Just One Week (Just One Song) Read online

  Copyright © 2013 by Stacey Lynn

  All Rights Reserved.

  This book may not be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permissions from the author, except for using small quotes for book review quotations. All characters and storylines are the property of the author. The characters, events and places portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Trademarks: This book identifies product names and services known to be trademarks, registered trademarks, or service marks of their respective holders. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of all products referenced in this work of fiction. The publication and use of these trademarks in not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Editing provided by Taylor K Editing Services

  Cover design provided by Cover It Designs

  Interior Design by Angela McLaurin, Fictional Formats

  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

  chapter sixteen

  chapter seventeen

  chapter eighteen

  chapter nineteen

  chapter twenty

  chapter twenty-one

  chapter twenty-two

  chapter twenty-three

  chapter twenty-four

  chapter twenty-five

  chapter twenty-six

  chapter twenty-seven

  epilogue

  acknowledgements

  about the author

  To my mom,

  I’m so thankful your battle was over before it began.

  For the Lord is good is His love endures forever,

  His faithfulness reaches to the generations.

  Psalm 100:5

  To my readers,

  Mia and Chase’s story did not exist originally.

  Your love for Just One Song and your many requests to read Mia’s own story inspired me.

  I truly hope you enjoy it.

  Thank you for all your support and encouragement.

  May the Lord bless you and keep you.

  May his face shine on you and may He always be gracious to you.

  Numbers 6:24-25

  I knew today was going to be a really bad day as soon as my feet hit the floor this morning. My alarm didn’t go off, and as I rushed around my cramped one-bedroom apartment in New York City, thirty minutes late to work, I not only stubbed my toe once, but twice before I was out the door, rushing to catch the subway.

  Sandwiched between a man who looked and smelled like he hasn’t showered since the new millennia and a woman whose elbow kept bumping me in the ribs every time she turned a page in the gossip magazine she was reading, I was dying for a breath of fresh air by the time the subway pulled into my stop. Unfortunately, that fresh air didn’t come as quickly as I wanted it to because as soon as I stepped off the platform, the elbow that had already bruised my ribs struck me right in the spine, sending me crashing to the ground.

  The fall broke the ankle strap of my favorite navy blue Chanel sling-back wedge sandals and I had to shuffle-step the rest of the way through the Fashion District, the victim of curious glances from passerby’s who watched me dragging my broken shoe behind me so I didn’t lose it.

  It wasn’t until I got to work that I realized that at some point, my navy blue and white striped skirt got caught in the edge of my belt and I walked down Eighth Avenue with my white granny panties showing for the world to see. That explained the strange looks. I took a brief moment in the bathroom to readjust myself, sighing gratefully when the water from the faucet didn’t spray all over my silky white blouse. That would have been awesome and not at all surprising.

  To make matters worse, I got the phone call from my doctor back about some tests I had done a week ago. The message from the receptionist at my doctor’s office was quickly placed on my “call back once I get back from L.A.” list. Not because it’s not important, but because it’s on my “out of sight, out of mind” list.

  By the time I got to work this morning, I was so upset and frazzled that I snapped at a new intern who brought me the wrong cup of coffee. I never get upset at the interns, but this one, Shelley, left with tears in her eyes and it didn’t help make me feel any better.

  I don’t even like coffee.

  To top it all off, I have a plane to catch tomorrow morning for my trip to L.A. to help my best friend, Nicole, marry the man of her – and every other woman in America – dreams.

  I couldn’t be happier for her if I tried. I also couldn’t be more ready for a vacation, either. Today has definitely been the straw that breaks the camel’s back in my overstressed, overtired, underfed life.

  All I need to do is survive lunch and my last meeting with my boss, Devan, who I not-so-affectionately call Devan the Devil for a myriad of reasons, and I’m ready to get the show on the road, so to speak.

  “Seriously, why can I never find a pen when I need one?”

  I shuffle a few more papers around my desk and hear my co-worker, Marcia, start giggling.

  “Mia,” she says while laughing, obviously not understanding that I’m not in the mood for fun right now. “Check your hair.”

  I run my hands through my hair and find it. Two of them, actually. I flash her an apologetic look as I pull them out of my hair, my blonde hair falling half way down my back.

  “You okay?” she asks while walking to my desk and sits on the one clean corner. Marcia’s the first person I met when I moved to New York City about a year and a half ago. She’s also become like a second mom to me. She’s older, in her fifties, and has two kids in high school. She has the friendliest smile of anyone I’ve ever met and is also one of the few co-workers I have at Callie’s that doesn’t possess the urge to stab you in the back with their stiletto heel as soon as you turn around.

  I scribble down a few notes about a new designer we’re trying to win a contract with from France, pointedly ignoring her question.

  “I’ll be fine,” I say half-heartedly, pretending to be distracted by the mountains of work I have sitting all over my desk. I thought the invention of tablets and smartphones and laptops would erase all the paperwork I have to deal with, but it seems like it multiplies like bunnies every time I leave the room. It’s just everywhere.

  “Still upset about that skirt thing, aren’t you?”

  I press my lips together and drag my tired and embarrassed eyes to her. She’s smirking, the snot. I laugh silently, shaking my head back and forth. “Yeah, that’s it.”

  “Spill it, or I’m going to tell Devan you’re skipping lunch so you can meet with her early. We know how much you love her.”

  I cringe and throw one of my pens at her. Lucky for Marcia, she has two teenage boys and she knows how to catch random objects heading straight toward her.

  “You wouldn’t.”

  “I would and you know it. Let’s get out of here and I’ll let you bitch about whatever is bothering you.”

  It’s a decision of the lesser of two evils. Devan is completely pissed at me for taking the next two weeks off work. But there’s nothing that could make me miss Nicole’s wedding – not even fashion week in France, which is essentially every person in the fashion industry’s wet dream. I went last year and it was a dream come true. I
t sucks that the two coincide this year, but there are several other international buyers that are equally qualified, if not more so, than I am. Devan doesn’t care one little bit about who’s going with her.

  Why she’s so pissed at me for taking a vacation, I have no idea. I’m not sure I care, either.

  Marcia smiles because she knows she’s got me right where she wants me. With a defeated smile and an extra sigh for dramatic effect, I grab my purse and we head out of the building.

  We walk back down Eighth Avenue, while I keep a hand on the back of my skirt to ensure no one else gets a free show of my panties, and head to our favorite bar and lounge, Threads. It’s sweltering and humid out today, and I don’t think I’ll ever get used to seeing so many people crammed together on a sidewalk. We’re like sardines smushed together, or a herd of cows being gathered for slaughter.

  A model wanna-be escorts us to a booth in the lounge area of Threads where we’re sitting in a very large u-shape area. The tables are inches apart from one another. The outside seats sit against a high, black leather wall while the seats on the inside are the type of square storage ottomans you’d find at Target. They look classier, but still … the first time I was here I almost expected the hostess to lift the top of the ottoman and pull out our silverware and placemats. It essentially gives us no privacy either.

  I nod my head politely, but not overly so, at the two men in business suits at the table next to us and take the outside bench. I hate sitting on an ottoman to eat my lunch. The only reason we come here is because the martinis are cheap and incredibly tasty. I’m not normally one to drink during the workday, but I quickly make an exception with the morning I’ve had.

  Once we place our food orders, I overhear the men next to us talking about their plans for the weekend – which includes some unseemly behavior with one of them talking about cheating on his girlfriend. I glare at him before giving Marcia my full attention.

  Sort of. Mostly, I just don’t want to talk about what’s bothering me and Marcia’s a mom to teenagers so she has a way of squeezing the truth out of you when you least expect it. When I was a kid I had a Chinese finger bracelet. It looks like a harmless tube of braided plastic, but once you put your fingers in that thing, it sucks down with a vice grip and refuses to let you go. That’s Marcia.

  She takes a sip of her Appletini and winks at me. “You going to see your little drummer boy while you’re in California?”

  The men inches from us turn their heads in our direction and the guy sitting on the same side of the table of me leers at me in an appreciative, yet used car salesman, sort of way. I want to take the olives off the plastic toothpick in my martini and stab him in the eye with it. He’s also the same guy who I heard talking about cheating on his girlfriend, so I think it’d be totally justified.

  Her nickname for Chase always makes me smile. He may be a drummer, but he’s anything but little. His biceps are about as big as my head and he towers over my tall five foot eight frame. He’s got these large hands that seem too big to be coordinated for anything other than lifting weights, but he’s the best drummer in the rock world right now, and he’s incredibly talented in so many different ways. Every single muscle on that man’s body is defined to perfection and one side of his chest is covered in tattoos. I never thought tattoos were sexy until I met Chase and trailed my fingers across his biceps, chest, and back muscles, outlining the ink all over him. On Chase, tattoos are sexy as hell.

  Marcia likes to tease me about him so this is the nickname she uses so no one in the office knows I’m sleeping with someone from Zack Walters’ band.

  “Yeah, he’ll be there. He’s also the best man.”

  “Aw … how cute. You two get to walk down the aisle together. Maybe it’s prophetic.”

  I snort. The idea of me getting married is hilarious. I’m sure if Nicole was here right now she’d be practically on the floor laughing her cute little head off. Marriage is great, I guess, for people who want to feel all settled down and raise their kids and what-not, and while I’m one hundred and fifty percent thrilled that Nicole gets her second happily ever after and that Marcia’s been happily married for over thirty years, it’s just not for me. Ever.

  “You know my stance on marriage, Marcia,” I say with a shake of my head and take a large sip of my drink.

  Marcia just wrinkles her nose at me like she’s smelling sour milk. “I think someday you’ll change your mind about that. You just need someone strong enough to make you see reason.”

  “Do you ever stop mothering people?”

  “Nope. And you know that moms are always right. There’s really no point in arguing with me about this.”

  I laugh as she gestures into a fake crystal ball in front of her and her eyes go all hazy like she’s actually seeing my future. She even throws in a few humming sounds for dramatic effect.

  “I predict hot, wild sex for you in the upcoming weeks.” She closes her eyes and hums some more. I almost want to stop her, but then she opens her eyes and laughs with me. “Don’t let me down, either. You’re young, gorgeous, and it’s every old married woman’s fantasy to have some torrid affair with a rock star. You’re basically living my dream.”

  “Shut up,” I say through my laughter. I inwardly roll my eyes at her but don’t let her see it. She doesn’t know that Chase and I haven’t talked in six months and I have no plans to tell her why. Most people would think my reasons are stupid. A hot guy wants a girl and she refuses to give him anything more than sex. What woman would do that?

  Me, apparently. Because that’s exactly what happened the last time I saw Chase. I learned long ago that the odds of a relationship working out are pretty much slim to none, so what’s the point in trying when someone always leaves?

  It’s not a risk I’m willing to take. Chase didn’t get it so I called it quits on the best “friends with benefits” relationship I’ve ever had. I don’t think refusing to be someone’s occasional hook-up is running, but I bet he would. Nicole definitely does.

  Two weeks after I began avoiding his phone calls, I saw him kissing some actress outside a restaurant in L.A. on one of those late night gossip shows. I felt this strange sense of jealousy boil inside me that only reinforced my decision to stay far away from Chase.

  It’s not that I don’t like him. I do. I just think relationships are so much easier to manage when emotions aren’t involved. The fact that I felt jealous, or anything at all, by seeing Chase draped all over someone who was recently nominated for a Best Actress award simply reinforced my decision to stay far away from him.

  Marcia spends the rest of our lunch telling me all about her boys and their plans for the Fourth of July weekend. I listen closely and ask lots of questions in order to keep the conversation far away from me. By the time our lunch is done, my mood has improved – possibly due to the help of the second martini I didn’t turn down – and the reminders of my morning blunders are far behind me. If bad things happen in three, then I’ve already doubled the quota for one day. What else can go wrong?

  “Good afternoon Devan,” I say as I sit down and hold out some client files that I’ve finally finished.

  I nicknamed my boss Devan the Devil within the first two weeks of arriving in New York. I swear if she were to ever smile you’d see fangs, or a forked tongue. She’s sharp as a tack, serious about her job, and she demands the most of her employees, which is great. I love a challenge and I’m good at my job. I’ve just always thought you could have those qualities as a boss without being a complete bitch, but I think Devan missed that memo.

  Without acknowledging my greeting in any way, shape, or form, she leans back in her chair and rests her chin on her hands. They’re clasped together with both index fingers pointed up and tapping against her lips. It reminds me of the nursery rhyme I learned as a child. Here is the church, here is the steeple; open the doors and look at the people.

  I bite back my own chuckle, knowing Devan wouldn’t appreciate it. I’m also willing to
bet she has no idea what the inside of a church looks like.

  And then I realize she’s just staring at me. Her dark blue eyes practically feel like they’re piercing into me. Her dark brown hair is pulled back into a severely tight bun. She looks a little scary.

  Usually I’m not afraid of anything, but something about her posture and the serious look on her face instantly makes me nervous.

  I swallow slowly, fighting the instinct to pull my eyes from her. Never show your opponent fear, I practically hear my high school tennis coach tell me.

  “Devan?” I ask, quietly and hesitantly. Maybe she’s just having an exceptionally pissy day.

  “The economy isn’t approving,” she finally says and sets her hands against her desk, rhythmically drumming her fingers on a bright blue file on the center of her desk.

  I nod and lean back in my chair a little bit. We’ve had this discussion before in regards to Callie’s profitability over the last few years. As department stores go, we’re the newest and have tried to set ourselves apart by being a high-end trendy store that appeals to a young clientele that possesses the most disposable income.

  “I understand,” I begin and open one of the files I brought in, “which is why you’ll love that I realized with these particular clients, I’ve discovered if we alter the timing of our purchases through them …”

  Something flips in my gut as she watches me, and without even knowing I’m doing it, my hands start shaking. She doesn’t give a shit about the client files I just brought in. The knowledge sinks into my pores and weaves its way through every nerve ending in my body and I have the sudden urge to throw up.

  This isn’t good. In fact, I have a feeling this is really, really shitty.

  “You don’t care about the Les Belles Chausseres file, do you?” I ask, already in knowing that she does, in fact, not give a shit about whatever I’m holding in my hand.

  She slowly shakes her head, pushing the file on her desk towards me. She’s expressionless, which makes my stomach churn again. I’ve only seen one expression on Devan in the last two years, which is an equal mixture of ice queen and bitchy rolled into one terrifying glare, but now there’s just … nothing.