Vincent Jennings.
Dark hair. Light eyes. A sleeve of tattoos that peeks up and past the neck of his trademark black T-shirt. That fuck-you curl to his lips that’s always been there—taunting and seducing simultaneously.
I’m relieved to see shock flashing across that gorgeous face of his. At least I’m not the only one being thrown for a loop right now.
“Hey, Shug.” Shug, short for sugar—a nickname I originally despised but that he somehow made mine over our time together. It’s a name I haven’t heard in years that has my heart clenching and rejecting it and him all at the same time.
Or trying to, because in that one look, a million feelings come rushing back. The bittersweet feeling of first love and the soul-crushing despair of first heartbreak. The utter humiliation of rejection and the constant reminder that I will always somehow be indebted to him. Not that he will ever know.
I stand frozen in surprise with my head and heart racing, but my first words aren’t to the man who has owned my life in ways he doesn’t even know. Rather they are directed at Xavier and his curious gaze. “I-I d-don’t understand. We don’t take on rock stars. McMann doesn’t do that. We manage movie stars. And Food Network chefs. And social media influencers . . . but not him.”
Kevin sucks in a quick breath as Xavier crosses his arms over his chest and narrows his eyes at me. “We represent whoever it is that I say we do,” he says in that authoritative, soft tone of his. The one that says don’t question or fuck with him. “Or have you forgotten it’s my name on your paycheck?”
“Yes. I know. I mean . . .” Stop, Bristol. Just stop. My tongue feels like it weighs a pound while my entire body vibrates with the adrenaline coursing through it. “But not him.”
Kevin’s quick clearing of his throat is a warning. So are his eyes flitting between the four of us as if he’s taking stock of who I’ve offended more. “What I think you meant to say was how exciting it is that McMann Media Management has decided to venture into representing musicians now. And how lucky we are that the super talented, rock god Vincent Jennings is going to be our first client in that realm.”
“Our client?” I mouth as realization breaks through the heavy fog seeing him again has weighed me down with.
“Yes. Our client.” The muscle ticks in Xavier’s jaw as he stares at me. “One who may not feel welcome given your delightful reception.”
“It’s good to see you again,” Vincent says to my back, completely disregarding Xavier and his sarcasm, as if he and I are the only ones in the room.
His voice has always owned me, and this time it’s no exception regardless of the ocean of history the two of us are treading water in right now.
Expectant eyes stare at me as I force myself to turn and face Vince. Eyes that ask a million questions in that one simple exchange.
How are you?
What are you doing here?
How come it’s been so long?
This is so not a good thing—you being here.
I’ve seen him on television, in the tabloids, at award shows more times than I care to count, and yet standing here, face-to-face with him, I’m on that razor-thin edge of bittersweet nostalgia and indifferent disbelief.
Indifferent.
Isn’t that what I promised myself I’d be if we were ever face-to-face again?
Then why is my heart racing? Why is my mouth dry? Why am I telling myself he can’t be here—that this can’t happen—all while being unable to tear my eyes away from him?
Why is it so hard to be indifferent when I’m standing before him?
“Vincent.” I nod as my head swims with memories. First kisses. Linked fingers and shoulders for support. Midnight farewells and endless tears. Desperate sex to make up for lost time. Final words I’ll never forgive or forget. I shake my head, trying to focus on the here and now. On doing my job and not letting him screw up my plans.
“Bristol.”
“I don’t understand,” I say when my rational mind catches up. “What are you doing here?”
Vince’s lips curl up on one side, a dimple I know all too well denting in one cheek. “Pretty self-explanatory. We’re shooting a music video.”
My smile is halfhearted as I look over his shoulder because it hurts too much to look at his eyes. They’re too familiar. Too overwhelming.
Time and life experiences may have dulled the hurt, but it doesn’t erase it or my own participation.
“We have big plans with Vincent, here,” Xavier says, stepping forward, his chest puffed, his smile in full-on big-dick mode as he pats Vince’s shoulder. “Tonight, we’re shooting a video for his up-and-coming single Heart of Mine. The rest of this week will be various brainstorming sessions with your PR team. Then we’ll start working on some behind the scenes for the documentary. We’ve got a lot to do with him while he’s in town.”
“Documentary?” I snort. Vince isn’t exactly the documentary type. And it’s way easier to focus on that than hear that he’s going to be in town for an extended period.
“Yes. About Vince. As you know when you control the narrative, it makes it easier to do damage control,” Xavier says. “It’s better if we have the paparazzi on our side instead of with their blood on our fists.”
“He had it coming to him.” Vince rolls his eyes.
“And that’s why we’ll do the talking for you,” Xavier admonishes but with a smile.
Vince’s chuckle is a warning I’m certain Xavier believes he can pacify and that I know from experience he can’t. “No one talks for me.”
Xavier nods, clearly placating Vince. “The documentary will and we’ll make sure it says exactly what we want it to say.” His smile is quick and unwitting when he looks at me. “When we’re done with his campaign, everybody who doesn’t already know his face will recognize him.”
“And hopefully that translates into a monster release week for his first full solo album,” Kevin interjects, trying to wiggle his way back into this conversation.
Vince is the bass guitarist for one of the biggest bands in the rock scene, Bent.
Was.
He was the bass guitarist for one of the biggest bands on the rock scene.
A year ago, Bent took a break to pursue individual projects after years together. Passion projects, I believe they’d called it.
Vince has released an extended-play album since then—a few songs on a mini album. They did well, but not anywhere near as successful as Bent’s music. But he’s summitted all the peaks before with them—he’s won Grammys, topped the Billboard charts, sold out stadium tours, had albums go platinum . . . so why this new push? Why is he so desperate to prove himself when he already has? “Sorry to repeat myself, but why does Vince need—”
“Because no press is bad press?” Vince answers. It may have been years since we’ve last seen each other—almost seven to be exact—but I know the man standing before me well enough to see the shadow in his eyes hiding behind his flippant answer. There’s more to his reasoning.
And I’ll be damned if I want to know what it is. Or even care what it is.
“Exactly,” Xavier says. “Reinvention is the key to this business. Vince here did incredible with Bent. We’re here to ensure that he kicks ass as a front man. I mean, who knew the guy could belt out a tune like he does, right?” Xavier pats Vince on the shoulder. “And now McMann is going to help take him to the next level. Let the world see the man outside of the spotlight. Keep the aura of everything that is Vincent Jennings while making people feel that they know the real person beneath.”
I nod, used to Xavier’s ego-stroking bullshit, but what am I missing? Why did Vince switch agencies? Why is he here? Why is McMann diversifying to musicians now? Why after why after why?
“Sounds perfect,” Vince says but he doesn’t move, his eyes still locked on mine.
I wondered if this day would ever come. I’ve rehearsed and imagined what I’d do and say. How I’d feel. If that visceral punch to the gut that seeing Vince has always made me feel would still be there.
The answer is yes.