Late Night with Andres

by Anastasia, Debra

  “We’re in the parking lot, honey! You’re my special girl! Honey! I love you!”

  Milla hugged the phone to her chest as Ann aimed the remote at the TV.

  “No, wait. Don’t change the channel!”

  Larson had figured it out. Or so he said. Gage was just thankful the bomb guys hadn’t abandoned him. And they seemed pretty sure Larson could buy them some time after he snipped the wire. Brett and Larson didn’t seem worried, which had helped Gage hang on to the button. But he knew things weren’t exactly great when the guys had pounded fists with a look that clearly said we’re fucked.

  The plan was simply to run. And running usually seemed easy, but right now his legs were locked up, and his bicep was burning. Still, Gage tried. “Listen, guys. Show me which fucking wire, and I’ll fucking cut it and run. No need for us all to take the same fucking lotto ticket.” He waited for a wire-cutting tutorial.

  Brett smiled. “See, now I feel kind of fucking bad for telling my fucking girlfriend your dick was probably fucking small. She has your fucking picture fucking pasted on her fucking vibrator.”

  Larson licked his lips as he settled a half-assed containment shield over the snoozing gunman’s torso. “Your fuckin’ girlfriend probably just fuckin’ dumped you for that fuckin’ remark.”

  Brett laughed. “I bet she fucking did. Tits all right. We’re all going to blow our fucking balls off in a minute. Listen, ass nuzzler…” He touched Gage’s shoulder. “This is what we do for a fucking living. We never fucking leave until there’s no fucking bomb or a clear fucking countdown.”

  Gage shook his head and took a deep breath.

  “I did my fuckin’ best to jam this fucking freakshow,” Larson explained. “But this explosive is fucking improvised. We have to fucking run fast. I’m pretty sure if we get out of this fucking initial area we might be fucking okay.”

  On the Internet, where hackers had the feed going without the interference of a censor button, Larson’s Southern accent had woman ripping off their panties and lighting them on fire. Twitter reflected the hostage room’s events with worldwide hashtags: #FUCKING was the first on the list. #Daxsonishot was the second. And the last two were #Greattits, which still lingered even though Milla was now absent, and #WTFTheDevilsFart, respectively.

  After an improvised yoga class, where Brett asked Gage to move each of his limbs to make sure the blood was still flowing, it was almost go time. The men positioned themselves facing the door.

  “On fucking three. Are you fucking bastards ready?” Brett grasped Gage under his sweaty armpits.

  Larson had little excitement in his voice as he counted down: “Three…two…one…”

  Chapter 12

  Toes

  THE SCREEN EXPLODED, and Milla cried out. Ann rushed to turn off the TV set.

  “I’m sorry, sweetie.” The nurse tried to keep her patient in the bed.

  “What just happened? What? Did we just watch them die?” Milla fumbled for the remote. “Turn it back on!”

  Ann looked reluctant, but clicked the set back to life. Instead of a room, a nervous-looking newscaster appeared. “Obviously we’ve lost the feed,” he explained. “That was a terrible, terrible thing to witness.” He spoke to someone off screen: “Can we get it on constant loop behind me?”

  Milla watched the same explosion over and over. The three men clearly tried to run, but the screen filled with fire and ash before it went black Her parents rushed into the room and hugged Milla hard.

  “Honey, honey. You’re okay. I love you. Your father’s here.” Her mother slapped her father’s face a few times and pushed him closer to her. Father and daughter embraced.

  “Dad, did you see? Do you think they made it?” Milla pointed at the TV. Both parents watched the screen in horror as the room that had so recently held their beloved child disintegrated.

  “I’m going to have diarrhea.” Milla’s mom took off for the bathroom, leaving wet farts behind her.

  Her dad sat down hard, but never let go of Milla’s hand. “Baby girl, thank Jesus you were out.” He burped over and over. Both Milla’s parents suffered from IBS and had instant reactions to stress.

  Ann left Milla to her loved ones, and Milla waited for any news about the men in the room, except for the Devil’s Fart—it had been way obvious he was roasted. The newscasters filled the airtime with pontificating about the actions of the bomb squad. They wondered aloud as to the types of lawsuits that would be filed as a result of the video surveillance of the whole situation. In between hugs from her parents, Milla surfed channels, trying to find something, anything, about Gage.

  Finally she swiped her dad’s phone and called Karen. Hearing her reserved friend’s gleeful voice, Milla teared up a bit. Then she got down to business. “Can you tell me what it says on Twitter?” Milla could feel her toe throbbing again. Fuck. I bet my toe was on the floor that blew up.

  “Ahhh…ummmm…maybe not. You should get some rest.” Karen was a horrible secret keeper.

  “Spill it.” Milla finally settled on a channel and just left it.

  “I’m sorry, Milla. RIP Daxson is trending. But that kind of stuff’s not always right.”

  She could hear Karen’s keyboard clicking.

  “I’ll check Facebook. Oh. Whoa.”

  “What?” The suspense coupled with pain was killing her.

  Ann appeared with a handful of pills and a little cup.

  “Your boobs are everywhere. Wow. There’s even a meme with your boobs wearing two of Princess Eugenie’s hats. That’s just tasteless. Yup, here people are posting videos and pictures of him and saying Rest in Pieces. Society’s a classless whore. I’m so sorry. Doesn’t mean it’s true…” Karen’s voice drifted off.

  Milla put her fist to her mouth and bit. There was just something about the guy. They’d spent such an intense time together. She liked him a lot. She didn’t realize she was crying until hot tears spilled over her knuckles.

  Her mother returned from the bathroom and crawled into Milla’s hospital bed, smoothing her daughter’s hair. Cuddled in her mother’s arms with her father steadfastly holding her hand, Milla listened as the newscaster urgently interrupted a roundtable discussion about the procedural choices of the police.

  “This just in! I’m getting right now in my earpiece that Gage Daxson, singer and young idol has died from injuries sustained in the blast. The two bomb squad men in the room have sustained injuries and are being transported. I repeat, Gage Daxson has died tonight, with the whole world watching.”

  The cameraman panned out to the crowd that had formed outside the studio. He zoomed in on one teenage girl as her face crumbled. She was too far away for audio, but she was clearly screaming the word no.

  Brett insisted on limping out next to the body bag. Larson stood on the other side, cradling an obviously injured arm. They refused to part with the man they were supposed to protect. There was no emotion on either of their faces. They didn’t blink nor hide when faced with the storm of flashbulbs. They stood close by as the body was loaded into the ambulance, then crawled into the rig, shutting the prying world out by slamming the doors closed.

  Milla felt hollow. She had stopped crying, afraid she would send her parents into full-fledged panic attacks. Her toe was lost, though she didn’t think about it much. The physical therapist had been by to see her a few times. Although she was perky and friendly, Julie was a huge ball buster and wanted Milla to do whatever hurt her foot the most. She had shown Milla pictures of various prosthetic toes and claimed that all would look awesome in a pair of sandals. Milla was fitted with a cute little toe that oddly, after put in place, did help her balance. Milla decided right then and there to name her fake toe Gage. In his honor.

  The hospital should have discharged her weeks ago, but the chief of staff kept finding reasons to keep Milla. Her mild concussion was listed on all the paperwork, but the neurologist had only visited once. He was not the least bit impressed with Milla’s head injury. There wasn’t mu
ch anyone could do about the cut in her mouth. She was instructed not to eat salty stuff. Her bruises would fade. She knew the hospital was keeping her because the world was losing its mind.

  Gage Daxson’s death had shaken the very fabric of the entertainment business. He was being compared to Elvis and James Dean with the inevitable addition of, “But he died as a hero!” It was a slow news month, so every news or entertainment program filled their airtime with Daxson. There were interviews with childhood classmates, groupies, and his manager. All had glowing things to say. No less than ten women claimed to be carrying his child. And that was just what Milla was allowed to see. She knew there was also an aspect of it that related to her. Their last kiss was apparently a big deal. There were whole articles devoted to the love that would’ve been. The media were great at creating stories—big, hairy stories that suited whatever clip art they had on hand.

  She was allowed to visit Sydney the bodyguard in a wheelchair pushed by her mom. He was in and out, and mostly slept, but every once in a while they spoke. He didn’t seem to know about Gage, and Milla didn’t want to be the one to tell him. After a few days, she tapered off her visits, afraid she would have to lie to him. There must have been plans for a funeral, but Milla had avoided any coverage of that. Maybe she’d visit his grave someday.

  Milla hated night at the hospital most of all. Her parents got to know the staff well enough to feel comfortable leaving her there. They slept in a nearby hotel. And she told them that was fine. Night was a better time to cry anyway. Only nurses making rounds interrupted her throughout the night. The situation had been traumatic; she knew that. It would take time. She just wished she could stop wanting to feel Gage’s kiss again.

  It was night, and the TV flickered in the room like a technotronic fireplace. Milla wondered if she could have a seizure if she stared at it too long. Out of the corner of her eye she saw light slice into the room as the door released the hallway’s brightness on her. She wiped her eyes and sat up. She knew the drill: blood pressure and temperature. There’d been talk of her going home tomorrow. She wondered if she would cry herself dry once she had no night nurse to interrupt her.

  But the silhouette was wrong. Very wrong. The nurse now in the room was tall, the hair way too long. It didn’t fit any of the nighttime nurses’ descriptions. Fear choked her. Her mind reeled, completely paralyzed by the thought of having a stranger lock her in a room again. The giant nurse rushed her, and Milla gasped. A hand pressed over her mouth. She could only see flickers of what appeared to be the ugliest woman in the world. Milla began shaking like a runt Chihuahua getting electrocuted.

  “No, don’t scream. It’s me. Shit. I’m sorry.”

  She recognized the voice. How could she not? The TV did nothing but air clips from past interviews. She shook her head violently to free her mouth.

  “Daxson. You fucker.” Milla began slapping him. Now that she had a context for the ugly nurse, she could tell it was him—with a horrible wig and pink scrubs.

  He took her blows while he shushed her. “No. Seriously. You’re safe. It’s me. It’s me.”

  Her slaps tapered off. “You’re alive? I thought you were…” She reached up and pulled the wig off his head.

  In the bluish light he smiled, his face scruffy with the new growth of a beard. “Yeah, sorry about that.” He glanced over his shoulder.

  “You’re lucky I don’t have a loaded gun right now. You scared me.” She’d wanted to make some sort of joke, but her comment ended with her voice cracking.

  “I’m an asshole. Why did I sneak up on you?” He pulled her gently into a hug.

  It should have been weirder, hugging this guy she barely knew, but he smelled good, and his arms were comforting.

  “I’m so glad you’re alive. I just didn’t know how to feel. No one understood. I felt…” She patted his back and felt for his heartbeat with her other hand—just to be sure he wasn’t a dream or a freaky side effect of the pain killers. “Everyone thinks you died.”

  “I know. It might’ve been a shitty choice—to pretend. All the people close to me know, though.” He pulled the armchair over to her bed and retrieved his wig.

  “Don’t wear it.” Milla watched as he pulled the fake hair back on.

  “Have to. I promised Larson and Brett I would, though I think they’re just messing with me.” He glanced at the TV, which as usual had his face surrounded by a black frame.

  “It’s sad.” Milla pointed to the TV.

  “I’m here to check on you and to apologize.” Gage leaned forward, and his blond wig tickled her wrist.

  Milla fisted the fake hair and yanked, quickly freeing it and putting it under her butt so he couldn’t wear it. “For what? Lying? Dying? Not dying?” she asked.

  “All of that. I’m just sorry we had to go through that. And that when you get out of here they’ll be all over you.” Gage ran a hand through his real hair, making it stick straight up. “That’s my fault.”

  “Who’ll be all over me?” Milla folded her arms, realizing she wasn’t wearing a bra and her thin hospital gown and his nearness were making her perky.

  He motioned to the TV. “Sorry.”

  She was trapped for a minute in his eyes. She knew they were green. All of a sudden it made sense: the world’s unreasonable devotion. He was really ethereal. The cheekbones, the lips, the way he liked to lick his lips. He was beautiful. But beyond that, looking through the mask of amazing he’d been cursed and blessed with, she saw that this famous thing, it was a burden.

  “Damn. You’re alive. Thank God.” She’d be so much stronger knowing Gage was alive and in the world somewhere.

  “I wanted the attention. I really did. When I wrote my songs, I wanted to be heard. And now? Well, everything I said is scrutinized. And I think I’ve done it to you. Instead of escaping them, I just gave them a new target. ” He shook his head, clearly frustrated.

  “I get why you were tempted. It must have seemed perfect, to play dead for a little while. Did you expect all this?” Milla tried not to stare.

  “No, that’s my biggest problem. I never see it all coming, and I always get shocked. Anyway, enough about me. How’s your toe? How’s your head?” He patted her elbow awkwardly.

  “My toe? It’s gone. I’ve got a prosthetic baby toe. The bonus is I can take it off and put it on the table when I’m painting my nails. I’m a nineteen-digit wonder. The rest of me is healing just fine. How are you? Were you hurt?” Milla sat up straighter, trying to see if he was injured.

  He smiled a bit and shrugged. “I had a little damage. Nothing that won’t heal.”

  Milla looked down at the floor. His giant foot was wrapped inside a walking cast. ”Your foot?”

  He looked down at his big metal boot and back at her face. Milla swore the oxygen level in the room dropped when he gave her a knowing smile.

  “I lost my little toe. And got a few burns, but they won’t need grafts. ”

  “You have nine toes now, too?” Milla smiled so big it hurt her cheeks.

  “Yup, plus the fake one. We’re freaks together. Imagine that. ” He reached out and touched her hand where it peeked out from under her armpit.

  “That’s crazy.” Milla moved her hand so she could properly hold his. She never wanted to let it go. Her hand felt like it was singing a love song. Her heart was uncurling a pair of wings and flying. She checked his eyes. They were sparkling. The TV spoke their names softly. Milla didn’t need to look at the screen to know what they were showing again. The wall kiss had been repeated over and over, as had the disrobing. Here in this room, holding hands seemed far more intimate than the kiss had been. Their smiles glowed with relief. Relief that they had lived, relief that they had found each other. And an immense satisfaction that their connection was still there.

  “I’ve to go. I need to go check on Syd.” He didn’t let go of her hand, though, but continued rubbing her palm in comforting circles.

  “He’s doing great. Does he know? About you,
that is? Because he’s still getting better. You wouldn’t want to scare him.” She shifted so she could touch his other hand as well.

  “Oh yeah. I had to tell him. He would’ve burned this place down if he thought I was dead. We’re stupid for each other.” Gage held both her hands. “So did that policeman ask you on a date? Or did your boyfriend have something to say about it?”

  Milla looked at him funny. “What the hell? I have a boyfriend now?” Her flying heart beat faster. She loved the way the word boyfriend looked on his lips.

  “That’s what you said—back when we were in the room—that you had a boyfriend.” He sat back a bit, seeming to want to give her space.

  She looked at his handsome face for a while before she replayed the conversation from the room again in her head. “Oh. Wait. My cat’s name is Boyfriend. I don’t have an actual guy that, like, waits for me. And the policeman has stopped by a few times. He just had questions for me.”

  “Sure he did. Same questions or did he invent new ones to be around you?” Gage released one of her hands and rubbed the back of his neck.

  “It’s not like that. He’s being professional.” Milla tried to swallow the glee she felt when she realized he was jealous.

  “You named your cat Boyfriend?” He looked at her from under his lashes, ready to make fun of her.

  “No. The Humane Society named him, you smartass.” Milla tried to pull her other hand away, and he squeezed.

  “Don’t be mad. I think it’s sweet that you rescued your kitty.” He bit his goddamn lip hotly.

  Milla wanted him to say the word kitty a hundred million times. “Yeah?”