Page 103 of Most Eligible
There’s no reason I should believe her, but it’s all I have—one last shred of hope for a relationship I thought was already dead.
“Okay,” I say, my voice hollow. “Thanks, I guess. And… What you said about me choosing Rhett over everything we worked for? That’s not true. I can have both.” She doesn’t need to know how I’m planning to do it, but she’ll find out soon enough.
“And how are you going to manage that?” she asks in a bored tone. I imagine all the things she’d say if I told her—how she’d try to threaten me out of publishing, how she’d point out that my credibility will be tainted if people find out about me and Rhett.
“I don’t know,” I lie as Presley mews even louder in the background. “All I know is that I won’t publish as Gracie again.”
That much, at least, is true.
“Okay, well call me when you’re home so I can drop off Presley.” She sounds a little sad, like she’s actually mourning our travesty of a friendship.
“Bye, Serena.” And it hurts, letting her go. Like a compartment in my heart is shutting forever.
“Bye, G,” she says quietly.
I hang up first and close my fist around the phone. The people I really want to call are my parents. I want to tell them that I’m sorry Lainey wouldn’t let them come, that I miss them. But I don’t have much time. I walk slowly back up the cliff to the mansion and let myself back inside, where I find Norbert in the kitchen, now making a smoothie.
“How about some of this?” He holds out the blender, but I shake my head, setting his phone on the counter.
“Where’s Rhett? I—” I stop, realizing I have no lies prepared. “I have to talk to him.”
“He just left, lassie,” Norbert says. “He’s performing downtown tonight. At some club—I think it’s called the Orange Lizard?”
“The Pink Iguana?”
Norbert points at me. “That’s the one.” He gives me a wave and leaves the kitchen with his smoothie.
As soon as he’s gone, I rush upstairs and make sure Monica isn’t in the bedroom before rifling through my suitcase and pulling out my best makeshift concert outfit: those same jeans from last year and a paisley-patterned tube top.
If what Serena said is true, if there’s any hope of salvaging what we have, I have to talk to Rhett.
I just hope I’m not too late.
Tonight! Rhett Auburn performing for one night only at the Pink Iguana in downtown LA. Don’t miss this performance!
—LA Music, today
Chapter Thirty-Five
Above the doors of the Pink Iguana, the sign reads: RHETTAUBURN:ONENIGHTONLY.
Whether because of his recent scandal or the brevity of the gig, it’s already packed inside when I push my way through the doors. I wriggle through the crowd so I can stand close to the stage.
Trying for anonymity, I’m wearing the Rhett Auburn–branded baseball cap I never gave back to him. It seemed fitting for the occasion. I don’t think anyone will recognize me, but I can’t help looking over my shoulder every few seconds.
I haven’t been back here since meeting Rhett a year ago. Back then, I was a dogged journalist toggling back and forth between Gracie during the day and Georgia at night. I loved the nights. I loved going to concerts, giddy with the rush of live music. There, it didn’t matter if I came alone. Because in the crowd, I wasn’t alone anymore.
A young woman in a cowgirl hat sidles up to me and leans in. Her lip gloss smells like sugar. “Did you hear all the drama about him?”
“Oh, yeah—it’s wild,” I say.
She grins and takes a long sip of her drink. “You know he made out with someone inthis club.”
I just nod and smile back, focusing on the stage. It was rightup there that the lead singer of the indie band had leaned into the microphone, waited for the strobe lights to beat once, twice, then said: “Kiss a stranger.” My skin melted into Rhett’s as couples formed around us, and when we pulled apart, the next song was already playing. Kissing him was like being swept up in a wave. His hands were steady, assured, but at any moment I could find myself at the edge of the world.
Now, the lights dim, and Rhett steps onstage to thunderous applause. He’s wearing his usual outfit—a short-sleeve black shirt and jeans, cowboy boots poking out of the bottom. That damn lock of hair falls over his forehead as he walks to the stool center stage and props his guitar up on one leg. He adjusts the microphone and smiles out at the crowd, taking my breath away.
“Evening, y’all,” he says.
