Facing the Music (8 page)

It was awful sometimes. Sure, being a world-famous singer had its perks. But it also came with its downsides. Having cameras shoved in her face almost constantly was one of the negatives. She could never have a bad hair day. She could never just throw something on and run up the street for doughnuts. She always had to be on. She always had to be
the
Ivy Hudson.

“Wow. I guess I didn’t really think about that.”

“You know, I wasn’t excited about coming back to Rosewood. But after a few days, I really am starting to see the perks of the small-town life again. I mean, aside from Lydia and Blake, most folks have been very welcoming. There’s no traffic. No pollution. No crowds. And most importantly, no paparazzi.”

Pepper laughed. “There’s also no sexy movie stars, no oceans, no Rodeo Drive, and no sushi restaurants.”

“That’s true.” It was definitely an adjustment. She couldn’t leap into her convertible and go to a club or make a run to the In-N-Out Burger. Out here, things pretty much shut down by nine. It was a different world, but she didn’t mind so much. It was a nice change of pace. “But, if things pan out, there might be a sexy movie star in Rosewood next week.”

A sharp squeal sounded in Ivy’s ear. “Ohmigod. Who? Would I know him? Is he single? Are you going to tell me who it is or what?”

“I will once you hush.” Ivy put a couple of liters of Smartwater in her cart with some protein bars while she drew out the suspense. “So . . . Malcolm Holt might be paying me a visit if he gets the break he’s expecting on his latest shooting schedule.”

“Seriously? Malcolm Holt? Swoon-worthy romantic leading man? Comic book hero? I honestly have never seen another man look that good in a spandex costume.”

“I’ll be sure to tell him that. I think his ego might explode when he hears it.” Malcolm was one of the hottest actors in Hollywood right now. His curly dark hair, bright blue eyes, and dimples made him a compelling mix of charming, adorable, and drop-dead sexy. Most women didn’t stand a chance in his presence.

While she loved Malcolm, Ivy was immune to his charms. She was one of the few people who knew he was gay. And while she was excited to see him again, she was more excited to see how her partner in crime reacted to the small-town southern life.

“Wait,” Pepper said. “I thought you two dated a while back?”

“We did.”

At least, that’s what the press reported. The truth was that they were just good friends. He was her best friend, really. When he needed a high-profile relationship for a big movie, Ivy was happy to be seen out and about with him. And, because he made her promise, when they “broke up” she wrote a song about him. It would be suspicious if she didn’t. That song was one of the few in her repertoire that was more about regret and her throwing away the relationship than it was about her boyfriend being a jerk. She just couldn’t write a song about Malcolm being a jerk.

“But you don’t hate him and he doesn’t hate you?”

“No, we stayed friends. He’s the only one I stayed friends with over the years.”

“Darn,” Pepper cursed. “I was hoping the lead singer of Mayhem might drop into town, too.”

At that, Ivy snorted into the phone. “If he did, Doc Owen’s clinic would be hopping and there’d be a run on antibiotics.” Fortunately, Ivy had a strict zero-tolerance policy of safe sex that served her well and had kept her from picking up more than a few song lyrics from him.

“Aww. Why do you always have to ruin it for me?”

“I’m sorry, Pepper. I thought you would’ve figured that out from the songs. Let me just say it’s safe to cross off almost
all
my exes from your fantasy list, okay? That includes Malcolm. None of them are worth the adoration of a good, strong woman like you.”

“Then why do
you
date them, Ivy?”

That question stopped Ivy in her tracks, halfway between the bread aisle and the checkout stands. She couldn’t tell anyone, not even Pepper, why she really had such bad taste in men. If her fans learned the truth, she could potentially lose the ones she had left. They wouldn’t understand; they’d feel manipulated. “I don’t know. I guess I just like them bad and emotionally unavailable. Don’t ask me why.”

“You need some therapy.”

“Don’t hold back, girl.” Ivy chuckled nervously into the phone. “Listen, I’m about to check out, so I’ll let you go. If Malcolm books a flight, you’ll be the first one to know.”

Pepper said her good-byes and Ivy hung up. Lord, Pepper was a perceptive one. It was probably her work. Being a hairstylist was right up there with bartending when it came to pseudopsychology. For the price of a cut and color, you could get some peace of mind
and
look great.

But she didn’t need Pepper digging around in her love life. That was a dark quagmire that no one should tread into. On that note, she put a five-dollar bottle of wine in her cart. Malcolm would be horrified, but some days a five-dollar bottle of wine was just the ticket.

By the time Ivy returned to the cabin, she was feeling less restless. The trip had done her some good, clearing her mind and getting her in a better mood. She put her groceries away and opted to do a little work. Her brain worked best in the evening. She poured a glass of blackberry merlot, grabbed her notebook, and headed back out onto her screened porch.

Ivy tried to end every night with a few quiet moments with her notebook. She wrote her songs in this notebook, but really, it was more like a diary for her. Around the time she was twelve or so, she’d found that her diary was filled more with poetic interpretations of her daily angst than just the usual journal entries. The poems eventually evolved into lyrics.

Ninety percent of what she wrote was just for her. Not every song was a single, and not every song was intended for anyone’s ears but her own. Lyrics were her way of processing her thoughts and feelings.

And tonight, she was feeling a little nostalgic for her hometown. She’d come home to find a chicken casserole and an orange gelatin salad on her porch from Miss Francine. A small plate with a scoop of each was sitting beside her on the table. It would make the perfect late dinner after filling up at tea. She’d have to remember to get the thank-you note in the mail first thing tomorrow.

Not once in all the years she’d lived in California or Manhattan had she ever received a gift from a neighbor. Not even a plate of cookies at Christmas, much less food for no reason. People didn’t even bring food after funerals when they paid their respects to the family. Ivy hadn’t been to a single funeral in Rosewood where she didn’t have to haul in a platter of fried chicken for her mama. How exactly did people grieve their loss while they were starving?

There was something happy and familiar about being home again. She loved her beach house with the ocean views and the warm breezes. She enjoyed her Manhattan apartment overlooking Central Park. But being home was different. Comfortable. She hadn’t expected that. Given the way she’d left, she was certain the people here would be cold to her. Who knows, maybe they were smiling to her face and talking about her behind her back. As long as she didn’t know about it, she’d live in contented, ignorant bliss.

As she looked down at the blank sheet of paper, words started to flow. It was a nostalgic song; one about home and the comfort of the family and friends she missed. When she was done, Ivy read over it again and smiled. It was the first song she’d written in a long time that wasn’t about a relationship. She liked this song. Kevin wouldn’t understand it. He’d asked her to write something different, but this wasn’t it. He would think she’d lost her mind. This one was just for her.

It was after midnight when she finally put the pen down. She needed to get to bed. She’d promised her dad she would come by the high school in the morning to talk to his band students.

Setting her notebook aside, she headed into the bedroom humming the song.

Chapter Eight

Blake was distracted
and tired. He hadn’t slept well the last few days and his thoughts kept drifting unproductively. The common theme of his troubles: Ivy. His mind repeatedly went over their encounters, replaying them again and again. What he’d said. What he should’ve said. How badly he’d wanted to touch her. It was like a mosquito bite that he knew he should leave alone, yet he constantly had the urge to scratch it, making things worse.

It wasn’t until one of his freshman PE students called his name that he realized he was zoning out in the middle of second period. Apparently they were finished with warm-up exercises and had been standing there quite a while waiting for his instructions on what to do next.

“I’m sorry,” he said. Blake slipped his hat off and ran his palm over his hair before tugging it back on. There was no way he could focus on the tennis module today. They’d only started on Monday and hadn’t quite caught on yet. Southern boys were born with a basic knowledge of football, passed on to them by their fathers, but tennis? Not so much. Broadening their horizons required more concentration than he could give today.

“It looks like rain might come in,” he said.

The twenty-five fourteen-year-old boys who were lined up on the grass in front of him all looked up at the clear blue skies in confusion. There was only one gray cloud on the horizon, but they didn’t dare question Coach.

“Let’s run the mile today and head back inside.” He led the group over to the track that circled the football field. “Four laps around, gentlemen. All of you better cross the line in less than thirteen minutes, or the whole class runs the mile again tomorrow.”

A collective groan sounded as the boys assembled at the starting line. Blake picked up the stopwatch hanging around his neck. “On your mark, get set . . . go!” He hit the start button as the boys tore off down the track.

That bought him a few minutes of peace. If they had a gym, he’d take them inside to work on their free throws, but until a new one was built, “the mile” was a gym teacher’s best friend. Walking over to the bleachers, he sat down and watched his students run.

He hadn’t been this tired in a very long time. Not since preseason training camp in the NFL. It would help if he could sleep, but Ivy had somehow managed to ruin that, too.

It was bad enough that Ivy had embarrassed him and tanked his football career. But since she came back to Rosewood, everything was off-kilter. Starting Thursday, he was going to be spending far too much time with her. He’d spent less than a combined total of an hour in her presence since she’d returned and still he found he couldn’t get her out of his thoughts. What would he do after the fair and the prom and the concert?

He just had to stay focused, that was all. He didn’t have to speak to her. He didn’t even have to touch her, aside from the dance. Blake just had to pretend she didn’t exist. His grandmother had been right. He would do what needed to be done for the good of the town. Nothing more.

A couple of the faster boys crossed the finish line after about seven minutes. Snapping back into teacher mode, he stood up and checked his stopwatch. “Good hustle!” he called, clapping. By about twelve minutes all the boys had crossed the line and were sitting in the grass along the track.

“Hey, Coach? Isn’t that Ivy Hudson?”

Blake looked up. Coming out of the band room was the woman he’d decided only minutes ago didn’t exist. It was really difficult to forget about her when she popped up everywhere he went.

Ivy was cutting across the field, heading toward the bank, where he could see her rental car was parked. He supposed she’d wanted to just slip in and out to see her father without coming in the front door and stirring up the whole school. He could understand why.

His students were rumbling with chatter. Blake caught snippets of “She’s so hot,” “Do you think she’d autograph my boxers?” and “Her music sucks, but she’s got a nice rack.” Classy fourteen-year-old observations.

In the distance, he could see Ivy stop in her tracks. She’d finally realized he was standing there among the kids. She looked around, but they both knew the field was completely fenced. The only way out was the tiny gate she had to go through him to get to, or back through the front and completely around the school. With a sigh, she straightened up, tugged her leather jacket down, flung her dark hair over her shoulder, and charged forward.

The boys’ chatter increased and Blake felt his own heart rate jump up proportionally.

“She’s really coming this way!”

“Coach, is it true you used to date her?”

Blake was considering a path of pure denial. Teachers were not to discuss their love lives with students.

“No way!” another boy shouted.

“I saw an old homecoming picture in the award display case that had Coach and Ivy together.”

“Coach and Ivy Hudson?” his mouthiest student said with an incredulous tone, making Blake frown. It wasn’t
that
unbelievable. “Not in a million years.”

“Hey, now,” Blake turned to face the rowdy group of boys, finally intervening. It had gone too far and was frankly starting to damage his sense of pride. “Not that it is any of your business, but yes, we dated for several years. It isn’t that big of a miracle, thank you, Mr. Peterson. We broke up before she became a singer.”

Thank goodness his freshman boys had only been about nine years old when Ivy’s first song came out. Even if they’d heard the whispers, they hadn’t known what it meant back then. And now, hopefully they didn’t realize it was about him. He’d have words with any parent who told their student about it. He needed to be an authority figure on campus. He wouldn’t allow that stupid song to ruin that as well.

“Oh, and Mr. Jackson, if you ask her to sign your underwear, you’ll sit in detention after school today.”

A couple of boys laughed and Kyle Jackson got shoved by his friend. “You might think you know Miss Hudson because you’ve seen her music videos and let her headline in your fantasies, but you will treat her like a lady if and when you meet her. Is that clear?”

A chorus of disappointed “yes, sirs,” sounded in response. That wasn’t enough to give him confidence to introduce his students to her. Besides, Blake hadn’t been alone with Ivy since she was near naked at the lake. If he couldn’t ignore her, maybe they needed to have a chat before they had some huge blow-out in front of the whole town. That meant the twenty-five witnesses milling around in various stages of arousal needed to disappear quickly.

“Hit the showers, boys. Then get to studying that tennis handout for tomorrow. There just might be a quiz.”

A few hung back, hoping to get a better glimpse of Ivy, but a stern look from Blake sent the last of them running back toward the makeshift locker room.

By the time Ivy reached the track, there was no one left but Blake. She didn’t try to circumvent him, instead, she headed straight for him.

“What are you doing here?” he asked when she came to a stop. “Are you stalking me now? Because every time I turn around, you’re there.”

Ivy snorted. “Don’t flatter yourself, Blake. I have better things to do with my time than follow you around. I came to visit my dad and the varsity marching band. I did a talk about making a career out of music.”

Now it was Blake’s turn to snort. “So did you tell them all how you did it? I mean the
truth
?”

Ivy crossed her arms over her chest, the brown leather of her jacket protesting the movement. “And what is the truth, exactly?” she asked.

“By humiliating other people and using their success as a springboard for yourself.” That was how she’d done it, after all. He had been the one on the news and in the headlines before that song catapulted her onto the radio. She could tell all the inspiring stories she wanted, but he knew the truth. She’d been struggling. Failing. Her music was going nowhere until they broke up and she publicly mocked him.

“That’s not exactly how I would describe it.” Ivy dropped her hands to her sides and walked past him toward her car.

Blake wasn’t about to let this go. Not today. If they were going to make it through the next couple of weeks of public scrutiny with a polite smile, they needed to have it out here and now. He fell in step beside her as they headed toward her car. “And how exactly would you describe it, Ivy?”

“I told them what all my professors told me, and they were right. That they have to emotionally connect with their music. That’s where I struggled in school. It wasn’t until I had my heart
brutally crushed
,” she said, “that I was able to really tap into the emotional core of my songs. That’s what made the difference.”

“Brutally crushed? The only thing I recall being brutally crushed was my nut sack.”

He turned as they walked and saw an evil grin curl Ivy’s lips. She seemed pleased that she’d hurt him. He’d had to sit out his next practice because of her. The official excuse had been a “pulled groin,” but it was more like sitting on a bag of ice, waiting for his balls to drop for the second time in his life.

“That was the
second
crushing of the night,” she said. “I assure you.”

Her smile disappeared and there was a flash of hurt in Ivy’s eyes that Blake knew he was responsible for. He’d tried to forget about his role in this mess, but the truth was ugly. No matter how bad the battle had gotten, he’d started this war.

At the time, he’d thought he had good reasons for what he did. The distance between their schools made her seem more withdrawn than ever. The more successful his football career became, the more trouble she seemed to be having in her classes. He was the king on campus, and yet he was the only one who went back to the dorms alone after a game instead of into the arms of his girlfriend.

In retrospect, she was right to focus on her studies. They were just as important as his football. But in the moment, he had felt ignored, and there were plenty of girls who would’ve taken her place in a heartbeat. At every party, every game, there were women looking at him with a heat he couldn’t ignore. Blake was a Heisman contender, a household name for every Auburn home.

And yet his girlfriend couldn’t even come to a party to celebrate their big win. They had locked up the SEC title and were on the verge of taking the BCS Championship. He’d wanted to celebrate with Ivy that night. And when she couldn’t come, he’d consoled himself with too much beer. The cheerleader had set her sights on him once his defenses were down.

What he did after that was on him; he accepted responsibility for that. But it was just the first shot in the war. Ivy had fired back immediately, and his sensitive junk would never forget that.

They reached the edge of the field. Ever the gentleman, Blake held open the gate for her to go through, even as they discussed how she had nailed him hard in the crotch all those years ago. Little had he known that would be only the first affront to his manhood. The song had caused far more discomfort in the end.

They walked across the street, stopping at the driver’s door of her rental car. She seemed to want to climb inside and disappear, but Blake blocked the door. She wasn’t getting away that easily.

“So when you ‘really connected’ with your emotions, when you really got to the core of your music, the only thing you could connect with was my so-called small dick? How is that an emotional breakthrough? I’ve wondered all these years.”

Ivy looked around nervously for people coming in and out of the post office and the bank. “Please keep your voice down, Blake. It’s early and this is a public place with children and elderly nearby, not some rowdy bar with drunks to cheer on our insults.”

“Fine.” Blake grabbed her wrist to pull her into the alleyway between the two buildings, but the moment he touched her, he found his feet wouldn’t move. His palm prickled with what felt like static electricity. The current of the connection surged down his arm, setting every fiber of his nervous system alight with awareness.

His eyes met hers for a moment. They were wide, their dark green depths confused and undeniably aware of their connection. Whatever the two of them had had all those years ago, it was still there, and as powerful as ever. Her lips parted softly, sucking in a surprised breath and reminding him of the nights he’d spent kissing her. It felt like a million years ago and yet like just yesterday. Part of him wanted to tug her close, let her body slam into his and kiss her until the hateful words stopped. A light pink flush rose to Ivy’s cheeks, her tongue snaking across her lips to moisten them. If he didn’t know better, he’d think she wanted him to kiss her.

When a nearby truck honked to greet someone on the street, the spell was broken. Blake shook it off, but didn’t let go. He pulled her into the alley as he’d planned. When they got there, Ivy twisted her arm and pulled it out of his grasp.

“If my bodyguard was here, he’d break your hand,” she said warily, her eyes refusing to meet his.

She could go ahead and try to convince herself that they didn’t have a connection if she wanted to, but she couldn’t lie to him. He knew her every response: her soft gasps, her escalating cries, her clawing fingers across his shoulder blades . . . She may have expanded her horizons in the past few years, but she could never change the fact that he was her first.

“If your bodyguard was here, Ivy Grace, you wouldn’t have been begging me to kiss you just then.”

The color drained momentarily from her face, then like a tidal wave, a rush of crimson anger flushed her skin. At one time, Blake had really loved loving Ivy. Since that was no longer a possibility, he would settle for loving to aggravate the shit out of her.