BooksBarbecue
Back Someone Had to Do It
Chapters (39)
  1. Cover
  2. Praise
  3. Dedication
  4. About the Authors
  5. PROLOGUE
  6. 1
  7. 2
  8. 3
  9. 4
  10. 5
  11. 6
  12. 7
  13. 8
  14. 9
  15. 10
  16. 11
  17. 12
  18. 13
  19. 14
  20. 15
  21. 16
  22. 17
  23. 18
  24. 19
  25. 20
  26. 21
  27. 22
  28. 23
  29. 24
  30. 25
  31. 26
  32. 27
  33. 28
  34. 29
  35. 30
  36. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  37. THE STORY BEHIND SOMEONE HAD TO DO IT
  38. SOMEONE HAD TO DO IT: THE PLAYLIST
  39. DISCUSSION QUESTIONS

We haven’t said those words to each other yet. It’s sort of an unspoken thing. I know Nate cares about me just as much as I care about him. I trust him. He trusts me. And honestly, what we have feels like something more substantial than love. More important. More real.

And words are just words.

2

TAYLOR

I have no idea whose blood is staining my dress, or how long I’ve been curled up in this cold, empty tub. I instantly recognize the shoes, though—Saint Laurent Opyum sandals with the gold “YSL” heel.

I sit up and the fucking shooting pain in my head makes me check to see if I still have all my teeth. I do, and the relief is enough for me to muster up the courage to get myself to my feet. I’m terrified to see what I look like.

I slip climbing out and skin my knee. I don’t know why it’s so funny, but I can’t stop laughing until I straighten out and get a glimpse of myself in the mirror. It’s not as bad as I thought. The smudged eyeliner and faded lipstick look intentional, though I can see the clips holding up my extensions and there is a faint black line of mascara running down one side of my face.

The tiny toiletries neatly arranged on the vanity let me know I’m in a hotel room, but I can’t remember anything from last night. Bits and pieces come back to me in sections. Thunderous EDM. Fireball shots at the bar. Someone whispering in my ear. But they’re all too distorted to put together into anything solid.

I twist my hair into a knot and jump when my phone vibrates on the counter. I want to flush it down the toilet when I see my agent’s name because I can’t handle another lecture right now, but I tap to answer. I clear my throat so that it sounds like I’ve gotten at least six hours of sleep and have been meditating, but before I can say a word, she’s freaking out, demanding to know why I’ve been off the grid all day. I don’t answer and tell her that of course I didn’t forget the step-and-repeat I agreed to attend tonight. She reminds me that I’ve been the designer’s muse for the last three campaigns and have to show my face in forty minutes. Forty minutes.

Fuck.