His eyes dart to the ground. “Sorry. I couldn’t hear you. When you are finished, will you join me in the…”
“Yes, fine,” I shout. “Get out!”
Fletcher’s head disappears and the door closes. I scoff and climb out of the tub, irritated with the way Fletcher keeps interrupting my peace.
Out of all my sleepwear, the only items Fletcher packed me are my not so modest lingerie. Lingerie I used to wear when we acted like a couple in love. Lingerie that leaves little to the imagination. I refuse to be caught dead in any of them, at least by Fletcher. So, I slip into the white silky babydoll lingerie with the see-through lacy bodice and cover it up with the long fuzzy robe provided in the bathroom. I wrap the robe around me and tie the belt around my waist snuggly so that nothing shows underneath.
The way Fletcher’s face falls to a pout tells me he was hoping I would reward him with seeing me in what he packed, or the lack thereof. I hold the collar of the robe shut with one hand, keeping the other inside the pocket. “What is it you need?”
His chest rises and falls with a calming breath and he takes a few steps towards me. His hands rub at my shoulders, and as much as I want to step away from his touch, I stand firm.
“Love, please, I know you are upset, but please let me try.”
“Try what?” I ask, raising a brow and pressing my lips together.
“Try to make this right,” Fletcher says. “I understand you don’t want to be around me, I do. But, if you can find it in your heart to just open up the tiniest bit, I promise I will make it worth your effort.”
His hands slide down my arms until he tethers our fingers together. I try to pull my hands free, but he secures his grip. “Let’s just talk.” He pauses, waiting for me to argue before he adds, “I’ll get down on my knees again if I need to.”
My top lip tugs at the corner. I fight a snarl but give in, loosening my shoulders so my hands can relax within his.
“Thank you,” he says. Fletcher walks us to the couch and sits me down, taking the cushion next to me. “I had a lot of time to think about things when you left. I’m not sure where it all went wrong or how we got to where we were. I know it was my fault, and I can’t go back and change it, but I can change how we move forward.”
“There is no moving forward, Fletcher,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest.
“Of course there is,” he argues. “Maybe not romantically, but we can at least be friends, right?”
I keep my eyes focused on my toes peeking out from the hem of the robe. The polish is bright, ironically, a color I would have chosen for a trip such as this. The coral is a perfect match to the setting sun as it draws closer to the ocean. If I stare long enough at my feet, maybe Fletcher will grow tired and give up. Walk away. But he doesn’t. He watches me, his eyes boring into the side of my face, patiently waiting for me to respond. Fletcher’s question isn’t one I have an answer for, at least not yet. My emotions are high and I’m too angry. If I answer now, I’m most likely to respond with something hurtful and mean. So, to fill the empty air with something, I blurt, “I want my phone back.”
When Fletcher wants something, he doesn’t give up. At the beginning of our relationship, I found it flattering. I was young and thought he was the hottest thing I had ever seen. His bright blue eyes against his jet-black hair lured me in. I melted with every smile, every touch, every kind gesture. He pursued me for a week before I caved, and it didn’t take long for me to fall hard. The more attentive Fletcher was, the more desperate I became for his affection. We were so wrapped up in each other we couldn’t think straight. But then he wanted to advance in his career and things became cutthroat, and Fletcher went from needing me to needing the spotlight. He drifted, consumed by the politics and the women who thought he was more powerful than he was. The further up the ladder he went, the more women were at his disposable. And he wasn’t one to turn any of them down. Having me at home wasn’t enough, so he took advantage. His determination turned him into being insistent and pushy and greedy. Traits I was no longer attracted to.
Fletcher sinks into the back of the sofa with a sigh. He rubs his forehead with his well-manicured fingers and says, “This trip is unplugged, Piper. I don’t even have my phone. There is no television, no computers. Nothing. I really want us to reconnect on this trip.”
My brows are tightly scrunched together, so much so the skin between my eyes wrinkle into thick folds. Looking around the room, I see there is no television, which doesn’t bother me much since I hardly watch it to begin with, but no phones, no emails? No way to communicate with the outside world. I can’t let my boss know why I’m not at work. I’ll surely be fired if I don’t inform him I’ll be gone for a week. No chance of getting in touch with my parent’s or Luna to let them know what is happening. They’re going to be worried sick, and Luna will freak when she finds out what Fletcher’s done. And Oliver, even if he doesn’t want to talk to me, needing him to know this wasn’t my choice is crucial.
“I need to tell Luna I’m all right. She is going to worry, probably go apeshit and call the cops. I need to call my boss.”
Fletcher’s head shakes before he answers with a subtle, “No. Sorry.”
I turn my head, glaring at him as if my eyes alone could set him on fire. “Give me. My phone.” I punctuate the syllables with a punch.
He tries to unfold my arms to take my hand, but I slap his hand away and shove him in the shoulder. “Don’t touch me!”
“Piper, please. It’s only for five days. Besides, I took it upon myself to call your boss and Luna while you were swimming earlier. I told Luna you were safe and that we would be here, in Fiji, for five days. After she threatened to cut off my balls and choke me with them,” he nervously laughs, “I promised her I would return you in one piece. I worked everything out with everyone, I swear. It’s all good.”
I watch his face, looking for any sign he’s lying. It’s hard to catch, but his nostrils flair and the corner of his left eye twitches ever-so-softly when he tells stories. His face is smooth, not a single falter in his features. Even though I don’t like it, I have no other choice but to believe him. But I still want my phone. My belongings are mine and Fletcher has no right to keep them from me.
“You want to be friends?” I ask, my left brow lifting in a scowl.
“Yes.”
“Then let’s start with you giving me back my shit.”
Fletcher groans and drops his head to the cushion behind him. “Why are you so stubborn, woman?”
“The same reason you are so impossible to deal with.”
He chuckles. “Isn’t that the same thing?”
“Just give me my phone, Fletcher.” And through gritted teeth, I add a stiff, “Please.”
“How about this. I will give you back your phone when we get back home, after we take some time to just relax and enjoy the island and maybe, just maybe, try to work on us.”
There is no us. Never will be again. I’ll take the time to relax and enjoy the island, but when it comes to Fletcher and me, I’m not even sure being friends is in the cards for us.
“I want my phone tomorrow,” I argue.
“The day we leave.”
“In the next forty-eight hours,” I challenge.
“The night before we leave.”
My groan is throated and loud while Fletcher’s smile is wide and pressing. No matter what I come back with, he will have a rebuttal. I’m in a no-win situation, at his mercy.
I push off the couch with a salty, “Fine,” and let my feet stomp against the floor to show my anger. It’s going to be a long five days.
Eleven
Piper
I wake up confused as to where I am. It’s not until I sit up and see the ocean outside the window I realize yesterday wasn’t a dream. I’m really in Fiji. With Fletcher. Who kidnapped me. Is kidnapped a too strong of a word to use? I don’t think so. He took me against my will, which would be considered the same thing. But now that I’m here, I can
’t say I’m disappointed. Although, I would prefer someone else was in the other room. Oliver, perhaps. Luna, maybe. Anyone other than Fletcher.
I’ll make the best of it, I have to. Fiji has been a dream vacation and I refuse to not utilize my time here.
After slipping into my bathing suit and throwing a cover-up over it, I tiptoe out to the kitchen, hoping I’m alone. Fletcher is awake, of course. He looks up at me and smiles, like he’s genuinely happy to see me, then continues to spread fruit across two plates, placing bowls of yogurt in the center. He pushes them in front of the barstools and waves me over. I take a seat in front of the plate with the lemon yogurt, and pop a berry into my mouth.
“How’d you sleep?” Fletcher asks, doctoring up my coffee with a dash of non-dairy creamer and a spoonful of rock sugar. He sets it next to my plate then pours himself a cup, leaving it black, much like his heart. I wonder if a black heart can fade to gray. I’m surprised he remembers how I like my coffee. It’s only coffee, but the fact Fletcher thought about someone other than himself is nothing short of a miracle. Maybe there is hope for him yet.
I take a bite of the lemon yogurt and let the burst of tartness coat my tongue before swallowing. “Fine.”
He takes a sip of his coffee and sucks the heat through his teeth. “Same here. They are the most comfortable beds I have ever slept on.”
“And you’ve slept on a lot,” I mutter under my breath. It doesn’t go unheard. Fletcher chooses to ignore it, only after cracking his neck first. He cracks a lot of bones when he’s trying to keep his tongue in check.
“So, what would you like to do today?” Fletcher asks around a spoon of melon. “Want to sightsee or shop? We can rent paddleboards and do some snorkeling. This trip is all for you, love.”
My spine tingles when he calls me love. I don’t like it. I used to swoon over his pet names for me, when they were sincere, when we were madly in love. Now being called anything other than my name makes my blood curdle.
I take my mug and plate as I stand. “I want to do anything that doesn’t involve you being around me.”
The pool is a lovely place to enjoy my coffee and breakfast. Alone. Fletcher stays inside to himself, and for that I’m grateful. It’s hard to process all this when he’s breathing down my neck. I’m having a hard time gauging if he is being sincere or if this is another one of his games, a ploy to get what he wants. What he wants, I do not know. I can’t imagine he really wants me, he hasn’t for so long. But then again, maybe he realized what we had when he no longer had it at his disposal. Either way, I don’t want him back. Not like that.
Friends? I’m not sure I want to be friends either. Friends are there for you, support you and stand by you. They are honest, compassionate and caring and want what is best for you. They don’t kidnap you. They don’t call you names and take from you. They don’t lie to you. I’m not sure if Fletcher is capable of love and, if he’s not capable of love, he most definitely isn’t able to maintain a friendship.
He’s been trying, I’ll give him that. I don’t want to, but I will. I have seen more effort on his part in the last two days than I have in the last year and a half of our relationship. If he can peel off the layers of his ego, maybe so can I. But not yet. Tomorrow.
The water is calm this morning, rocking in gentle lulls around the dock at the end of the stairs. It beckons me, inviting me to take comfort in its blanket of ripples. I remove the cover-up and let it fall, then follow the path of the deck, running and jumping off the dock as if I was a kid doing cannon balls at the end of a diving board. I stay underwater until my lungs begin to burn and I’m forced to come up for air.
I lick the salt from my lips and wipe my eyes then begin to swim. When my arms get tired, I roll onto my back and let the water wash away my anger, finding peace with the sea and its life below. The connection I have with the ocean is as strong as a Catholic to Jesus. It’s my higher power, the one I pray to. It is where I feel most in tune with life and myself. I listen to the swoosh around me telling me to not be so difficult. Being stubborn is good, but it can do more harm than good if I don’t use it wisely.
My legs kick, propelling me backward, trying to swim away from the emotions the ocean wants me to feel. It’s my way of arguing, fighting back against its whispers of surrender. These waters don’t know the pain my heart has endured at the hands of Fletcher Donovan. Committing to a truce isn’t easy to do when the love you have for a man is destroyed by the man himself. Forgiveness might be easy, but forgetting is not.
The longer I swim, the more I relax. The more I’m willing to entertain the idea of a treaty. But it has to be on my terms. I need to have control, and the minute Fletcher tries to overrun me, the deal is off the table. I’ll let him stew a bit longer. Space between us is good. Too much contact too soon will only make me itch. I’ll let my guard come down, a smidge. Tomorrow.
Twelve
Oliver
Every waking moment I think of Piper, the ache won’t go away. Every time I close my eyes, I see her walking out the door of her sister’s apartment. I call out to her, beg her to come back, but I wake up alone. I’ve never wanted to use so much in my life. Just one hit to take the edge off. But I’ve made it this far and I refuse to allow a girl to be the end of my sobriety.
I’m beginning to hate meet and greets. I wasn’t all that interactive last night, letting Nash and Hamlin pick up my slack, and our manager took notice. Before tonight’s line was opened, he pulled me aside and gave me some lecture about acting like I wanted to be there. That the only reason I have this gig is because of the millions of fans who purchase my albums. I didn’t argue, just nodded my head until he ran out of breath. He’s right, I know it. But, I’m tired of the fake girls who want nothing more than to sleep with me for the sole purpose of boasting about how they bagged Milo Creed. A week ago, I would have been all over them, showing them the night of their life, but now I’m sickened to look at these girls who shouldn’t be wearing what they are wearing. I want nothing more than to go hide in the bus.
My hand is on autopilot, signing posters, t-shirts, and album covers. The girls who are shy and stammer over their words get a smile. I can at least tolerate them. The girls who can’t shut the fuck up and lean over the table so I can get a flash of their boobs get nothing more than the top of my head before I wave them down to the rest of the band. At one point, I glance up and see Carmichael glaring at me. He points two fingers to his eyes then turns those fingers to the crowd, motioning for me to pay attention to each and every person coming through the line. I do my best and even get excited when I catch a glimpse of red hair on a small frame. But when the girl turns around, my heart plummets to my stomach. It’s not Piper.
I can’t say I’m surprised I haven’t heard from her. It would be wishful thinking, really. But if I’m honest, I’m disappointed. Hurt. Every time my call goes to voicemail, every text that goes unanswered, my heart is shattered a little more. I thought we turned a point in the right direction. After all this time apart, we picked up where we left off, and we weren’t even at each other’s throats. For us, that is amazing, going more than ten minutes before nitpicking everything the other one says. We’ve matured. Or, at least, I thought. The connection between Piper and me is still there, so why is she ignoring me?
According to Luna, she hasn’t heard anything from Piper either. I know she’s worried, but right now she is too smitten over Nash to give too much of a thought on where her sister might be. But me, I’m skeptical. I think her ex has something to do with the reason why she hasn’t returned any of our messages. And if I find out that he did something to her, I will hunt him down and make him pay. I’ll go all Godfather on his ass. Don Vito Corleone won’t have nothing on me.
“You can stop signing your name, dumbass,” Nash says in my ear, yanking the marker out of my hand and tossing it across the table to the assistant.
The table is being cleared around me, and when my dazed eyes focus, I see the line of fans has disap
peared.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Carmichael asks, stacking up the last of the t-shirts.
I push my chair under the table. “Nothing, I’m fine.”
“Bullshit you are,” Nash adds his two cents. “He’s fucked over a girl.”
I punch his shoulder and glare at him, like what-the-fuck? And she’s not just any girl, she’s Piper. My Piper.
“I’ll knock you on your scrawny ass, motherfucker,” Nash barks.
My teeth clench tightly together and I grumble, “Mind your own business, Nash.”
Hamlin steps between me and Nash. “That’s enough.” He’s the quiet one. An epic talent on the keys and a man of little words, but when he says something, we listen.
Carmichael watches as the three of us dissipate in opposite directions and follows me out the double doors I plow through like an ox. “You best not be losing focus all because of a girl, son.” He chases after me.
The buckles on my boots clank as my feet pound on the ground, the sound echoing down the hall of the corridors. Before I can reach the back door to the bus, Carmichael grabs my arm and pulls me back.
“Oliver, tell me your head is on straight.”
I shake his hand off with a jerk of my arm and spin around. Spit flies from my mouth as I shout, “My fucking head is on straight, now back the fuck off, man.”
He steps back and lets me exit into the darkness.
I slam every door, every cabinet in the bus. I stomp, cuss, and beat my fists on the table. Anger steams from my pores until I find myself locked in the tiny bathroom with my hands fist deep in the vent in the ceiling. My palms frantically bang against the metal in search of my savior in a bag. It falls out into the sink, the white powder staring up at me, begging to be consumed.
It speaks to me and nags me until I pick up the bag and roll it in my hand. How simple it would be to slip it into my veins. All I need to do is reach back up into the ceiling and pull out the tools to make it possible. I knew keeping the devil in arm’s reach would come back and haunt me. And as the bag heckles me, my free hand slowly rises above my head and rests on the lip of the vent.
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