Dirty Laundry (Get Dirty 2)

But that’s playing with fire and I know it. Elise is an investigator at heart, curious and wanting to know things. I saw that when she was just chatting with the guys.

And the one most likely to get burned there is Carsen.

I promised myself years ago after what happened that I wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize her ability to have a normal childhood, and fucking a tabloid reporter damn sure isn’t the brightest idea I’ve ever had.

I’m still flip-flopping when Sarah comes in the kitchen, cautiously giving my grumpy ass a wide berth. She’s come over to pick up Carsen again so I can keep up the façade of a publicity-shy loner bachelor. “So, did the show suck last night or something?”

Caught off-guard, I give her a confused look, realizing I’ve been dipping a cookie into some milk for so long the poor damn thing has dissolved and I’ve got nothing but a chocolate chip between my fingers. “Huh? Not that I know of. Why?”

“Well, usually, the day after a show, you’re buzzing a bit, ready to tackle the day,” she says, coming over and rescuing my plate of cookies, grabbing one and munching on it contentedly. One of the ways I reassure myself when things are tough . . . eat cookies with Sarah and Carsen. “But you’re wearing a cloak of ‘fuck off’ right now. Ergo, did the show suck?”

I laugh at her, loving that she knows my routine to a T. “No, the show was great, as usual. They loved the songs, even did an old one I haven’t performed in years. Hello Girl.”

Sarah nods, doing some more chocolate chip deduction with another cookie. “That’s not in your usual set list. Anything in particular make you feel like singing that?’

I shake my head, not wanting to let her in on the truth. “I dunno, just felt it.”

She hums, and when I look at her, her eyebrow is raised as she dunks her cookie, obviously seeing through my bullshit. “So, wasn’t the reporter going to the show last night? That wouldn’t happen to be her favorite song or something, is it?”

I laugh. Close, but no cigar. “Hell if I know. Elise isn’t even a country fan, really. More of a rock person she says, good taste in rock at least. But she went to the show last night. Must’ve done her homework too because she sang along with almost every song.” I say, thinking back to how she looked as she belted out my words, my songs. Everyone was singing along, but somehow her doing it felt like winning a prize.

Sarah snaps her fingers, grinning impishly. “That’s it. It’s the reporter. Spill it, Keith.”

I know my eyes are wide, panic showing, because Sarah continues, her smile dimming but her voice becoming more intense. “It’s all over your face when you talk about her. And no woman just memorizes a bunch of songs for an assignment like hers. What’s her deal?”

I force my emotions back under control, schooling my face into a calm dismissal despite her comment about Elise dropping a bomb into my emotional calm. “She’s fine. We’ve had a few interviews now. The first article is already published, mostly just basics. Record company was happy.”

Sarah shakes her head and downs the rest of my milk, including the soggy cookie bits in the bottom. “Nice try at diversion, big guy. You forget I grew up with you and know all your tells. That’s what Todd and the record company want to hear. Tell me about her.”

I swallow, trying to speak in a way that won’t show my hand too much, even though Sarah has always been able to read me like a book. “She’s a tabloid reporter. The one who printed the first article that started this whole mess, actually. But she’s good, seems to want a real story, not a made-up melodramatic one, which is better than I can say for most of the vultures.”

Sarah interrupts, not interested in Elise’s resume. “Yeah, yeah, yeah . . . work, work, work. Tell me what she’s like.”

“Fuck, Sarah . . . what do you want to know? Her damn cup size and favorite food?”

Sarah smirks, hopping up on the kitchen island and swinging her legs back and forth. “Funny that’s where your mind goes. Question is, do you know her cup size and favorite food?”

I duck my head, busted and pissed as fuck about it. “Maybe.”

Sarah claps like this a good thing. “Finally! Hallelujah and pass the peanut butter, my prayers have been answered!”

I growl, glaring at her pure . . . glee. “What the fuck are you so damn happy about? This is bad, Sarah. Really fucking bad.”

Sarah shakes her head, not clapping but still smiling. “No, it’s not. You took this vow of being alone like some martyr, sacrificing your own happiness for Carsen in a misguided notion that it’s somehow better for her. But she doesn’t need that. She’s a happy little girl who has everything she could ever want . . . but one thing. She needs you to be happy with her, with your work, and with a partner. Show her what love can look like.”