Page 68 of Broken Chords
She’s Charlotte James.
The world tilts as this realization sinks in, and I clutch Charlie—no, Charlotte—tightly to my side to steady myself. The knuckles of my other hand turn white as I squeeze my glass hard so I don’t drop it. What I want to do is throw it.
Charlie relaxes against me after Sam leaves, like she’s relieved about something. I shift my feet, relaxing my hold on Charlie.
She turns to me. “Damian?”
I shake my head, closing my eyes, taking a deep breath through my nose. When I open my eyes, her expression has broken out of its mask, now covered in concern.
She reaches for me, but I pull back. Hurt flashes across her face, then she smooths her expression into practiced blandness. But the way she swallows hard and seems to gather herself to face me gives away the emotion surging under the surface.
Good. I’m being swept out to sea by the storm raging inside me, nothing to hold onto. It’s fitting that she should experience even a fraction of what I’m feeling right now.
She smooths down her skirt. The skirt I lifted just over an hour ago, bending her over the bed and taking her from behind when we made a quick stop in our room to “freshen up” between the ceremony and the reception.
I’ve been fucking a popstar.
A broken laugh escapes me at the absurd thought.
I’ve never thought about making love to Charlie in those terms before. But now that I know she’s been deceiving me all along? What else could it have been?
“Were you ever going to tell me?”
She flinches at my low, angry voice. It’s taking everything in me not to shout. I want to reach inside myself and wrench all my questions out to fling at her one by one like knives. Knives that cut me as much as her. Because I know that each answer will destroy me even more.
“Yes.” Her answer is soft, almost inaudible over the music and conversation surrounding us.
This time my bark of laughter is bitter and sarcastic. “When?”
She meets my gaze, her eyes dark pools of blue regret. “Next week.”
I nod, wiping a hand over my mouth and looking away. I can’t stay in here anymore. Turning, I start toward the door. I have to get out of here.
“Damian.” Charlie’s heels tap a syncopated rhythm over the wooden floor as she trots to catch up with me. “Damian. Wait. Where are you going? Can we talk about this? Please?”
Thepleaseis delivered on a desperate sob. And the real pain in her voice is enough to stop me in my tracks. I nod once, swallowing. “Yes. But not in here. I can’t … Not here.”
She nods and puts her hand on the crook of my elbow, but I pull away again. Dropping her hand, she takes a tiny step back. “Sorry. I just … there’s a walking path off the patio. I thought we could go there.”
With a nod, I gesture for her to lead the way, the realization hitting me that she’s been here before. That’s why she knows about that. God, I’m an idiot.
“Did you get a kick out of me not knowing who you were? Go home and laugh with your friends about it? Who else knows? Lauren? Obviously Gabby and Jonathan know. What about my roommates? Do they know too? Were you all just laughing at me?”
She whirls around at my first question, her hands gripping my arms no matter how I try to pull away. “God, no! No! Never! Don’t think that!” She gives me a little shake with each denial, her eyes blazing. Then she realizes what she’s doing and lets me go, her fingers popping open and releasing me as she takes a step back. With her eyes closed, she takes a deep breath, smoothing her hands down her skirt again.
“Lauren’s the only one at Marycliff who knows. Well, the only student. The Dean knows, and I’m sure a few other people in the university’s executive offices. But not even the music department faculty know the truth.”
We haven’t gotten far. We’re in the hallway outside the ballroom, just far enough away that the sounds are muted and no one’s around.
I cross my arms. “Who’s Charlotte Baxter?”
“I am.”
I raise an eyebrow, and she straightens her shoulders and lifts her chin.
“Iam.My legal name is Charlotte Daphne Baxter. Charlotte James is my stage name. It was supposed to give me a layer of anonymity so that I could still have a normal life off stage when I was a kid.” She shrugs and looks away, her posture relaxing as her arms fold across her torso, one hand rubbing above the opposite elbow. “That lasted only until I got my first hit single. Then I was too recognizable. It didn’t matter what I called myself. Everyone knew who I was anyway.”
Nodding, I accept that. My little sister’s a big fan. I remember when she became obsessed with Charlotte James as a kid. She was everywhere. Still is. Until recently. Because she’s been slumming with me, apparently.
