Alright guys, This is Sugar signing on for another 14-15 chapter story. For some of you who are a little scarred from Autumn Rotting, I'd like to say relax and sit back and enjoy this story. It might be a little easier on the palate. Also I loved the reviews for the other one; you guys are hilarious and very emotional.

Anyways as always, you know the rules, review, tell me how you feel, I like them all. The good, the bad, and the incredibly long. Also tell me how you feel about the story and its direction. Any predictions? Also if any of you want to make cover pictures (I know some people do that), PM me.

I've grown to see the world as flat

You go so far and after that

There's no place left to go but back

There's no place left to be

So just in case you meet its end

And everywhere to be, you've been

And you feel like coming home again

you can come back home to me

I'll keep your room just how you left

Your bed unmade, your desk unkempt

Your records on the same top shelf

Right where they're supposed to be

So if you find you've had your fun

if you find you miss me some

I'll still be here when you are done

You can come on home to me

The crowd is hungry tonight.

When the final notes of the song spill out, their screams pour in; chants of admiration, chants of love…phone numbers. I smile at no one in particular because the bright lights glaring at the stage make it impossible to see any face clearly. Jackson Starr, the host of The Jackson Starr Show (obviously), is gesturing dramatically, his face contorted in faux delight. I hate this guy. And not just because of his overly gelled hair, though that's not winning him any points either.

It's just something about him, something about his exaggerated movements and frozen expression. He reminds me of an overworked puppet

Every time I see him I almost expect to catch a glimpse of some studio producer's hand up his ass.

"Wow folks, what a performance!" Jackson whistles loudly before continuing, his face turned directly toward the center camera, "And for the viewers at home finally tuning in, we just heard the famous Rizzoli here tonight finishing up a performance of her new single Come On Home."

I glance at my watch quickly, knowing that my time on the Jackson Starr Show should be winding down to a close, but unlike we rehearsed before, he doesn't immediately announce my exit. Instead he sits back behind his desk and gestures to the interviewee chair right beside it. I glance around a bit confused, looking off the stage at my manager Vince Korsak who looks like he's about to have an aneurysm. He doesn't handle the unexpected well. Everything has to be on time in his mind, any slight detour puts him on edge.

But I figure Jackson's only stalling for more time, so I simply shrug and sit back down in the interview chair even though I'm pretty sure we've already gone through all of his question cards. When I finally make it to my seat though, Jackson continues smiling widely. So widely that it almost comes off mischievous.

"So Rizzoli your time with us is almost about over," he makes a dramatic frowning face and the crowd does a collective 'aww'. It's a little creepy, but I smile sympathetically anyway. "But before you go," he continues, "I had to address some rumors that have recently come to my attention."

I furrow my brow at this, looking back once again at Korsak who is beginning to turn red as he whispers furiously to some stagehands gathering around him. I figure he's either trying to find out what the hell is going on like I am, or he is simply trying to get them to pull the plug on the interview. Korsak is a bit of a firecracker in that way. I'm much calmer under pressure than him, so when the audience "Ooo's" as if I'm some 9 year-old getting called to the principal's office I simply shrug and roll my eyes. Things in my personal life are kept personal; I take very, very extensive measures in order to ensure that my growing fame does not hinder my privacy. Of course, the paparazzi gets some things like where I go to eat for breakfast…or that one time I tripped on my way out of the gym. But other than that, I'm a vault. Which is exactly how I like it. Especially considering some of the secrets that are kept inside.

"Well, Rizzoli, I was sent some very interesting photos of you yesterday," he raises his eyebrows accusingly, but I simply smirk. Whatever he has is probably some gossip article nonsense. But I play along anyway.

"Are you talking about those pictures I sent you, Jackson? You swore you'd be discreet!" I feign indignance and the crowd laughs loudly. Jackson even cracks a smile, tilting his head in a fond sort of manner.

"No, not those pictures," he replies playfully and the audience chuckles again, "I'm talking about some very, very interesting pictures I was sent of you and another special person."

"Hm…" I hum thoughtfully, trying to seem unshaken by the fact that he's mentioned that someone else is in the picture. He can't know…of course not…It's probably just another picture of me and Casey hanging out. The tabloids can't seem to wrap their heads around two friends of opposite genders simply being friends. "Ah, Is this about me and Casey Jones again? Because I swear to you, there's nothing interesting about our relationship."

Jackson smiles before waving his hand dismissively, "It's not Casey. It's someone much more shocking." The crowd lets out a collective gasp before Jackson continues, and as nonchalant as I'm trying to act, part of me feels a little scared. "I'm talking about you and the one and only," he pauses for suspense, and my heart skips a beat without my permission, "Maura Isles."

With utter flamboyance he gestures to the huge screen behind him and there, on national television, is a blurry picture of me and fucking Maura Isles in each other's arms, hugged up at night by a pool. I don't really know what a heart attack feels like, but god I must have had something close to it. Because my chest felt like it was about to explode. I could hear Korsak behind me let out a low screech to cut to commercial, and apparently the studio decided that was enough rope for us to hang ourselves because they gave the signal for Jackson to cut it off.

"But before Rizzoli responds to these damning allegations we'll need to take a short commercial break. Tune back in with us in a few if you want to hear all the juicy deets."

He winks at the camera and waits with a widely stretched grin until we are finally off of the air. I get out of the chair almost immediately, pulling my cell phone quickly out of my pocket. God, I hope Maura hasn't changed her number because I need to be the person to tell her this. Not some paparazzi stalker flashing a camera in her face.

"Jane!" Korsak yells instantly the moment I am off of stage, "You better tell me what the hell that was up there, and it better be a goddamn good excuse!" It's not that I'm intimidated by Korsak. I mean, he's a teddy bear usually; for god sakes, the man lives with five puppies, two of which he takes with us whenever we're on the road. He has a heart of gold. But whenever he scolds me, I feel like a kid getting reprimanded by my father. But I guess, that's kind of what Korsak is …a stand-in father. I can't help but bow my head a bit, even though I'm incredibly pissed that the whole world is about to be privy to my personal life.

Oh god, the whole world is about to know about my personal life. I have to tell Maura.

"Good god Janie…Maura Isles? Of all the women throwing themselves at you? You choose the married one?" he groans loudly, taking out a handkerchief and rubbing his brow harshly, "you're trying to kill me. That's what this is."

I roll my eyes at Korsak's histrionics before quickly weaving my way around him and through the stage crew until I find a nearby unlocked door. As stealthily as I can, I slip into the room which is luckily some sort of abandoned conference area, and I pull out my phone. I try hastily to dial out Maura's number by heart. I get it wrong the first time, but on my second attempt, I stop trying to remember and simply let my fingers move of their own accord. Miraculously, I dial it correctly. And even more miraculously, the number is still in service. I thought she'd have changed it by now. If not just out of habit because as stars we often have to change our numbers to keep them from getting public, I expected her to at least change it out of spite for me. I figured she'd want to sever all means of contact between herself and me. But obviously she hasn't because the phone rings. And it only takes about three rounds before she finally picks up.

"Jane," she breaths out; she sounds a little surprised…but even moreso angry.

"Maura."

Dr. Isles and I have a long history, but it all pretty much all started in a closet.

A supply closet to be exact, right up against a stack of cleaning supplies. I remember it vaguely. A shove against the wall. A tongue pushing between my lips. The sound of her moans drowned out by the thunderous bass of overly loud speakers. It was party; I can't quite remember now whose party. Or whose closet. But I do recall the aftermath. I remember stumbling out of the dark crevice of a room, Maura's hand laced tightly with mine. Her alcohol-stained lips pressed against my ear.

Let's get out of here.

She was beautiful, even then. Even with her haired tousled and her lipstick slightly smudged.

She was beautiful.

But she was beautiful in a poignant kind of way

She was the kind of beauty that people see when they look up into the night sky. She was that dark emptiness that seemed to stretch infinitely beyond you.

She was the kind of beauty you could spend your whole life trying to explore, knowing all the while you'd never scratch the surface.

I spent two years trying to explore all her dark matter: her daddy issues, her mommy issues, her commitment issues. Unsurprisingly, it was the last one of those issues that broke us up. Yeah, she was married to Garrett Fairfield, a billionaire whose family owned some sort of oil business, but that marriage, at least as she described it, was more of a business merger than an emotional commitment. Garrett saw other people; she saw other people. And that was that.

It was an odd sort of arrangement considering that Maura had become the face of the Isles Foundation, a sort of beacon of goodness. Her name was closely associated with the company and the company was closely associated with all a wide array of charities. Plus with all the advertising campaigns the company puts on, Maura has developed a known presence on television, and because of that, she's garnered her own sort of fame. She's been called the Modern Mother Teresa in some circles, simply because of her work with Doctors without Borders and the foundation itself. That's kind of how I met her. At a charity event, her foundation asked me to help raise money for the construction of a string of clinics in west Ethiopia. I donated some money myself and did a couple of commercials in its favor, and because of that, the board invited me to a charity ball and a subsequent smaller 'after party' gathering. Maura had come over during the 'after party' and started chatting me up.

"We really appreciate your support for the construction of the clinics. I know your schedule is probably incredibly busy."

"No problem. I enjoyed helping out."

It was nothing, not really. I mean, she even introduced me to Garrett that night; I shook the guy's hand. But somehow, that didn't make me any less attracted to his wife. And the more alcohol I drank, the less I cared about him and the more attracted I became to her. It didn't hurt that Maura eyed me over her wineglass the entire night, her bottom lip wedged between her teeth.

Three hours later, she was slipping her hand down my slacks, and I was burying my tongue into her mouth.

And now, we're both going to pay for it.

"Well isn't this an unpleasant surprise," she snips from the other end. We haven't spoken to each other in over six months, but for some reason, I was expecting a happier response. I don't really know why though. After our 'break-up', she actually tried to remove me as a spokesperson from the Isles Foundation. But when that proved more complicated than originally planned (seeing as the board favored the amount of press I was bringing to the company) she up and flew to another country with Bass and Garrett close to her side, separating herself from me entirely.

Which was what we both needed anyway, I guess.

Space.

"If you're calling to ask about the things you left at the summer house, I've already had them taken care of," she says it blankly. In that way she always does when she's trying to seem detached.

I narrow my eyes a bit at her words, "You threw my things out?"

She's quiet for a moment before finally responding, "Maybe."

"Maura, I swear to god," I start before I can stop myself. Maura has a way of getting under my skin. Easily. But I shake myself out of it. There are more important things to talk about. "Whatever, I don't care…even though my autographed Led Zeppelin t-shirt was in there...I'll ignore that for now. We have bigger problems." I look down at my watch again. I know I don't have much time before my phone is bombarded with emails and texts or Korsak comes rushing in here with a team of publicists.

"Tell me something I don't know, Jane," Maura retorts and I wish I'd never taught her how to be snarky.

"I'm serious Maura," I sigh, feeling anxiety wash over me. God, we're in so much trouble. "They have pictures."

I hear her pause for a moment on the other end of the phone. "Who are they? And what kind of pictures?" The hostility in her voice is gone, replaced by a sort of quiet fear.

"The public, the media. I don't know," I say, frustrated at the situation, "they have pictures of us. Maura…they know."