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The route to her apartment takes longer than is necessary, but she’s learned to deal with the inconvenience if it means that she won’t have her picture plastered on every major news site across the internet by tomorrow morning. Still, having to enter the building from the side-door employee entrance is a bit much just to get home.
Her feet ache in her shoes, the lingering soreness of waltzing around in heels for the past three hours finally catching up to her exhausted body as she pushes the door of her car open, tugging the edges of her hoodie further around her face before ducking through the doorway, letting out a soft sigh of relief.
“Long flight?” Her head of security, Ben Scott, asks her with a welcoming smile when he sees her, his older face warm and comforting despite the way his sharp brown eyes scan the surrounding area with intense focus. He has been a part of her security team since she was a teenager: the familiar presence of his unwavering loyalty making the small itch of fear that always shadows her slowly ease away, loosening her shoulders.
“Long show,” she answers back with a laugh, tilting her chin up at him, “It was amazing.”
“I don’t doubt it,” he nods along, gesturing for her to follow him silently through the winding corridors, his hand reaching up to his ear as Jackie blocks out the radio chatter buzzing around them with a slow blink of her eyelids. The residue of her stadium performance clings uncomfortably to her skin, the inescapable adrenaline causing her heart to thrum against her chest despite the quiet, quick efficiency that Ben leads her back to her room with.
She can’t wait to shower it off, she thinks dreamily, to be able to wash away the thrill and settle back down to a stable level that doesn’t feel so insanely…unreal. Although, by anyone’s standards, her life is decidedly very unreal.
She’s finally reached the halfway mark of her sold-out stadium world tour: six blissful months of break to simply rest and reflect back at her home in New York on the pandemonium that the last 51 shows have transformed into. She knew her fans were loyal. If the constant, overwhelming enthusiasm for her albums weren’t enough to solidify their devotion, their unrelenting passion to make her concerts into an experience rather than just a performance would undoubtedly prove their adoration. She loves doing what she does, and she loves doing it for the fans who give her just as much as she does to them.
And still, she is craving the peaceful nothingness of a break more than she thought she would.
Ben leads her up the elevator to her penthouse, his eyes never staying in one place for very long until they are standing at the doorway of her apartment, the door cleared away from any prying eyes that might be watching them.
She pulls her key from the pocket of her bag as Ben settles himself next to her, his intimidating presence looking over her shoulder, hand still pressed cautiously to his earpiece when she opens the door and he pops in, swiveling around to inspect the darkened entryway purposefully. After a moment of rapid inspection, he straightens back up and gives her a curt nod- signaling clearance.
“All good.”
“Thank you, Ben,” she says genuinely as she steps forward, placing a tender hand on Ben’s shoulder as he positions himself on the outside perimeter of her door, hands placed at the lower nape of his back once more.
“It’s my pleasure, Miss Taylor.” He responds professionally, giving her a serious nod of affirmation that she rolls her eyes softly at, the fondness she has for the man peaking out in the slight upturn of her smile.
“I told you, Ben,” Jackie chuckles lowly, shaking her head. “It’s Jackie. We’re way past pleasantries by now.” Ben lets his eyes flicker over to her momentarily, a soft boyish smile on his burly face that she can’t help but tilt her head at teasingly.
All these years, and he still acts as if he hasn’t seen her in all of her most vulnerable, undesirable states.
“Whatever you say, Miss Taylor,” he teases back easily, shrugging off her laugh before she enters into the foyer and throws a final goodbye over her shoulder. The door clicks shut behind her as she finally allows the weight of the world to slide off of her shoulders, a gratifying breath escaping her lips as she sheds the professional politeness that seems to permeate every single interaction she has throughout her perfectly planned life. Finally back at the home she has been missing for an entire year, she is safe.
She can be whatever the fuck she wants to be here.
She kicks her shoes off, feeling the pressure of expectations slowly ease with each step she takes further into the cozy home, the soft sound of the record player in her bedroom floating out from the cracked door as she steps further towards the drifting melody.
“Jeff?” She calls out, a smile slowly carving itself onto her face at the possibility of her boyfriend being here. And not just being here but surprising her with a romantic evening punctuated with a swooning record. The music becomes louder the closer to her bedroom she gets until she can feel the soft glow of the lamp slink out from the cracks in the door, her heart lurching forward in anticipation as she places her palm on the door and pushes through, “Baby, I’m…”
A flash of warm, tan skin and curled brown hair cascading down an arched back burns itself into her eyes, her stomach dropping so far down into the earth that she doesn’t know how her entire body stays standing under the gravitational pull downwards. Jeff’s blue eyes are wide and filled with undeniable guilt when he peaks around the curvaceous hip of the woman riding his cock, his fingers clenching onto the woman’s waist tightly as he sits up, gasping.
“Jackie…” He starts pleadingly, the mystery woman turning her head and making Jackie see a miasma of dizzying, translucent stars on the back of her eyelids.
Shauna- her Shauna, she thinks desperately- looks back at her just as shamefully; her wide, doe-eyed brown orbs pleading and innocent when they look down at the compromising position that makes Jackie’s entire world crumble at her feet.
“Jax?” Shauna gasps, clearly shocked to be intruded on in the midst of their pleasure, and Jackie inhales deeply, the world becoming smaller and smaller with each second that passes until she is able to conjure up the only thought fathomable.
“What the fuck?”
Natalie stares at the black and white piano keys in front of her, her fingers fumbling listlessly over the notes as she taps her foot impatiently beneath her.
“C’mon…” she murmurs frustratedly to herself, forcing her brain to grind out something…anything to use as a starting point. The instrument seems to taunt her lack of inspiration, the keys remaining as painfully silent as the thoughts in her head are as she stares bitterly back with blank hopelessness. Her fingers rise, play a note, and fall back down.
Absolutely fucking nothing.
“Fuck me,” she groans, leaning her forehead onto the keys and erupting a surge of jumbled sounds as a lighthearted chuckle emits from behind her. She pulls her head up, looking over her shoulder and narrowing her eyes as Van smirks back at her teasingly, legs crossed easily over the arm of the lounge chair she sprawls gracefully over.
“At least buy a girl dinner first,” Van quips with a lighthearted joke, not bothering to look up from scrolling on her phone while Nat huffs lowly, rolling her eyes.
“Why can’t I write anything?” She groans with frustration, shoving her hand through her hair to push the brunette strands away from her eyes, the frustration boiling into a sharp bitterness that cuts through her, “It’s fucking ridiculous.”
“You’re just in a funk,” Van answers back confidently, tossing her legs back onto the ground as she gives Nat a useless shrug of her shoulders, Nat’s eyes narrowing disapprovingly as the redhead stretches their tattoo-covered arms above their head in casualness, “It happens to everyone.”
“For a whole fucking year?” Nat scoffs, pushing away from the piano with a disgust that is directed more so at herself than the instrument. After all, it’s not the piano’s fault that she has been completely useless at creating music over the last thirteen months; a sting of embarrassment that lingers even longer when she looks down at her empty notebook: blank and untouched and full of absolutely fucking nothing. Van sighs, her green eyes rolling around the expanse of her skull when Nat scowls wordlessly back at her.
“Listen dude, you took the split from Lottie pretty hard,” Nat’s skin tingled at the mention of her ex-girlfriend, something wounded and raw still gaping open in her despite Van continuing on listlessly, “I understand not really being in the headspace to write after that.”
“But that’s what I’m supposed to do,” Nat argues back, rubbing idly at her face as she tries to not let the waves of emotion well up dangerously in her throat, “I’m supposed to want to write so I can get the fuck over her and move on.”
If moving on from a long-term, four-year relationship was even possible for her. She’d never been with someone long enough to have to curate professional break-up statements and PR releases for the public, let alone splitting up personal bedroom decor and trinkets full of once-happy memories and deciding which coast their shared furniture would be shipped to.
“Maybe you’re putting too much pressure on yourself,” Van offers, poking Nat’s side wordlessly as they slide in closer to the song-writer, their hands hovering over the keys as they fiddle with the instrument keys playfully, “Wanting it too much. Writing is a feeling, not a thinking thing.”
“This is so stupid,” Nat scoffs disbelievingly, crossing her arms stubbornly over her chest despite knowing deep down that Van is probably right- that her incessant demands at making lyrics come to her mind despite her foul mood has been the biggest barrier to the creative process she’s experienced thus far.
“You just need a new change of scenery,” Van tilts her head, their fingers playing a half-cord that Nat’s ears perk up at slightly, her eyes lowering to watch Van’s fingers dance elusively over the keys without rush.
“You mean like moving?”
“Nah, man,” Van chuckles lowly, giving a half-hearted shrug when they add on another progression to the tune that is suddenly taking form beneath the redhead’s hands, “Like a new creative outlet. Something that is purely fun. No pressure.”
Nat’s eyes stay glued to Van’s fingers, to the low thrumming heaviness of the notes that she is able to coax out of the instrument in a completely different way than Nat had been trying to earlier.
“Like…?” Nat asks breathlessly, Van’s eyes floating up to hers as each of them sense the beginning of something unraveling between them and the piano, something that Nat’s foot slowly begins to beat in time with as their heads bob along to the rhythm they fine tune with each loop that Van plays through.
“Just riff it,” Van commands firmly, grabbing her phone from her pants and clicking on the audio record button before placing it next to them, “See what comes out.”
Nat lets herself be lulled by the music, closing her eyes and tilting her head as if she can imagine the way the song would sound in the studio, as if the words that have seemed to be stuck in her throat for the last thirteen treacherous months slowly begin unfurling around them.
She’s asleep, in the backseat
Looking peacefully enough to me
“Keep going,” Van encourages lowly, careful not to interrupt Nat’s focus as her head begins bobbing along with the through line, “Don’t think about it.” Her words come out mumbling and tumbling incoherently, a slew of rhymes that don’t mean anything until she suddenly finds the next verse with rabid ease.
When I pointed out where the North Star is
She called me a fucking liar
“Let it out,” Van whispers tenderly, playing the same melody, “Just go with it.”
Nat finds the song right before it finds her, her heart opening up as memories of Lottie in her front passenger seat flicker painfully through her mind, a flash of the brunette’s crooked smile aimed up at her and her brilliant eyes shining amber in the golden hour sun and the unexplainable feeling that has been ruminating within Nat’s stomach like an a boiling sickness waiting to be released.
Lottie, I’m sorry I just
Make it up as I go along
And I can feel myself becoming
Someone only you could want
Nat feels Van’s eyes anchored onto her, looking up to see the redhead smiling widely at her before nodding down at the open iPhone recording, the red lines of the sound waves slowly lowering into the steady hum of silence when Van reaches up, clicking the recording off.
“Let’s make an album,” Van shrugs, and Nat tries to refrain from laughing straight in their face, rolling her eyes instead as she tries to not let the absurdity of Van’s casual declaration be taken too seriously.
“I can't," Nat scoffs between a humorless chuckle, her hands waving listlessly in the air, “I just told you I haven’t written a song in thirteen fucking months.” Van raises her brow, clearly unconvinced.
“You just wrote the first verse of a song,” she argues back easily, tilting her chin in determined defiance that Nat typically loves seeing when it is not directed pointedly at her, “Let me help finish it.”
“And do what with it?” Nat argues stubbornly, looking down at the device that Van holds out in emphasis, their ten-second snippet swirling around in the pixelated universe within it as Nat bites down softly on the fleshy bottom of her lip, “What’s the point?”
“Me, you and Tai,” Van continues, their voice calm and steady as they say the words with enough emphasis that Nat knows she is not fucking around anymore, “We can make a band album. And if it’s shitty, we can scrap it and forget all about it. But if it’s good…” Van tilts her head, a smile curling the ends knowingly, wiggling the phone once more to emphasize that there is something here to be explored at the very least, “Why not have some fun?”
Nat tilts her head, thinking. A band album has never been something she’s done before, or even thought about doing until now. Her first two albums: ‘Stranger in the Alps’ and ‘Punisher’ were solo projects from the very beginning; a handful of songs written with Van or Taissa on special occasions where she felt like their expertise might strengthen the core of the songs she already conceptualized for the album, reworking and rewriting lines and verses that were ultimately hers to determine the end result of.
A band album, however, is purely collaborative; is a chance at creating something all three of them would be proud of releasing with each other as a flushed out, full body of work- something more special than a feature or a collab on a single song.
“What would we even call ourselves?” Nat questions rhetorically, as if that is the only question that matters enough to be answered before she inevitably agrees to the unexpected twist of events that this band album will ultimately lead them both into headfirst. After all, it’s obvious she’s not doing jack shit on her own. And if working on an album with two of her closest friends is a way to get that spark back into her, to write songs that are about Lottie but not about Lottie, then she really has nothing much else to lose. Van senses her impending agreement when Nat quiets slightly, her smile widening as she gives Nat a charming smirk that is wholly irresistible.
“Why not just go by the Yellowjackets?”
“Fuck it,” Nat shrugs, holding up her hands in silent offering, tilting her head back and asking the universe directly, “What do we have to lose?”
“Okay,” Misty looks over at her earnestly, her brown eyes wide and focused behind the thick rims of her glasses as she spreads her hands over the counter, “So…there’s a few options we have to get ahead of this.”
“Which are what?” Jackie narrows her eyes, glancing down at the piles of paperwork Misty has arranged for them on her kitchen counter-each varyingly thick stack labeled with a color-coded sticky note that Jackie can tell are correlated to whatever spreadsheet document Misty had emailed her at three in the morning last night.
It had been a sort of crisis emergency when she called her manager crying the night before, a whirlwind of emotion and chaos that overwhelmingly collapsed around her when she explained to Misty what had happened when she arrived back at her apartment. Misty, the incessant problem-solver she was, managed to talk Jackie down from the ledge and assure her that by the next morning, they would have an array of plans to choose from that would either erase the memory from the general public’s mind completely, or erase it from Jackie’s mind completely. Either way, she was desperate.
“We can issue a statement asking for privacy,” Misty continues, pointing to the smaller stack of papers that are familiarly labeled with green tabs highlighting where her signature goes, the standard PR proceeding an obvious choice she knew Misty would give her, “Give enough acknowledgement of the relationship ending and then weather the storm of what the news outlets do with the information.”
But Jackie hadn’t wanted to take that option. If she did, she would have told Misty to send out the statement by now, and the blonde wouldn’t be sitting with her in the apartment she was betrayed in, flipping through piles of nonsensical paperwork. Misty, in all their years working together, knows this too. But she allows Jackie the faux feeling of control, letting her guide the conversation to where they both know it was always going to end up.
“Or?” Jackie asks, the blonde’s face lighting up with a terrifying chaos Jackie rarely sees on the woman.
“Or,” Misty says carefully, pushing forward the stack noted in black and blue tabs, “We get you someone to help distract the public from the scandal by constructing our own narrative of what happened.”
“Which would be what?” Jackie bites roughly, cutting through the pretty PR wording that Misty likes to use to downplay the reality of what they are constructing as a plan.
“That you and Jeff were amicably separated prior to this and you’ve actually been dating someone else, hence this separation being ‘old news’,” Misty shrugs, a smug proudness appearing on her face.
Misty Quigley is one of the best PR crisis managers in the business. Her work with a wide range of high-profile clients was incredibly impressive even before Jackie met her at the start of her career, but over the last near-decade of working together, their stardom and profile has reached unimaginable new heights of ingenuity. After all, that’s what happens when you’re Jackie Taylor: multi-Grammy award winning-artist and sold-out stadium tour performer whose most recent album just broke the chart-topping records. And who better to keep the image perfectly polished, perfectly pristine, than Misty fucking Quigley.
Jackie trusts her, inexplicably so, and yet, there is still something nerve-wracking about the way Misty is looking at her while her hand is on this alternate plan, like she already knows how incredibly insane it is to even be offering it.
“What do you mean?” Jackie asks softly, narrowing her eyes as the blonde inhales deeply, preparing herself.
“I mean…” Misty drawls slowly, letting the words hang between them as she glances over curiously, “We get you a PR relationship to distract from whatever Jeff and Shauna do next.”
“You can’t be serious,” Jackie scoffs slightly, shaking her head slowly as the words settle into her head fully, her mind finally being able to take the words and process them enough to understand what Misty is offering, “A fake relationship?”
“A mutually beneficial professional relationship,” Misty corrects her factually, giving a simple shrug that Jackie almost believes is casual enough to consider faking a relationship, “It would be like a contract deal. You both would get something out of it.”
Both. Jackie had almost completely forgotten that a fake relationship would involve someone else-someone who also needed their public image to be polished up enough that they’d agree to an insane proposal like this.
“With who?” Jackie asks instead, surprising herself with how she is actually interested in who Misty has managed to convince to consider this proceeding, effectively chaining himself to Jackie for the foreseeable future in the process. The next name that comes from Misty’s mouth is the last name Jackie ever expected to hear, the blonde pushing a photo across the table to stare back up at Jackie.
“Natalie Scatorccio.”
Natalie Scatorccio, as in, the heavily tattooed emo song-writer who was most known for her scandalous relationship with a high-fashion runway model that was the muse of most of her tear-jerker, seasonally-depressed songs that earned the brunette a Grammy award a handful of years ago. Natalie Scatorccio, who smokes cigarettes and smashes liquor bottles on bars and who has even got into a fistfight with a paparazzi at an award show last season.
Jackie has always appreciated Natalie’s brilliant artistry- some of Jackie’s personal favorite songs being from ‘Punisher’. But the girl’s reputation is spotty at best, a rugged type of grit that she wears like a badge of honor that Jackie knows has never fit in her own brand. It doesn’t seem plausible that anyone would believe that they were together. And then, like all of Jackie’s thoughts from this conversation, it dawns on her what might be the most unbelievable aspect about it all.
“She’s a girl, Misty,” Jackie points out, and Misty rolls her eyes, clearly unamused.
“I know that, Jaqueline.” Misty fixes her with a serious look, pushing the bottom ridge of her glasses higher on her face when she points at Natalie’s scowling photograph, “But there’s only one thing in this business that’s going to beat out a ‘Jackie Taylor Dumped’ headline on the front page.”
Jackie can practically see the headline blinking in her mind.
Jackie Taylor Comes Out.
She inhales deeply, letting the thought settle over her- because Misty is right. Very little headlines will completely eradicate the story of a pathetic, broken-hearted pop-star. But a coming out story? Well…that would eradicate any news Jeff and Shauna come out with.
“So if I agreed to go through with this,” Jackie says slowly, finding the words to encapsulate what she needs to clarify for her brain to cooperate, glancing over at Misty with hesitation, “It would be with a girl.” Misty nods.
“It would just be temporary,” Misty says easily, “Long enough that people forget who you were with prior to her, short enough that you don’t have to get into the messy ‘what-about-the-future’ discussions.”
Of course, Jackie thinks sarcastically, because it’s not like the press lets her live her life without incessantly speculating what she’s going to do next, even if she gives them nothing to go off of. A fake girlfriend will surely be something they don’t ask about more.
“Why would Natalie Scatorccio agree to a PR relationship?” Jackie asks instead, furrowing her eyebrows as she lowers her gaze to look back at the brunette’s perfectly chiseled cheekbones and low cut dress showcasing her ample cleavage.
Jackie knows that Natalie has been quiet the last few years, her albums coming out far less consistently than Jackie’s tend to; and when they do get released, she does little to no press to promote them. It’s something she’s always been secretly jealous of that indie artists are able to get away with- keeping the lack of press as part of their aloof mystique. But then again, Jackie writes confessionals. How much mystique does she actually have in her?
“She’s been in a creative slump,” Misty shrugs, “She’s starting a new band with some friends and dating a pop star would absolutely get that album some traction to release successfully.”
Ah, so the lack of press hasn’t been beneficial in the long run.
Good to know.
“How long?” Jackie sighs, clenching her eyes as she struggles to rationalize that she is actually considering this insane, possibly non-ethical plan.
“Six months,” Misty answers with factual efficiency, her voice neutral and non-committed despite her eyes widening with anticipation of Jackie’s response, “Enough time to get over the scandal and give Natalie a bit of a boost for releasing the album next April.”
Six months. She can do six months.
“And just enough time for me to get back to the tour,” she does the math easily, calculating.
“Exactly,” Misty nods, “And then it will be like none of this ever happened.”
Jackie sighs deeply.
“Is this really the best thing to do?”
“Professionally, yes,” Misty tilts her head, “Personally…” she lets her expression soften just enough to convey her earnesty, “It’s up to you.”
Jackie sighs. As if she has a fucking choice.
“When do I meet her?”
“So let me get this straight,” Nat tilts her head, “You want me to pretend to date the Jackie Taylor?”
“It would be a mutually beneficial professional relationship,” Travis shrugs, “She gets to look like she’s moved on from her ex and you get more exposure for whatever you have planned to release with the Yellowjackets.”
“I don’t care about exposure,” Nat scoffs and Travis tilts his head, “I know my fans are loyal, and that’s all that matters to me.”
“I know you don't care,” Travis rolls his eyes, "But appealing to a wider fan base would give the new album some good press, not to mention boosting Van and Taissa’s fanbase too. It’s not just about you, you know.”
“You don’t think I could help Van and Tai myself?” Nat challenges and Travis sighs, sending her a look.
“I think…” Travis levels her with a gaze, “That you attract a certain type of fan. Which is awesome, and absolutely astonishing considering you typically end up on front page news every few months.”
“So she’s meant to help my reputation too?” Nat raises a brow.
“You said it, not me,” Travis holds his hands up innocently.
“And she agreed to this?” Nat asks incredulously, hardly believing that the pop-princess of the industry is willing to fake coming out for the publicity of it, “Jackie, I mean?”
“She’s all on board,” Travis nods, “She’s ready to sign a contract and everything whenever you are.”
“What would I have to do?” Nat asks, hoping her voice sounds more unbothered than she truly is, regarding the contract in front of her with vague curiosity, “If I agreed to this bullshit.”
“A few public appearances together,” Travis shrugs, “Maybe a few instagram posts with her in it. Say a couple nice things to a few reporters. You know how the press works, Nat,” Travis shrugs again, “Just make her look good.”
“Why?” Nat questions, “Why would she go through all this effort just to look like she’s moved on from her ex? Doesn’t she have like, a billion dollars to prove that without me?”
Travis looks around, dipping his chin as his eyes float carefully back and forth, determining that the office they are in is safe before leaning closer to her.
“You didn’t hear it from me,” Travis looks around once more before continuing, “But rumor has it, he cheated on her in her own house. With her best friend.” Natalie is stunned, her jaw dropping.
“She doesn’t want to seem like everyone else knew about it but her,” Travis explains with a shrug, straightening back out and smoothing the wrinkles in his suit, “Being seen with you will help bury the narrative that she was the one dumped in the gutter without warning.”
“You know she’s never been seen with a girl before, right?” Natalie tilts her head, chortling sardonically, “Who is going to believe that all of a sudden, Miss Perfect Jackie Taylor is with me, of all people?”
“It fits her motives,” Travis explains, “Hiding you away for fear of backlash, emerging with you once Jeff and Shauna do. It will all fit into place.” Travis looks back at her, narrowing his eyes in thinly-veiled warning, “If you agree to play along.”
Nat sighs, thinking about the opportunity that a pop-star could generate for their in-the-works indie album. Truthfully, getting Van and Tai more exposure was more than enough for her to agree; and when she tilts her head back, staring into Travis’ smug expression, she knows they both know it.
Asshole.
“Fine,” she mutters, rubbing her eyes, “I’ll do it. When do we start?”