Famous Love Read online

  On my ranch, I can walk around my house in my underwear while drinking beer and not have to worry about the paparazzo with their high-powered lenses trying to capture my picture, although it’s rare that the paparazzi bother me much in Nashville. It’s when I have to go to Los Angeles that they’re all over me.

  But here, on my ranch, I can ride my horses, shoot my guns and go muddin’ if that is what I want to do. I can have my band over for bar-be-que and not worry about my neighbors calling the police on us for being rowdy. This is where I can relax, be free and live my life. Besides, I’m saving my land for my girls. That is something those big city developers don’t understand.

  The ringing starts again, but this time I’m there to answer it quickly. “Hello?” I say, my voice somewhat hoarse from sleeping.

  “Mr. Austin?” the voice on the other end says.

  “Who’s calling?” I’m almost afraid to ask. Knowing my luck, it’s some sales person or a fan turned creepy stalker.

  “Sir, my name is Detective Pete O’Brien. I’m with the LAPD.”

  Hearing those words is enough to send chills down your spine. They cause you to tense up, shake, and maybe sweat a little, but mostly, they scare the shit out of you.

  “Okay,” I say after he pauses.

  “Do you know Iris Austin?”

  The sound of my ex-wife’s name has me relaxing a bit. I’m not surprised that she’s been arrested or picked up for something stupid. When we got divorced, she was adamant that she be allowed some freedom since I had that every time I went on tour, and she was home raising the girls. I agreed. I was happy that the girls were going to live with me while their mother “found” herself in Los Angeles.

  That was until Iris started talking to Stormy about all the amazing dance companies in L.A. and how she should move out there to pursue her dream of becoming a dancer. Stormy’s dream, of course, is to perform for hip-hop artists when they tour. As much as it pained me to let her go, I did but also didn’t like the fact that Willow would be left without a sister so both my girls went to live with their mama. It’s not what I wanted, but I didn’t want to short-change Stormy on her dream and didn’t want Willow growing up without her sister.

  Iris is an amazing mother when she wants to be. But she also loves the nightlife in Hollywood, and that sometimes gets in the way of her parenting. I suppose when you’re pregnant by seventeen and married at eighteen, you start to miss your twenties and need to relive them in your thirties.

  “I do,” I tell the officer with an exaggerated sigh as I wait for him to tell me how much her bail money is.

  “This is never easy to say. Iris Austin was killed in a car accident earlier this evening on the interstate.”

  “I’m sorry, what did you say?” There is no way I heard him correctly.

  He clears his throat and repeats his words verbatim as if he’s reading from a script. I let them sink in, only to realize he hasn’t said anything about my girls.

  “My daughters? Were they with her?”

  “No, the other passenger was a male.”

  “Do my children know?” I ask.

  “You were listed as Ms. Austin’s emergency contact.”

  I nod even though he can’t see me. “Please don’t notify them or the media. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  The officer gives me his number and tells me to call as soon as I’m in town. As soon as I hang up, I call Barbara, knowing that she sleeps with her phone on so she can tend to her needy clients like myself.

  “It’s after three in the morning, Levi. You better be dying.”

  My stomach heaves at Barbara’s statement, causing me to reach for the trash can that sits next to the table where the phone is. I barely tell her to hang on before I lose the contents of dinner.

  “You’re sick? You called so I could hear you puking your guts out? A text would’ve sufficed, Levi.”

  “Barb,” I say in between gagging episodes. “I need a chartered flight to L.A. immediately.”

  “What’s wrong?” her tone changes immediately. I need to get to the bathroom to rinse my mouth and am mentally kicking my ass for not calling her from my cell phone.

  “It’s Iris. There was an accident, and she didn’t make it.”

  Barbara gasps and mutters “Oh God” before saying, “The babies? Are they okay?”

  Since the girls were born, that is how she’s referred to them. It doesn’t matter that Stormy is about to be fifteen or that Willow is ten. To her, they’re her babies. Always have been.

  “They weren’t with her, but I gotta get to L.A.”

  “I’ll meet you at the airport. There will be a plane ready when you get there.”

  This is why I keep Barbara around. She’s been with me since I signed my first deal, taking me under her wings and guiding me through the trials and tribulations of stardom. Barbara has been my rock and a mother figure to me.

  After we hang up, I head into the bathroom to brush my teeth and make myself look presentable. Right now I’m going through a myriad of emotions and can’t pinpoint which one is making me feel worse.

  Iris was my high school sweetheart, and even though we weren’t married, I hadn’t stopped loving her. I always expected that we’d find our way back to each other once she got this “thing” out of her system. Every time she called, I was there for her and never questioned when she was going to start acting her age.

  Tears find me quickly as I pack my travel bag. My eyes land on a picture of Iris and the girls. Stormy must’ve been about eight and Willow three. They were on the tire swing together, and the sun was shining perfectly on them. I snapped the photo without them knowing and had it printed. Even when she left me, I kept the picture on my bedside table.

  I don’t pack much. Just enough to change my clothes when I get there because Barbara will make sure that I have everything I need when I arrive in Los Angeles. I don’t care if that means a whole new wardrobe. I have to get to my girls. Before leaving I jot down a quick note to my housekeeper, apologizing for the mess I left in the trashcan.

  The drive to the private airport is done in record time. When I pull up, Barbara is there to pull me into her arms. She cries into my plaid shirt while I hold her.

  “Leroy is going to take your truck home,” she says, motioning toward her son. He tips his at me and climbs into the truck, leaving Barbara and me alone. “What happened?”

  I shrug and shake my head. “It was a car accident, that’s all I really know.”

  “Do the girls know?”

  “No, I asked them not to tell them. I want to do it. They need to hear it from me and not someone they don’t know.”

  “My poor babies,” she says. I guide her to the waiting jet and follow her up the stairs. I don’t make it a habit out of flying via a charter, as I like to fly commercial. It’s how I come up with my songs, by watching folks. Surrounding myself with different types of people is what keeps me creative.

  As soon as I buckle in, the flight attendant is at my side with a glass of whiskey. I down it instantly and hand the empty one back to her. I’m going to need the liquid courage to get through what I’m about to do. Telling the girls that their parents were divorcing was hard enough; I can’t imagine how I’m going to tell them that their mama is gone.

  Chapter 3

  Zara

  I feel like I have a raging hangover, like I went on an all night bender and drank myself into a stupor. Honestly, that would be better than having a clear recollection of everything that I saw yesterday. No matter how hard I try, I can’t get the image of Van thrusting his hips into Laura’s assistant. Nor can I get the picture of her face, enjoying every minute while she watched me stand there, watching them, from my mind.

  Van called every five minutes for the first hour, every ten for the next and every twenty after that until he gave up and tried once an hour. He filled my voicemail with what I would consider heartfelt pleas to let him explain, but they’ve all fallen on deaf ears. There isn’t an
excuse that I would buy, let alone take as a valid reason as to why he would cheat on me. Of course, the first few messages were the common “it wasn’t what it looked like” which quickly changed to “it just happened.” Nothing like that “just” happens. Messing up a song lyric, forgetting an appointment or stumbling down the stairs “just” happens. You don’t just happen to decide to cheat on your wife.

  Thinking that has me wondering how many other times he’s done this. It’s a question that I want to ask, but don’t want to know the answer. I don’t think I could stomach learning that my husband has been unfaithful throughout my marriage. Once is enough to rip me to shreds.

  The house is eerily quiet. Even my heavy footsteps lack an echo against the marble floors. I don’t know if it’s because I’m so used to hearing Van move about the house or knowing that he’d be here somewhere, either watching television or jamming in the studio that we converted the pool house into.

  My phone vibrates in my hand with Laura’s number staring back at me. I’m tempted to ignore her call, but she’s persistent like Van and won’t stop until I answer, and if I don’t, she’ll show up at my door, demanding to be let in.

  “Hello,” I say groggily. It’s unlike me to have a scratchy voice, as I’m very aware of the repercussions if I don’t take care of my vocal chords.

  “You sound like shit,” she says, cutting right to the chase.

  “I feel like it.”

  “Well, I’m not about to make your day any better. I’m fielding calls that you and Van have separated. I really don’t know where people come up with these ludicrous accusations.”

  Does she not remember me storming out of her office yesterday demanding that she fire her assistant? “It’s not an accusation,” I tell her as I make my way into the kitchen. “Van is cheating on me with your assistant. I kicked him out.”

  “Let him back in, Zara.”

  I pull the phone away from my ear and make sure I’m talking to Laura and not Van. “Hold on,” I tell her as I put the phone down and reach for my teakettle while opening the refrigerator for the filtered water. People say boiling water will kill whatever is growing in the water system of California, but I don’t believe them. Once my pot is filled, and the stove is on, I go back to my call.

  “I don’t think I heard you correctly.”

  “You did, you’re choosing to ignore me.”

  “My husband was fucking your assistant, and you want me to take him back? Excuse me for being a bit obtuse here, but I have no desire to even speak to Van, let alone have him inside my home. He violated my trust.”

  Laura sighs. I can hear her adjusting something in the background, but can’t tell what. For all I know she’s walking to her car and plans to come over to my house to set me straight, except it won’t work. Van knew cheating was a hard limit for me and yet he still went and did it, and showed no remorse or tried to hide the fact that he was cheating on me. He knew I was coming to that meeting and would’ve seen them.

  That’s when it dawns on me. Van wanted me to catch him, but why? He’d have to know that I’d kick him out or leave him. My father cheated on my mother, and I never forgave him for tearing our family apart.

  “Look,” Laura says. “These things happen.”

  “Laura, are you hearing yourself right now? You’re literally telling me that it’s okay that my husband cheated on me.”

  “It is when your husband is Van Phillips.”

  I couldn’t believe what she was telling me. As tears filled my eyes, I shook my head and searched for something to say to her. He was nothing when I met him. A scraggly-pimple faced kid who knew how to play the drums. He walked into my garage and asked to audition. He played songs that I wrote and still does.

  “I need to go, Laura.”

  “Listen, Zara. I know you’re upset. I get that. Ari has cheated on me, but I’m a big girl. I pulled up my panties, beat his ass, but knew that leaving him would hurt me in the industry. Van made a mistake, one that he likely won’t make again.”

  “See that’s where you and I differ, Laura. I’m not wearing any panties.” I hang up before she can respond. I think about shutting off my phone, but then my mom won’t be able to reach me. And I really need to talk to my brother, Darian. He needs to know what his best friend did, and he can be the one to break it to the band that Van is out. When it comes down to it, Reverend Sister is mine.

  Pressing the phone icon next to Darian’s name on my contact list, I pray that he’s awake and that I haven’t caught him with some random that he picked up last night. My mom and I have been patiently waiting for him to settle down, but now I can’t imagine that I’d encourage him to do that. He’s a ladies man, and I’d hate to think that he’d cheat on someone.

  “’Sup,” he says.

  “I kicked Van out,” I blurt out without a hello, how are you, or anything of the like. Straight to the point is how I’m going to be with my brother.

  “Whoa, why? Did he leave his socks on the floor or something?” Darian laughs. I hate that I’m about to tell him what his best friend did, but he needs to know. In my family, blood is thicker than water.

  “I caught him cheating on me. As in the act and he didn’t seem too fazed by the idea that his wife was watching him screw some random on a desk.”

  “I really want to ask you to repeat yourself, but I don’t want to put you through that sentence again. I’m on my way over. We’ll talk when I get there.” Darian hangs up, leaving me no choice but to get dressed and look somewhat decent before he arrives. At least he won’t care if I don’t have my hair done or any make-up on.

  After a quick shower in an attempt to be human, I come back downstairs to find Darian rummaging through my kitchen.

  “Hey,” he says as I walk in. “You left the burner on and almost burnt your house down.”

  The sound of his words brings a wave of fresh tears to my eyes. Instead of teasing me, he pulls me into his arms and holds me while I sob into his shirt. He doesn’t tell me that everything is going to be okay or that he’s going to kick Van’s ass, all things he said to me once before when Van broke up with me a month into our relationship. Maybe that was a sign, and I missed it, and now here I am ten-plus years later suffering even worse.

  “I’m going to kill him,” Darian says, but I shake my head and step out of his hold.

  “He’s not worth it.”

  “It’s not about being worth something or not, Z. You’re his wife and the only one he should be sticking his dick in.”

  I shudder at the crass way he describes the situation, but he’s right. I should be the only one.

  “When did you and Van start fighting?”

  “Huh?” I ask, slightly confused by his question.

  Darian motions for me to follow him into the living room. He carries two plates with sandwiches on them that I hadn’t seen sitting on the counter. I grab the bag of chips from the cupboard and two bottles of water even though I’m not hungry. He’ll try to make me eat, and I should, but my stomach is nowhere near ready.

  “Most people cheat because of fighting. That’s what dad did. He and mom had been fighting for so long that he cheated because he needed an emotional connection with someone.”

  “That’s bullshit,” I say in reply. Our father cheated because he couldn’t keep it in his pants, which was something that Van promised me would never happen. “Van and I don’t fight, and this is over the top TMI, but Van and I had sex yesterday morning before I went to the gym. Every day, multiple times a day.” By the time I’m finished, the tears are back in full-force.

  “Sorry,” he says, leaning into me. “I’m just trying--”

  “To make excuses for your friend?”

  Darian shakes his dark curls that drive the women crazy. “Fuck no. You’re my sister. He’s known from day one that I would always side with you.”

  “What if I was the one to cheat?” I ask him.

  He shrugs and picks at his sandwich. “You’re my sister,” he
repeats. “So tell me what happened.”

  I fill him in on the meeting that we had with Laura to start going over the tour and upcoming schedule. Reverend Sister has a new album that is about to drop which means we’ll be heavy into promotions. Aside from a multi-city tour, we have to shoot music videos, give radio interviews, make public appearances and do whatever we can get our album into the top of the charts.

  Darian’s eyes go wide when I describe what I walked in on and how nonchalant Van and the chick were, and how he acted like I deserved to be cheated on. I told Darian about what it was like when Van arrived home, and how he smelled like her perfume. That the scent was so it led me to believe that he hooked up with her again after I left.

  My brother sat there, listening to how Laura told me to grow up and get over it because I’m married to Van Phillips as if it’s supposed to be some status thing.

  “I’m not going to get over this, Darian. I’m not,” I tell him as I lean into his shoulder.

  “You shouldn’t, Zara. But, I have to ask, what about Reverend Sister?” He angles his body so he can see my face. I try to smile, but my lips barely move. “It’s your band, sis. I do whatever you say, but Van is a huge part of it, and he’d be hard to replace.”

  “We could hold auditions. See who is available that isn’t touring right now and bring in a ringer.”

  Darian nods. “We could.”

  He doesn’t have to tell me what he’s thinking. Van is likely irreplaceable, not that it couldn’t happen, but it would take time, and that is something we don’t have right now.

  “Once this tour is over, he’s gone,” I tell Darian. “We’ll put the next album on hold, or we can start putting feelers out now for a replacement. I can’t work with him, and I have a feeling the divorce is going to be messy.”

  “Messy and headline-making,” he adds. I have no doubt that my lovely publicist will make sure this is front-page news. She’s all about anything that will drum up sales and make Reverend Sister a household name.