by Holly Hart
Chapter Three
Lily
Wayne’s pissed—I can tell. Pissed at Jed and Adina for staying at her aunt’s; pissed at Mark for going out partying. Pissed at me for... Damned if I know what I did wrong. I’m here at the hotel. I’m doing his photoshoots—four of them, not the “couple” he promised. I’m even Instagramming my vacation—well, the fake-ass, “metal” version: nights on the town instead of the couch; whiskey and cigarettes instead of sparkling water and Tex-Mex. He e-mailed me the photos last night, pre-captioned and ready to go. Most of them look like they were taken at Mark’s birthday pub crawl. The rest, I’m not even in.
The clerk hands me my keycard. I tuck it away, with a nod to Wayne. “I’m headed up. Going to call it a night.”
“I’ll go with you. Never finished our chat, earlier.”
I fake a yawn. “Mm...now? I’m half asleep already.”
“I’ll talk fast, then.” Wayne ushers me to the elevator, one hand on my back.
Whatever happens, he’s not getting past my door. He’ll talk my ear off all night, have me agreeing to God knows what, just to be rid of him.
He hits the button for our floor. “It’s about Aidan. Gonna need you two to get friendly: nice kiss on the red carpet, a little hand-holding—and if you could sort of fall into the limo, after, like you can’t keep your hands off each other, that’d be—what?”
“I’m sorry—are you serious?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“I’ve met Aidan twice, and now you want me to, what? Stick my tongue down his throat? In public?” I like to think of myself as a calm person—reasonable—but this would try anyone’s patience. “Absolutely not.”
“Aidan’s your ticket to a whole new market.” We arrive at our floor. Wayne herds me off the elevator, doing that wheedling thing he does—like he’s talking to a stubborn four-year-old. “He’ll be your gateway to movies, TV—modeling, maybe. You’ll double your star power, not to mention your earning potential. So you cozy up—”
“No.” Just...no!
“Excuse me?”
“I don’t want any of that. No acting. No modeling. I’d be a disaster. It’s all...posturing in front of cameras, pretending... There’s no flow to it. No....” I shake my head. There’s no explaining it to him, how the music fills me up, how it takes me to a whole other place. How I live for it. “It isn’t me. That’s all.”
“It ain’t you?” Wayne’s edging in front of me, blocking me from my suite. “Five, ten times the money—that ain’t you? Your face on the cover of People?—that, either?”
“It’s not about that.”
“Oh, please.” He plants one hand on the wall above my head, encroaching on my space. “You’re a grown-ass woman. Quit acting like some naïve kid, still thinks it’s ‘all about the music’.”
“I—”
“You’re not a musician. You’re a product. You’re smoke and flames and a big ol’ set of devil wings. I packaged you up. Made people want you. I could put anyone under that makeup, that mask, sell out the same crowds.”
My heart’s in my throat. But I can’t back down. Not this time. “And my replacement—she’d write the same songs? Sing the same—”
“She’d write what I told her to write. Sing what I told her to sing. Kiss who I told her to kiss.” Wayne shakes me hard—once, back and forth, nails digging into my shoulders. My head bounces off the wall. “She’d do what I damn well told her. Just like you’ll do, if you know what’s good for you.”
“Fuck...you.”
He raises his hand. I shut my eyes and brace for the slap—a slap which never comes.
“Hell you doing with her?”
Wayne’s back hits the wall. Some guy’s towering over him, half a head taller and twice as scary. He looks like he might’ve already kicked an ass or two tonight: split knuckles; scraped face, like he got dragged down a brick wall. He’s snarling, actually snarling, lip pulled back. Furious and feral.
Wayne winds up and goes for him, driving a fist into his gut. The guy barely flinches. Wayne throws another punch. That gets him an angry hiss.
“Settle down!”
“Screw you!” Wayne squares off for another punch. This time, the stranger strikes back, shouldering him into the wall. They grapple, grunting like animals.
I back away, fumbling my keycard from my pocket. No way I’m watching this play out. I duck inside and slam the door on them both, swallowing the lump in my throat.
The door rattles against my back as one throws the other into it. Wayne’s shouting, guttural and panicked, then choking, rasping in thin gasps of air. I sink down on my heels, covering my ears with my hands. I can still hear them going at it.
“Stop it! Go away!”
For a moment, there’s nothing—no sound, no movement. Then Wayne roars, and the fight’s back on. Asshole...asshole! Never could leave well enough alone.
I stay where I am till the sound of scuffling dies out. It doesn’t take long: a meaty smack, a thump on the wall, a body hitting the ground, and it’s over. The stranger growls something I don’t quite make out, and a minute later, I hear Wayne picking himself up. He stands outside for a while, like he’s thinking about pounding on the door, but he doubles back to the elevator instead. Probably off to drown his humiliation.
I flop down on the bed, completely wired. No way I’m going to sleep now. My phone rings, and I grope for it, eager for the distraction.
“Hello?”
“Hey—how’s the hotel?” It’s Adina.
“Y’know...a hotel.” I survey the room. It’s pretty nice—homey, minus the mess. Soft bed. River views.
“You all right? You sound weird.”
“Just Wayne, being a prick.” I muster a chuckle. “Some random guy defended me, though.”
“Oh? Was he cute?”
“I don’t know—kind of? In a tall, dark, and terrifying way? Didn’t get the best look at him.”
There’s a long pause on the other end of the line. “You know... If you wanted out.... Me and Jed were thinking you’d have a hell of a solo career.”
“And leave you guys? Hell, no.” Couldn’t, even if I wanted to. Wayne holds the rights to my next three albums. Walking away would end my career, and me with it.
“Just something to think about. We’ve seen the way he talks to you.”
And now I’m choking up. She hasn’t seen the half of it. Nobody has—apart from some angry guy in the hall, just now.
“Hey—you’re sniffling! You crying?”
“No, just...pollen, or something. I feel gross.” It’s barely a lie. My exhaustion’s creeping back, now my scare’s worn off. And Wayne’s left me feeling like shit. I feel like I could sleep till Christmas. “Mind if I catch up with you tomorrow?”
“Actually, that’s why I’m calling. We’re having a barbecue. Thought you’d want to join.”
I would. I really, really would. “Can’t. Wayne’s got me posing for pictures all day. Raincheck?”
“Aw. Totally. Take care of yourself, huh?”
“Mm....” I sink back into the pillows. I’d kill for some good barbecue—ribs, iced tea, potato salad.... Ice cream, too. Nothing like a melting cone on a hot day.
I turn over on my side, suddenly missing...fucking everything. Beach days. Family dinners. My high school boyfriend. Back when life was fun. This wasn’t how I pictured the start of my vacation, biting back tears in a bland hotel room, on top of blankets tucked so tight I can’t crawl under.
I pull the pillow over my head and scream, just once.
Chapter Four
Brandon
I leave the asshole on the floor and head back to my room. Never did get that ice for my fingers. This day keeps getting weirder and weirder, and not in a good way.
I lower myself onto the bed, sighing. Last thing I need is more trouble. Should’ve stood there and taken it, let the jerk wear himself out swinging wild. It’s not like he was doing much damage. But he could’ve bee
n, if I hadn’t happened by. There was nothing to that woman, nothing but long limbs and big gray eyes, a curtain of hair falling over her face as she ducked to protect herself. Can’t stand guys like that, doing their arguing with their fists.
The window’s open, a light breeze ruffling the curtains. I look past the darkened lawn to the lights on the river. It’s soothing, the mellow play of oranges and yellows, reflecting the skyline. I take a few deep breaths. Now’s not the time to work myself into a frenzy. Whoever she was, she got away. I can check on her tomorrow, see if there’s anything I can do. In the meantime, the pillows are calling my name.
The phone on the nightstand catches my eye. Neil. I should be the one to fill him in. If my best friend went down in flames, I wouldn’t want to hear it on the news. I drag the phone into my lap and fuck up dialing twice, fat-fingered with fatigue.
Neil picks up on the first ring. “Yeah?”
“Neil, it’s me. Sorry to call so late. I needed to—”
There’s a rude splattering sound, like he just sprayed water out his nose. Something clatters to the floor.
“Neil?”
“What the fuck? I mean—what the actual... How?”
Guess I’m too late. “Sorry. Thought I’d catch you before you heard. Capsule version—yeah, we went down. But I’m fine. Walked away. Like, literally got up and....”
“You...walked away? From that?” He’s pacing—I can hear him. “They showed you on the news. Up in flames. No survivors.” His voice goes sharp, accusatory. “This is a joke. Or I’m dreaming.”
I bow my head, letting him vent his disbelief. My exhaustion’s bearing down on my shoulders like a physical weight. No point interrupting him while he’s like this.
“Shit, man—shit! I need to see your face. Where are you? I’ll send someone. No—I’ll come down. Give me your—”
“Neil. Slow your roll.” I’m fading fast. Even my hair feels heavy. “I’m fine, all right? Kind of banged up, couple of broken fingers, but apart from that—I don’t know how, but I’m fine.”
“This is... This is incredible.” And he’s off. “We need to do a press release. Get the word out. Everyone’s going to be—”
“No—no, hold on.” I force myself upright, hand held out like he can see me. “No press. No fanfare. I need you to head to the office tomorrow, get everyone together, and quietly let them know I’m alive. And I’ll be taking some time off.”
“Yeah. Yeah, of course. Anything you need.”
I cut him off before he can get going again. “That’s not all. I want you to, uh....” How to put this? “I need you to...be vague with it. Like, not outright lie, but...act like you don’t know the extent of my injuries, when I’ll be back—even if I’ll be back.”
I know Neil hasn’t hung up. I can hear him breathing.
“Neil?”
“Yeah—sorry. It’s all just a shock.” He huffs a shaky laugh. “Any special reason you want me to freak the hell out of everyone?”
“No—no. Don’t freak them out. Don’t make out like I’m dying or anything. More like I’m shaken up, maybe a few broken bones—laid up, but on the mend.”
“And I’m doing this why?”
I swing my legs onto the bed. This is the part I’ve been dreading. “Something’s going on.” Saying it out loud only doubles my certainty. “There’ve been too many fuckups lately—the tax thing, the Tomlinson account—and someone’s been having me investigated.”
“You...you’re saying...what?” Neil’s gone all slow and cautious, like he’s talking to a crazy person.
“Someone’s making a play. Trying to undermine us. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.” I’m not being paranoid. I didn’t hit my head that hard.
“Well... I mean, things haven’t been as smooth as usual, but.... You really think—?”
“I think this could be an opportunity.”
“An opportunity?”
“Yeah. Take me out of the picture, no word on my return, and they might get comfortable. Show their hand.”
“And I’d be here, keeping tabs?” Now, he’s getting it. “Where can I reach you? If anything comes up?”
“Call you tomorrow with my new number.” I’m about to wrap it up when something else occurs to me. “Oh—and Adam and Sharon’s families—extend my condolences, would you? It’d mean a lot to have at least one of us make the funerals.”
“Adam and Sharon? They were on the plane?” I hear a thump, and the scrape of a chair. He must’ve sat down abruptly.
“You didn’t know?”
“No...no. I had no idea. What happened?”
“It was last-minute. They had a thing in Toronto; I had a jet.” My mouth waters sickly, at the thought of that roasting-meat smell.
“You okay?”
Far from it. I can still see the wreck when I close my eyes. And the smell... It’s in my hair. In my pores. I scrub at my face to rid myself of the imagined sensation of ash settling on my skin. “Listen, I’ve got to go. About to conk out over here.”
“Wait, before you do—”
Neil’s on a roll. He’s giddy with relief, rattling on about miracles, interrogating me about my injuries, planning out his big investigation—half an hour later, I’m still grunting down the line, barely aware.
It’s well after midnight by the time I hang up. The breath whuffs out of my body as I sink into the pillows.
Bliss....
I go under almost immediately, thoughts unraveling into dreams. Dreams that twist and spiral, turning into nightmares as a hot brand of agony sears my lower back. I groan and shift my weight, but the movement spreads the pain around, down my legs, up my spine, till tears run down my cheeks.
“Fuck.”
I heave myself onto my side, curling up like a pillbug. It helps for all of five seconds. Five seconds, and that sharp pinch is back, angling in through the hip. And I’m bleeding again. I can feel it on my shoulder, wet heat soaking into the pillow.
“Damn it....” I flop on my belly, and shout as my sore toe digs into the mattress. Not fair. Not fair. I rear up on my knees, head to the wall.
There’s probably a funny side to this. Here I am, worn to the point of delirium, kneeling on a comfy bed—and I can’t lie down. Can’t kneel much longer, either: my knees are on the verge of revolt. I lean over, gripping my thighs, and laugh till my stomach cramps. It’s not even the pain that puts an end to my chortling, but a dizzy, unfocused feeling, coming unmoored from reality.
“Losing my mind....”
I shamble to the bathroom, zombie-style. Blunder to the tub. Fragments of the day tumble through my head: that thieving redneck cackling over a rack of human ribs; tomato puke splattering the dirt; a fist-sized chunk of plane biting into my heel; Neil droning on; the clerk taking in my disheveled appearance. The woman in the hall, cowering away from that slap. Blood spots blooming on my pillow. This moment: my personal apex of misery.
I crank up the shower, hot as I can stand, and turn up my face to catch the spray. My knees give way. I crumple, stretching out to let the water pummel every inch of me. It’s not exactly comfortable—the tub is cold and cramped, and there’s nowhere to rest my head—but the steam’s loosening my joints, easing my deepest aches. I fall asleep with my legs splayed and my face pressed to the tile, cotton bandages turning to pulp on my arm.
I wake up far too early, pruned all to hell, shower tiles imprinted on my face. The tub’s about half an inch from overflowing, plugged with cotton fiber. I shut off the water and set about picking the drain clear.
Chapter Five
Lily
Someone’s already on the treadmill. He seems to have mistaken it for a bench: he’s sprawled flat on the belt, legs hanging over the end, arm thrown over his face. Work out with your jerk out, much?
I clear my throat. No response.
“Uh...excuse me?”
Nothing.
Damn it...really?
I reach out with my toe, stopping just shy of nu
dging his foot. He’s big. Possibly threatening. Touching him seems iffy. Still, he has to go.
“Hey!”
He bolts upright. “Don’t panic! It’s—huh?” His face tightens, and he slumps over, cradling his stomach. I know this guy: the angry brute from last night. Decidedly less scary in his current position. “Sorry—I’m in your way. Give me a second?”
“You all right?”
“Feeling...mmph...feeling the burn.” He winks, but even that looks like it hurts. Got to admit, he’d be a striking man, if it wasn’t for the spectacular bruise melting into what looks like the mother of all carpet burns. Everything about him’s sharp: severe cheekbones, wicked smile, penetrating eyes. Elegant, even in generic Four Seasons exercise wear. Quite a body, too.
As if sensing my scrutiny, he unfolds himself from the treadmill. “All yours.”
“Thanks.” I can’t just let him go. “Uh, about last night—”
“Hm?” He half turns, staggers, and collapses on the weight bench. “Ow.”
“Okay—you’re not all right.” Poor guy looks awful. He’s breathing harshly, hunched over like he might be sick. I go for my phone. “I’ll call the front desk—or an ambulance?”
“No—no. I’m fine. Just a pulled muscle or... How many muscles are in the human body?”
“A lot?”
He groans and bends double, arms hanging loose. “Sorry about littering up the treadmill.”
He’s apologizing to me? “No—no, it’s fine. I barely work out. Just wanted to burn off some stress.”
“I hear that.” He straightens at last, rubbing gingerly at his knee. “I meant to find you, anyway—apologize for last night. Scaring you the way I did. Never meant to go off like that.”
“Wayne did keep hitting you.”
“I know. But I’m not usually the type to hit back.” He sighs. “Had kind of a long day. Taking a pounding on top of that... Well, there are limits.”