Heart Of A Star

Prelude

There are moments in your life that are ingrained in your heart forever. Long after your mind tucks the memory away and you've moved on with your life, your heart never forgets those moments. For me, it was the look in her eyes.

Glassy charcoal eyes that begged me.

She didn't have to say a word. Her eyes said it all.

She drew in a quivered breath, shaking her head and squeezing her dark eyes shut, wringing the tears down her cheeks like a sad, sullen dishrag. Her fingers, which had only seconds ago been interlaced with mine in any attempt at compassion that she might drag from me, now wrapped in a tight fist that she smashed to the table. "You can't make me do this!" Her voice was trembling, desperate. "I can't. I won't!"

I could feel my own eyes widen, but I remained in my chair, my body stiffening as her hands covered her face. A part of me wanted to reach out to her, to offer her my shoulder, a warm embrace, words to console her. But what was I to say? Was it even my place?

Instead, I chose to try to reason with her. "You said yourself that he'd kill you if he found out. This way, he'll never know. It's the only solution."

She leaned her head against the wall, looking upwards for an answer that wasn't there. "You're only worried about your career," the words stung more than I'd ever have admitted, "your fucking music."

I couldn't deny it; I had no valid argument against the accusation. But I had another that was far more convincing, even to a woman on the brink of hysteria. My eyes blinked rapidly, but it was the only movement I'd allowed my own body. "I'm not even eighteen. I don't know the first thing about what to do with a baby."

She calmed, and for but a brief moment, she was herself again. She regained her composure, transforming instantly back into the woman who'd seduced me three months prior, standing in the front row as I played guitar at our first sold-out venue.

I'd never been that drunk before, but after that show, there was enough liquor backstage to do in an entire football team. She had her eye on me the whole show, and I had recognized her instantly when a security guard escorted her to our dressing room, nodding in my direction before she slipped something into his pocket with a wink of those incredible brown eyes.

She was older than me, there was no doubt about that, and I'd found myself trying to guess her age several times during the show. Once she was up close and under incandescent lighting, I placed her to be a good ten years my senior. And hell, she was hot. I had known right away her breasts were nothing that God had created, but I found myself putting my guitar down quickly so that my hands would be free – just in case.

The entire show, she'd been with him. He stood there, arms crossed over his chest, tattoos flexed, glaring straight ahead like he was bored while she screamed and danced and sang every one of our songs. And while he hadn't followed her backstage that night, I found myself now wishing that he'd had.

"I could leave him," she offered, her hands digging deeply into my shoulders. I fought off the urge to close my eyes, lean my head back and enjoy it. "I could go live with my sister in Brighton."

I shook my head. I couldn't let her talk me out of this. We'd already discussed it once. Hell, it'd been her idea. I'd just agreed to it, and now I was sticking by it. It was my first decision as a man, I'd told myself. And it was the right thing to do and what was best for everyone.

"What kind of a life would that be? For you or the baby? You'd be living your life in fear, hiding from him all the time..."

She stormed back over to the other side of the table. "At least I'm trying. It's like you have your mind made up, and you won't consider any other options!" She swept her arms at the chair, sending it tumbling across the floor, just missing a glass curio cabinet which housed several antique-looking china dolls. It looked like something out of the fifties, which matched the décor in the rest of the house. It made me want to get out of there even faster.

I held strong to the reason I'd knocked on her door in the first place. We'd already made the decision - made it together - I reminded myself, mostly so I wouldn't have any guilt when I walked back out the door. I'd no idea at the time how much that guilt would follow me for the rest of my life.

I slid a check across the table. It was already made out and signed. "This is for the expenses." This was the one that was on the books. My manager had insisted that it be on record, for legal and PR purposes, he'd explained.

The second check was from my personal account. It was down to the last penny of what that account held, and would close it out for good. Tomorrow, I was starting fresh. A new account, a new bank, and a new life. That check was also quite a bit heftier than the first. But I didn't care about the money. The band was doing well and I'd easily make it back in a few months' time. What mattered to me now was that she was taken care of. And safe.

Her eyes turned warm and soft as she sniffed back the tears. "What's this one for?"

"For you," I told her, "To start over."