For a moment, he thought about denying it. He knew Reese didn’t understand Cade’s fixation with the pop star. Maybe he thought it was a fling that Cade was hoping would resurge again. But the truth was, Cade had been in love with Daphne since he was fifteen, when they were both trailer rats without a nickel to rub together. And now that she was in trouble, it was hard to just cut her off and wish her the best. Not when they’d slept together eight months ago . . . and then she’d tried to kill herself. Hell, he was still messed up over that himself. So he said, “She needs me.”
“She needs a reality check,” Reese said.
“It’s difficult,” Cade told him. Difficult to talk about, and difficult to understand. Sometimes he got it. He understood why she’d succumbed to the fast-paced lifestyle. Like Daphne, he’d grown up as trash. The poorest kid on a dirt-poor block, he’d run barefoot with the neighborhood kids and had always kept a close eye on the Petty twins, pretty redheads a few years younger than him. Daphne Petty had been his first kiss, his first love, his first, well, everything. She’d been so special—talented, funny, smart, and with a way of drawing people in and making them notice her. When Cade left for college on a scholarship, he’d asked Daphne to wait for him. He’d make his way in the world and he’d come back and rescue her from their small town. Except Daphne hadn’t waited. She’d met a music producer, and the next thing Cade knew, the girl he’d been in love with was on the radio. She’d slimmed down to nothing, dyed her hair an outrageous shade, pranced around on TV in bikinis, and sold millions of albums.
He’d been so proud of her at first—Daphne had a fun sense of humor, and it came through in her quirky songs. But as time passed and he became busier with his own business, they drifted apart. Daphne grew more and more ensconced in the music business, and even though she’d been a healthy redhead at one point, now she had wild hair, a stick-thin figure, and fake breasts. And a coke habit.
He still loved her. Always would. But when her “quirkiness” started showing up in tabloids with pictures of her doing lines and trips to rehab? He worried about her. Tried to help her stay on the straight and narrow as much as he could, from afar.
But it was never enough. Eight months ago, things had come to a head. She’d promised him that if he’d give her one more chance, she’d clean up. Not in rehab. She’d be in every tabloid imaginable if she went to rehab. Couldn’t he go away with her someplace private and get her a personal doctor? She didn’t need a life coach, she just needed Cade and Audrey at her side, encouraging her.
He’d fallen for that—hook, line, and sinker. He’d done his part, all right. He’d hired the best doctors and ensconced them nearby. He’d ensured she had the easiest drugs to wean herself off, and doled out her new prescriptions carefully. He’d supported her every step of the way . . . and then she had a fight with Audrey over him. She’d seduced Cade, stolen his meds, and overdosed while lying in bed next to him.
That had required a lot of therapy to get over.
Things between them were complicated all right. And tangled. Because how was he supposed to feel about his childhood sweetheart that slept with him one day and then reached for pills the next?
“You know Daphne’s my sister-in-law,” Reese said, clapping him on the shoulder as they walked out of the club. “And Audrey would be hurt to hear me say it, but Daphne’s a train wreck. She was clean for what, three whole weeks last time?”
“She says she’s clean now.”
“She says a lot of things,” Reese retorted. “I’ve seen how she hurts Audrey with her promises. If you can disentangle yourself, man, do it.”
Sound advice. He knew it, and yet it was harder to practice. “I need to talk to her, regardless.” To see where “they” were, or if they were anywhere. If her label was sending Daphne out on tour, she had to be clean. If she was clean, maybe they could start again.
If not . . . maybe it was time for Cade to move on. Either way, he needed to know.
THREE
On opening night of Daphne Petty’s North American tour, the star was a raging bitch, and the staff were running in fear. Kylie herself was hiding out with the costumers until she was needed. The next room over, she could hear Daphne screaming at her assistant. “Didn’t I say I wanted boneless buffalo wings? What, you expect me to eat these things with bones in them? For fucking real? Didn’t anyone read my goddamn tour rider?”
Kylie winced in sympathy. She’d been working for Daphne for a week now, and as the Teacher’s Petty tour got underway, she learned that Daphne could either be the sweetest, most fun person in the world . . . or a complete nut job. She’d been warned by everyone in the crew to not take anything Daphne did or said personally, and to just ride out any sort of confrontation. Give Daphne the right of way and the arguments would disappear.
So far, to Kylie, Daphne was decent enough. Some mornings she was snippy, but she liked the job that Kylie did on her makeup, and she liked the skin-care regimen that Kylie had put her on, so she was happy. She still referred to Kylie as “Fat Marilyn,” but Kylie was getting used to that. Apparently Daphne was bad with names and so everyone had a Daphne-anointed nickname. The costume lady was “Ginger Tramp” or just “Ginger” for short, because she was redheaded, freckled all over, and tended to wear tight clothing. One of the lighting crew was called “Hodor,” the sound guy was “Hairy Dave,” and Daphne called her assistant “Snoopy” because she “ran her like a dog.” All in all, “Fat Marilyn” wasn’t so bad of a nickname, really. She’d heard Daphne calling the dancers all kinds of insulting things, depending on if they were getting in her way or not.