“I don’t feel obligated.”
“So, you do want to go?”
Now would be the moment to take the out and head back to Nashville. Try to make some sense of what I’d left behind, but that’s not what I find myself saying. “I. . .yeah, I could use some downtime.”
“Really? Okay. Well. That sounds great. I’ve been working on getting a rental car. The service actually said they can deliver it to the hotel. I thought maybe we could head out in an hour or so. Would that work?”
“Yeah,” I say, “that’s good with me.”
~
AND IT ALL sounded great, except it doesn’t really go like that. About fifteen minutes after I’ve finished my second cup of coffee, the pounding in my head has reached a level I can barely tolerate. And I’m seeing little pinpoints of light. Every time I close my eyes, I can see them against the back of my lids.
The pain is now a full-blown ten or better. And all of a sudden, I realize I’m going to be sick. I barely make it to the bathroom before losing the coffee I just drank. My head is pounding so hard that I sink down against the bathroom wall, closing my eyes, and wondering how I’m going to get back to the bed.
I don’t know how long I sit there, but it’s a long time because any attempt I make to move brings on a fresh wave of nausea.
A knock sounds at the door, but I can’t manage to find my voice to call out, and there’s no way I can get up to answer it. I continue sitting, waiting for enough relief from the pain to be able to get up.
The phone in the bedroom rings once, twice, three times. Again, I have no idea how much time has passed, but I eventually hear a key turn in the door, and then Dillon’s voice calling out, “Klein, are you in here?”
“Yeah,” I call out in a weak voice. “I’m in the bathroom. I might have a migraine.”
I hear a French-accented voice saying, “Please let me know if there’s anything else you need, madame.”
“Thank you so much,” Dillon says. And then she’s standing in the bathroom doorway, dropping down beside me. “Klein. What happened?”
“I’m not sure. I woke up feeling sick with a killer headache, and then it just kind of exploded. I’ve never really had anything like this before.”
“Let me call the front desk and see about getting a doctor to come here to see you.”
“I’m not sure I need one.”
“Yes, you do. You’re white as that towel.”
“Thanks, Dillon,” I say. And then another wave of nausea hits me. I lean back and close my eyes, praying I don’t throw up again.
Dillon
“The best revenge is to be unlike him who performed the injury.”
―Marcus Aurelius
I CALL THE front desk and ask if there is a concierge doctor available at the hotel.
“Oui, yes, madame. Bien sûr. You have an emergency?”
“I don’t think so, but if the doctor could come as soon as possible, that would be best.”
“Of course, madame. I shall ring him right away. He will arrive at the room within fifteen minutes. Is this the room you wish him to come to?”
“Yes. Yes, please. Thank you so much.”
I find a glass on the desk by the window and pour from a bottle of water nearby. I take it into the bathroom, sit and squat beside Klein, holding up the glass. “Here. You should drink something. Do you think you could be dehydrated?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never really had anything like this before.”
“Have you taken anything?”
“Just the supplements I take when I get up.”
“And you’ve taken them all before?”
“Yes,” he says. He presses a finger to each of his temples, grimacing.
“Can I help you get back to the bed?”
“I’m not sure I’ll make it without throwing up, and I certainly wouldn’t want to subject you to that,” he says.
“Please. Don’t think about me. This is about you and getting you feeling better.”
“Can we just sit here for a few more minutes?”
“Of course,” I say. I’m silent now because I feel like forcing Klein to talk is not the kind thing to do. Within a few minutes, a knock sounds at the door. I get up and open it and find a pleasant-faced, older Frenchman holding a doctor’s bag standing on the other side.
“Bonjour, madame. You have called for a doctor?”
“Yes. Thank you. Thank you so much. Please come in.” He follows me inside, and I lead the way to the bathroom where Klein is still sitting with his back against the wall.
“Bonjour, monsieur. How may I help you?”
“I have an excruciating headache,” Klein says in a weak voice. “And nausea.”
“Perhaps we can help you to the bed?”
The doctor and I both help Klein up and guide him back to the bedroom. I stand a few feet away while the doctor checks his vitals. He pulls a digital thermometer from his bag, inserts it into a plastic sanitary sleeve, and sticks it under Klein’s tongue.
He then does a series of visual tests asking Klein to identify how many fingers he’s holding up. “It is possible that your headache is a migraine as you suspect. But have you ever had this headache before?”
“No. Nothing like this one.”
“I have a very strong medication to give you for help with the pain. This should last several hours, but you will need to remain in bed. No driving. It is quite sedating.”
Klein nods in agreement. And I can imagine that he is relieved to be given a few hours escape from the pain.
“I will write the prescription. There is a pharmacy not far from the hotel. I will communicate with the concierge, and someone will bring the medicine to your room shortly if that is okay?”
“Yes, thank you so much,” Klein says.
The doctor gives us each a polite smile and leaves the room.
I sit down on the side of the bed. “Would you like me to see if I can add another day to our stay? You’re not going to feel like going anywhere today.”
“Yes. Please.”
“Let me just call the front desk and see what I can do.”
I decide to use the phone by the door so that Klein can close his eyes and maybe sleep a little. I call the front desk and explain the situation, waiting on hold for a couple of minutes while the very nice woman assisting me checks to see if it will be possible for us to add another day to our stay. When she comes back, her tone is immediately apologetic, “I am very sorry, madame, but it will be possible only to continue another night for one of the two rooms. We are fully booked.”
“Oh, okay,” I say. “Does it matter which room?”
“Either one, but only the one.”
“Then I will go ahead and check out of my room. If you could leave Mr. Matthews’s room as it is for another day, that would be great.”
“Yes, madame. I am sorry we are not able to further accommodate you.”
“Thank you,” I say, and hang up. When I walk back into the room, Klein is not asleep. His eyes are open, and I can see that he is still in a great deal of pain.
“I heard the conversation,” he says. “There’s really no reason for you to find somewhere else to stay. There’s plenty of room in here if you don’t mind hanging with a guy out for the count for a while.”
“Oh, I’m sure you would rather be alone.”
“Dillon, I don’t think I’m going to know whether you’re here much of the time or not, especially once I get my drugs.”
I smile a little at this. And he tries to smile back, but the effort turns into a grimace.
“Are you sure?” I ask.
“Positive,” he says. “And if you’re not keen on sharing the bed, that sofa is a pullout.”
“That will be more than sufficient for me, and anyway, I’ll be happy to hang around and be your nurse.”
He laughs a little at this, but then says, “Oh, dang, that hurt.”
“Here, no more laughing, you need to rest. And as soon as so
meone comes with your medicine, I’m going to leave you alone for a bit.”
The knock at the door surprises me. I can’t imagine they’ve gotten here that quickly with the medication. But when I open the door, a young man in a dark suit says, “Your order from the pharmacy, madame.”
“Yes, thank you so much.”
He nods his head and turns for the elevator. I close the door, take the bottle of pills out of the bag, and go into the bathroom to get a glass of water. I remove the top, read the directions, and see that he is to take one tablet.
I hand it to him along with a glass of water, and he takes it gratefully.
“Thank you,” he says, lying back on the pillow and closing his eyes. “I appreciate your help more than I can say.”
“I’m going to let you get some sleep, and I’ll go finish checking out of my room.”
“There’s a key to this room on the desk there. Take that with you.”
“Thank you. Would you like me to close this curtain and make it darker?”
“That would be great,” he says. I pull all of the curtains a little tighter, blocking out as much light as possible, and then head for the door.
“I’ll be back to check on you in a bit.”
“Thank you, Dillon.” And I can already hear the medication taking its effect in his voice.
~
I GO BACK to my room. I have to be checked out within an hour. I take my suitcase downstairs and ask the concierge if I might store it for a bit. Once I’ve settled up at the front desk with my bill, I decide to take my laptop and get a cup of coffee in the bar. I ask for a table, a booth in the corner. A smiling, pretty young waitress brings the coffee to me a few minutes later in a silver pot with a white porcelain cup.
“Thank you so much,” I say.
“Please do enjoy,” she says and then leaves me to it.
I open my laptop, type in the password, and pour myself a cup of the steaming brew, taking a sip. It is delicious. I take another sip and then open my email account. I’m expecting a blast from Josh, but surprisingly, I don’t see anything from him. My gaze snags on an address I don’t recognize. I consider ignoring it as I do most junk mail, but something about the name has me tapping and opening it.
At the top of the email is a photo of me ducking into the rehearsal hall yesterday afternoon with Klein. I’m surprised by the picture since I hadn’t noticed anyone around. There might’ve been a photographer or even a regular person snapping a photo of Klein. And then I wonder who sent this. I glance back at the email address. Riley.countrymusicforever. And then I realize it’s Klein’s ex.
I wonder what her motive could possibly be for sending me this. I can’t imagine that it’s just a nice gesture. But would she be jealous? And why would she send it without saying anything? I scroll back up, look at the photo of Klein and me. Whoever had taken it had captured us in a moment of laughter, my head thrown back a little, a smile on my face. Klein is looking down at me with a half-grin on that incredibly good-looking face of his.
Something about this definitely isn’t right. I consider replying with a question mark but decide against it. Whatever issues Riley has with Klein, she’ll have to take up with him. I close out the email. But curiosity prevails, and without letting myself change my mind, I type her name into the Google search bar. The first thing that pops up is an article about Riley and Klein, dated almost a year ago. There’s a photo of the two of them dancing at a club in Nashville.
He’s holding her tight against him, and she’s looking up into his face with utter adoration. I click on a link that takes me to the original article. I read the gossip magazine’s interpretation of the then hot new relationship between Riley and Klein. I glance back at the photo, see that he looks more than a little intoxicated.
Pre-rehab, I assume.
I look closer at Riley’s face and see that she had also been extremely inebriated. I wonder who influenced whom. I go back to my original search and click on her Instagram account. It’s not private, so I scroll through an abundance of photos. Mostly shots of Riley in different locations, different outfits. A dozen or so are photos of her with Klein, of Klein alone. The last one she had posted of him was almost three months ago. Is that when they had broken up?
I wonder who broke it off, Klein or Riley. Given the photo I just received, my guess would be Klein. I look back at the top two pictures on the Instagram page. She’s certainly beautiful. And they’re quite a match.
I click out of Instagram, go back to the search page again, and scroll through the first listing. I then click over to the second page for older references to Riley. There’s a Tumblr account created four years ago. Curious, I tap and find a stream of beautiful photographs, all apparently taken by Riley.
Among the photos are a few of her with Aaron Rutgers. He’d been a promising young guitar player whom I’d met on a couple of occasions with Josh. I hadn’t known he and Riley were ever a thing. The date on the entries indicates they’d been posted a year or so before his death.
I glance closer at one of the photos, and then it hits me that Aaron had looked remarkably like Klein. In fact, the two could have been brothers.
I sit back and consider this, something about it sending off a ping inside me. Maybe Riley was just extremely consistent with her taste in men. But somehow, I have a feeling there is more to Riley than is immediately apparent.
Riley
“A weed is but an unloved flower.”
―Ella Wheeler Wilcox
I’M PRETTY SURE I was a success at the party.
I woke up early this morning thinking of how amazing it had been, how brilliant I had been in my well-planned efforts to make anyone I encountered last night like me and want to know me better. I admit it isn’t something that comes naturally to me. I prefer to talk about myself. I find myself more interesting, and I’m not sure why there’s anything really wrong with that, but apparently, that is not the thing that makes people want to be around you.
It was actually a bandmate of Klein’s who found the nerve to share this point of view with me. One late night on the tour bus when Klein had already gone to sleep.
It was Pete Collins, one of the guitar players who had his eye on me whenever he thought Klein wasn’t looking. I don’t know whether Klein had noticed or not, but I certainly had. Not that it bothered me. I found such information useful and would have used it against him, had I ever felt the need to do so. That night he had poured himself several shots of liquid courage before joining me on the sofa at the front of the bus. I’d been sitting on one end, and he lowered himself down next to me. Way too close.
But I pretended to be interested, curious to see where this would lead. Pete got to his point without much preamble, putting his hand on my knee and giving it a squeeze.
“So, it looks like you and I are the only ones awake. It seems like we could find something interesting to do.”
“You think?” I asked, tilting my head and giving him a look of innocence.
“I can think of a few possibilities we might get around to.” He lifts his shoulders, unconcerned. “He’s asleep. He’s had a few.”
“You mean like you have?” I asked.
“I can handle my liquor.”
“That remains to be seen,” I said.
He studied me for a long moment and then said, “You think no one has you figured out.”
“You think you do?”
“Oh, I know I do. You’re planning on getting a ring from Klein, and there’s not much you won’t do to make sure that happens.”
“I’m not going to deny that I want a future with him. Why would I deny that?”
“The question is, does he want a future with you.” The words struck their intended sweet spot, and I gave him a deliberately neutral smile.
“It seems like you have some idea of why he would want that.”
“Yeah, no doubt. I’d like to know what you’ll be giving him when you go back there in a bit and slip in bed next to him.”
“You know he would fire you if I breathed a word of this, right?”
“Right,” he agreed, “but I also know he would dump you if I breathed a word of the mess you made of Aaron Rutgers’s life when he decided he didn’t want to make you a permanent thing.”
I felt the heat rising from the center of my chest, flaming my face. Even as I tried to tamp it back, I wasn’t willing to let him see that he had gotten to me.
“What do you know about it?” I asked in a deliberately smooth voice.
“Enough,” he said.
I could see by the look on his face that he did indeed know more than I was comfortable with him revealing at the moment. So, I changed course. Used the one foolproof weapon that had never failed me. I put my hand on his thigh and rubbed my palm back and forth across his jeans.
“Nothing is going to happen here tonight, Pete. Are we clear?”
“Yeah,” he said, waiting.
“You have my number. When we get back to Nashville, give me a call.”
He stood, looking down at me with a satisfied smile on his face. “Oh, I will, Riley. I will be giving you a call.” And with that, he headed for his bunk at the back of the bus.
I had barely gotten through the front door of my apartment once we were back in Nashville before the phone rang, and Pete’s number flashed across the screen. I considered not answering, but I fully believed Pete when he said he wouldn’t hesitate to share what he knew with Klein. I declined the call, sent him an abrupt text: Be here in one hour or don’t come at all.
The knock at the door announced him as right on time. No surprise to me. I pushed back a surge of irritation, telling myself there was this and nothing more. I opened the door to a grinning Pete, barely able to conceal his obvious interpretation of victory. I waved him in. “You didn’t waste any time, did you?”
“I’ve never been one to ignore opportunity when it presents itself.”
“There are other words for that,” I said. “Blackmail. I’m pretty sure that’s illegal.”
“So why did you invite me over here?”
That Weekend in Paris (Take Me There(Stand-alone) Book 3) Page 8