Famous Love Read online

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Epilogue

  Famous Love

  Lelly Hughes

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Epilogue

  Copyright © 2017 by Lelly M Hughes

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. THIS BOOK OR ANY PORTION THEREOF MAY NOT BE REPRODUCED OR USED IN ANY MANNER WHATSOEVER WITHOUT THE EXPRESS WRITTEN PERMISSION OF THE PUBLISHER EXCEPT FOR THE USE OF BRIEF QUOTATIONS IN A BOOK REVIEW.

  THIS BOOK IS A WORK OF FICTION. NAMES, CHARACTERS, PLACES, AND INCIDENTS EITHER ARE PRODUCTS OF THE AUTHOR’S IMAGINATION OR ARE USED FICTITIOUSLY. ANY RESEMBLANCE TO ACTUAL PERSONS, LIVING OR DEAD, EVENTS, OR LOCALES IS ENTIRELY COINCIDENTAL.

  Cover by: Prezidental Visions

  Editing by: Leticia Sidon

  Formatting by: Prezidential Visions

  Chapter 1

  Zara

  You’re never prepared for that moment. It could be anything from finding out you’re pregnant or learning that your band, the one you’ve been in since you were seventeen, has just been nominated for a Grammy. I wish my moment were one of those, but unfortunately, mine comes in the form of finding out my husband of ten years, Van Phillips, has been having an affair.

  And how does one find this out? Well, if you’re me, you walk into your publicist’s office to find your husband banging her assistant. I mean I’m happy that it’s not my publicist bent over her desk with my husband pounding into her because that would really ruin my day.

  There is no recovery for something like this. Even as I stand here with my mouth open with tears streaming down my face, nothing fixes this. Not the look of regret that he gives me as he pulls out of her and quickly stuffs himself back into his pants. Not the “oh shit” look she flashes as she hurries to fix her skirt, making me wonder where the fuck her panties are.

  You’re not prepared when your publicist actually walks into her office oblivious that two people were just fucking on her desk and she asks if you’re ready to get to work on your next tour.

  What the fuck does someone do in this situation? There isn’t a handbook on how to handle your husband when he gets caught cheating, let alone when you find out he has been unfaithful, although there should be because it seems to happen more often than not in Los Angeles. It’s clear that I should’ve taken some classes on how to handle my emotions by the death glare he’s given me. It’s as if I’m supposed to “man up” and pretend as if nothing has happened. Like I am somehow at fault here.

  Unfortunately, that is exactly what I do because I’m moving on autopilot, still trying to decipher if what I saw was real or an optical illusion because I can’t fathom why my husband would cheat on me. It’s not like we don’t have a healthy sex life. In fact, he had no qualms taking care of my needs this morning. Apparently, I didn’t take care of his, though.

  I take one of the two seats in front of Laura’s desk, cringing when she sets a pile of folders in the spot where my husband had her assistant bent over, the same one who is now scurrying away to fetch coffee. Not that I would drink anything she hands to me because for all I know she’s trying to kill me so she can have my cheating-ass-bastard of a spouse all to herself. Newsflash, Trina… Trisha… Tanya, whatever the fuck her name is… she can have him. As far as I’m concerned this is unforgivable, and the fact that he’s sitting down next to me as if nothing has happened makes my skin crawl.

  Oh God, he fucking smells like her cheap ass perfume too. I pretend to gag, except I’m really gagging since my stomach is doing its own version of gymnastics and I have a feeling that I’m about to lose my breakfast all over Laura’s desk any second now. I lean away and not so subtly move my chair farther from him. He reaches out to touch me, but I glare at him. I throw so many daggers that I’m imagining each one hitting him square in his chest. He must understand that I don’t want to be fucked with right now because he pulls his hand away.

  That is until the tart walks back in with two cups of coffee. Laura doesn’t look up from the paper she’s reading when her mug is set on her desk, but my husband, he fucking perks up like this bitch is his only means to feed his caffeine addiction. And because I am living in some alternative universe, she has no qualms about brushing up against his arm and making sure he can see her tits when she unnecessarily bends over to give him his coffee.

  “That’s it, I’m out of here,” I say as I stand up.

  Laura looks up quickly, she’s confused and rightly so.

  “Sit down, Zara,” Van has the nerve to say. I can’t even be bothered to look at him so I look at Laura and smile as best I can because right now shit hurts inside and all I want to do is break down and cry.

  “I walked in a few minutes early for our meeting and found Van and your assistant fucking on your desk. You might want to sterilize it and find a new assistant because if you don’t, I’m walking.”

  I don’t need Laura to say anything. The wide eyes and open mouth are enough for me to know that I’ve shocked her. Behind me, I can hear Van yelling my name, but he’s not following me. No, he chose to stay back with the bimbo instead of getting up and chasing after his wife to tell her how sorry he is and that what he did was a mistake. But I know better. I could tell by the look on his face that he was only sorry that he didn’t get to finish before he got caught.

  Outside the sun is shining, and it’s hot. So hot that I’m sweating and my breathing is labored because I’m on the verge of a meltdown. I decide to walk, to get lost in the crowd even though that is nearly impossible because people are calling my name. They’re grabbing at me, asking for a picture, an autograph and I can’t stop and give them what they want.

  I slip inside a tourist store where I can buy a fake Hollywood star and use the attached stickers to make my name. That would’ve been easier than paying the ridiculous fee that my band, Reverend Sister, paid in order to get a legit star on the Walk of Fame. I keep my head down and pick up a T-shirt that reads “I Almost Got Famous in Hollywood” which is something I would never be cau
ght dead in and snag a hat off the rack. Anything I can do to hide my platinum blond and purple hair from the people on the street. I’m not expecting it to help much, but a little would be nice.

  Thankfully I have enough cash to pay for my items, and luckily the clerk doesn’t recognize me, or if he does, he’s not a fan and couldn’t care less that Zara Phillips is in his store buying ridiculous Hollywood propaganda. Either way, I’m grateful that he’s not asking for a selfie because there’s no doubt in my mind that I look like utter shit. The last thing I need is my face on Instagram with comments leading to speculation that I’m stoned and on my way to rehab.

  On my way to divorce court is more like it. I can’t imagine what those headlines will be like. Of course, no one will believe that Van Phillips would do such a horrible thing to his precious Zara, his high school sweetheart, the love of his life and soul mate. Yet he did and did so without giving me a second thought.

  Thinking about Van and whatever the hell her name is, sends my heart and stomach in opposite directions. I thank the clerk and don my newly purchased disguise before stepping back out and into the foot traffic. My name is called less, and it’s more of people questioning whether or not they’re getting lucky and seeing me walking down the street. Any other day I’d be happy to stop and chat with them, but not today. Today I want to get home and figure out what I’m supposed to do, where I’m supposed to go from here because any decision that I make, it’s not going to be an easy one.

  Our lives, Van’s and mine, are intertwined in so many ways. From the time he joined my silly little garage band to the day we took our friendship to the next level. Everything we did, we did as a team with people around us and now those people depend on us. Reverend Sister isn’t Van’s or mine, it’s ours and only works together if we’re in it together and right now I don’t want to be anywhere near him.

  By the time the tears start to fall, and I mean really fall, I’m halfway home, and my phone is ringing with Van calling. The alerts are going off like crazy because the paparazzi are relentless and insist on snapping pictures of people. And when they put them online they add the most ridiculous headlines, except these, are spot on and tell people about my impending breakdown. It’s coming. I can feel the gut-wrenching ache, my heart being ripped out of my chest and every muscle and bone in my body in pain. The takeover is slow and almost alien like. I can feel it in my toes, moving its way up my legs. It’ll take some time for my brain to really figure it out. For the light bulb to go off that my marriage is over.

  And it is over. I can’t forget what I saw and if I can’t do that there is no way I could forgive him. There is no way that I’d let him touch me after what I witnessed. The thought has me doubled over, and someone is yelling from a passing car, asking if I’m okay. Mentally I flip them off because do I look okay? No, I don’t. Nothing about my appearance screams that I am okay.

  Van’s car is in the driveway when I reach the gate to our house. I stand there, like a celebrity stalker, looking at the property. The half-circle driveway with its pristine concrete leads to two amazing French doors that I chose. Beyond those doors, the marble flooring that I had to have extends up the sweeping staircase and fills the hallway that leads to my bedroom with its balcony that overlooks my swimming pool. Everything about this house is what I wanted, complete with an empty room for a nursery because damn it, Van promised me we’d start trying for a baby.

  What a liar he is. What a snake and a cheat. Why would he do this to me? The question is, do I even want to know? Do I want him to tell me that I nag him too much or that he doesn’t love me anymore? Could I take those words from the man that I have given everything to? The one that I have been in love with since he walked into my garage and pulled a set of drumsticks out of his back pocket and went to town on the set of drums that were set up. Watching the muscles in his arms flex and the magic he created was an epic turn on.

  No, I don’t think I could because knowing that my husband thought it was okay to stick his dick into another woman while still married to me… really there’s no excuse. I punch the code for the gate and step through, and when I enter the house, it’s quiet except for the sound of my heavy footsteps.

  There are two choices in front of me: One—go find him and confront him. Two—start packing his shit so he can get the fuck out. Option two is what I choose because it’s the most raging action I can think of right now. Kicking him out will give me the satisfaction of knowing I had the last word after what he did today.

  Upstairs, I find him sitting on our bed, looking at our wedding photo. Does he feel guilty? I hope so. Without a word, I step into the closet and pull one of the two suitcases I leave in there for quick travel.

  “What are you doing?” he asks because apparently, it’s not fucking obvious.

  “Packing.”

  “Where are you going?”

  I come out of the room with an arm full of his clothes and throw them at him. Most land on the floor, but there are a few hangers that hit him in the head. “I’m not going anywhere, you are. Get the fuck out, Van.”

  “Zara,” he says reaching for me, but I step away, keeping myself an arm's length from him.

  “Don’t fucking Zara me you piece of shit. You fucking cheated on me,” I say. “ME! The one you took vows with. You don’t get to say my name or tell me how sorry you are because you’re not sorry, Van. If you were, you would’ve figured shit out before you stuck your dick in her.”

  I head back into the closet and grab another armful of clothes. When I come back, he’s still in the same spot, and when he looks at me, he’s crying.

  “Why are you crying, Van? Because you got caught?”

  “Zara, if you would just listen.” He’s able to grab my wrist and pull me toward him before my brain registers what’s going on. The stench of her sugary sweet perfume hits me hard and smells, dare I say fresher than it did earlier. The only thing I can think is that he’s been with her since I caught him hours ago.

  I step away from him and shake my head. This time I won’t be able to stop the tears from coming. “Get out,” I say, pointing to the door. “Get out of my house right now.”

  Van doesn’t say anything as he grabs his clothes and throws them into a suitcase. Everything goes quiet until the front door slams, and I jump. It’s not until I hear his car start up and the gate screech shut do I fall onto my bed and let the ache take over.

  Chapter 2

  Levi

  The only light in my room comes from my alarm clock as I lift the shirt I placed over it before going to bed. I cover the red numbers almost instantly, but not before I start to see red dots each time I blink. As I lay in bed, the faint sound of the house phone continues to ring off into the distance. My eyes try to focus on what would be my ceiling or my wall, but it’s pitch black in here and anything in front of me in purely my imagination.

  It’s three a.m., and some jackass is calling my house phone. I sigh and think about how I need to change my phone number again and wonder what’s the point of having an unlisted number if people can still obtain the sacred digits. The only reason I still have a landline is that cell service is questionable on my ranch. Besides, I like the feel of a phone. I like that I have to sit down to talk to someone, giving the person calling my undivided attention.

  The blackout curtains were purchased and hung by my personal assistant and publicist, Barbara, in an attempt to have my mind shut off at night. This was after she received an email from my record label informing her that my late night actions were causing the executives to have minor heart attacks when photos of me, drinking in a bar, were made public.

  Her answer was to make sure I had a peaceful place to rest, that and tea. Barbara treats everything with tea. If you have a cold, she gives you tea. If you stab yourself accidentally with a rusty nail, instead of taking you to the hospital for a Tetanus shot, she asks if you want tea. I love her dearly, but tea can’t fix everything.

  Ever since, I’ve been trying to pla
y by their rules and sticking close to home. Drinking alone though isn’t as fun as when you have a crowd surrounding you, encouraging you to drink more until you’re stumbling into the bar and finding random rides back to your home by complete strangers. Who would’ve thought that they’d sell the story to the newspapers?

  One mistake and I’m being labeled an alcoholic. One incident and it’s being suggested that I spend some time relaxing which is industry speak for rehabilitation. I thought about getting away, going to spend some time where no one knows who I am just to escape the scrutiny.

  But doing so would mean not speaking to my daughters every day. Stormy and Willow are my life, my reason for living, and I hate that I can’t see them every day.

  The phone rings again. I count each ring until they stop, only for them to start up again. I sit up and bring my pillow to my face while I tap the base of my bedside table. Slowly, I let my eyes adjust to the light before making my way toward the living room.

  My house is quiet. It’s always quiet, except for the faint sounds of the wildlife that can be heard. It’s often that I can sit in the oversized chair and watch a herd of deer traipse through my yard or hear a pack of coyotes howling in the middle of the night. It was one of the selling points, that and being away from the busy city.

  Sitting on twenty plus acres of land, my view over Nashville is one of the most sought after locations around. Investors want me to sell off my land for development, and each time I tell them no, they come back with a higher offer.

  This is my little slice of heaven. It’s where I can come and be me without having to be the Levi Austin that fans expect every time they see me out and about. This is where my private life begins, and my public one is put on hold. Behind closed doors, I can write my music, play my guitar as loud as I want and stare at the assortment of trophies I’ve won over the years. My favorite came last year when I won Country Music’s Album of the Year. Man, to beat out the stellar artists in that category was an amazing feat and one I am so proud of.