MAKES THE HEART GROW FOULER

  CARRIE AARONS

  Copyright © 2022 by Carrie Aarons

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Editing done by Proofing Style.

  Cover designed by Okay Creations.

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Epilogue

  Also by Carrie Aarons

  About the Author

  1

  MARGOT

  My heart is going to pop out of my mouth.

  That’s the only thought I have as I swallow down another rapid heartbeat, the pressure point in my throat spiking like I might vomit an organ.

  The door in front of me looks like something out of Beauty and the Beast; two heavy oak panels with no windows and nothing but a knocker to signify my arrival. They seem to go on forever as I incline my head up. Perhaps it’s because I’m nervous, or they really are like something out of a fictional fairy tale, but with each second they don’t open, I grow increasingly anxious.

  Come on, Margot, you are a professional.

  Wiggling my arms and rolling my neck, I try to psych myself up a little. There are definitely security cameras on this massive stone porch, but I don’t even care at this point. My ego and journalistic pride need a boost, and this is the only tool I seem to be able to pull from my box.

  It’s not like this is my first interview. It’s not even my first interview with a celebrity. I’ve been doing this for three years, having stumbled into a feature journalist spot at Dash Mod Magazine, one of the biggest editorial magazines, a year into my tenure on staff.

  Three years ago, as I was running coffees and proofing other people’s pieces right out of college, when one of the veteran writers called out with the flu. With no one else available, to the chagrin of my then-boss, I was asked to cover a piece on an industry favorite musician with a huge platform. Seeing that he was usually tight-lipped about his marriage to his high school sweetheart, it was a surprise that he answered some of my questions about how his relationship influenced his music and career decisions.

  The two-page article was a massive success, and the musician even wrote to my boss personally to tell her how easy and comforting I was during the interview. Then, overnight, my fate changed. They promoted me to features writer, given my next celebrity assignment, and I pretty much faked it until I made it. My career has been a lot of luck but definitely skill, too. I knew from an early age what a great listener I was, that I could get people to express the core of what they were thinking or feeling. My parents used to say I would make a great therapist, but I’ve always been more interested in telling people’s stories rather than keeping their secrets. Plus, with the baggage I’ve recently accrued, I am in no position to sort out other people’s mental health.

  Anyhow, that luck and skill is how I landed here, on the massive Texas compound of the most famous country singer to ever live. When the magazine assigned me to the first interview Dane, known only by that moniker, has ever given in his twenty-year career, my stomach nearly fell out of my butt.

  I’ve been nervous about other celebrity interviews; even though this is my job, it’s still normal to be starstruck. That’s only natural. But there is something more reverent, more ominous when it comes to this interview. There is a reason that the daunting, mysterious “word genius” has never spoken to the press before, and he’s made it very clear anytime he’s asked why that is.

  “I hate those fucking people.”

  Yep, that’s what he’s said numerous times, over two decades of getting up on stage and singing his ever-loving face off. His fans are diehard, rabid even, for his music. The attention and admiration he commands is otherworldly. Yet, little is known about his personal life, other than what he puts in his songs and the rare paparazzi pictures of him and his daughter around their chosen hometown of Austin.

  So here I am, asked by Dane himself to fly out to his thirty-acre compound in the Texas Hill Country so that he can sit down and give the interview of a lifetime. Okay, fine, he didn’t necessarily ask me, he asked my magazine, but I’m the one he’s getting.

  At twenty-six years old, I’m about to reach the peak of my career. That is, if I can get my nerves under control and not pass out before someone opens this door. Jesus, whoever made all that noise about Texas heat wasn’t freaking kidding. Seeing as it’s my first time in this state, it’ll be a miracle if I can leave it without every outfit in my suitcase carrying major pit stains.

  I think I see an actual tumbleweed in the distance—the property is a mix of desert plants and lush green grass—when the creak of the door opening finally pulls my attention front and center.

  Pasting a professional smile on my face and hoping I don’t look like a drowned rat with the sweat amassing on my dark brows, I turn to introduce myself and be welcomed into a world few have ever stepped foot into.

  That is not at all what happens.

  “Oh, crap.”

  The forties-something brunette man with a tidy white long sleeve and dark blue jeans takes me in and then grimaces. Crap is right because he looks panicked, and I’m suddenly way more on edge than I was mere seconds ago.

  “Hi, I’m Margot Hallow, the journalist that Dash Mod sent over? I’ll be conducting the interview with Mr. Rivers—”

  I stop when he snorts, and I assume it’s because I called Dane by his last name and no one on earth does that. But what am I supposed to do, just call him Dane? I’ve never greeted someone I have never met before using their first name, and it just feels strange to do so even if he is known by only one moniker.

  “How’d you get past the gate?” He leans against the enormous doorjamb casually, and I can make out all the natural light behind him but try not to snoop to see more.

  Fishing around in my bag, I pull out the piece of paper where I scribbled down the gate code my boss emailed me before I flew out.

  “My boss, Petra, gave me specific instructions to just use the code and go through. She was told by Mr. Rivers’ manager that they don’t typically answer the gate phone?” I’m trying to jog his memory.

  As he assesses me, he tips his lips up in this smug, teasing way. “I did say that, didn’t I? I’m pretty sure Dane pulled that cord out of the wall last time someone came ringing.”

  Something gives me the distinct feeling that they didn’t answer the gate because they didn’t want anyone coming inside. Who could blame them? You don’t need anything or anyone when you live in paradise. And that’s what this compound is. On the winding drive down to the main house, I glimpsed a full outdoor basketball court, rows of tall-scrubbed gardens, what looked like a pool and a guesthouse in the distance, and a stunning view of Lake Travis over the cliff this all stood upon. Dane’s property is an oasis, a lap of luxury he uses to shut himself off from the world.

  Surprise hits me square in the chest. “Forgive me, I didn’t realize you were his manager. It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Lochan. As I said, I’m Margot Hallow—”

  He interrupts me again, and I wonder if it’ll be necessary to steel myself to that happening constantly. “Call me Brady. Uh, listen, Margot, right? Today is not great. In fact, we may need to scrap the whole interview—”

  “Did you just say interview, Brady? You do know what I do to reporters who come crawling onto my property, right?”

  That growl comes from behind Brady Lochan, the one and only team member who has ever worked for Dane. He’s essentially a manager, publicist, agent, tour coordinator, and everything in between. Just like the man who employs him, I could find very little publicly on Brady Lochan. Neither of them has social media. It’s like they’re modern-day ghosts.

  A looming figure comes into view, but he’s backlit by all that light from the lake, and it’s like a shadow is coming toward me.

  In the next second, Dane is standing in front of me. I try not to audibly gulp, but it’s near impossible as my neck cranes to take in all six and a half feet of him.

  He’s the thing of nightmares, daunting and imposing, and the kind of shadow that haunts dreams. At the same time, he’s a fantasy. Thi
s impossibly tall, lean demigod with piercing blue eyes and a shock of black hair cropped close to his head that is shorter than it has been in the last known pictures of him taken about a year or two ago. Tattoos wrap around both arms and neck. It’s the only visible skin at the moment, but I know from weeks of research that nearly his entire upper body is covered in ink, meanings of which I’m itching to find out. The way he seems to look right through you, as if he knows he could make your knees buckle and your body quiver. Dane is the kind of man your mother warns you about. The one who makes off with your heart but could also snap you in half if he so pleased. He’s danger, rippling right below the surface.

  And with the way he’s snarling in my direction, I can surmise exactly what he does to reporters who crawl onto his property.

  2

  DANE

  To her credit, she squares her shoulders.

  The fear in her eyes is real, or maybe she’s intimidated. I’m fucking good at garnering that reaction, but a girl like her has no idea what I’m truly capable of. She’s standing on my doorstep requesting to hear my life story, and I’d love to shove in her face just how ugly the truth of it is.

  But I don’t. Because I don’t speak to the media. I haven’t for twenty years, and there is nothing inclining me to at this point. Especially today.

  Because she is a girl. A beautiful one, but those are a dime a dozen in my world. But a girl, nonetheless. She’s far younger than either Brady or me, and while she appears nervous, it does take balls to come up and knock on my door. Unfortunately for her, I don’t talk to snitches.

  “Mr. Rivers, I’m Margot Hallow from Dash Mod. I was given the code to the property by your manager.”

  I haven’t asked her her name, and the fact that she’s daring to address me while also seemingly scolding me for being so hostile … well, it’s maddening while amusing at the same time. Like I said, she’s got balls.

  “Get her off my land.” I toss the sentence at Brady and start to walk while he snorts at my back.

  “You invited her, you moron.” His lazy drawl is much thicker than mine, but he never had to warp his to make the millions I needed to pull for us.

  That stops me in my tracks. “Sidebar.”

  The demand has my best friend, my only friend in this world, leaving his post at the door and walking to me at the pace of a leisurely stroll. It makes me want to land a right hook to his jaw.

  I grab his elbow when he’s close enough, dragging him around the corner and into the kitchen, where I slam my palm violently down onto the black slate counter.

  “What the hell is this?” My finger stabs in the direction of where that reporter sullies my porch.

  “The article for Dash Mod, the one you’re doing because you promised Sophie Truin you’d raise money for Full Hands?” He looks me square in the face as if I might not be able to understand his words.

  Of course, I know what this is. When I met the model turned nonprofit mogul who’s married to the hottest pop star in Hollywood last year, I revealed that I had been an anonymous contributor to her charity since its inception. Full Hands is on a mission to aid underprivileged women suffering from postpartum depression, and I am all too familiar with its side effects and consequences.

  I failed to remember that I told her I’d do some full-page spread to bring awareness to the charity, along with what it means to my life. Which I guess, in turn, means the magazine wants to start from the beginning and dig into why postpartum depression is an important topic to me and how it has influenced my life.

  I know all this. But today, of all days? Brady failed to mention it to me, or maybe he forgot, too.

  “Tell her to leave. I’m not in the mood.” Outside, there is a faint echo of a boat engine down on the lake below the cliff edge of my property.

  “You’re doing this for Shi, remember? She insisted, as a condition of her thinking about staying local.”

  How the fuck could I forget my daughter? She’s the reason this little charity piece has been extended into a full narrative about my life, the first one I’ve ever agreed to give in my twenty-year career.

  Because when you can’t control your offspring, why not blackmail them with a million-dollar article?

  Shiloh is my reason for existence; she was conceived and born when I was just twenty years old, into a non-relationship with parents who were way more into their own interests than each other. For me, it was launching my singing career. For her mother, it was partying as much as possible. So much so that a child was the last priority on her list.

  But the moment I held that baby girl in my arms, I knew I’d do anything in this world to protect her. That I would sacrifice myself, bleed, and struggle just so she could have a better life than the horrific childhood I lived through.

  Then, all of a sudden, she turns eighteen and is ready to leave me for college. For nearly two decades, I filled her days with love and her life with nothing but happiness. I haven’t necessarily kept her away from the world; she’s always gone to a private academy in Austin, has a core group of friends, played sports, has gone anywhere in the world she asked me to, etc. But that doesn’t mean her life hasn’t been guarded. There are many things from my past and my celebrity status that could threaten her, all types of weird fucking people who would want to get to her.

  This morning, we got into the same blowout argument we’ve been having for months. She wants to move to New York for college, and I want her to stay local and live at home while attending classes. It was the same list of reasons, the same screaming match. But as her high school graduation looms closer and closer, this panic in my chest only seems to escalate. After we argued, I punched a hole in my bathroom wall, the helpless feeling I have translating into the physical violence I swore I left behind long ago.

  I’m ashamed I got to that point, horrified that I did it while my daughter was in the house, even if she has no idea I did.

  So, this reporter showing up here? Yeah, it does nothing but increase my rage.

  “You signed a contract, Dane.” Brady’s voice interrupts my thoughts. “There was a clause; if you don’t go through with it, they have the right to print that you would not submit to the agreed upon interview. And you’ll owe them a million bucks. A million bucks which will not go to help the women who benefit from Full Hands. Not to mention, Shi is going to be absolutely pissed, and do you really need to give her another reason to be mad at you right now?”

  Brady was so aggravatingly right with his smug grin that I wanted to pummel him into the stone floors of my house, but I refrained because every point he makes is genuine.

  “Also, and if you don’t mind me just putting a little personal opinion on this—”

  “I do,” I grumble.

  He bulldozes right over that like he usually does. “I think it’s time we end this silly little charade. The ‘I’m tough, I don’t do interviews, fuck off’ phase of your personality is so tired and boring.”

  It’s very possible I’m baring my teeth at this moment because Brady’s smile grows even wider. “Now, invite the pretty young journalist in and answer her questions.”

  Why does it send my spine bristling with something very akin to jealousy that my best friend just called the nuisance at my front door pretty? This day is seriously fucking with my head.

  I all but stomp back to the front door, listing off in my head all the reasons I shouldn’t kick her off my acreage.

  Margot Hallow is still standing there, one leg crossed over the other in that fucking librarian skirt. She’s small and thin, and while the skirt shows off the subtle curve of her legs, the baggy collared shirt she wears over it reveals nothing of the body underneath. Her face is the definition of symmetrical, maybe that’s why I think she’s beautiful. Isn’t that what they say? Symmetry is everything? High cheekbones, peachy, dewy skin, and a tidal wave of chocolate brown locks secured with a white leather headband. A headband, for Christ’s sake. She’s pretty in a girl-next-door kind of way, but I notice some other emotion clinging to her face. Underneath the surface, we all have demons. A lot of people just hide them better than I can.