Dangerously Close

by Dee J. Adams

  Seger pissed, then rinsed with mouthwash, happy to get the sludge of morning-after Jack Daniels out of his mouth. He dared a glance at the mirror and didn’t recognize the man staring back at him. His greasy long hair hung in his face, his swollen right eye glared, black. His jaw had a black and blue mark that looked less like a fist and more like a…a…again, he had no clue. He looked like death and smelled like booze and smoke. Last night’s melee edged itself into his memory, but not enough to give him a clear picture. Running his fingers through his tinted blond hair, he padded back to the bedroom.

  How the hell was he going to manage six more months of this tour? His drinking had gotten worse, his carousing had gone to new levels of lewdness. Just two mornings ago in…wherever the hell he’d been, he’d woken up with three women in his bed. Three. His recollection of that night was vague to say the least. He’d finally indulged his three-woman fantasy but was too wasted to remember it. What the hell was the point?

  This town’s lady stretched and preened in his bed, a smile curving her lips as she rolled over, opened her eyes and spotted him. Her body was sleek and tan, her breasts firm, pert. Her long, shiny, dark hair fanned out across his pillow. “Good morning, Seger.”

  That was him. Seger Hughes. Rock star. Millionaire. All around bad boy.

  Shit. That was no woman in his bed. Her voice was high. Last night he’d thought that was funny. But now, seeing the smudged makeup, the smoothness of her skin, the undeniable roundness in her cheeks…

  A fresh explosion of pain erupted in his head as the daddy of all headaches pounded viciously in his skull. It matched the mushroom bomb of alcohol still residing in his gut. Sweat popped out along his forehead and trickled down his face. No doubt he’d participated in stupid stunts during his career… He’d had his share of trashed hotel rooms and one or two barroom brawls. He’d even had a sex tape make the rounds a decade ago.

  But… Mother of God, he’d gone and done it this time.

  She was jailbait.

  Someone pounded on Seger’s door and started a fresh jackhammer effect in his head. The female in his bed casually covered herself with a sheet. He had barely turned the knob before Greg, his manager of seventeen years, plowed into the room. Seger owed his career to this man. Not only had Greg taken him in after Seger’s first agent had died, but he’d quit his job as a record exec to manage/launch Seger’s fledgling career. Greg had been putting out “Seger Fires” for years, keeping his calm and his sense of humor intact. Mostly.

  One look at the bed and Greg rolled his eyes. “Geezus, Seger, what the hell did you do this time?” he murmured, closing the door behind him.

  Hadn’t he just asked himself the same question? “Good morning to you too, sunshine.” His voice sounded as rusty as he felt and he stumbled to the bottle of water on the desk and took a slug. God, he was as dehydrated as the fucking Sahara.

  Obviously Greg wasn’t really expecting an answer as he quickly gathered Bitsy-Bitty-Betty’s clothes together and tossed them on the bed. “Rise and shine, Cupcake. Time to get dressed.” How did Greg always manage to look so perfect? Never did the man have a dark hair out of place. His shirts didn’t wrinkle and he never smelled…bad.

  Music started playing and Seger looked around the room, searching for the source of the offending notes of a Rob Thomas song. Betty-Bootsy-Binky—whatever the hell her name was—snagged her cell phone from the night table, flipped it open and abruptly ended the music. “Hi, Mom,” she said. She checked the clock and wiggled into her underwear and skirt while still under the sheet. “I’ll be home in twenty minutes. I didn’t forget. Don’t worry. Bye.” She closed the phone and with no regard as to Greg’s presence, she sat up, dropped the sheet and threw a tiny top over her perky breasts.

  She had Rob Thomas on her cell phone and not him? She’d frickin’ slept with him last night, but didn’t have the courtesy to play his music on her phone?

  Rob-fucking-Thomas?

  “Sorry, I have to go,” she explained, shaking out her hair. “Mom’s waiting for me. She loves your music and thinks you’re awesome.”

  Mom loved his music? Seger was afraid to ask how old Mom was. His stomach churned as he stood speechless near the foot of the bed.

  “How old are you, Cupcake?” Greg asked while she dug her feet into mondo high heels. Clearly her youth hadn’t gotten past him either. That’s what Seger loved about Greg, he was all over damage control.

  Seger held his breath, waiting for her answer. He really didn’t want to know. He especially didn’t want to go to jail. Or get shot by a pissed-off pop.

  “Eighteen.” She smiled brightly as she strutted across the room.

  An equal dose of horror and relief—along with a matching sigh—gusted out of Seger’s chest as she reached him and draped her arms around his neck.

  “You were my birthday present,” she crooned.

  Which meant she’d very recently been seventeen. Which would have, most definitely, been a crime. Either God was smiling down on him or getting ready to send him to Hell. Seger wasn’t sure which. Probably the latter.

  “Birthday present?” he asked, his stomach once again tying in knots. Maybe she’d bought the tickets months ago on her actual birthday. “You didn’t just turn eighteen?” A stupid question, but his fuzzy brain needed the clarification.

  “Yesterday. Happy birthday to me,” she sang. Way off key too. Ouch. A new round of sweat popped out on his forehead, and her face morphed into a sorrowful pucker. “Poor baby, all battered and bruised.” She ran a gentle finger across his cheekbone and Seger had the sudden urge to jump out of her arms…and out of his skin.

  Instead he stood frozen in fear, his arms at his sides. Dear God, if she tried to kiss him, he might physically throw her off him. Or be ill. What the hell was wrong with him? How could he have—he glanced at the tangled sheets on the bed—done that? Her? Done that with her?

  Thankfully, Greg grabbed her by the waist and ushered her toward the door. “What’s your name, Cupcake?” he asked.

  “Belinda. But my friends call me Bendy.” She flashed a knowing smile in his direction. “Seger knows why.” Then she winked.

  Oh, Lord. Jack Daniels swirled in his gut.

  “Leave your name and address at the front desk and we’ll send you a signed CD, Belinda. It was nice meeting you. Bye-bye.” Greg all but pushed her out the door as Seger collapsed on the bed.

  Shit, that had been close. Too damn close.

  The door slammed and Seger cracked his good eye open to see Greg standing with his arms crossed over his chest. He looked as if he’d been going for hours already today. His brown eyes were alert, his white shirt, crisp and clean, his black slacks with the perfect crease in the front said he was a man in charge. He was only five years older, but he treated Seger like more of a wayward son than used-up rock star.

  “Nice, Seger. Really nice. Since when did you start fucking high school girls?”

  Seger’s stomach picked that second to revolt and he just managed to get to the toilet. A few minutes later he came out of the bathroom feeling a little better, but not much. Greg sat on the edge of the bed, head in hands. “Something’s gotta give, Seger. We can’t…you can’t keep going like this.”

  Hell, and didn’t he know it.

  “You’re killing yourself and you’re alienating your audience.” Greg pierced him with a scathing look. “Seriously, how many times can you stick the microphone out to the audience and expect them to sing your fucking songs?”

  Ouch. That hurt worse than Bendy’s off-key rendition of “Happy Birthday.” Seger sat next to his friend, his manager since he’d been eighteen years old. Seemed as if eighteen was the magic number today. Yeah, okay, so maybe recently he’d begun to blank out on some of his songs…forget the words. Maybe he’d started to blank out on more than just the songs…

  “Answer me this,” Seger asked. “What the hell happened last night?”

  Greg gave him an incredulous look. “You don’t
remember?”

  Shaking his head, Seger ran a hand down his stubbled jaw. “No, not really.”

  “I shouldn’t be surprised.” Greg snorted. “You had two double shots of Jack before the show and another four shots in the middle of the show and God knows how many after. It’s a wonder you got it up for Bendy. Geezus.” Greg ran a hand through his hair. “Bendy? I couldn’t have made that one up.”

  “Yeah, okay. So last night…?” Seger persisted. He didn’t want to talk about Bendy.

  “Last night you had two rival high school football teams in the pit. They started fighting and squashed the people at the front into the base of the stage. A few people, your Bendy, for one, nearly suffocated in the crush. You pulled her onto the stage and probably saved her life. Some of the security guards pulled other people out as well, and other event staff tried to shift the crowd back. One of your ‘fans’—yeah, right, I’m guessing it was Bendy’s boyfriend—attacked you. Probably because you decided she needed mouth to mouth.” Greg snorted again and continued, “You must have dropped your handheld mic and that’s what he clobbered you with.” Greg inspected the bruise on his jaw. “Yeah, that’s a beauty. Security pulled him off and I got you out of there.”

  Belinda’s face flashed in Seger’s mind, white-faced with fear and gasping for air. Once back stage and another few shots of JD later, Seger had asked about her, and Greg had brought her to his dressing room. She was pretty. And grateful. He’d been drunk. And very willing to accept her appreciation. Happy birthday… But damn she’d looked older than eighteen last night. He would’ve bet money she was closer to twenty-three, twenty-four. Not that he’d asked.

  “I rescheduled your Letterman appearance because I knew your face was going to look like hamburger meat this morning. I managed to get you on next week though, so you’d better heal fast. At least by then we’ll be able to cover any bruising with makeup.” Greg stood and headed toward the door. “Pack it up, pal. The bus is leaving in an hour. We’ve got a show in Montana day after tomorrow.”

  “Where are we now?”

  “Boise. That’s in Idaho.”

  “I know where the hell Boise is,” Seger groused. “I just didn’t remember where we were.” Boise, Bumfuck. Did he care anymore? When had his life gone to hell?

  “Just wait for me to come back for you, all right?” Greg said and shut the door behind him.

  An hour later, Seger threw on a pair of shades, closed his door and got on the empty elevator at the end of the hall. He’d tried to call Greg, but the man hadn’t answered his cell phone. The sooner he got to the bus, the sooner he could relax. Seger didn’t have a good feeling about this town. Not since this morning. He hadn’t fucked a teenager since he’d been one himself. Even then, older women had been attracted to him and he’d almost always ended up with them. He liked women of almost any age, liked their bodies, their softness, the way they said his name when he was inside, but a teenager? That was low even for him. After last night, he didn’t plan on getting lucky with anyone for a long time. Nothing like a high school senior to scare the hard-on out of a guy.

  Everything was quiet, which suited him fine since his head felt like someone had drilled into it. The solo elevator ride was appreciated too. All he had to do was get to his bus and he could sack out for a few more hours.

  The elevator reached the lobby with a ding, the doors opened and Seger stepped out. A flash of light caught him off guard and a swarm of reporters rushed him with microphones held out. Shit! The questions flew fast and furious, just like the shutters on the cameras.

  “Seger, why do you think last night’s concert got so out of control?”

  “Do you think you’ll ever play in Boise again?”

  “Do you take responsibility for last night’s incident?”

  “Is it true that you had a local high school girl in your room last night?”

  Good news sure traveled fast, didn’t it? Those were just the questions he understood. All the reporters and paparazzi swarmed and spoke at the same time, taking his space, his air, as if he was sub-human and not worthy of any privacy. Maybe he wasn’t. Not anymore. Maybe he’d lost the privilege when he’d started this downhill slide. This pack of wolves fed on his fuck-ups and he’d given them more than plenty to keep them circling.

  Greg grabbed his arm and yanked him toward the bus. “No comment. We have no comment at this time,” he kept saying.

  Make way. Clear a path. Damage Control Master at work.

  “Seger, your sales are down and there’s talk of canceling show dates, can you confirm or deny this?”

  “No comment,” Greg said.

  The bus door opened and Greg shoved him inside. “Goddamn reporters. Sons of bitches. I told you to fucking wait for me, Seger. What the hell did you not understand about that?” Red faced and pissed as hell, Greg looked ready to have a stroke.

  “Look, I tried to call your damn cell phone and got rolled over to voice mail, so get your shit off my back.” Seger headed to the back of the bus, to the bed waiting for him in the small dark room. He couldn’t think about anything. Couldn’t deal with the shit.

  Things needed to change.

  Chapter Three

  Malibu, California

  November

  Present Day

  “Wait, wait, wait for me!” Ellie called as she scampered around the car and headed to Ashley’s side.

  Ashley loved her but didn’t wait. She opened the car door and got out.

  It was odd seeing so little yet imagining everything. The world was gone in the middle, but Ashley still saw around the edges. She may have missed most of the gestures and expressions people made when they talked, but she certainly imagined them. She couldn’t see an eye roll, but could almost always tell when someone did it. She imagined facial expressions and laugh lines. As she listened to the swoosh of the palm trees, she imagined their fronds swaying in the breeze and if she looked off to one side she could see it in her periphery. She heard the distant roar of the ocean and imagined the white-capped waves hitting the beach.

  She imagined that one day she’d see again too.

  As of now, she’d been declared legally blind. The diagnosis had been as shocking as getting clobbered on the head with scaffolding. Once had been plenty—thank you very much. How bad did her luck have to run before life turned around? Stupid question considering all that she’d gone through the past two years.

  Ashley forced back the tiny bud of panic that rose whenever she thought about her vision. Or lack thereof. This was a temporary situation. She knew it in her heart. She’d get her vision back. The alternative didn’t compute.

  The doctors weren’t sure why her vision hadn’t returned since all her tests had come back negative. There was still some swelling in her brain, but it was so miniscule that they hadn’t been able to justify keeping her hospitalized. That had suited her just fine.

  Right now, she was so happy to be out of the hospital and at home that she couldn’t contain herself. She may have only lived here for a year, but she knew every inch of her house as if she’d been born in the place. She’d redone so much herself, she felt as if she had built the damn thing. So walking from the driveway to the front door and up the single front step wasn’t going to kill her. Ellie—who had a new nickname, O.E., for Overprotective Ellie—scrambled to reach Ashley before she got too far. Ellie had a new railing installed during Ashley’s hospital stay and Ashley found it without trouble.

  Turning at the step, Ashley breathed in the ocean air. The clean, fresh smell and the sound of rustling branches might be just what she needed for a full recovery. She caught the scent of roses blooming in the bricked-off flowerbed leading to the house. If she turned to the side, she could even see the brilliant red and yellow petals.

  “God, it’s good to be home,” she said as she grasped Ellie’s arm and they took the step together. Ellie unlocked the front door and Ashley walked into her house for the first time in a week. The fresh scent of rain from the j
ar of oil incense hit her first. She saw everything clearly in her mind. The large entryway split off in two directions: her bedroom directly to the left and the rest of the house on the right. Her “little” two-level guesthouse was four thousand square feet of pure heaven. She had four bedrooms, a dining room, living room, family room and an enormous kitchen. It was her dream house and she’d spent the better part of a year fixing it up and making it her own. The entryway boasted large cream-colored tile. Thick tan Berber carpeting ran along the long hallway. Pale yellow drapes hung next to the windows, and pictures and murals decorated the walls. Her house was an extension of her. Everything she’d hoped for.

  And she could hardly see any of it.

  “I still can’t believe you painted all this,” Ellie said, stepping into the living room. “How could I not know you were this talented? Every time I come in here, I find a detail I missed before.” She was talking about the mural Ashley had painted on the living room wall. Actually, she’d painted at least one in most of the rooms of the house and a couple stretched into two walls. Most depicted the ocean, but a couple had European elements and all were 3-D with depth and movement. Ashley had fooled around while painting the first room as she decided on colors. The living room had one window that looked out to the front, but Ashley had painted a second window on the far wall. Outside was a view of Italy and Lake Como. She’d done a damn fine job of it.

  “Because I didn’t know I was that talented,” Ashley replied.

  “I mean, I knew you were an artist at heart, but I never thought you were this amazing.” Ellie got quiet, as if she realized that she’d brought up a potential hornet’s nest of a subject. Because yes, Ashley had painted her house and made it a haven and now not only could she not paint anymore, but she couldn’t enjoy what she’d already done. A streak of chills chased up her arms.