepare to unlock them.
“It turns out the total number of shared DNA segments between this person and Layla is high and there are quite a few banding patterns.”
“In English, please.”
Gwen sighs through the phone.
“This means, big brother, that whoever threw that brick through Layla’s window is related to her. They share DNA.”
My eyes immediately shoot to Eve, standing behind Layla and whispering frantically in her ear. Layla is staring straight ahead at nothing while her mother most likely berates her for something stupid like not smiling big enough or not waving properly.
“It’s her mother. It has to be her mother,” I tell Gwen angrily as I clench my jaw and force myself not to walk over there and hit a woman. That wouldn’t look good in front of all of these people no matter how much she deserves it.