I Can Love You Read online

  I CAN LOVE YOU

  MACKENZIE JOY

  Contents

  Title Page

  I Can Love You

  Prologue

  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

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  I Can Love You

  Author’s Note:

  A very long time ago, I wrote a story featuring the characters in this novel under another pseudonym. I Can Love You is a (heavily) revised version, and if you happened to be one of the few who read the original, I thank you for giving love a second chance.

  * * *

  Cover Design: Honey Magnolia PR

  Copyright © 2019 by Mackenzie Joy

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

  Prologue

  Fans from tonight’s show crammed into the dark club for the after-party, and the pulsating bass was booming. A remix of Usher’s latest single blared throughout the building, and the crowd left little room to dance on the packed floor, but that did not stop Tara’s sister Mia from dancing along from where they all stood.

  All three were still wearing the clothes they performed in earlier – matching sequined tank dresses and denim jackets with thigh-high boots that were too hot for the club, but the girls had to remain recognizable. The only difference between them was Tara wore her dark hair natural with sandy-brown highlights defining many of the coils, Mia had a top knot atop her head, and Jordan rocked a wispy, razor bob cut.

  The club manager met Timothy Russell outside the tour bus to escort Tara and her older sisters Jordan and Mia to a reserved table in the VIP area. A perk of being a part of the girl group Pure, music’s newest singing sensation. In the center of the table sat a bottle of chilled champagne. One glance from Timothy reminded the manager that the girls’ area needed to be alcohol-free.

  “And get that shit out of here, too.” Timothy pointed to a small collection of clear and dark bottles on a side table. As Pure’s manager, Timothy took his job seriously, but as their father, Tara believed without a doubt, the man would make good on threats to harm anyone coming between his girls and their success.

  “Image is everything. God forbid someone snaps a picture of his baby girl acting like an adult,” Jordan muttered beside her.

  Tara turned to her sisters, causing Mia to mock the disbelieving look on Tara’s face. “Why do you make everything Daddy says and does about me?”

  “Because it always is.” Mia rolled her eyes and moved around the girls to take a seat.

  Closing her eyes and hanging her head, Tara busied herself by focusing on her mission. The environment agitated her, unsettling her stomach, and she rushed to the rear of the club toward the ladies’ room.

  On her way, Tara bumped into a young man wearing a black baseball cap cocked at a slight angle and a red throwback Bulls jersey who stood blocking the hallway. Instead of stepping aside, he remained in front of her. Tall with purpose blazed eyes as if he too came to the club on a mission of his own.

  “Excuse me, Air Jordan, but I need to get through,” Tara said to the stranger in her way. Not sure how much longer she had before nausea took full control of her, Tara looked at him, pleading for him to move out the way.

  The two of them felt the slosh of a drink before a woman bumped into Tara and the young man reached out, preventing Tara’s near tumble. “Hey, beautiful, slow your roll. Oh, shit! You’re in that group, Pure.”

  Tara rolled her eyes. Suddenly reaching for her stomach, she covered her mouth with her other hand.

  “You okay?”

  “Excuse me,” she said, mumbling and bolting past him, knocking his tall, lean frame against the wall. “I gotta . . .”

  The hall was long with few people standing inside its lit path, a corridor that appeared to lead nowhere. A small group of men stopped talking amongst themselves and turned their attention toward her. One of them ran his tongue along his lip and rubbed a hand against his crotch. She avoided them, walking against the opposite wall, making no further eye contact, tuning out their lewd comments.

  Of the four doors lining it, she needed the last one and was grateful no line existed until she took the remaining steps to reach it, discovering why.

  Realizing the ladies’ room was out of service with a note to use the one on the lower level, Tara had to find another place to get herself together and to fight the sick feeling brewing inside.

  Searching the area around her for the next best option, Tara turned the corner and spotted what she was seeking just twenty feet away. A heavy metal door that was ajar thanks to a wooden two by four propped against it. She wiped her reddened eyes. Fortunately, a small breeze from outside was just enough to coax away her anxiousness and nausea.

  She pressed her back against a wall covered in old, ripped tour posters and marker-inspired messaging for support and reached into her bag for her phone to call the one person she hoped could soothe her nerves.

  After two rings, he answered. Finally. “Hey, Marc, what happened?” Tara asked. “I thought you were coming up.”

  “I had to work late.”

  Tara held onto the phone, blocking the club sound out of her open ear. “Marc, I have to talk to you.”

  “I know. But I’m running to the library to pull an all-nighter. Steve is meeting me there to help me study.” She started to protest, and he cut her off, further explaining his position. “I can’t blow my GPA to hang out in a club. I promise this weekend when I see you; we’ll talk. I have to go.”

  Before Tara could mumble goodbye, the line died.

  She tucked her phone away, swiped at her eyes, and continued walking toward the door for more air.

  “Hey, Blue,” a voice called out to her. Looking up, Tara saw the young man she encountered earlier approaching her.

  Tara stood with her hand on her hip. Once he was close enough to hear her, Tara corrected him. “Did I ever introduce myself to you using that name?”

  “Not personally, but your eyes said it all.”

  Tara rolled her blue eyes. Sometimes she felt cursed by her oddly colored eyes with this turning into one of those occasions. Half pleading, half warning, Tara said, “I need some air.”

  Reaching out, the young man halted her from moving forward. “Is something wrong? Baby, you are too gorgeous to cry.”

  Tara blew out slowly, tired of his flirting, and made a poor attempt at steeling her voice. “Do you mind moving?”

  “Who upset you? Where is he?” he asked with a slow grin. A pair of dimples emerged on his eager face, one deeper and longer than the other. The stranger puffed out his chest and deepened his voice for her. “Want me to go jack him up for you?”

  Tara looked away briefly only to return her attention with a smile. She gave him a small chuckle, momentarily forgetting her troubles. “You’re cute, but I’m not into pretty boys. Sorry.”

  Or younger ones. Tara didn’t want t
o be the one to point out that beneath the cloak of maturity he tried to project and the hint of facial hair above his lips, the guy wasn’t even old enough to vote.

  This time he laughed. Quickly licking his lips and debating the next move, he took the time to introduce himself to the petite beauty before him. “I wasn’t trying to hit on you, shorty. I want you to check out my stuff. My name is Q-Tone.”

  “Hello, umm, Q-Tone. It’s nice to meet you, but I need to get some air.” Tara moved closer to the door as he walked alongside her. She looked up at this cute young man who stood nearly a foot taller than her and realized that she would have to call Corey over to save her from the overeager fan.

  “Blue, I’m a producer,” he said, reading her mind and trying to hand her a CD. “I’d love to work with you guys.”

  “My name is Tara. You should give that to Corey, our road manager,” Tara replied, pointing back toward the club. “The man likely hanging around the bar wearing a black Pure tour jacket.”

  “But I want you to listen to it. I know the drill with road managers. Nine times outta ten, it’ll get tossed aside with everyone else’s stuff or forgotten and left behind at the club, or, worse, thrown in the trash. Besides, it’s you I want to hear sing on my song, not your road manager.”

  “Listen, what’s your name again?”

  “Quinton, but call me Q-Tone.”

  Hearing the nickname, she bit back laughter, not wanting to offend him. “Quinton, I don’t even sing lead. If you want to harass someone into singing your song, I can introduce you to my sister, Jordan.” She imagined Jordan’s reaction to the persistent young man if he dared to approach her like he did Tara and smirked. “I’m just in the group singing backup.”

  Quinton shook his head disapprovingly, extending the case out to her. “No, you aren’t just a background singer; you are very talented. I’ve heard the buzz about you, Tara, and I even witnessed it when I peeped one of Pure’s recording sessions. You have a voice, and it will take you far.”

  Realizing she was hard on him, although he approached her at an awkward time, Tara admitted to herself that the young man was charming. He also distracted her long enough to help her queasiness to subside. “Thank you. Quinton, if I take your CD and listen to it, will you promise to leave me alone?”

  “But I want to hear what you think of it.”

  “If we like it, someone will get in touch with you. I promise.”

  “Promise?”

  “Yes, Quinton, I promise!”

  “Cool,” he replied, giving her the disc. “I’m about to set up shop down in Atlanta, but I also included my numbers here in New York. There’s my home, studio, both cell numbers . . . and my manager’s office, home, and cell number right on the back.” Quinton pointed to the information listed under his neat signature, which was just above his pseudonym.

  “No wonder there is a threat for new area codes. You used up all the existing numbers,” she teased. Staring at his name, she replied, “Well, Quinton Ellis, I’ll get back to you.”

  “You promise?”

  “Yes!” She saw him wink at her before he walked away with renewed swagger in his step. Tara shook her head and grinned as she watched him enthusiastically make his rounds through the VIP area, remembering not that long ago when she too was hustling with her family to get the deal that would change their world. Then Tara noticed a large, husky man at the bar catch Quinton’s attention, and the young producer’s shoulders dropped. Catching herself staring, she stopped and walked away, retracing her steps toward the door that was ajar, finally making it outside and inhaled the now stagnant summer air. It was the Fourth of July weekend, and she heard premature fireworks going off in the distance. Then Tara remembered her own brewing explosion.

  Jordan tapped her on the shoulder, startling Tara. Offering a small smile, Jordan said, “Come on, kiddo. We’re breaking out now. Daddy said the sound system isn’t worth our time. Besides, I can tell you aren’t up to being here.”

  Tara looked at Jordan, wondering what her sister meant by the comment. But it was true, so she didn’t question her and followed her back to the bus.

  Chapter 1

  Ten years later . . .

  Outwardly, Tara Russell was the picture of calm, her naturally radiant face showing no hint of stress. But inwardly, rising anxiety reminded her that interviews were her least favorite thing to do. Seeking to quiet her unease and stay focused, she took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Her father always told her to be on point, and so she was.

  “Welcome back to the show. For those of you who have just tuned in or just landed on this planet, we are sitting here with singing megastar . . . Tara!” Claudia Shane gushed. It was during November sweeps, and this rare interview with the publicity-shy superstar guaranteed to garner high ratings. Turning to Tara, Claudia said, “I have so many questions, but where to begin? We only have an hour! You have been one busy beaver. Do you ever sleep?”

  It was a softball question coming from the eager talk show darling, and Tara responded in kind. “My father always said I can rest when I’m dead,” she said, laughing lightly but feeling a twinge of sadness. “It’s been hectic, and that is why I am taking the next few months off. I’ve been working in the studio or touring nonstop for the past ten years, and I think I owe myself a little vacation. I hope they save me a spot in line until I come back.”

  “Speaking of your father, many viewed him as something of a taskmaster. Almost too controlling of your life and career. Was this the case . . . or overblown speculation?”

  “My father only wanted the best for his daughters. We had big dreams, and he did everything possible to make those dreams come true. I think he did what any father would have done. Everything was out of love.”

  Claudia handed her a tissue. She changed the subject, aware she had come close to violating the agreement that had secured Tara’s appearance, which specified that the host should avoid topics that might upset the guest. Losing her father being one of them. Tara didn’t want her last major public appearance before taking a hiatus to leave an image of sadness.

  “So, tell me about this new look. I love the hair,” Claudia said, deftly maneuvering the conversation into safer, happier territory. “I wonder if your stylist Justin can hook me up with a ‘do like yours. You keep surprising us with your ever-changing appearance.”

  Blushing, Tara tucked a few stray ringlets behind her right ear, a nervous habit she couldn’t shake. The unique lighting in the Manhattan studio set off her long voluminous chestnut hair, which fell loosely down her back. Her honey-colored cropped top and matching butter-soft leather pants complemented the highlights in her hair, and her striking blue eyes were in sharp contrast to her warm glowing skin tone. However, beneath the ‘look’ and her star status, she was hurting inside. She didn’t know how much longer she could maintain the all-is-well façade.

  The interview moved faster once it progressed to rumors surrounding her contract renegotiations and a controversial video she had made with an industry peer known as “Q.” Claudia tried to get more details about the singer’s rumored involvement with the music producer, but Tara insisted they were just friends. Who would have thought the persistent young producer she met at an after-party would become a music sensation in his own right, but most importantly to Tara, become her best friend.

  Although Q’s latest release, a compilation project with various hip-hop and R&B artists, was dedicated to her and led others to believe there was much more between them. She remembered the dedication set apart from notes of appreciation to friends, family, and associates.

  For Blue. You are the song my heart beats to. Don’t let the music end.

  Tara eventually relaxed, at times, even laughing when Claudia tried to coax details out of her about the man whose image on a screen behind her had audience members swooning. Tara turned to look back at the blown-up picture that appeared in the recent People’s sexiest issue showing off a man Tara never imagined the then slender cutie
at the club growing into. Broad chest, smoldering dark eyes, and a sexy, confident smile would have made him a fan favorite even if he didn’t have an ounce of his musical genius inside him. Tara smiled and indulged just enough, telling no lies when describing Q as the best friend anyone could ever have.

  She had come close to trusting Claudia. America trusted her. Why shouldn’t she? The interview wasn’t as bad as she had feared, and all traces of earlier anxiety had melted away.

  With legs crossed and a sparkling high-heeled slide sandal dangling in the air, Tara was chatting and laughing with Claudia as though the two were sorority sisters getting reacquainted. Then the shoe dropped. Literally.

  “Unbelievable! Simply incredible! I’m so impressed with your keen business sense. You are a role model for other women. You run a tight business empire, and you are clearly on top of your day-to-day. But how can a woman with so much power, money, fame, and respect not have happiness?” Claudia asked innocently, beaming with self-congratulation for having snuck the unexpected question into the interview.

  “Happiness? What do you mean? I-I, I am happy,” Tara said, stumbling over her words. She was livid and finding it hard to breathe, much less express a coherent thought. She was sure hives were breaking out under her fashionable leather outfit.

  “Are you really, Tara? Isn’t there one thing you wish you to have or change in your life? Your strained relationship with your sisters is public knowledge. You’ll be thirty in less than two years. Aren’t you thinking about marriage and children yet? You must have a special love for children, as shown by your work with the foundation you established,” the host continued.

  The muscles in her shoulders tightened. I am already thirty, you miserable sneak. And who says a woman has to be married with children when she hits the big three-o?