As Dust Dances

I was being punished for not having perspective.

* * *

Present day

Glasgow, Scotland

O’DEA STARED AT ME, HOLDING the fruit cup and Danish pastry he’d brought with him hostage.

It was only pure physical exhaustion that caused me to find sleep the night before. After O’Dea had left, my brain felt like a hive of bees had been let loose inside it. I kept going over and over my options. Memories I’d worked so hard to bury were coming back to the surface. It was his fault.

I glared at the Scot. He was pushing me to move on, no matter what. That was a difficult concept for me to grasp because up until a couple of days ago, I’d completely given up on my old life. I didn’t care at the time how that made me seem because it meant I didn’t have to make difficult decisions anymore. That was freeing.

However, as much as I hated to admit it, O’Dea had held a mirror up to my behavior. It was clear he did not approve of the fact that I hadn’t stayed in the US to face my grief. And for some reason I couldn’t understand, that bothered me. I didn’t want to think of myself as a coward. I’d never thought of myself as a coward before.

I just . . . I was trying to survive. Sometimes pain was just too much, you know.

Weren’t we all just trying to survive?

“Well?” He stared at me impatiently.

As much as I feared fame, as unhappy as it had made me in the past, it was my only option at this point. After six months of no new leads in finding the armed robbers who had broken into my mom’s house and shot her and Bryan, I decided I was done with that life.

I hadn’t seen Micah, Austin, or Brandon since, and that was eighteen months ago. Facing them was a worse prospect than losing respect for myself at this point.

They were too much a reminder of my selfishness, of my stupidity and regret.

If I signed this contract with O’Dea, if I released an album with him, Gayle would definitely reach out. The guys would too. I wasn’t sure about Micah. There was a possibility he would never forgive me for disappearing. Or the letter and voicemail I’d left with Gayle so they wouldn’t report me as missing.

“I want creative control over the album,” I demanded. O’Dea’s eyes warmed and were far too appealing in that moment, so I continued before he could respond. “I also want it in the contract that I don’t have to talk to the media about my family. And that I get to choose which media outlets I talk to at all. Also, if my manager or band members try to get in touch, I will need you to field that interaction, as in make sure that they aren’t allowed to interact with me at all.”

He sighed, sounding exasperated by the notion. “The world is going to come buzzing back around as soon as we announce this solo return. I can make sure the topic of your family is strictly prohibited by interviewers, but I can’t guarantee they won’t try to broach the subject with you anyway. Also, there is no way I’m putting it in a contract that you get to pick and choose media outlets. That would be legally allowing you the choice not to pick any. Furthermore, keeping closemouthed about your family and your disappearance from Tellurian and the public eye will only incite the media’s interest.”

I opened my mouth to argue and he held up a hand to stop me. “But . . . I can keep your old management, your record label, and your band at bay.” O’Dea scratched his chin in thought. “Don’t you have an aunt?”

“Pen?” I shook my head, surprised he knew about my mom’s little sister since I had a nonexistent relationship with the last living member of my family. “Pen won’t be a problem. She didn’t even come home for the funeral. I doubt she cares about my disappearance. She’s not really all that big into facing reality.”

“Family trait, it seems.”

I grimaced. “Well, I walked into that one.”

He smirked. “What about the nutritionist and therapist?”

“There’s no point in me going to a therapist if I don’t want to.” I shrugged. “I’ve got to want to. First rule of therapy.”

“No therapy, no deal.”

“Well, that’s your prerogative.” I stared him down, refusing to budge on the subject.

“Skylar.”

“O’Dea.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Fine. No therapy.”

Delighted, I pushed. “And I do get to choose media outlets. I promise that I will choose some.”

“A promise isn’t good enough.”

“It will have to be. I’m not signing that contract unless it states I get to choose media outlets.”

Killian turned red with frustration. “Fine!”

Triumphant, my expression was overtly condescending. “I could see how painful that was to let me wrest away control from you. Maybe you really should see a therapist. An obsessive need to control the people around you is cause for concern.”

He ignored my teasing and said, “My suggestion came only from the genuine belief that it would help you.”

“There you go acting all noble, taking the sarcasm out of my sails.”

“Not even a hurricane could knock the sarcasm out of you.”

I nodded. “You’re learning.”

“So, we have a deal?”

“And what about Gayle? Will she be a problem?”

“Like your label, you’re only under contract with Gayle as part of Tellurian. We can find you new management if you want, or we can ask Gayle to manage you as a solo artist.”

“No. If I’m going to hell again, I want a new tour guide. Fresh eyes and all.”

“So much melodrama.” He shook his head. “New management. Fine. We’ll get a contract written up.”

I gestured to him, puzzled. “I thought there would be more excitement. If not actual jumping up and down, perhaps a lengthier smirk, a maniacal laugh, a proverbial sinister twist of an oversized imaginary mustache. You disappoint me, O’Dea.”

He stared blandly at me. “I’m squeeing on the inside.”

Amused despite myself, I smiled and then winced at the sting from my lip.

O’Dea’s gaze lowered to my mouth before rising to assess the rest of my face. “At least the swelling in your eye and cheek has gone down.”

“True, but the bruising still makes me look like a watercolor painting.”

“It’ll fade. Which takes us to the next order of business. You need new clothes and a trip to the hairdresser.”

The thought of stepping out into the public looking like this made me shudder. “Unless you want people to think I’m your battered wife, I think we better put a delay on the whole hair salon business.”

“Charmaine is coming to you. Tomorrow at noon. A haircut will make you feel more human and Charmaine knows how to be discreet.” He frowned. “But no rainbow hair.”

“If I want rainbow hair, I’ll get rainbow hair, okay. I don’t, but if I wanted it, I would.”

“Can I assume you’re going to be this difficult about everything?”

“Can I assume you’re not going to stop being a giant pain in my ass anytime soon?”

“Nutritionist,” he said, ignoring me. “My sister Autumn will be by tomorrow morning before Charmaine gets here. She’ll be letting her friend Brenna into the apartment. Brenna’s a nutritionist and she’ll be handling your dietary needs. Day after tomorrow, I have you booked into a private clinic for a health check. I’ve got a makeup artist booked for Friday morning. She’ll do your makeup so the bruises are hidden and then we’re going shopping for new clothes.”

Dazed, it took me a moment to find words. “You made appointments already? You assumed I’d say yes? And shopping? You’re taking me shopping?”

“We’ll have a personal shopper with us. But yes. And yes to your first question.” He gave me a quick, humorless grin. “I always get what I want.”

“Oh, really? Do you want a swift kick to the junk? Because I see that in your imminent future.”

He squinted as if he was considering it. “Nope,” he finally shook his head, “can’t say that I do. Not one of my kinks.”