The Princess and the Porn Star (31 page)

“Tired?” I asked.

“I’ll be fine.” He put his glasses back on. “What about you?”

“Same.”

He eyed me skeptically. Then he slid out from the bench beside the tour bus table, and stood. “I should let you get some sleep, then. I need to get some myself.”

“Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“See you tomorrow.”

As he headed for the door, I said, “Good night, Quinn.”

“Good night, love.” He started down the steps toward the bus’s door, but paused. He looked at the iPad tucked under his arm. Then he came back up the steps. “Can I see your iPad?”

“Why?”

He beckoned. “Just…let me look at something.”

I hesitated, but then handed it to him. He set his own down and picked up mine. Furrowing his brow, he tapped the iPad. The screen reflected in his glasses, and I could see he was flipping through a few pages. The logo on top of the screen and the pictures and sidebar links were all too familiar, and something knotted in the pit of my stomach.

Then he pressed the button on top, and the screen went dark again. He set the iPad down in front of me. “You should read that.”

“Read what?”

He gestured at the black screen. “Turn it on. It’ll take you right to it.”

I looked up at him. “Quinn, if it’s an article, I’m—”

“Rachel.” His expression was completely serious. “Just read it.”

“Why?”

He chewed the inside of his cheek for a moment. “Because pictures don’t lie.” Then he took a step back toward the door, and as he turned to go, he said, “Sometimes even the ones in the gossip rags tell the truth.”

And with that, he was gone, leaving me with the iPad.

I avoided it as best I could. Tried to, anyway. It was like a powerful magnet sitting in the middle of my tour bus. No matter where I went, it drew me back.

And damn him, Quinn had left the browser open to the article, so it would be there as soon as I turned on the iPad. Unless I turned it off completely first.

But he wasn’t one to push gossip in front of me unless he had a damned good reason.

“Because pictures don’t lie.”
His words echoed in the silence.
“Sometimes even the ones in the gossip rags tell the truth.”

Question was, did I want to hear that truth?

Finally, I took a deep breath and turned on the iPad.

IS IT OVER FOR TAYHARD?—Looks Like She’s Finally Come to Her Senses… But is it too Late to Stop the Downward Spiral?

It seems controversial pop star Olivia Taylor’s ongoing tryst with her porn-star lover has come to an end: the headline-grabbing lust birds haven’t been seen together in weeks. Both have dodged questions about their relationship, which went public in a surprise appearance at this year’s Rock N Rhapsody Awards. There has been much speculation the appearance was little more than a publicity stunt, especially as the two refused to show any real affection on the red carpet, a place where celebrity couples are notorious for cozying up together for the cameras.

Whatever the case, it appears to be over. Yesterday, a distracted and unkempt Taylor, 26, was seen dining alone in Des Moines. Meanwhile, on the other side of the country, Harder, 29, couldn’t seem to crack a smile as he shopped in downtown Anaheim with friends before stopping for dinner and drinks at an upscale bistro.

As the former lovers appear to move on alone, friends, family, fans and record execs alike are undoubtedly relieved to see Taylor steering away from another destructive path.

“She’s so much better than that,” a source close to Taylor said on condition of anonymity.

“Thank God!” says actress Jessica Hailey, her co-star during the infamous
Marooned
incident. “Now can someone please find her a good man?”

Says blogger Sally Kate, “Maybe now [Taylor] can use her incredible talent to drive her career, rather than seeing how far ‘there’s no such thing as bad publicity’ can get someone.”

Taylor may not be out of the woods yet, though. Between her rocky past and her alarming appearance, those close to Taylor are sure to be concerned she might backslide into her old habits. Or has she already?

Just two days ago, walking through Chicago with ever-present personal assistant Quinn Doyle, 25, Taylor looked more than depressed. The usually stylish pop princess stepped out without makeup with her hair in a ponytail, eyes hidden behind oversized sunglasses that made her look even paler.

“It’s hard to tell from pictures alone,” says a body language expert on condition of anonymity, “but based on her past, recent and otherwise, as well as how pale and rundown she is in these photos, I think it’s entirely possible [Taylor] is once again consuming controlled substances.”

A representative from Risen Star Records denied Taylor is taking drugs, and emphatically stated that drug abuse would not be tolerated by the record label. She declined to comment on the status of Taylor and Harder’s relationship or Risen Star’s tolerance thereof.

I read the article again. Then a third time, just to make sure it really said what I thought it did. At least I didn’t make the mistake of reading the reader comments—there were over three hundred already, and the article was six hours old—before I pushed my iPad away.

I wanted to choke Quinn. Why did I need to read that?

“Because pictures don’t lie.”
His voice reverberated through my mind.
“Sometimes even the ones in the gossip rags tell the truth.”

Swearing under my breath, I snatched up the iPad again and went back to the article. I didn’t look at the words this time, though, instead scrolling to the photos.

The writer of the article had gotten one thing right: Lee looked miserable. Eyes down. Shoulders down. Maybe it was just the photos they’d picked. The photographer caught a few shots of Lee when he was distracted or something, and put them together to make it look like he’d been that way the whole time.

But Lee wasn’t like that. Ever. If he looked miserable enough for a photographer to grab those images, it wasn’t just deceptive captioning.

With my heart in my throat, I made myself scroll back up to the pictures of myself.

Gossip rags couldn’t stand things like ponytails and hoodies and going out with—horrors!—no makeup, so it was no surprise the reporter had gutted my appearance like that. Truth be told, I even understood why the reporter suggested I was back to my old ways, because I looked like hell. I looked like a zombie. Light was on, but no one was home. The lights weren’t even burning all that bright.

To add insult to injury, the magazine had included an old photo from my painkiller-addiction days, and I couldn’t disagree with the caption: “
Déjà vu? Taylor, shown last week (left) and three years ago (right) just days before being admitted to rehab after nearly overdosing on painkillers.
”

I pushed the iPad away again, but the damage was done. I couldn’t get the images out of my mind.

Quinn was right. Let the tabloids say what they wanted, but the photos didn’t lie.

Lee was miserable. I was miserable.

I let my head fall into my hands and exhaled hard. Everyone thought splitting up with Lee was a good thing. The best thing for my image and my career and my comeback, and all of that bullshit that was getting less important to me by the day.

While everyone who thought they gave a damn about Olivia Taylor celebrated, I—
Rachel
Taylor—sat alone in my empty tour bus as the truth sank in: letting go of Lee was the worst thing I’d ever done.

I sat back and looked at the darkened iPad. There were a lot of mistakes I couldn’t correct, but this one?

Maybe I still could.

The plane deposited me at LAX at a little after nine in the morning. By now, Quinn had found my note, and Rich had gotten my e-mail. Everyone would be flipping out and losing their minds, wondering why I’d left
“for one night”
and if I really would
“be back tomorrow in time for sound check.”

But I needed to do this.

I swung by my place to change clothes. If there was one advantage to touring, it got me used to running on less sleep than the human body required. After a shower and a cup of coffee, I was awake and alert, and my stomach was wound into a million knots as I steeled myself against this whole thing being a waste of time.

Standing in my kitchen with my heart in my throat, I called Lee’s cell phone.

“Rachel,” he said. “This is a surprise.”

But is it a good one?

“I’m in town,” I said. “I’d…I’d like to see you.”

Silence weighed the line down.

“Please, Lee,” I whispered. “I just want to talk.”

More silence.

Then, “I’m at the house. Do you want me to meet you somewhere?”

“No, that’s okay. I can drive to you.” I paused. “If…if that’s okay with you.”

“Sure. Yeah. I’ll be here.”

The drive out to his house seemed ten times longer than usual. The highway sprawled out in front of me, meandering along the coast, and I was sure there was more distance between each of the wind-battered mile markers.

But finally, I was there, pulling up in front of his garage door and not giving a damn if a hundred photographers had followed me. Let people take their pictures and spread their rumors.

I rang the doorbell. He opened the door.

One look at him, and my throat was so tight I didn’t know how I’d ever speak at all. All the way here, I’d thought of a thousand things I needed to say and a million ways to phrase them, but now I couldn’t find the words at all.

He looked exhausted. His eyes—those beautiful green eyes—had lost some of their intensity, and when he ran a hand through his blond hair, the gesture seemed to take all the energy he had.

Neither of us spoke as he let me in, and we stood in the foyer. After a moment, we moved to his kitchen, where I declined an offer of a drink, and he didn’t get anything for himself, and we just… We just stood there. Silent. Not looking at each other.

Finally, I whispered the only three words that would come to me: “I miss you.”

Lee flinched, lowering his gaze, and I held my breath because I didn’t know what that flinch meant.

“I think I made a mistake,” I said. “When I…when I left.”

His eyes met mine again. “I don’t see how we had any choice, though.”

“That’s what I thought until I spent a few weeks away from you. Around everyone who thinks I did the right thing by leaving you behind.”

Another flinch.

I went on, “But they were wrong. And so were we.”

His eyebrows rose, but he didn’t speak.

“Everyone else is obsessed with Olivia Taylor and her image,” I said. “But you never have been. From day one, you gave a shit about me. I mean, when we were rehearsing the video, I was being all standoffish, and you asked what you could do so I’d be more comfortable. You…” I swiped at my eyes. “Besides Quinn, I swear you’re the only one left who cares about Rachel.” Sniffing sharply, I dropped my gaze. “You’re the only one who
knows
Rachel.”

“What about me?” he asked. “This affects me too.”

I stared at him. I didn’t know what to say.

He rested his hands on the stainless steel countertop, and as his shoulders slumped, I saw the exhausted, sad-eyed man from the photos in that article.

He looked me in the eye. “Do you have any idea how hard it was to watch the whole damned world gut you every time we made a move? Seeing you called horrible names because of me?” Shaking his head, he lowered his gaze. “Rachel, it tore me apart every time. Every damned time. I can’t…” He let out a sudden breath, as if all the air had left his lungs at once, and then he looked at me again. “I can’t be the reason they’re doing that to you.”

I reached for his hand. “You’re not the reason they’re saying all those things.”

He lifted his gaze. “I’m a porn star, Rachel. I have sex with other women in front of cameras. For being with me, you’ve been raked over the coals and called a slut and a whore. How am I not the reason?”

“They’re saying it all so they can sell magazines,” I said.

“And it’s working,” he whispered.

“I know. But I…I can’t let people who say those things dictate how I live my life.”

“You know as well as I do that this would cause another media firestorm. People would say—”

“Let them talk.” I looked in his eyes. “I just don’t care anymore.”

“What about your record label?”

My shoulders slumped. “You know what? Let them drop me.”

“But… Your career…”

“Honestly? I don’t care anymore.”

His eyebrows rose. “You and I both know that isn’t true.”

“Yes, it is, Lee.” I shifted my weight. “I care about the
music
. I’ve been killing myself trying to keep from losing this record deal, but the fact is, the label can’t take the music away from me. I’ll have it whether I’m signed with them or not. But I let them take you away from me.”