738 Days: A Novel

by Stacey Kade

  I step out, Amanda just behind me, and head for the hotel turnaround, where the van is supposed to be waiting.

  “Mr.… uh, Dean? Mr. Dean?” A balding man in a dark blue suit coat behind the registration desk—the manager, presumably—calls out as soon as he catches sight of us.

  The muscles in my neck tense, shooting pain down to my shoulders and up into my head, and I ignore him, heading toward the glass lobby doors.

  “Don’t you think you should—” Amanda begins.

  “No,” I say. “He just wants to apologize again.”

  Amanda looks up at me, waiting for an explanation.

  I sigh. “The room service guy.”

  “Because he banged on the door?” Amanda asks. “That was my fault. I didn’t—”

  “No, because he signed a fake name to the receipt. The wrong one,” I add when she opens her mouth to point out the obvious. “And he tipped himself anyway, thinking we wouldn’t notice because we’re probably throwing money around like crazy.” I pause. “And yeah, because he scared you.” Mostly because of that.

  Amanda stays silent.

  Slowing down, I say, “Look, I know it sounds like some kind of star temper tantrum or whatever, but people who don’t see you as a real person, for whatever reason, are dangerous.” Especially when they have relatively easy access to your room.

  “Did they fire him?” she asks quietly, stopping next to me.

  “Yes.” Theoretically. I was assured that it would happen.

  “Mr. Dean?” The manager sounds breathless now, and his hurried footsteps echo in pursuit of us. He’s left the counter to chase us down.

  I start walking again quickly. Not now. It shouldn’t have taken me pushing that hard to get the manager to take action, and I don’t want to hear any more excuses.

  “Good,” Amanda says at my side, surprising me into glancing down at her.

  She gives me a tight smile. “Makes me a bad person, right? Admitting that I wanted him to be gone?” She shrugs. “Guess I’m not the virtuous, selfless victim everyone makes me out to be.” Her tone is light and breezy, but there’s a thick layer of guilt underneath.

  “Nope,” I say. “Makes you human.” I nudge her side gently with my elbow. “They can always hire him back next week.”

  She nods, relief playing across her face, and then, as we approach the tinted glass doors that will let us out, she loops her arm through mine, resting her hand on my bicep.

  It’s a friendly, maybe even playful, gesture, but the jolt of it runs through me.

  Her hand is small and light on my arm, and I can’t believe it’s there.

  The shock of her voluntarily touching me is quickly surpassed by that same warm burst of pride and the squeezing, conflicted feeling of having earned trust that I don’t deserve.

  But I don’t get a chance to feel too guilty about it. Because as soon as the doors open and we step out, flashes explode around us, dozens of them. It’s blinding, disorienting.

  I throw my free arm up instinctively, though that will make most of the photos unsalable.

  What the hell is this? Way more than the photographer or two Elise had mentioned. This is a fucking mob scene.

  The air is full of shouting and the hiss-click of digital cameras.

  “Amanda! Amanda, look this way!”

  “Chase, give us a smile. Are the two of you together?”

  “Chase, any truth to the rumor that you’re quitting the business?”

  “Amanda, baby, you’re beautiful; just give us a smile. Show everybody how you’re doing.”

  Amanda’s hand tightens into a claw on my arm, and my heart is pounding like it wants to run away without me. I forgot this. How quickly exhilaration at the attention converts into panic, especially when you’re not expecting a barrage of it.

  Like when you feel like shit after your second attempt at a thirty-day dry-out and the cameras are there, waiting to capture you at your worst.

  Like when your former costar is arrested on drug charges, and the paparazzi show up outside your gym to make sure you know about it.

  Suddenly I want a drink. I can feel the burn of it down my throat and into my gut and the smooth confidence it would provide. It would make this situation so much easier, just like it did before. I’d have the right thing to say, a cocky smile to give, or I just wouldn’t care if I didn’t.

  But that is not an option at the moment. Next to me, I feel Amanda shaking. A glance down shows her dark eyes glassy with panic, not unlike yesterday morning at the grocery store.

  Shit. I loop my arm around Amanda’s shoulders and turn her around with me toward the hotel. Her hand clutches hard at the back of my shirt, pulling the fabric tight.

  Once we’re far enough into the lobby again, the glass doors slide shut behind us, muffling the noise.

  Amanda releases her grip on my shirt and slowly moves to the nearest pillar, pressing her back against the side facing away from the doors. Then she sinks to her knees.

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  She nods, her head down. “Yes.” But her breathing, artificially slow and steady, says differently. She inhales through her nose and exhales through her mouth, in a controlled manner. Her face is pale, and her hand is trembling when she pushes her hair back.

  I fidget, wanting to help, but in this case, there’s no one to punch. Or too many of them, depending on how you look at it.

  “Are you sure?” I ask gruffly, my hand in a fist at my side.

  “Just took me by surprise,” Amanda says. “I wasn’t expecting that many of them,” she says, glancing up at me. “I kind of froze. Sorry.” Her face tightens with regret.

  “Nothing to be sorry for. I wasn’t expecting that, either.” Fucking Elise. She’s behind this, I’m sure.

  Footsteps approach from deeper in the lobby, and I pivot, moving to block Amanda, crouched low, from view.

  But it’s just the blue-coated manager. “I’m sorry, Mr. Dean,” he says, his gaze darting to Amanda and then back to me quickly. “I was trying to catch you to warn you. They got here a few minutes ago, and our security—”

  “It’s fine,” I say, fighting the urge to yell at him. They’re not used to this kind of thing in middle-of-nowhere Wescott any more than they would be in Tillman, and he did try to warn me. “Can you just get us out another door?” I ask. “I can call Transportation and have them pick us up there.”

  “Of course.” The manager nods so rapidly his double chin wobbles with the motion. “If you’ll follow me—”

  “No,” Amanda says.

  I turn to look at her. “What?”

  “No.” Amanda pushes to her feet, one hand pressed to the pillar to steady herself. “This is what…” Her eyes shift to me, and she gives me a significant look.

  This is what we came for. That’s what she’s trying to say. And she’s right, to some extent.

  But I never thought we would be dealing with it at this level. And beyond that, following through with the plan suddenly doesn’t seem as vital as it did yesterday.

  I shake my head. “Amanda—”

  “This is important,” she finishes instead, her chin tipped up. “I’m not going to let those assholes tell their version of me, selling pictures of me running away. No.” She folds her arms over her chest.

  Amanda might be feeling bold, but I’m not. I’m responsible. For her, for the situation, and for whatever the combination of the two brings about, and the weight of that is making me a little panicky.

  I blow out a loud breath in frustration and lift a hand to rub the back of my neck. “This is not what we talked about, and you don’t have anything to prove,” I say, all too aware of the manager waiting nearby.

  But Amanda just laughs and gives me that look, the one that’s older and wiser than twenty, the one that’s a little bitter and a lot tired. “Yes, I do.”

  And you know it. The words hang unspoken in the air between us, but I hear them anyway.

  Even if she’s not p
roving it to the paparazzi and the world in general, she has something to prove to herself, which is the whole point of this exercise for her.

  Damnit.

  I hold my hands up in surrender. “All right.” I look to the manager. “I guess we’re leaving from here,” I say reluctantly.

  He nods. “Of course. We’ll have stronger measures in place by the time you return.” He holds a card out to me. “If you’ll contact us to let us know when you’ll be arriving…”

  I take his card and shove it in my back pocket with my key card.

  As he departs for the counter, a white van pulls into the turnaround, and the low murmur of the photographers outside grows louder.

  My stomach churns with acid. “Ready?” Even though this is what Elise wanted to happen, even though it’s what I need, I hate it. Way more than I was expecting.

  Amanda nods and steps closer. Without a word, she ducks under my arm and slides her hand around my back and grips my shirt again, taking me by surprise.

  “I don’t want them to know I was scared,” she says with a hint of defiance. “I’m sure they got shots of it before. I want them to think it was deliberate.”

  I don’t deserve to be anywhere near this girl.

  I rest my arm carefully across her shoulders, like before, although it feels different. I’m not sure where my hand should be. Closer to her neck? Or down by her shoulder? When I put my arm around her a few minutes ago, it was pure protective instinct, done without any thought other than getting her out of there.

  Now, I’m aware of her warmth under two layers of shirt, the proximity of her skin to my fingertips when I rest my hand between her neck and shoulder. “Okay?”

  “Yeah.” She squirms closer, tucking her shoulder behind me, so our sides are pressed together, and a flare of awareness shoots through me. The memory of her this morning, hectic color rising in her cheeks when she caught me getting dressed, surfaces unexpectedly. And the urge pulses in me to see more of that. To see if I can cause more of that.

  Shit. I should not be thinking like this. It’s too fast. And she’s Amanda Grace.

  We move toward the doors, and they slide open. “Remember, they can’t touch you,” I say, and I feel Amanda nod. “Keep your eyes focused on the van and try to smile,” I say through my own tight, forced smile. “We’ll be out of this in under a minute.”

  The photo snapping and flashing starts immediately, even before we’re outside. And so does the shouting.

  It’s just as blinding and overwhelming as before, maybe even more so because they feel they missed their opportunity the first time.

  But it’s not a surprise this time. Amanda, to her credit, holds it together, her eyes straight ahead and a grim smile plastered to her face.

  When one guy lunges too close, she shies away, curving toward me, and I stick my hand up, blocking his lens.

  “Move, asshole,” I say in the most pleasant tone I can muster under the circumstances. Because shoving him is only going to get me in trouble with Max, and I’ve got enough of that coming already.

  The photog glares at me and flips me the finger while continuing to shoot, but we’re still moving and he’s missed his chance at Amanda’s face.

  As we approach the van, a girl in the front passenger seat pushes her door open but then freezes in place, her expression uncertain. The walkie-talkie in her hand—seemingly forgotten—tells me she’s a production assistant sent to collect me. Her hesitation says she’s probably a local, a college student, maybe. Or one of Max’s cousins. She’s not used to this, for sure.

  I catch her eye and jerk my chin at the van. She gets it after a second and pulls herself back in and shuts the door.

  After picking up the pace for the last few steps, I lean forward without dropping my arm from Amanda and yank open the rear passenger door.

  Amanda climbs in without hesitation, but her hand catches mine as it moves away from her shoulder and she tugs me in after her, not sitting down until I’m inside.

  I’m not sure if she’s continuing the act she started for the cameras or if she somehow knows I need the support. She might be right on the latter. It’s been years since I’ve done this parade of bullshit sober and never with this much riding on it. Or at this level of deception.

  I slam the door shut and drop into the seat next to Amanda. My mouth feels coated in sand, my tongue dried up and sticking to the roof of my mouth.

  In the old days, I would have had a bottle stashed in my trailer. But this is not like the old days and can’t be again for so many reasons.

  The older guy behind the wheel, presumably Ron from my email, turns to look at us. “Everybody okay?”

  “Yes,” Amanda says, sounding surprised but calmer than earlier.

  Despite the available space, her body is a solid line against mine, the two of us pressed together in the center of the bench. Her hand is still in mine, and she squeezes once in reassurance. For her or for me, I’m not sure.

  She lets go after that, but it doesn’t matter. Guilt is throbbing in me like the worst hangover headache ever.

  And I really want a drink.

  11

  Amanda

  Next to me, Chase drops his head, running his hands through his hair. His body is wire-taut with tension, like any sudden movement on his part or mine might cause him to snap into pieces.

  I’m not sure if touching him will help or make things worse, so I stay still.

  The driver, a guy with white hair and wearing a black Coal City Nights baseball hat, mutters to himself and finally manages to navigate out of the turnaround without running anyone over.

  As soon as we turn out onto the road, the muscles in my stomach relax a little, but dread creeps in almost immediately. Now that we’re away from the hotel, I have no idea what will happen next or even where we’re going.

  My heartbeat ratchets up, and I fight the urge to scoot deeper in the van.

  “So, yeah, hi, I’m Emily,” the girl in the passenger seat says uncertainly, twisting to face us.

  She’s about my age, maybe a little older. She’s wearing an ID badge on a lanyard around her neck, and a black T-shirt with Coal City Nights in swirling cursive print. Her skin has the healthy glow of someone who goes outside, and her blond hair is pulled into a perky ponytail that brushes her shoulders.

  Her gaze skates over me without recognition and dismisses me in favor of focusing on Chase.

  She regards him with a mixture of awe and concern. “Are you okay, Mr. Henry?” The sugary-sweet deference in her tone makes me squirm.

  “Chase.” He lifts his head and gives her a smile, but it doesn’t make his eyes crinkle and there’s strain around the edges.

  Doesn’t matter, though. The desire to give her laser “back off” eyes is a steady drumbeat in my veins.

  “Okay. Chase,” Emily says with a big smile, her eyelashes fluttering.

  My jaw clenches so tightly I hear my new, perfect teeth squeak in protest. Batting her eyelashes? Seriously, who does that outside of cartoons?

  “I’m fine, thanks, Emily,” Chase says with another tight smile.

  Her face lights up, hearing her name. Should I even be here, interrupting this lovefest?

  “Just thirsty,” he adds, rubbing his eyes with a harsh laugh, though nothing about what he said was funny.

  I frown.

  Emily doesn’t seem to notice. “I have water!” She turns and rummages at her feet and produces a small bottle damp with condensation, her face glowing with pride.

  I realize suddenly this is probably what Liza would have been like around Chase yesterday, if I hadn’t been in the middle of the mess.

  And if Liza’s version of flirting didn’t include harsh backhanded compliments and critiquing a guy’s grammar. I’ve seen her in action. It’s ugly. The girl equivalent of pulling pigtails.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I watch Chase take the water with a polite nod of thanks. He cracks it open and takes a sip, but his expression is more of mir
thless amusement instead of relief.

  Then it clicks.

  He’s a recovering alcoholic. I don’t know much about the disease; my family has plenty of issues, but not that one. I’m guessing, though, that stress—like, say, oh, trying to jump-start your career, or running an unexpected gauntlet of paparazzi with a certified head case clinging to your arm—might make things worse for someone who’s trying very hard to avoid temptation.

  Emily beams at him and then produces a clipboard from somewhere.

  “You’ll have about twenty minutes to change in your trailer before you’re supposed to be in Hair and Makeup,” she says with an anxious glance at Chase.

  He nods with no outward indication of irritation. I have no idea if that amount of time is actually an issue or if she’s being ridiculously obsequious again.

  While they’re preoccupied, I dig my phone out of my pocket and do a search. One good thing about being stuck in the hospital or in the house for extended periods of time is that you learn pretty quickly how to make the internet cough up anything you need, on demand.

  It doesn’t take me long to find what I’m looking for.

  While Emily is going over schedules, locations, and other stuff I should probably be paying attention to, I download the app and enter what I think is the zip code for Wescott, or close enough.

  When I’ve narrowed the results, I nudge Chase with my elbow.

  Instantly his attention shifts to me, and I feel the weight of it like it’s a physical sensation. It’s as if I’m the only person in the world who is of any interest to him.

  My face grows warm under the intensity of his gaze, and for a second, I understand exactly what Emily’s feeling when he smiles at her, even if it is forced.

  Then I remember myself and shake it off, tilting my phone screen toward him.

  He squints at it until I lift it a little higher: MEETING FINDER: AA Meetings in Wescott, PA, General Area.

  Relief and gratitude mix with shame on his face, and he nods.

  I click on the one listed at 6:30 p.m. in the basement of the courthouse.

  “Still shooting then,” Chase says to me quietly, watching over my shoulder.