Resurrection

by Karina Bliss

“I thought we could offer each other sympathy since we’re both going through the same thing.”

  Her laugh was hollow. “I seriously doubt that you’re being called a filthy whore.”

  “You said you weren’t following the coverage.”

  “I don’t have to, to know there’s a hate-fest of slut-shaming and double standards going on.” In some circles Travis was probably being celebrated as a sly dog. Remembering the tape, her skin crawled. Having watched it, she wondered how any man could want to have sex with a woman as wasted as she’d been. But she’d known what Travis was when she started dating him. Which didn’t mean she had to give him another minute of her life. “We have nothing to say to each other. Don’t ever call me ever again.”

  She cut the connection, and blocked his number. Her firewall might be holding but she was well aware that all hell was breaking loose.

  Dimity no longer scanned news and music outlets on her tablet over breakfast, instead using her cell with headphones. Only this morning, the staunchest woman in the world had hugged her goodbye as she was leaving the house.

  Seth had offered to vet Lily’s emails in case some of the crackpots found a way through. “Some of them will be my relatives,” she’d warned. He’d quickly understood she wasn’t joking.

  Even the supportive emails were hard to read. “I tell everyone who badmouths you that I’m still your friend.”

  The past few days, Seth had taken to making her hot tea with milk whenever he brewed one for himself. She’d developed a taste for it in England, but it was getting so she couldn’t stand the smell of the stuff because it meant the drummer had read something that made him feel sorry for her.

  Zander knew not to call, but Elizabeth had phoned twice this week from New Zealand ‘to chat.’ Jared’s wife Kayla was home with the kids after staying with their grandparents and had visited twice, begging Lily to “teach me child-whispering so I can rest my mommy-yelling voice,” then spent the visits mothering her. When the Spencer-Flemings phoned they were less British—talking too heartily and laughing too long at her silly jokes.

  Only Moss gave no indication that Lily’s worst fears were being realized in the bigger world. Only with Moss could she believe her life was salvageable. Thank God for this job.

  She returned to her table, relieved to see her laptop was still there, and resettled to work. Instead she found herself staring sightlessly at the screen, while she worked out who—of all the people she’d ever known—might watch it.

  It wasn’t the idea of snickering strangers who cut up her peace. It was the old lady at Lily’s hometown church who’d given a little girl money for the offering box so she wouldn’t feel bad that her family was likely the recipient of the contents. It was the brash local paper distributor who’d given her a paper route when she was twelve, even though her bike was a piece of rusty junk.

  It was the seventh-grade teacher who gave her the good citizen certificate, and the sweet blushing boy serving at the coffee shop close to her last apartment who always opened the door for her as she left. She cared about what the people who’d liked her thought.

  For a moment she fantasized about sending them a note asking them not to watch it, not to judge her by it, but she didn’t want to give anyone the obligation—or the power—to absolve her.

  That would be dangerous. She hadn’t done anything that needed absolving. Her shame arose from letting herself down, Irene Lily Hagen, baptized Stuart. That nice, hopeful girl deserved better.

  Gah! This was why she protected herself from the sex scandal. It was a quick spiral into despair and she didn’t need to be her own worst enemy, not when there were probably thousands queuing for the job.

  * * *

  Moss slipped into the nightclub through the service entrance, nodding to the cocktail waitress who’d left it open for him, and dropping a twenty into the tip jar as he passed the bar.

  His cell vibrated with an incoming call and he was surprised to see Jess Morrison’s name flash up. Four months earlier she’d shot him down when he’d suggested a catch-up. It was ego-deflating how many of his hookups were re-contacting him now the band’s profile was lifting. He hesitated, and let the call go to message, but Jess didn’t leave one.

  His jacket smelled of acrid smoke from the drum fire so he shrugged it off and rolled it into a ball, hoping to fool his sensitive-nosed driver. That woman was as sharp as a tack. But when he left via the front entrance and crossed the road to where the Honda was double-parked, engine idling, Lily was staring fixedly through the windshield. Following her line of sight, he could see nothing but overhead street lights standing vigil over a row of parked cars.

  She startled when he opened the passenger door and rubbed a sleeve roughly across her averted face.

  “What’s wrong?” Had some lowlife approached her, scared her?

  “Nothing, my face itched.” She rubbed it again, as though proving it, and started the car. “Did you have a good night?”

  “Don’t bullshit me, Stormy,” he said impatiently. “You were crying.”

  She turned on him. “Don’t you ever use that name again!” Her voice vibrated with fury. “Do you see a pneumatic airhead sitting next to you?”

  “Lily,” he persisted quietly. “What upset you?” And why the hell does that upset me so much? The detachment he employed with other people didn’t work with her.

  “Did you have a good night?” she repeated doggedly. Glancing into the side mirror, she released the brake.

  “You’re deflecting like I do,” he guessed. “I never realized how fucking annoying it is.”

  The corner of her mouth lifted reluctantly.

  Good. “My night,” he fastened his seatbelt, “was the usual mix of cool people and shitheads.”

  “That was my night as well,” she admitted, following signs to the freeway.

  He waited patiently.

  “Travis phoned…looking for sympathy I think.”

  For a few seconds Moss didn’t trust himself to speak. He would give away his prized Gibson guitar for five minutes with Travis Calvert in one of the alleys he’d frequented tonight. With some of the people he’d met there. His breakfast conversation with Lily last week had shown Travis in a whole new light. Not simply an entitled dickhead who badmouthed rock newcomers, but a lowlife who’d exploited Lily’s heartbreak.

  She might think of dating Travis as a misguided attempt to hurt Zander the way he’d hurt her, but Travis’s motives were far more sinister. He’d exploited her vulnerability, got her high on alcohol and party pills, and filmed himself fucking a fantasy. Uncaring of the real woman.

  He kept his tone mild. “You haven’t blocked his number?”

  Her fingers tightened on the steering wheel. “I have now.”

  “Good.”

  They drove in silence for ten minutes, Moss indulging himself in revenge fantasies he couldn’t execute because they’d only give the scandal new life. And Lily would be pissed. Her explosive reaction when her friends had tried to subsidize this car had made one thing very clear. She would fight her battles, her way.

  “Do you know,” she commented thoughtfully, “that the only ones who treat me the same since the scandal broke are you, and Jared and Kayla’s kids?”

  “And they say, ‘don’t work with children and animals.’”

  Shaking her head at him, she smiled.

  He was starting to get invested in making her smile.

  “What’s your spirit animal?” There was a teasing glint in her sideways glance. She knew damn well he hated that woo-woo crap.

  “An alley cat of course, sleeping all day, prowling at night.” He added innocently, “Looking for pu—”

  “Don’t even,” she warned.

  “And your spirit animal is some kind of hibernating…?” Seriously, who chose to go to bed at nine p.m.?

  “Can’t I just be a regular human being?”

  “You wish.”

  “I do,” she said seriously. “I aspire to a bo
ring life. No dramas, no melodramas.”

  Average wasn’t in this woman’s ballpark. However much she wanted it to be. “Can I ask why the fuck you ever thought you’d get that with Zander?”

  “You know how charismatic he is.”

  “Yeah.” He kept his tone light. “He can make you believe anything. Follow him anywhere.” Hell, he thought he’d made his peace with Zander raising him up and then walking away. The guy was still the band’s adviser, their friend, the mentor opening doors for them when he could.

  She took the freeway exit. “It’s not his fault that his voice failed and Rage had to disband.”

  He glanced at her. “No.” Her ability to read him was disturbing. She didn’t know Zander had chosen not to come back and that secret wasn’t Moss’s to share.

  “Things are going well for the new band, though,” she added. He’d noticed before that she instinctively offered reassurance when she sensed someone was in distress. “Dimity mentioned the guerrilla gigs and single releases have created huge buzz for the album’s release.”

  He resisted the urge to jump out of the moving car to touch the wooden fence on their left. “An album’s more than three songs. Let’s not jinx it.”

  “You’re waiting for the ax to fall,” she guessed. “For life to take it all away again.” Her eyes speared his with painful understanding before she returned her gaze to the road. “I get that.”

  And it stopped being about him. Tentatively he squeezed her shoulder. “That’s not going to happen to you.”

  Her shoulder lifted under his hand, as she braced herself. “Tell me the truth, am I kidding myself? Thinking this will blow over in a couple months and I’ll be able to go back to my new life?”

  He tightened his grip on her shoulder before releasing it. “It will blow over. But there will always be assholes who’ll give you a hard time.”

  He felt suddenly fiercely protective of that spark of optimism and hope that had always characterized her—the one, when she was dating Zander, he used to dismiss as hopelessly naive. However cynical Moss was for himself, he couldn’t let this scandal extinguish that spark in Lily. “I can tell you how to deal with them.”

  She braked for a red stoplight and turned her head. “How?”

  “If you’re confronted, be incredulous, pissed off, contemptuous. If they try and engage, say nothing. Let the silence get uncomfortable. Show no weakness and assholes will think twice about crossing your boundaries.”

  Her eyes searched his face. “Is that what you did?”

  “Yeah. On the streets you have to, if you don’t want to be victimized.” He shut out memories that were too painful. Of others like him, who hadn’t learned as fast. “Now repeat after me. ‘I am Lily fucking Stuart. And nobody messes with me ever.’”

  She burst out laughing and he stared her down until she sobered.

  “Oww. Death stare really works.”

  “Let’s see yours.”

  Her gaze met his, self-consciously, then she steadied. For ten seconds, maybe more, she stared him down.

  “Say it,” he invited.

  “I’m Lily fucking Stuart and I’m not letting this break me.”

  “Good.” He smiled.

  Her eyes widened slightly, then she took a deep breath. “You should smile more often.”

  She liked his smile? He fought to stop it becoming a stupid grin. “I don’t want anyone thinking I’m friendly.”

  “No, you don’t want that,” she said softly, and the warmth in her tone brushed his soul like intimacy.

  A car tooted behind them—the lights had changed. Lily hurried to put the car in gear, Moss waved an apology. Shaken, he jammed in his earphones and listened to hard rock for the remainder of the drive.

  Chapter Eleven

  Lily was engrossed in a novel on her Kindle when there was a rap on the Honda’s hood. Glancing up, she saw Moss moving toward the passenger door, and hit the unlock button. It was late afternoon three days later, and she was parked in a residential cul-de-sac in Venice while he visited his favorite music store to check out a rare guitar the owner had contacted him about.

  He’d invited her along, but she’d said, “You geek with guitars, I’ll nerd with a good book.”

  To her surprise he climbed into the back seat. “There’s a photographer tailing me, let’s get out of here.”

  Adrenaline flooded her bloodstream. Tossing aside her Kindle, she fumbled for the key. The engine roared into life. Wrenching the steering wheel left to clear the Volkswagen parked in front, she shoved her foot hard on the accelerator. The Honda inched forward.

  “Handbrake,” Moss commented from the back seat. “And take a deep breath before you kill us.”

  Easy for him to say. He wasn’t about to get busted. But she forced herself to check her side mirror—all clear—before pulling out into the road. When she looked forward, a stocky guy wearing a baseball cap and bomber jacket was walking down the middle of the cul-de-sac. He had a camera slung around his neck. She said, very seriously, “I could keep going.”

  “I’d say yes, but the son of a bitch has boxed us in.”

  Tearing her gaze away from impending doom, she saw a Land Rover blocking the end of the street. The photographer drew closer and her blood ran cold as she recognized him. “Oh my God, it’s Toby James.” He’d made her life a misery after her breakup with Zander, cataloging her devastation like a forensic photographer at a crime scene. As she ducked, Moss grabbed the hood on her sleeveless silk hoodie.

  “You’re hiding in plain sight, remember? Stop panicking, he wants shots of me, not my driver. Now go tell that douche to move his fucking car.”

  She tried to wriggle free of his grip. “I can’t, he’ll recognize me.”

  “He won’t.” Moss released her top, but only to grab her shoulders and hold her still. “But if you keep trying to dive under the front seat he’ll think we’re hooking up and then you will be of interest. Pull it together and take him on. Go!”

  There wasn’t time to argue. Fumbling for her sunglasses, Lily climbed out of the car on shaky legs. It took everything she had to walk toward the guy who’d once captioned a photo of her ‘A storm in two D cups.’

  He snapped off a couple of shots as she approached and her terror escalated, until she realized he was trying to get an angle on Moss. “You’re blocking access illegally,” she croaked. “Move your vehicle.”

  His eyes ran over her body like a spider’s. “You dating McFadden?”

  “Do I look his type?” she blustered, folding her arms because it stopped her wringing her hands. “I’m his driver.” She’d power walked with Dimity an hour ago and was still wearing exercise clothes—yoga pants and a designer summer hoodie her friend had pressed on her. Her dark hair was in a ponytail and she wore a cap. Hopefully, it looked official.

  He’d already lost interest, busy peeling off another couple of shots of the Honda. “That’s right, he lost his license. The mom and pop car is good camouflage. Not good enough, though.” Shouldering past her, he kept walking.

  In one blink, Lily’s trembling became rage. You two-bit, bottom-feeding, son of a bitch, you don’t get to treat me like dirt anymore.

  Pulling out her cell, she overtook him and turned to jog backward, activating the camera function. “Say cheese.” She started taking her own pictures.

  Toby stopped. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Gathering evidence that you and your vehicle are obstructing traffic. Move left a little, hot stuff”—she used the grating endearment he’d called Stormy—“so I can get a decent view of your license plate.”

  “Yeah,” he sneered. “I’m real scared.”

  “You will be when Moss’s lawyer gets involved,” she bluffed.

  As he hesitated, a horn blasted behind his 4WD—someone else annoyed by his antics.

  “Oh, goody,” Lily charged in their direction. “Another witness.”

  She heard Toby curse behind her, then he was jogging past. Re
aching his Land Rover, he gave a conciliatory wave to whoever was parked behind it, before climbing in.

  Only when his vehicle’s taillights disappeared from sight did she return to the Honda. Her legs were still trembling but she had a swagger in her step and a grin splitting her face. I am Lily fucking Stuart and nobody messes with me.

  Moss whistled appreciation as she opened the driver’s door. “You are a total badass.”

  “I know.” Starting the engine, she flipped up her hoodie, opened her window, and leaned one elbow out. “It’s all the ’tude, bro.”

  He burst out laughing, a sound so remarkable that she twisted to stare at him. Head thrown back, white teeth bared, and his jungle-green eyes alight with laughter, he was extraordinary, and any encouragement yet watching him made her chest ache. This was the man he would have grown into with a different childhood, a father who’d looked out for him, someone to love him. No. Oh no no no. Not going there.

  “What?” His laughter subsided. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

  A ghost of my former self. It was tough having rogues and womanizers written into your DNA. “Nothing. Thinking of Toby.”

  “Don’t give him that power. You’re in control now.”

  A timely reminder. “Yes, I am.” Facing forward, she concentrated on getting the hell out of there. “There’s only one problem,” she commented ten minutes later, when they were safely on the highway and confident they weren’t being followed. “Toby took photos of this car.” She threw Moss a worried look in the rearview mirror. “They’ll probably show up somewhere with a reference to you losing your license and ‘how the mighty have fallen’ or something. It’s how he likes to spin things.”

  Moss started laughing again. “Lily, if he can sell pictures of this shitheap, then all credit to him.”

  * * *

  Moss jammed the pillow over his head, trying to ignore the shouting and splashing from the pool. He’d slept with the window open to catch the breeze, but late morning the only thing it carried was heat.

  The dog started barking right outside his window. “Damn it!” Crawling out of bed, he grabbed the first thing to hand—last night’s jeans—and pulled them on. Tonight was the final guerrilla gig before the album’s launch and he needed to stay unconscious as long as possible to delay stressing about it.