Revenge Era (The Revenge Games Book 1)

THIS IS WHY WE CAN’T HAVE NICE THINGS

“Are you ready for it?” Paul hands me a red package tied with fancy gold bows. He definitely had help with wrapping this.

Beaming at him, I grasp the box with both hands. It’s too big for jewelry. Excitement bubbles inside me at the thought. Maybe he got creative with this year’s Christmas present.

Admittedly, I’m not easy to shop for. Not because I’m picky in the least—I’d honestly be happy with a homemade gift. Or a small, meaningful memento. Christmas isn’t about accumulating possessions. And regardless, if I want it, I can buy it myself. I don’t need a man to do that for me.

But knowing that inside this box is something that Paul chose for me, a gift he spent his time thinking about, that’s what matters most.

Paul’s father Ford sits across from us on the couch, a whiskey in hand. He’s stupidly good-looking, with dark hair that has just a hint of gray peppered throughout. He leans back like he owns the world, thighs wide and relaxed. As if he’s a king surveying his kingdom. And what a beautiful kingdom it is. It’s a cold one, though. Aside from the expertly decorated tree in the corner, all golds and blacks without a hint of personalization, there is not a single decoration in sight.

Blue eyes, which his son unfortunately did not inherit, observe me as I unwrap the present, careful not to rip the gorgeous paper.

Paul’s phone beeps on the table, stealing his attention. He picks it up and types out a response. I wait for him to finish and set the device down again before sliding the white cardboard lid off and delicately pulling the gold paper aside. Anticipation has me sucking in a breath, but when I find a red scarf with the tag on it laid haphazardly inside, my lungs deflate.

Averting my focus from the price tag—I meant what I said, I don’t expect extravagance—I lift it up and smile. “A scarf. Thank you so much.”

Across from me, the couch squeaks as Ford sits up and rests his hands on his knees. His attention is almost suffocating. Although you’d think I’d be used to it by now. Eyes always on me. A camera always ready to capture my reaction. I hope my smile appears genuine. That my disappointment isn’t obvious.

It’s not that a scarf isn’t a perfectly good gift. A hand-knit scarf? I’d be over the moon. A scarf purchased during Paul’s travels because he was thinking of me? Totally swoon worthy. But as my eyes snag on the two-for-one tag that states this item came with a hat, my heart sinks a bit. Because there is no hat.

“Since red is your favorite color,” Paul says.

Yes, I’m known for the color. I wear it during every show, it colors my lips, and a few of my songs even include lyrical nods to that. But shouldn’t my boyfriend of two years know more about me than my fans?

Every day I receive red items from people who want to send me gifts. I’ve probably even received a scarf or two in the last week.

Maybe that gift-giver also sent the matching hat.

Don’t be selfish. This is what money and fame do. They tear people apart. Paul put thought into this gift, and that’s all that matters. We’re traveling in the cold over the next week, so a scarf is a logical gift.

I lean over and press my red lips against his cheek. “Thank you, baby.”

He grins and nods at his dad. “You going to open your gift?”

Ford doesn’t take his eyes off me as he brings his whiskey to his lips. He probably thinks I’m an asshole for not being more excited about my gift. With his jaw locked tight, he sets his glass down and picks up the present Paul set in front of him moments ago. Unlike me, he doesn’t take his time to preserve the paper as he pulls out a red hat with a pom-pom.

“Oh look, it matches your scarf,” Ford drolls. I can’t tell if he’s aware that they were an actual matching set.

I offer my famous Lake Paige smile, the one that shows all my teeth, and make sure my eyes are bright. “Perfect.”

Paul fiddles with the watch I picked out for him for Christmas and taps my foot. “You ready to head out?”

Ford clears his throat. “Thank you for joining me for lunch. I know with the tour picking up again tonight that your schedule is packed.”

I take a deep breath and nod. The tour. Right.

Since I was a teenager, I’ve spent at least one holiday a year traveling. My birthday, my parents’ birthdays, Thanksgiving, Christmas. You name it, and I’ve spent it singing to stadiums packed with people chanting my name.

This is the first year that I have someone by my side for all of it, though. Someone to enjoy the madness, the crazy, and the quiet. We’re halfway through the world tour for my seventh album, and Paul has been by my side for every show so far. Ford’s label produced my last two albums. It’s how Paul and I met.

When the tour schedule was finalized and we realized I only had three days off between locations, Paul offered to come with me so we wouldn’t have to do long distance. My heart aches at the thought. He’s given up so much for me. He quit his job to be close to me. Of course he can’t afford more than a scarf if he doesn’t want to use his father’s credit card.

Not that he doesn’t use the black card regularly.

Dropping my chin, I shake my head. I like that he scrounged up his own money to pay for my gift. That, for once, he didn’t rely on his father.

“You coming tonight?” I ask Ford as he helps me into my black coat.

He lifts my long brown hair from beneath the collar and settles it against my shoulder, his touch featherlight and quick. Always respectful.

My boyfriend laughs. “Oh, Daddy Ford is busy. You’re not his only artist, you know.”

I turn around just in time to watch as Ford’s jaw flexes. “How many times do I have to tell you not to call me that?”

The women in his office at the label fawn over the man. I get it. He could definitely be categorized as a Daddy.

That’s just not my thing.

I’m the good girl with long brown hair and a bright, red-lipped smile at all times. And Paul, with his windswept blond hair, looks great next to me.

Our photos are splashed across the covers of almost every magazine, even when I wish they weren’t. But Paul does well with the attention. Maybe even calls for it more often than I would like.

Ford leans in and brushes a kiss against my cheek. “Thank you for coming over and spending time with me,” he says, looking from me to Paul and back again. “I have a hockey game tonight, but we both know Clay has everything covered.” With his hands stuffed in his pockets, he steps back and winks.

I tuck my chin to hide the blush creeping up my cheeks. “As he always does.”

In fact, my tour manager is likely losing his mind right now. I can picture him running around like mad, making sure every one of the million things that have to be completed at the last minute are done perfectly. I do a surprise song at every show, and tonight’s is fitting for the holidays. I’ll be dancing on top of an oversized glass of champagne, and the crew will be spraying the audience with bottles of bubbly.

Those lucky enough to have scored seats in the first few rows, at least.

Clay grumbled about wasting the good bubbly, but I’m certainly not shooting cheap champagne at my fans.

Buttons, Ford’s black cat, brushes against my leg, and I lean down to rub her head. The sound and steady vibration of her purring calms me just a little. I’ve been doing this for years, yet nerves still hit me before every show.

Paul sighs. “I told you I’m allergic. Don’t touch that thing.”

“You’re not allergic,” Ford snorts. “You just listen to everything your mother says, and because she hates cats, you do too.”

My heart sinks. I miss my cat fiercely, but when Paul said he was allergic, I asked my mother to take her.

Speechless, I follow an aggravated Paul out the door. With a wave to Ford, I make my way into the cold. His house is an hour outside Boston in a small town on the water. During scheduling, I insisted our holiday shows take place in Boston and New York so we could celebrate with our families.

Early on in my career, I ate up the California sunshine and the LA lifestyle, but now I can’t step outside my apartment without being recognized and followed. Flying under the radar on the East Coast, especially the smaller towns like this one, has been such a relief.

Paul doesn’t even look at our driver when he nods at him, but I stop and chat because that’s what I do. I don’t take this life for granted, and I don’t want people to think I do. If I’m not overly friendly with staff, even when I’m too tired to think, then weeks later, rumors will fly that I was rude or inconsiderate. It happened far too often during those first few years, so I now go out of my way to be friendly.

As a woman, I don’t get to have a bad day.

When I finally slide in next to Paul, his eyes are closed and he’s already got his headphones on. He says he needs to rest before shows. He needs the quiet time to zone out because they can be so chaotic. I don’t blame him. My life is kind of a circus. And truth be told, I’m exhausted too. We’ve spent the last few days bouncing between our families.

Ford’s was by far the most relaxed visit we’ve had. We spent Christmas Eve with my family, where it felt like the entire town was present. On Christmas morning, we drove north to Paul’s mother’s house. His brother and sister, Daniel and Millie, were there as well. It had been a while since I’d seen the twins last, and their company is always welcome. Even if their mother requested I perform a little show for her family. And by family, she apparently meant every person she knows.

But it’s fine. I didn’t mind. I kept my signature smile in place and made the best of it. Ford suggested a quiet lunch, and I couldn’t have been more thrilled about it.

Until the show starts, I won’t use my vocal cords again, so I tip my head back, close my eyes, and try to relax. There isn’t a lot I can control in my life, but when I’m on stage, nothing else really matters.

With a bottle of water in my hand, I stride down one hall, then another. I’m covered in a mixture of sweat and champagne as I slap hands with every stagehand, assistant, dancer, and member of the support team I pass. The energy is always high after a show, but tonight is even crazier. The last number was a hit, just like I imagined it would be.

Still riding the wave of excitement, I’m on a mission to find Paul. We’ve been going nonstop for the last few weeks, and it’d be nice to have a little late Christmas celebration. Just us two.

I’ll grab one of the bottles of champagne, get a shower in, and then surprise him with some solo attention.

The door to Clay’s office is ajar, and I spy a few of the bottles just inside. I press the door open farther and step inside the darkened room so I can snag one, but before I can spin on my heel and continue on, a grunted “fuck” stops me.

On the other side of the open door, Clay is standing, chin tipped up, with a long-stemmed black bottle held out in front of him.

Ready to tease him for drinking one after making such a big show of how we were wasting money on the champagne, I take another step into the room. Only when I do, I get a glimpse of what’s really going on in here.

He’s not alone. I squeeze my eyes shut when I notice that Clay’s pants are at his ankles and there’s a guy on his knees in front of him.

I cover my eyes with my hand but spread my fingers a little so I can see the floor to make my way out. When he grunts, though, my gaze flies up to make sure he hasn’t spotted me, and I watch as he tips his head back and pours my fancy champagne down his throat, then thrusts into his boyfriend’s mouth. Fuck, I shouldn’t be here. I must get out of here. Before I can make a silent escape, Clay’s partner fists his cock, and the watch on his wrist snags my attention.

Why does it look familiar?

“Oh shit!” Clay gasps, pulling back from his partner’s mouth, making his dick bob violently.

“Sorry!” I mutter. My feet aren’t working and my brain has lost all control over my body, so I’m frozen in place, gaping like an idiot. The person on his knees slaps his hands to the floor for balance, and that’s when my brain starts to work again. And I realize why I recognize that watch.

It’s the one I gave Paul this afternoon.

My stomach drops as my boyfriend shuffles back and whips his head in my direction.

For a moment, he sputters, his eyes wide and his face twisted into a horrified expression. “Lake, I can explain!” he says, clambering to his feet.

I open my mouth, but I can’t find the words.

“It’s not what you think,” Paul mutters, smoothing his hair.

With my lungs squeezing so tight I can’t breathe, I look from Clay, who is stumbling as he tries to pull up his pants, to Paul, who is wiping at his mouth.

“It’s not what I think?” I finally ask, shaking off the shock and turning to the appropriate emotion. Rage. “You had his dick in your mouth, and it’s not what I think? You cheated on me!” I hiss, finally finding my backbone.

Paul’s blond hair flops as he shakes his head. “No. He’s a man, babe.” He reaches for me. “It’s not like that.”

“Oh my God,” I say, lurching back before he touches me.

Clay’s response is an echo of mine.

My vision tunnels and rage courses through me. My body is on fire. Hotter than it was at the end of my two-and-a-half-hour show. My hands shake as I reach for the bottle of champagne Clay dropped on the table in his haste to put on his pants.

“I’ll be taking this,” I grit out. It takes everything in me not to scream so I don’t fuck up my vocal cords. He’s so not worth it. “You can keep him, though.” I point the neck of the bottle at Paul, then bring it to my lips and tip it back. On the way out the door, I throw a middle finger over my shoulder. “Oh, and Clay?” I say, spinning quickly.

An expression of hope crosses the audacious fucker’s face, making this moment even sweeter for me.

Pulling my shoulders back, I revel in snuffing out the light in his eyes. “In case you haven’t figured it out yet, you’re fucking fired!”