Twisted Passion

  Twisted Passion

  Kayley Cole

  Copyright & Disclaimer

  No part of this book, Twisted Passion by Kayley Cole, may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without advance written permission of the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes only.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, situations and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination and/or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2018 Kayley Cole. All rights reserved.

  Recommended for ages 18 and older due to mature situations and/or language.

  Author’s Note

  Thank you for taking some of your time to read Twisted Passion.

  I hope you enjoy the story!

  If you would like to get more information about my other books, author news, updates and book freebies, please click here to subscribe to my Author Newsletter!

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  About the Author

  Other Books by Kayley Cole

  Chapter One

  Ellie

  "This is Elixir, the #1 online radio station, where we bring you new music and honest, raw interviews. We may be based in LA, but that just means people come here to scrub off that Hollywood B.S. vomit. Speaking of Hollywood, we have Ellie Rue here, who hails from a tiny town in Colorado and came to live in LA a little over a year ago. She's a rags-to-riches story, and everyone always talks about how kind and genuine she is. But I bet you're secretly a huge diva, aren't you Ellie?"

  "Oh, sure." I put on my Hollywood smile— all teeth and muscle memory. The host of Elixir, Brett Dreyer, has bleached hair and bleached teeth that are so bright that it's hard to look directly at him. I'd glance around the studio, but it's small— intimate— and the only other thing to look at is the microphones in-between the two of us on a wooden table, the glass that separates us from everyone else that works here, and the watercolor-like paintings of birds on the walls. It's almost like being at the zoo, but I'm the one being exhibited. "I'm an absolute terror. It's torture to be around me. You'll run out of here screaming soon enough, Brett.“

  He laughs. "I don't know. I think I'd endure plenty of torture for you. But before we get into my kinky daydreams, let's talk about your rise to fame. The first time your name caught everyone's eye is because you wrote the song Tornado for Body Satellite, which your then-boyfriend, the impressive Jake Amberden, directed the music video for. You, the band and Amberden won numerous awards. Your relationship with Amberden was highly speculated about, and everyone was a little heartbroken when the two of you broke up. What happened there? Did he like you better before you became famous?"

  "Oh, um, no, it's not that." I sit up a little taller. I stare down at my hands, my red hair sweeping over them. Jake called it copper red, and I wrote a song with that line— call me copper red and I'll call you back/call me vintage love and I'll keep you trapped/in my memory, in my memory, in this anthology/of all the sweet things you called me. I think about that song more than I should. "It's a bit complicated. We still care about each other deeply, of course, but with our busy schedules, it didn't feel like a real relationship. There's not much to talk about."

  "It's a break-up. There's always a lot to talk about. I heard rumors it was very, very messy. Did you break his heart?"

  His words feel a little sharp, but after a year of talking to interviewers, I've learned to smile through it. “Jake will tell you the same thing I just told you. There wasn't this single moment where we had a fight or anything. It was a mutual decision."

  "If he ever has a music career, we'll ask him about it. You also have a rather dramatic life story, which is saying something since you only recently turned twenty-four. Your brother has been rumored to have been in a psychiatric inpatient program twice, and he and Natalie Leger, who used to be your best friend, wrote a tell-all book about you. They just released it a couple of weeks ago. The book sales have been decent, but they've also been widely-criticized for writing some things about you that could be considered slanderous. There are allegations of you being selfish and entitled throughout the story, including one about when you were eight and you purposefully ruined a friend's birthday party by telling the other kids the cake was filled with ants. Is there any truth to these allegations or that story?"

  "Uh, no," I say. "I'm human, so I'm certain I can be selfish and entitled sometimes, but my mother raised me to be self-aware and compassionate. I try very hard to live my life in a way that's generous..."

  "That's true, that's true. You actually recently donated twenty-thousand dollars to help build a play area for the local children's hospital."

  "Yes. And it was the most gratifying experience."

  "What about that story with the ant cake?"

  "I don't remember it. I may have made a joke like that, but I was eight."

  "I see," Brett says. There are three knocks on the glass separating us from the rest of the building. "One moment, folks."

  Brett looks down at his phone, where somebody outside must have messaged him. He clicks on something, and his eyebrows slowly raise.

  "I'm sorry for the interruption, folks," he says into the microphone, his voice bordering on excitement. "But I was just alerted by one of my interns about a breaking story involving Ellie Rue. Ellie, you know Anya Bowline, right?"

  My counterfeit smile slowly melts into a real one. "Of course I do. She's a legend in the business. Her album, Catastrophe, was phenomenal. The way she makes global issues sound incredibly personal and real is astounding. She's such a kind and humble person too. I love her."

  "Right. Right. Well, Commencement Magazine just published an interview they did with her, where she refers to you as a symbol of everything that's wrong with the music industry because you were manufactured with the help of Gas Pedal Records— which, viewers should know that Gas Pedal Records is also Body Satellite's record company— and also with the help of Jake Amberden's sleight of hand."

  I lean forward. "I don't think..."

  "She also alleged that at her recent birthday party, you referred to your contemporaries, including Jess Accordino, Goldfinch, and Alex Soltis as prostitutes, who used their bodies to sell their records and would never have become famous if adolescent boys didn't feel the need to have an excuse to watch porn."

  "That's…that's absurd," I say, trying to laugh. "Why would I say that? Why would anybody say that?"

  "You seem to think it's funny."

  I lean back into my chair. "Only because it's insane."

  "I haven't heard an outright denial yet," Brett says, nearly kissing the mic with an almost wicked smile on his lips.

  "I didn't say that." As my hand cramps, I realize I'm gripping onto the edge of the studio table. I let it go, massaging my palm. "I've never said anything like that. And I wasn't manufactured by Hollywood. Gas Pedal Records signed me because they saw my potential. Jake helped me because we had just begun dating."

  "Yeah, honestly, my audience cares less about that part. So, you've never said anything negative about these pop stars that are shaking their asses in every music video? Come on. I'm sure you wouldn't be the first to think that. You wouldn't be the first to criticize them
for it."

  "I...I don't think...no, I don't think any of those women are doing anything wrong."

  "So, you think it's fine that young women look up to these other women, who are constantly taking off their clothes to make the audience happy?"

  I look down at my mic, which suddenly looks like a spider web— one that I've flown straight into. "I…I'm sorry, I'm really confused. I was just here to promote my single."

  "It sounds like you're here to avoid the hard questions, and they’re not even that hard."

  "I never referred to those women as prostitutes."

  "Are you calling Anya Bowline a liar?"

  I clench my teeth together so hard that I can almost hear a filling break under the pressure. "No. Of course not. She's great. I just…I don't remember ever saying that. I never would…”

  "Did you go to her birthday party?"

  "Yes."

  "Did you talk about these other singers? Maybe you made a joke about it..."

  "No, I didn't."

  "Well…” Brett looks back down at his phone. "My social media accounts are all blowing up. We're going to go to commercial, folks. We'll figure out what happened at this party and whether or not these women are worthy of scorn for dancing like strippers."

  "I didn't say that," I blurt, but he's already flipped a switch and he's taking off his headphones.

  "That was great," he says. "This is gonna be all over entertainment news. Both of us just got so much publicity."

  "I don't want that!”

  He doesn't hear me. There's this feeling causing earthquakes in my gut, telling me that the foundation I've built for my career is about to shatter. As I look around this studio, it begins feeling less intimate and more like a padded cell in a psychiatric hospital. The birds painted on the walls are a rainbow of colors, but they start feeling like vultures.

  Jake will know how to fix this. This is his world. He'll make everything feel intimate and iridescent again.

  Chapter Two

  Jake

  Narrow Roads is the first horror film I'm directing for Grit Teeth Films. I will be so incredibly proud to tell them one day that I stole makeup from the set to disguise myself, solely to visit my girlfriend. It might be smarter for me to tell them that before I tell them that I also stole a fair amount of vodka from The Last December movie set. And a table from Tip of the Flame. And that Corey Cruz broke the table after drinking several shots of the vodka.

  I rub my face, where the liquid latex skin feels like it's sliding off my jaw. I slightly drag my left foot, pushing my walker in front of me. There's a garbage bag set on the walker and I'm wearing an oversized jacket to hide my body shape. It's an elaborate rouse, but Ellie always finds it amusing. The only person I can't fool is the doorman, and we have an ongoing financial agreement that buys his silence.

  Secrets. In Hollywood, they're hard to keep buried. It was Ellie's publicist, Marie Morgan, that came up with the idea that we should pretend to break up. We'd say it was amicable in a statement and in Ellie's interviews, while also spreading rumors that it was a brutal break-up in order to sell the lie. Marie convinced us that Ellie would have more success if she was seen as independent of any man— especially when there had already been comments about how I was the reason she became famous. Ellie was hesitant to lie to the public, but Marie was right. People were now more interested in her than ever.

  Especially other men.

  The irritation passes over me quickly. I shouldn't resent our deception when a few days ago, a C-list celebrity flashed her tits at me in the hopes of getting a spot in Narrow Roads. They were A-list tits, but I've found that desperate women become liabilities faster than addicts do.

  My walker hits a crack in the sidewalk. I push, but it doesn't move. I lift it up an inch and carry on. As I look forward again, I see someone about forty feet ahead of me. He was staring directly at me, but not in a pitying way— it was the same way that C-list celebrity had been looking at me. Desperate. Anxious. Needing something.

  As someone infamous in Hollywood, I'm used to people looking, but nobody should be able to recognize me.

  He takes a step in front of my path. He has bright blue eyes and tawny brown hair that seems to be thinning. He has to be in his mid-to-late forties. I'm certain I've never seen him before.

  He makes a small waving gesture, but doesn't step any closer toward me.

  I'm ten feet away now.

  He runs his hand through his hair. He shifts his weight between his feet— and he's sickly thin, so there's not much weight to shift. His lips are chapped and he keeps licking them.

  I'm confident that if he attacks me, I could take him. A jab to the throat should incapacitate him. A blow to the side of his neck would hit his carotid artery and the vagus nerve, incapacitating him longer. I'd rather it not get that far because adrenaline is a high I've never quite been able to control, but at least I have the perfect disguise to get away with it.

  "Hey, Jake," he says. "You grew up well, kid."

  "I'm sorry, sir. You've mistaken me for someone else," I say, stopping in front of him. I try to make my voice fragile and dry, but there's an edge to it I can't soften. "Please move out of the way. I'm trying to get home."

  "Jake Amberden. You used to live in Saffron with me."

  "I'm sorry..."

  "It's me, Jake. Ellie and Andrew's dad, Matthew."

  I nearly laugh, my fake voice disappearing. "No way. No. You're not..."

  "It's me, Jake," he repeats.

  "You are not Ellie and Drew's dad. Their dad is gone. He's been gone for well over a decade. Sixteen years, I believe. Who the hell are you? Paparazzi? You trying to get a story out of me?"

  "It's me," he insists. "I came back. I've been… I've been figuring out how to approach this and how to… well, Ellie became famous. And it's great. I knew she had so much potential and..."

  "Shut the fuck up," I say. "Don't come here acting like her father and talking about her like that— like her father gave a shit. He packed his bags and left. Don't make it out to be more than it is."

  "I was chasing some dreams, Jake. I had big ambitions. I was too ashamed to return home when nothing came from them. But Ellie's dreams came true. It's wonderful. I could never explain to you how proud I am of her."

  "Why don't you talk to her then?" I ask. I scan his face, waiting for recognition to hit me, but I barely knew Mr. Rue. I met Andrew when I was nearly seven. We mostly met at school or my house, and even when I did go to his house, Mr. Rue usually wasn't there. At most, I saw him twice, and that was a long time ago.

  "You know my girl, Jake. If I came back into her life now… it would ruin her. Ellie would question everything she believes. It would bring back so much… hardship and pain. It would just be hard for her. You know this."

  Honest to God, he keeps talking, and all I want to do is punch him in the throat. It doesn't even matter if he is who he says he is. The single thought of him causing Ellie pain is enough for me to see bright red.

  "So, why are you talking to me?"

  "I know you two are still together."

  "We're not."

  "You are," he insists. "How do you think I knew you'd be sneaking to Ellie's apartment? You two are together. You care about each other. And I'm her father."

  "You want money," I state. He struggles to smile.

  "It's not what it sounds like."

  "It sounds like you're a piece of shit that is trying to con money out of Ellie."

  "I don't want her money. I've got medical bills and gambling debts. A lot of them. And a lot of angry people want my head."

  I take a deep breath, standing straight up now. "When you act like this, I can see why."

  "You know, I just heard on the radio this afternoon— Ellie is in some trouble. People are mighty angry about her and that whole thing with Anya Bowline."

  "They'll get over it."

  "But what happens if I tell them that I just needed some money to avoid getting my knees capped a
nd she refused to help?"

  The latex skin is itching worse than ever. It takes all my self-restraint to not tear it off and smother him with it. "She's not refusing anything. I am."

  "It wouldn't look good for Ellie right now to reject her father."

  The air is beginning to taste stale. He's right, in a way. These sort of scandals can be swept under the rug in the right circumstances, but if too much bad publicity starts to pile up, nobody ever forgets about it. It's the difference between a spring rain and a flood.

  And here is a man that is willing to hold Ellie's head underwater to get what he wants.

  "Why don't I just put you in a hotel?" I suggest. His eyes narrow, the change in my tone throwing him off.

  "You can't let Ellie find out. I broke her heart, and if she grew up like her mother, that's still a deep wound that can only be aggravated by seeing me."

  "I won't tell her," I say, the words sinking into my head. He's right again. "I just need some time to figure out what to do. You can't just expect me to hand over stacks of cash."

  "Ten-thousand dollars."

  "Ten-thousand dollars," I mutter. It's nothing to me— a small percent of my wealth— but I'd rather know this man gave some of his time to raise Ellie. Otherwise, I'd just buy Ellie a pony to make up for her shitty father and send this man to the hospital. "I can give you the address of a hotel. I'll call them. They know me. They'll set you up in a nice room."

  "No," he states. "You need to take me to the hotel."