Hello people!
A week later, FFnet is still being a PITA and things are touch and go, so I hope you can read this update at SOME point ;-)
Usual housekeeping:
1. None of this would exist without Team Momo: Midnight Cougar and Alice's White Rabbits are in the editing chairs. AgoodWITCH, AushaPasha, RobsmyymmyCabanaboy and Eternally Addicted pre-read. Lizzie Paige made the gorgeous banner. MarieCarro made countless manips for this story. Two more will debut later today in my FB Group LaMomo's Lair-go check them out!
2. I wanted to explain a couple things about last week's chapter. Yes - the guys were victims of sexual assault. It doesn't matter if they went upstairs with those girls willingly. The moment the roofies came into play, their consent went out the window. And yes, men (and male identifying people) can ALSO be victims of SA, and if there's a chunk of SA against women that goes unreported for reason we all know all too well, imagine what the statistics look like for SA against men (check out RAINN's website for exact numbers).
Leah doesn't TELL them or FORCE them not to report or keep it quiet. It's not her job. Her job with them is to be their publicist. And she's doing that by telling ALL the possible scenarios, and what they would entail. She tells them "if you report X will happen", and also "if you don't report, Y will happen, and we can do A and B. Your choice." She gives them the CHOICE to do whatever they are comfortable with - because it's up to THEM to decide. If they pressed charges, there would be little they could do to control the flow of information once the case makes its way through the court system. This isn't the kind of thing you can keep under seal, despite the existence of shield laws that are supposed to protect victims of SA. This is the kind of stuff the press would go nuts about, as we've had too many occasions to witness in the press before. She wouldn't be doing her job if her only guidance were "sure, report it, it's all gonna be peachy."
3. That event and its aftermath are going to leave a mark on our Edward. Maybe not overt ... but stick a pin in that. Because this new chapter jumps ahead a few years, and ushers in a new phase.
Here we go.
DREAMS UNWIND – CHAPTER 4
THEN – Edward's story
Seattle, WA – September 2012
"Are you sure you want to do this, Edward?"
I got why Jamie asked me that question.
"I'm fucking fed up with the press speculating about every move I make or don't make in my private life. Why I don't date, what I'm doing instead, who I'm doing, when, how often, whether I'm gay, bisexual, a secret sex addict, I have a secret family somewhere, or whatever the fuck else they come up with on a day that ends in y. I'm done, Jamie."
He leaned forward, elbows perched on his knees, and gave me a long, discerning look from his seat across from me. We didn't have to worry about privacy because I'd invited him over for dinner at my condo. I'd made sure to pick an evening when the rest of the guys wouldn't be around here spit-balling ideas for the album we'd just started recording. For a variety of reasons, they didn't agree with my idea, but recognized the huge pressure I had to cope with, and would respect any choice I made. They knew the trappings of fame impacted me differently, and the state of their personal lives proved it.
Sam and Emily were still married and going strong. So strong, that, after a lot of trying and a couple false starts, Sam Jr. would be making his appearance in a matter of weeks. We'd gladly gone to bat for Sam with the label so we could schedule album promo and touring around Emily's due date.
Paul and Jake overcame their threatened sex scandal by exiting the dating pool soon after their drugs tests proved positive and they had the girls neutralized. The irony of it all was that Jake developed a huge crush on Leah after she solved the entire clusterfuck in a matter of days, and by some miracle, she agreed to go on a date with him. They were still together after four years. I had it on good authority that Jake was about to put a ring on it.
Paul met a girl named Kim a couple of years after the post-VMA debacle. Kim happened to be a production assistant on one of our video shoots for the album that followed Unapologetic. We'd taken to teasing Paul relentlessly about it because the album title had somehow been a harbinger of things to come—Not Your Friend.
Never mind that I'd written the title track to thumb my nose at the playboy persona the press had slapped on me. Nobody had figured it out, much to our amusement. It had become our inside joke and a platinum-selling single. On that score, we had no complaints.
I'd pushed back on that persona at every turn with no fucking results. Where the fuck had it even come from if I'd not dated one single live individual in years? They'd only ever seen me on red carpets with Vic or, on occasion, my brother.
Well, as it turned out, the press didn't need evidence. They took one look at my leather pants, my naked chest, and my tatts, all on full display on stage where I jumped, danced, and moved around for hours on end and decided my entire get-up meant I had to be a huge manwhore. Talk about assumptions and stereotypes. The label loved it because it sold records and gig tickets. I hated it because it wasn't me. But I was stuck with it.
Even Vic being my sorta-kinda-pretend girlfriend in public had worked only in part. Until it hadn't. At all.
When same-sex marriage became legal in Washington the past February, Vic told me she would no longer be my arm-candy because now she could finally marry Jane. She was so excited. But when she proposed, Jane rejected her. They broke up. Vic was down in the dumps for a few months, but came out of it full of energy and determined to come out of the closet, her current relationship status be damned.
We had a long talk that day. She was afraid that'd put me in a bind because we'd covered for each other for so long. I waved off her concerns, gave her a hug, told her to go and live her life true to herself. I'd be there at her side every step of the way, cheering her on.
I'd sort my own ass out—which was what I was asking Jamie to do.
"What's your objection?"
"I've known you for almost seven years now, Edward. It takes a special kind of cynical, mercenary attitude to accept these 'made for the press' arrangements. You don't strike me as that type of guy."
"Fuck," I grumbled.
Jamie narrowed his eyes, staring at me only through those shrewd blue slits of his. "You're an excellent songwriter, and yet you're being … inarticulate right now. I wonder why. If it's this business with Vic, I can talk to her."
I raised my hand. "Stop that train of thought right now. She's been far too generous with this business for years. As long as she and Jane enjoyed not being in the limelight, we both benefited from it. But she doesn't wanna do that anymore, and I support her. So, our game of cat and mouse with the press ends now. I still don't want them rummaging through my dirty laundry, though. Can't we have a smokescreen of any kind? A ban on those questions?"
After a pensive sigh, he shook his head. "You know those vultures don't work that way. The more we ban the questions, the more intrusive they'll get. Do you want them to pay your cleaning lady so they can root around your garbage for clues?"
I grunted again, disgusted and defeated. I loved making music. It was my life. I'd been privileged enough to turn it into a successful, lucrative career. What I fucking hated were the invasions of my privacy. What did it matter if I was dating anyone?
"I don't understand the rabid interest, Jamie. I'm a musician, for fuck's sake."
"Oh, Jesus Christ on a cracker, give me strength," Jamie muttered. "Avalanche works as a band. You kids are a unit; that's why you work so well musically and on the stage. Your personalities play off each other. But you could sit there with a paper bag over your head, and you'd still stand out, man. You wouldn't even have to sing. Look at you," he said, waving a hand in my direction.
"I'm just me. What the fuck ever."
"No, you're not 'just you.' Tall, broad-shouldered guy like you, all lean muscles and chiseled features, with that bedhead of sexy hair you're sporting, in that unreal, undefinable color, those green eyes that sparkle with mischief, and the oodles of ink on your arm and chest. You're comfortable in your own skin; you move on that stage with the grace and power of a big cat. The audience is your prey, and you stalk them, night after night. On top of what your momma gave you, you insist on rocking those leather pants—or that fucking kilt, God bless you—and your sweaty, bare chest. You move and sing as though you're having sex on that stage. In a word, you're a knockout, Edward. With cross-gender appeal. Your fan mail is unreal, and mind you, Ang only gives you the tame stuff. The kooky, X-rated sex fantasy shit doesn't see the light of day. But we do have to read it enough to find it and trash it."
Comments on my physical appeal were a dime a dozen. It was all blah, blah, blah to me. I had no hand in how I looked. "I scored on the fucking genetic lottery, so what?"
"So what, he says," Jamie countered. "Are you being dense or naïve?"
Right then and there, I lost it. "You think I don't know all that shit? I can't prevent any of it, but I'm not going to censor or tone down what I do on stage either. That's a part of me. The incessant speculating isn't," I shouted in Jamie's face.
I didn't care that my hands moved like windmills around me, dispelling all my frustration and my nervous energy. I needed to blow up at something, someone. Unfortunately for him, that happened to be Jamie. I stood and started pacing back and forth, feeling more and more like a caged animal.
"That's always been our mantra, even if Vic came up with the phrase. We sell our music, not ourselves. I haven't dated anyone in years. Years, Jamie. I don't even have the fucking want nor need to date anyone at this point. I don't want a fake bimbo who'd latch on to me for my bank account."
"There are ways of having real relationships in this industry. Look at Sam. Paul. Hell, even Jake and Leah are making it work. Laurent and I have been together for almost twenty years."
"And you're all damn lucky fuckers. I envy the fuck out of all of you; I truly do. I've tried, Jamie. Maybe I'm not relationship material. Maybe there's something broken in my fundamental makeup."
"Sit down, big guy. You're giving my neck a son of a bitch of a workout," he said, his tone lighter. "Okay, I feel like we've talked this to death. You've obviously thought through your options."
I raised an eyebrow at him. "Really? You don't say. And I'm the one about to become a discarded soap opera subplot."
"I'm looking out for you, Edward. For all of you kids. If you feel it's the only way the press will leave you alone, I'll get Leah on the case. She'll know how to orchestrate this kind of … arrangement? Ploy? I don't even know what to call it."
"Girlfriend for hire?"
At those words, Jamie snorted. "Hold on to your sense of humor; you're gonna need it, my boy."
And that was the end of our discussion.
Little did I know where the "girlfriend for hire" plot would take me.
&&&DREAMS&&&
The first official appearance for the "GFFH," as Jamie and the guys had codenamed the entire shebang, came six months later with Jake and Leah's wedding. The hard-ass publicist and the drummer were revealing their inner romantics by getting married on Valentine's Day.
They'd opted for something small and private. Well, as private as the wedding of the top PR lady in the state and the drummer for a multi-platinum band would get when they booked all of Canlis in Seattle for the reception.
The GFFH of the moment, some sort of small-time Disney actress, who was trying to break into non-kiddie-safe films, had been pleasant so far. I couldn't even remember her name. Taylor? Brittany? Candy? Andee! Her name was Andee.
Names were the bane of my existence. I had a difficult time remembering them even on my best days. Today, seeing my buddy get married to the love of his life—and our beloved drill-sergeant of a publicist—wasn't a good day for me.
Sitting next to GFFH, at one of the tables closest to the bride and groom, didn't help my mood. I was genuinely happy for them, but the occasion shone a bitter spotlight on the absurdity of my personal affairs. To make matters worse, GFFH had been prattling on about her auditions since the hors d'oeuvres.
We'd been on three fake dates so far. All public events—the VMAs last September, the Grammys last month, and a dinner at Chateau Marmont in L.A. while we were there doing promo for the new album. She'd driveled on at all three of those. My ears were about to fall off.
"My apologies, Andee. I'll be back in a minute," I said, needing a break. Getting a word in edgewise had been an increasing problem.
My words stopped her short halfway through the narration of the tenth audition of the day. I hoped Vic wouldn't hate me too much for throwing her under the bus on this one. She was seated to the other side of Andee and likely to be her next victim while I took an urgent break in the little boys' room.
I walked away from the reception hall and went in search of the restrooms. When I pushed inside the lavishly appointed room, I found myself face to face with my brother. He'd also been invited because his new girlfriend, Alice, happened to be the graphic designer who'd made the cover for our latest album, Alone at the Top.
Even as a neurologist fresh out of his residency, Jasper had managed to find a steady girlfriend within less than a year of moving back to Seattle.
"So, how's it going with GFFH number one?" he asked, an enigmatic smile on his face.
Jazz was four years my senior, but at first glance, nobody could tell. At work, he held his long, wavy blond hair in a man bun, and his lab coat and long-sleeved dress shirts hid his tatts—a wave of Celtic knots and the coat of arms of Scotland in honor of our heritage. But there, on his own time, with his hair flowing free to his shoulders and his ink peeking out from under his rolled-up sleeves, he looked more like a rebel rocker than I did.
"She's walking me through all of her latest auditions. In excruciating detail."
Jazz snorted and pulled up his zipper as he moved from the urinals to the sinks. "I'm gonna take a wild guess. You don't care about any of it?"
"The blathering is incessant. She's giving me a fucking headache."
"I'm not going to comment on your lack of social graces here, but did it ever occur to you that the poor girl might just be terrified and nervous?"
I pondered the question as I did my business. Maybe Jazz had a point. Trust the brain doctor to figure that shit out.
"Crap, bro. I didn't even think about that." I thumped my forehead against the mirror.
What a fucking tosser. I'd only been fixated with my own inconvenience until now. I never spared a thought as to what it could mean for Andee. I didn't behave this way, as a rule. But I'd entered into the arrangement with a bunch of preconceived notions of my own. I'd not even met the girl before she signed on. I'd dumped the entire organization of it on Leah and Jamie, as if I had nothing to do with any of it. But I did. I'd started the idea. And I'd done a bang-up job of it so far. Time for corrective measures.
"Well, it seems like you have some groveling to do," Jazz said, holding open the door for me.
I followed him out of the restroom. Groveling? Let's not go that far yet, I thought. Managing expectations? That I could certainly do.
&&&DREAMS&&&
The next day, I asked Andee to meet me for brunch in a café by the waterfront. It was close to Pike's Place, crowded and popular with the masses of Twitterati. If I had it right, our meeting would be fodder for gossip before our coffees went cold.
She arrived a few minutes after me. I stood to welcome her and gave her a faint peck on the cheek. She blushed, not quite knowing what to do with herself.
"Hi. Thank you for meeting me," I said.
She smiled. "This is different. Thank you for asking me."
"Apologies for the short notice. I hope my request didn't wreak any havoc on your schedule."
She stopped short from answering when our server approached to fill up our glasses with iced water and asked for our drink orders. We rattled off our preferences, but the arrival of a gaggle of girls interrupted our conversation again.
"Excuse me, but are you Edward Cullen of Avalanche?"
I threw Andee an apologetic look, and she motioned for me to go ahead.
"Hi, girls. Yes, I am."
They giggled at me, tripping over their words, when they noticed who was sitting with me. "You're Andee! From Andee Dandy! I love your show!" Their comments almost sounded like a chorus; they were so coordinated.
Andee turned toward them with a big, happy smile. "Hey, girls! Thank you, that's me. What was your favorite episode?"
These girls had to be barely fifteen. While they might be a bit young for my music, they were certainly Andee's demographic. Without hesitation, they came up with a list of episodes. Far more gracious than I expected her to be—for all they knew, they were interrupting our date—Andee listened, took selfies with them, and signed autographs. They left, quite forgetting they'd stopped at our table because of me in the first place.
"You look like a man who just dodged a bullet," she said, sipping her coffee.
"I'm sorry. They weren't a huge nuisance, were they?"
She chuckled. "You forget that I've been dealing with fans since I was ten years old. This is old hat for me. I struggled initially, but I wouldn't be here without my fans. I wouldn't be able to pursue other chances now."
Her insight hit me out of left field, but resonated with me. It also kicked my annoyance at the press's intrusiveness down a peg. "Thank you for sharing that. It gives me a new perspective."
"Why did you ask me here today, Edward?"
She didn't beat about the bush either. If she'd been nervous yesterday, she must have gotten over it.
"You're right. I had a reason for this besides the two of us ending up on Twitter. Again."
She shrugged. "It's all part of the game. You just need to learn how to play it."
It occurred to me that, so far, I'd refused to play that game, or part of it, at least. But I still couldn't figure out how to protect myself from the vilest facets of it. Andee's comments brought one clear concept home to me, though. This game was some transactional shit. Give and take. Everyone had a price. Andee was willing to pay that price for her own benefit—be photographed and associated with me as long as she could stomach it, as long as it raised her profile.
"I'd like to apologize if I seemed distant yesterday."
She nodded with another shrug. "It's okay. It doesn't matter."
The frown on her face contradicted her; her reply sounded far more blasé than she seemed. But it wasn't my job to parse her mood. I could only take her at her word.
"Still. My apologies. My behavior was rude and unwarranted. After all, you're doing me a favor."
She shook her head as a shadow passed over her eyes. "You don't owe me anything, Edward."
"I don't, but neither do you. We're not here to be friends or get to know each other. You don't need to work for any of this because none of this is real. None of it," I continued, motioning between us, "matters to me. We're doing each other a favor. A handsomely compensated favor. It doesn't give me any excuse to be rude to you, but I want to be very clear. I don't want you to have any illusions about our association either."
Her gaze didn't waver from me for one second as I spoke. Those were harsh words. Yet, I felt I needed to be clear about my expectations in our arrangement. I didn't want her to feel like she could change it, or change me, if she just kept at it a little harder, if she smiled a little wider, if she played it a little sexier. She didn't have to act as if she were my friend either. I sure as fuck wasn't her friend.
Maybe I just had to stop overthinking this shit and accept it. Through some deception, I earned my privacy. It was a transaction.
But what price would I pay down the line?
I had no idea back then.
Disclaimer: No Andee's or Andi's were harmed in the writing of this chapter. ;-)
No rock quotes from Vic this time either, but we get a glimpse of two new albums for Avalanche: Not Your Friend and Alone At The Top. Album covers will be posted to LaMomo's Lair on FB.
Also ... if right now you're tempted to throw rotten tomatoes at Edward for his pigheaded behavior ... feel free. But things that happen around you and to you have a way of sneaking under your skin and conditioning your behavior-and this is what's happening to Edward. He's reacting, protecting himself. Is he making piss-poor decisions? Heck, yeah. But he doesn't know that YET.
Anyhow, let me know what you think, and I'll see you all next Saturday in the hopes ffnet is finally fixed *fingers crossed*