Improvising

Author's Note: I imagine the performance later in the chapter is something like "The One That Got Away" by The CIvil Wars.

Row, New York

Late Night Talk shows used to be predictable. Lately, the hosts have gotten just as bad as tabloid journalists. It all started a few years back when David Letterman raked Lindsay Lohan over the coals. Now, you never know what to expect from these guys. Sometimes they will follow the interview prep as planned, and sometimes they will absolutely fuck you and your brand on national tv.

I am a rich, privileged Hollywood baby. A cheater and a drug abuser. Just the kind of celebrity that Corbin Frey likes to shame so he can own social media tomorrow and up his ratings.

I would cop to everything awful I've ever done, except for the fact that I don't want to hurt Riley. He's so private. I know the last thing he wants is our love life made into a joke on national television.

He's been unsurprisingly strategic in the negotiations of the interview prep—the biggest interview of the press tour. Not only are the standard questions about the show and upcoming season on the slate, he's also approved juicy questions about reconciliation, his accident, his injuries, and my recent guitar comeback on Instagram in exchange for disallowing questions about my "alleged" affair. But just because we've approved a host of questions and denied others doesn't mean anything.

He knows that. He knows I know that. I'm going on in twenty minutes, and we haven't talked about that.

He's sitting on a couch behind the stylist's chair. His eyes are on his phone; my eyes are on his reflection. He looks calm. I'm not. Maybe for the first time ever, I'm freaking out about a TV appearance.

He feels my stare and looks up. A five second evaluation of me pulls him to his feet. Without so much as a wince. His new pain management plan has been a lifesaver. We've been traveling for the press tour for over two weeks now, and I haven't read more than late-night fatigue or maybe a little morning stiffness in his expressions. Right now, there's no pain at all on his features. Only concern for the anxiety he's reading in me.

"Give us the room," he says.

Low-level staffers ignore him.

"I need to plump her lips more," says the night show's makeup artist.

Riley smiles. He thumbs his phone. When the person on speaker answers in her brassy, over-smoked voice that everyone recognizes as the show's producer, Riley says politely, "Joy, we'd like the green room, please, but your grips are deaf, your production assistants are pricks, and your makeup artist shocking overvalues her contribution. I have a great deal of perspective from nearly fucking dying recently, and Rowan inherits a trust fund soon. You need us much more than we need you."

"Give him the goddamn room," she squawks. Then puffs. Then exhales, as everyone shuffles out.

Riley shuffles toward me but I twirl the makeup chair and meet him halfway.

He grabs my head and ruins my lipstick with a fervent kiss. "You look stunning, Rowan. And that is nothing compared to how you played and sounded at rehearsal. You're going to be flawless. I have no doubt."

"Thanks." The new 'do does make me feel more confident, and I'm just doing a simple acoustic version of one of the songs from Girl Band's last season soundtrack but he's right, rehearsal went great. "I feel good about the song, but Riley, listen...Frey is notorious for being a jerk and going rogue on his guests . What if he hounds me about Aidan?" I ask.

"Darling, I have the up most faith in your media training," he says lightly. He should; he trained me. "You tell me what happens if Frey hounds you about Aidan."

"I shouldn't deny, just spin," I parrot from his many past interview prep sessions. "I should say rumors about an our involvement last year was a testament to our on-screen chemistry, and how amazing it is to work with such a talented actor that can help me create smoke where's there no fire."

"Precisely."

"Eeeccckk." I blanch, sticking my finger down my throat, pretending to vomit on his shoes. "What if I don't act and just vomit at the mention of his name instead?"

He chuckles, pulling me forward by my hips. I grip the lapels of his jacket, careful not to sway him too much. "Go ahead. Then your interview will definitely be trending tomorrow, and that's all Frey really wants, anyway." He cocks his head. "I trust you Row. Trust yourself. Go with your instincts out there."

"I'm glad you're here with me. I'm glad you'll be side stage for the song,"

"Nowhere else I'll ever be," he assures me. "We could be opposite sides of the world, or even," he gets a strange look on his face but he conquers it with a loving smile, "even opposites sides of the grave, and I will always be with you. Nothing is going to tear us apart again, alright? Not Aidan Mosteller. Certainly not Corbin Frey and anything he might ask you, or any public reaction to anything you might answer."

"You mean that, don't you?"

"I absolutely mean it. I tried leaving you, it simply wasn't living. There's no real me anymore, without you. So it's either spend my life in misery without you, or spend it by your side, sometimes ecstatically happy and perhaps occasionally still wanting to strangle you, but always, always, loving you."

I'm the one that's ecstatically happy. I thought Riley was going to be agitated this entire press tour, but he's calm and enjoying himself. I thought it might be tough on him physically, but he's doing better than ever. He likes being out of the house, out in the world, back in the biz. I kiss him this time, and we get carried away. Two minutes later he groans, adjusts himself and tears away from me.

"My cock doesn't work right for ages, and now it tortures me every bloody time I touch you."

"Riley...I really miss hotel sex with you," I whisper in his ear, thinking of the first night we were ever together, in a hotel.

"Five star hotels have always inspired us to five star fucking," he muses. His eyebrow cocks above his glasses, and I know he's also thinking of one our wild hotel room sex romps.

"Why don't you keep thinking about whatever you are remembering us doing while I do this segment, and the song," I whisper, "and then instead of our late night dinner reservations, we can go straight back to the hotel?"

Now his lips are curling in addition to his eyebrow arching. "You mean it? You're past your anxieties about my pain? You think tonight is the night we should try?"

"Fuck me or do not fuck me, there is no try." I tease him. He's not quite a fan boy, but he does enjoy Star Wars movies alot.

He grins. "Well, if you're throwing down the gauntlet, darling, I'm sure I can rise to the challenge. I'm going out now, to make sure they remembered the capo on your guitar." He pauses at the door, takes me in one last time, blows me a kiss. "You're a dream darling, but it's time to wake up."

He always says something much like that to me before I perform, because I told him once that my life felt like a dream and only the stage is real.

"Wide awake, Riley."

"Brilliant." He opens the door. To the makeup artist, he says breezily. "She needs a touch-up. Sorry, she's bloody irresistible."

I grin then entire time she's repairing my lipstick.

#

"Welcome the star of Girl Band and a rocker in her own right, Rowan del Marco!"

I spread my wisest smile and walk onto the set with applause. Fake and enthusiastic greeting complete with air kisses and take my seat.

I'm aware of Riley seated upfront stage right. That's where entourage always sits at these sort of things—basically the equivalent of side stage if this were a musical venue.

Right away, Frey launches into the clip and his questions about the season that's about to be released. It takes everything in me not to look over at Riley because this is not normal.

The casual, personal questions always come first, then a commercial break, then the part where I hawk the show.

But for seven minutes, I play along, giving the canned answers about the clip. Aidan and I in an emotional scene about Stella and Lars co-dependent drug abuse.

When the break comes and the house band plays for the studio audience, I finally look at Riley and see he's in an argument with one of AP's. He finishes eviscerating her with words and turns to me with.

He mouths, slowly and deliberately. Eyes raging but otherwise in perfect control.

"Aidan. I didn't know."

Through my fake smile that makes it look like Corbin Frey and I are friends, I say, "What the fuck are you doing, Frey?"

"Giving the people what they crave."

I smile, lean forward, grab his next segment card, scan it, almost have a fucking heart attack. They're planning an impromptu duet for Aidan and I.

The card still in my hand, I hold it out to Riley. He blinks, shakes his head almost imperceptibly. I don't think he has gotten the full understanding of what Corbin intends from the producer. I'm guessing all he knows is that Aidan is expected on set in the next segment.

He mouths again. "Your call." He gestures at the exit with his head.

If I walk out, it will only add fuel to all the rumors about me and Aidan. If Riley has taught me one thing, it's that media relations is about controlling the narrative. I won't flee now, and let Aidan have his say on national television without me. I shake my head. Riley nods tersely.

He mouths me one last message. "It's okay. Love you."

I bite the inside of my lip hard, to keep from crying. Fuck, I will not cry because I love Riley so much and he's being so amazing, only because all the world will see is that Corbin Frey and Aidan Mosteller reduced me to tears on national television.

I shove the card back at Frey.

"You know we're fucking done after this, right? I'll never do your show again."

He laughs and pats my arm like we are bonding over our favorite band or something. "I heard from the inside you are quitting the show. That's two careers you've imploded. You're done anyway."

He taps his cards on the desk and point with them to the director, who's counting us back from commercial.

Fine. They want a ratings, and social media numbers and fucking viral TikTok? I'll give them everything they want.  But the hashtags won't be about Stellars. That's for damn sure.

"And we're here with Rowan del Marco, star of Girl Band. Now Row, I've got a surprise for you and the studio audience. Look who's dropped by, folks. Stella's leading man and Rowan's co-star, the one, the only Aidan Mosteller!"

He swaggers out with a darker tan and whiter teeth than the last time I saw him. When he was assaulting me, then cracking my skull against a stall.

I beam at him. He kisses me lightly on the lips and wraps me up in a giant hug. It's all fake, and all fucking horrible.

"How's your head, Sweetheart?" he whispers in my ear. "You know I didn't mean to hurt you in London. That was purely an accident...a reaction."

I pretend to laugh at what he's whispering in my ear. "I know. But me trying to tear your balls off? That was absolutely intentional."

"You loved my balls a year ago. You licked them, if I recall."

"You disgusting piece of filth. I didn't go anywhere near them and you know it. That night, you were my bitch. Just like you have been everyday at work. Remember whose name comes first in the credits."

"Not for long, so I hear. Are you really breaking your contract? Just because of that misunderstanding in London?"

The band has stopped playing, and we're getting the cue that our lavalier mics are going live.

Aidan gestures like a gentleman-ha!-for me to sit. Then he sits too close and throws his arm over the sofa behind me, giving me another squeeze.

"So," Corbin Frey. "I'm so glad we could make this happen." He turns to the audience. "They were originally scheduled together, but then there was a conflict in Aidan's schedule."

"I was happy to rearrange. Especially for the opportunity to perform with Row."

Yeah, that's not happening. Not on my stage. Not on my life, but I have to wait for the right opportunity to take control.

"Yeah, your performances on the show are so good together. What's that like? There's so much emotion in the music, it must be very hard to shut that down when the director calls cut."

"Well, actually, most of the performance cuts Aidan and I have had together have been shot more like music videos," I say. "Right, Aidan? I'm trying to think, have you ever actually performed live in any of those?"

It's an intentional dig. Aidan is nowhere near the professional musician I am. They tried to shoot some live performances with us, but he always sounds pitchy when he harmonizes with me. He lips syncs during the shoots to the songs he's layed down in a studio, aided by autotune.

"Yeah it's hard to get a clean vocal performance because there's so much going on in those scenes. There's a lot of blocking and choreography. Almost as much as the love scenes," Aidan grins.

Corbin snaps up Aidan's bait. "Now, I've heard that in American some of those love scenes have been shortened, but in Australia and New Zealand, they get the director's cut. The real raw, extended versions of your shoots, where you just lose yourselves in the scene together. Is that true?"

What the fuck? That's complete bullshit.

"Well, Corbin, I'm sure every one who has ever shot a love scene knows how completely unsexy it really is. It's more about making sure this guy's hairy arm movement doesn't block the shot of my face," I elbow him super hard while trying to make it look light, "Or trying not to gasp at how heavy he is, lying in an awkward position on me that's not anything like a real romantic moment." I glance at Riley. He's not looking at us, but his phone, yet I see his lips twitch into a smile as he listens to me shutting down all Corbin and Aidan's attempts to play up some romance that is not there.

"So being in bed with this guy is not very sexy?" Corbin teases.

Fuck, where is he going with this. Is he actually going to confront me with some kind of question about our affair?

"You know, Corbin, to be perfectly honest with you, the place I feel most sexy is behind my guitar," I give him a cute little shrug.

He glares at me for sidestepping, but some really cool chic in leather yells "Comeback Queen!"

I turn to her. "Oh you saw my Instagram post. I've been working really hard to rehab my hand after an injury a few years ago. I'm finally back at nearly full function and playing guitar again."

"I saw it, Row. It was incredible. I was yelling myself hoarse for you. Did you see my comment?" Aidan gives me a tender look. I could probably puke on him right now with very little effort.

I look at Corbin innocently. "Do you have a clip of that you can show?" It's definitely part of the clip package we sent.

The crowd starts to cheer. Corbin looks irritated that he's losing control of the direction of the interview. "Do we have a clip?" he asks the booth flatly. "Yeah, we have a clip. Let's see Row's guitar comeback."

They show a twenty second excerpt, but I could jump off the couch and holler in glee, because they choose the opening with Riley operating the talk box just before my first shred. Of course they did, everybody knows the song from the distinctive way it begins.

When the clip wraps, the audience claps, and I wave with my injured hand, flexing it and showing its new mobility. "Thank you."

Corbin is super pissed now, because there is no way he can't follow up with questions about either my hand injury or the clip he just showed. He's putty in my hands. Within seconds I've steered the narrative to Riley, how his recent struggles with nerve damage inspired me to be brave and pick up the guitar again, and how, through making music, we've reunited as a couple.

"So you're really back together, romantically, with your manager." Corbin says, almost disinterested. "It's not just a temporary thing because he was hurt."

"Yeah, we're doing great. We have a new romantic partnership, but also songwriting partnership. A performance partnership."

Riley's head snaps up from his phone, his eyes wide as he stares at me.

"Row. No." He mouths.

"Look at him. He's right there, looking shocked that I'm saying this."  As cameras swing to him and he gives me a tiny scowl and whips his glasses off because he knows that the lights will flash on them. By the time he appears on the monitors, his scowl is gone ,and he's shaking his head in a half-embarrassed, half-adoring way, and giving me a tender look.

I honestly can't tell if he's irritated with me or proud of my spin, but either way he looks totally smitten with me on the cameras, and it's a highly attractive look on him. All the women in the audience aww their approval  "He thinks we're not ready to make an official announcement about it, but it's completely true. I swear. We have an album's worth of original songs. I'm so proud of them. They're really personal, you know? They tell the whole story of our struggles, and our triumphs."

"Wait, so you and your husband are starting a band?" Corbin is now back in form. This is brand new information, and he's getting to break it to the world on his show. "And you've written songs about your break-up?"

"Well, he's technically my ex-husband, but yes. It's all there, in the songs. Our struggles, our reconciliation. It's like...our therapy. He's a brilliant songwriter. He really has that ability to take a personal struggle and make it universal. I think everyone will recognize some part of their loves and losses and recoveries in our songs."

I'm looking at Riley, and he's softening, and the camera is eating up his sexy expression. Then he does it.

He fucking does it.

He tips his chin and blows me a kiss.

The man metamorphosed into a rockstar right there, on national tv. The audience knows it. They are cheering and whistling now.

"Well, I have an idea," Corbin says. "Why don't you and..."

"Riley," I interject quickly.

"Riley," he repeats. "Why don't you and Riley perform one of your songs? You were going to do an acoustic anyway, right? Why not debut your new song here, now?"

"Oh," I act as if I'm surprised. "Well, no. I'm here to talk about Girl Band..."

Corbin looks at his card. "Girl Band, the new season premiering on Netflix next Friday, ready to binge for the weekend. What do you say, folks, want a Row and Riley original love song?"

The crowd erupts in positive cheers.

"Oh, I don't know," I grin. "It's up to Riley. I think you'll have to convince him, Corbin."

"Get him a mic," Corbin says and then he saying, "Riley, correct me if I'm wrong, but you are still Row's manager, right?"

"God help me, it's true," he clips. All the women in the crowd laugh and aww at the same time. It's the accent. Every time the man speaks to me, I want to drop my panties, and  I'm used to being around the world's hottest, sexiest guys. The average chic in Frey's studio audience does not stand a chance in the face of Riley's British charm.

"So are you going to manage this duo act of yours?"

"Right now? I'm merely trying to manage singing and playing at the same time."

The audience adores his self-deprecating charm. They laugh with him and a woman in her forties yells. "You can manage me, Riley!"

"Sorry, love, Row has me booked up entirely," He gives the adorable half-shrug. The audience laughs again.

Corbin hates it when a guest gets more laughs than he does. He intervenes. "So Riley, as the manager for Row's musical comeback, you really can't turn this opportunity down, can you? A national spot to debut her new song. I mean, unless you're not any good," he teases.

Riley's eyes flare, but he laughs easily. "Well, I've known Matt del Marco' long enough to know when I'm backed into a corner by a bigger ego than mine. Fine, Corbin. You want a song? We'll play a song."

"So we'll do a song a Row and Riley original, after the break," Corbin nods into the camera. He turns to me, while the mic's are still live over the house band's commercial performance. "I can't wait." But as soon as the mic's are cut, he says. "Well played. I hope he can actually sing, or else he's going to be embarrassed. And very fucking pissed at you."

"He can sing. And play. Better than this...actor," I roll my eyes at Aidan, who is unhappy.

"What the fuck, Frey? You just completely ignored me."

"It's my fault you can't hold your own with her? Frey shrugs. "Or hold a candle to the Brit?"

"I'm British!" Aidan whines.

Corbin looks at him disdainfully. "Not in the Hugh Grant, Colin Firth leading-man-every-man way. Not like him."

"Excuse me I have a mark to hit," I dance from the interview set, over to the performance set, where a crew is surrounding Riley, one styling his hair, one dabbing a bit of contour beneath his perfect cheekbones, somebody else holding up two jackets to his face and another holding up a light meter.

He does not look happy.

"Are you angry?" I say.

"Not angry. Just not...capable of this."

"Yes, you are. You're brilliant at this."

"At crafting a song with you? Maybe," he agrees. "But not everyone craves a stage, Rowan."

He does though. I see it flash in his eyes from side-stage.

"Riley—"

"Rowan there's no time for discussion. I will do this for you, now, to cancel that" he gestures at Aidan on the couch, "But if through some insanity, this song hits, it's a one time thing. I can't do this. I can't perform onstage. Do you understand?"

I don't understand. Is he just sensitive about his injuries, his slightly arrested movement? He's right, there's no time to talk about this. It's a madhouse as the director and cameraman and back line specialist all rush to stage us.

"Can he play? Or can he fake it and have Maurice play backstage? He should sit, and the one that sits should be the one to play."

"I can bloody play," he growls, snatching the guitar and looping the strap with casualness of a true musician. I discreetly hold the stool with my foot and give him a strong arm to lean on as he lowers to the stool.

The Producer suddenly yells, "Jesus, we forgot! Corbin needs the intro. What's the name of the song?"

Riley and I look at each other.

"It's your show," he snaps at me.

"No, it's our show," I say softly.

"Fine, let's do the angry one," he mutters.

Because he is angry. Or confused. Or uncertain of what he wants. That's what the song is really about.

I whirl toward the house band. "You, give me your electric! You!" I point at the drummer and never wished for Bodie more in my life, "Improv me a backbeat, coming in at the chorus." Bodie wouldn't let me down, I don't know about this guy.

"The name!" Corbin yells.

"Back In Time. Back.In.Time" I say into the second mic, checking the levels as someone gives me my ears. I jerk my thumb up to indicate to increase my feedback. Riley leans into his mic, "Check, check, check," we say together as they balance us.

"It's not going to look good, with the two guitars," the director says.

Riley's hand clamps around the mic, denying the audience his words. "Bugger how it looks," he says only to the director. "Because it will sound fucking fantastic."

"He's cocky," the director says to Corbin.

"He's not. He's just that good," I murmur.

Then the director is counting us down.

"Riley—"

"I'm wide awake, Rowan," he says back. I grin at him, but he feigns a somber, distracted look for the camera. At least, I think he's feigning...

Then Corbin's making the introduction, and Riley's playing the haunting opening lick on his mic'ed acoustic. Like I've performed the song a thousand times, I lean forward and purr quiet longing into the mic. Riley is echoing my desire in harmony, and then, from nowhere, my electric guitar is wailing and all Riley's distance evaporates. He locks into my gaze, all the old hurt born again, curling like smoke around him.

I bear down on the guitar as Riley and I erupt over the top of it with our angry voices, an argument in perfect harmony.

It's hot, angry painful sex in song. It's love and hate rattling each other's chains, all the while twisting tighter and tighter.

It's us, how were, in our darkest days. It's catharsis to spew the bitterness away from our souls, fling it out to the universe, peopled with others who will eat our pain, consume it, even as we clear it from our souls.

It ends. For the briefest millisecond the crowd is paralyzed with silence. Because we're that shockingly good.

Then they erupt in wild praise.

I've never felt so scared in my life, because it's not an ending at all. Everything in me knows what just happened is a beginning, but Riley refuses to acknowledge it. Instead, as the camera light extinguishes to indicate the commercial break, Riley swivels on his stool, his back to the applause. He pulls off the strap, hands the guitar to the specialist that's run out to take it. He rises slowly from the stool, and never acknowledging the audience—never acknowledging me—slowly exits the stage, leaving me alone to bow in the spotlight.