Hushed

by Joanne Macgregor

  Logan Rush. Age: 20. Nationality: American. Height: 6 ft. 1 inch (which my online converter tells me is 1,85 metres). Foot size: 10. Hair: black. Eyes: blue.

  The websites don’t give details of the exact shade of his eyes — plain old ‘blue’ is good enough for them. But not for me. Zeb can call me obsessive all he wants, but when it comes to Logan Rush, I believe accuracy is important. I’ve studied the movies and photographs, and I think his eyes are a deep cobalt blue. Deep enough to hold secrets. Deep enough to fall into.

  The last time I watched Beast: Sun, forcing Zeb to watch with me, I’d pressed freeze-frame on a close-up of those eyes and saw that the blue of his irises was rimmed with a darker outline. I sighed and stared, batting away Zeb’s hands as he scrabbled for the remote control.

  “He has beautiful eyes, admit it,” I insisted.

  “They probably exaggerate them using CGI.”

  “What?”

  “Computer graphics imagery. His six-pack is probably CG-enhanced, too.”

  “It is not.”

  I forwarded the movie to the point where Logan peeled off his shirt, about to transform into a tiger, and studied his form.

  Phwaor! (I may or may not have said that aloud.)

  “Yup, photoshopped. Definitely,” said Zeb. “Or maybe it’s body paint.”

  “Cynical much?” I said. “You just don’t want to admit that you think he’s hot, too.”

  “Do not.”

  “Do too.”

  “I prefer the other one — with the blonde hair and dimples. Is he in the next scene?” Zeb said. He snatched the remote, and then we were looking at the fair-haired villain.

  “I love Logan Rush.” I said it every time I watched one of his movies, and I meant it.

  “You don’t love him — you don’t even know him!” Zeb objected.

  “I do,” I said stubbornly. “I know he has a younger sister who lives with their mother in Atlanta, Georgia, in the States, and that when he was just seven years old, his father died in a car crash and they were left penniless. Poor little thing. His first acting role was as Peter Pan in a sixth-grade school production.”

  I knew everything there was to know about his rags-to-riches story. I even knew he had a crooked baby toe on his right foot from when he’d pulled a sewing machine onto himself at the tender age of eight. (Where was his mother — the negligent woman? He might have killed himself!)

  “You know what his publicity department puts out — that’s not the same thing as knowing him. He could be gay for all you know. He probably is.”

  “Wouldn’t change how I feel about him,” I say loftily. “And, for your information, we have loads in common.”

  Zeb laughed out loud at that. “Like what? You’re eighteen — just — and he’s what? Twenty-five?”

  “He’s not even twenty! That’s a difference of less than two measly years.”

  “Both your parents are still alive, you live in South Africa while he lives in the USA, plus there’s that little fact of him being a massive movie star and you’re Miss Nobody just finishing high school!” He batted away the popcorn I threw at him. “To me, it seems like you have nothing in common.”

  “Well, that goes to show how little you know.”

  Like Logan, I also had a sister. Four of them, actually. I was also passionate about ecology — I figured he must be, given the subjects of his movies. I had a dog and so did Logan. Mine was a mongrel called Lobster. His was a beagle called Toffee that he’d adopted as a puppy from an animal shelter four years ago. Awww!

  “A dozen magazines have crowned him the ‘Sexiest Man Alive,’” I told Zeb. “He’s also ranked #1 on Movie Newz’s ‘Hottest actors under 25’ and been Teen Screen’s ‘Hottest Heartthrob’ for the last three years in a row. They call him the Prince of Hollywood.”

  “Romy,” cried Zeb. “I’ll admit he’s the hottest star in the freaking Milky Way if you just stop talking about him. Please!”

  Zeb looked to be near breaking point, so I’d eased up on the public raving about Logan. But I didn’t stop dreaming about him in private.

  It feels like I’m still dreaming now as I sit beside him, watching him sleep. I study him in the faint light, feature by 3D feature. His hands have long fingers and surprisingly slender wrists. His jaw, shadowed with slight stubble, is squarer than it looks on-screen, and his face leaner. His slanted brows are the same pitch-black as his hair, which he wears just a touch too long, and his eyelashes are impossibly long. Lashes like that are totally wasted on guys.

  I wish I could pry open an eyelid and check the precise colour of his irises. But mostly what my hands long to do is to touch him. Gently. To smooth back the thick lock of hair that flops over his forehead when he shifts in his seat, to trace the line of his cheekbones, to test the pressure of his lips.

  My hand is halfway to his face when I check myself. It’s not okay to caress people when they’re practically unconscious. I remember his attempts to evade all the touching and invasion of his personal space on the yacht. Poor guy, people are probably always trying to get a hold of him — mere mortals wanting to touch a god. I’ve read accounts of fans snatching at his clothes and even yanking hairs out of his head. No, it wouldn’t be right to touch, no matter how seriously tempted I am. And I am seriously tempted.

  I tuck my hands under my arms and force myself to look away. Tilting the rear-view mirror, I check behind us and see the lights of a car slowly cruising past along the road, but no one has followed us up the driveway. I reckon I’ve shaken our tail. Still, it’s probably a good idea to hide out here for a little longer. Then it occurs to me that I have no idea where ‘here’ is.

  From my position sunk down low in the seat, all I can see out of the window are the low-hanging, shadowy-leafed branches of a tree. I raise my head just a few inches and peep out.

  In the dim light, I see an angel, pure white and draped in robes, with wings outstretched towards me.

  I jerk bolt upright and stare around, my eyes taking in the shadowy details — the angel mounted on a massive stone plinth; the rows of marble headstones and stone crosses; the badly mown grass, plastic floral arrangements, and in a grassy patch just next to where we’re parked, the deep rectangular hole with a mound of loose earth alongside.

  I’ve driven us straight into the dead centre of town.

  Chapter 7

  Angels and demons

  Sitting in the dark graveyard, I half expect to see a zombie rise out of the open grave, eyes staring blindly, flesh rotting, mouth dripping blood and pus. I’m being ridiculous, I know, but when I laugh at myself, the chuckle sounds forced.

  Zombies aside, this probably isn’t the safest place to allow Logan Rush to catch some z’s. There’s a real risk of meeting vandals and modern-day grave-robbers here to prise brass plaques off gravestones and memorials to sell for scrap, or to source free flowers for their girlfriends. They might decide that I’m richer prey and turn their attention and screwdrivers on me. Plus, if one of the paparazzi or fan cars spots us from the road and drives up behind, we’ll be trapped. It’s time to move.

  The lane is narrow, bordered on either side by raised brick edging, and obviously intended for one-way traffic only. With my luck, if I try to reverse my way out or turn around, I’ll steer us straight into an open grave. So I start the car and drive forwards, looking for an exit sign or a spot to turn.

  The place is as creepy as a crypt, and pitch-dark apart from our headlights. Eerie, distorted shadows shift around us. I wish Logan would wake up — I could use some company. Deliberately, I go too fast over a speed bump, but though the car bucks and bounces, Logan’s head just lolls onto his other shoulder. Honestly, if people knew how much of a heroine-protecting action-man he isn’t …

  Well, they’d probably still love him.

  The lane curves in a loop — surely it’ll spit us out at an exit soon? The headlights illuminate the cold ashes and bits of wood from an old fire built in the hollow of a tree trunk. W
hat if those are the remains of an evil circle of devil worshippers, gathered around a pentagram drawn in blood over a grave, sacrificing a cat? Or a monkey. Or a cat-monkey mutant. I shiver, then I spy gates ahead. The exit!

  But the gates are bound shut with a thick chain and sturdy padlock. Crap. We’ll have to go back the way we came, after all. Muttering under my breath, I shift gears and begin the toing and froing and wheel-turning of a three-point turn. Or a twenty-three-point turn, to be more accurate — the lane is extremely narrow.

  The difficult manoeuvring distracts me, for a brief minute, from things that creep and pounce and ooze, but once my clammy hands are steering us back to the other gate, my feverish mind shifts to local legends — the restless ghosts of the slaves once housed in wet, slimy tunnels beneath the old parts of the city, and the hairy, evil dwarf Tokoloshe that comes in the night to bewitch, and eat toes, and cart off the unwary. Silly!

  When we finally reach the entrance, I see that one side of the gates has swung — or been pushed? — closed. To escape this place, I’ll need to get out of the car and push the gate back open.

  Unnerving images flash through my mind — the plot of every horror movie I’d ever seen, the gruesome details of every graveyard urban legend I’d ever heard. There’s that one about a couple making out in their car. They hear a strange noise, and the man gets out to investigate but doesn’t return, and the woman grows frantic with worry. Then she hears a dripping on the car roof. She thinks it’s rain, but it’s really the blood of her boyfriend’s slit-throated corpse, dangling from a tree limb above the vehicle.

  I do not want to set foot outside of this car. I cast a hopeful glance at my companion.

  “Logan? Logan?”

  No response. Unchivalrous git.

  I take a good look around for any men or monsters before I unlock the door and climb out, ducking to avoid braining myself on the low-hanging branches of a cedar tree. The angel’s wings now seem more imploring and less protective. And is it my imagination or does the mound of earth beside the empty grave look like it’s grown? I scurry towards the gate, hyper-aware of mysterious rustlings, the sighing of the wind in the trees, and the weird whistling hoots which I hope like heck are just the calls of night birds and not the secret signals of gang members.

  I swing the gate back open, jam it in place with a loose brick, and dash back to the car. Once the door is closed and locked, I sigh with relief and laugh a little at my foolishness. Which is when it happens — a long, screeching scrape of sharp claws on the metal roof of the car — and I scream.

  It’s a terrific scream, too. Short and sharp, but glass-shatteringly loud and high. It comes from deep inside of me, powered by all the tension and frustrations of the day. Maybe even of the year.

  Logan levitates. I swear he lifts at least a hand’s height out of his seat. He might not have the Beast’s superpowers, but the boy can fly. Also, he can yell — lower than me, but maybe even louder. His eyes start open and his hair seems to stand on end, although that may be because it’s dried in that position, mashed up against the crumpled towel.

  “Wasser?” he yelps.

  I’m already feeling much better. The venting, cathartic scream helped, plus I’ve realised that the screechy scrape was probably just a tree branch. Right now, I feel a lot calmer than Logan looks.

  “Anything the matter?” I ask, aiming for cool and collected.

  Logan looks over at me with wild eyes and recoils in fear. From me! I’ve saved his ass not once, but three times already — more if you count the fact that I’ve protected him from potential robbers, serial killers and the Tokoloshe — and now he stares at me with deep suspicion and a wariness verging on panic.

  “Who are you? Where am I?” He peers out of the windows, spots the tombstones, celestial beings and open graves, and glares back at me, clearly horrified. “Where have you brought me? And why?”

  “Relax, Braveheart. We’re just in a cemetery.”

  “You won’t get away with it!”

  “With what?”

  “With whatever you’re planning to do to me.” He fiddles with the door, trying to find the lock.

  “So this is the thanks I get?” I push my glasses up on my nose, start the car, and drive back out into the road. “You’re welcome, I’m sure.”

  “And what have you done with my shoes?” Logan demands, staring down at his bare feet.

  “Not that again! Jeez, you’re obsessed with your shoes — you know that?”

  A moment later, we’re back on the main road in the deserted industrial area, and this time, undistracted by pursuing cars, I clearly see a road sign ahead pointing the way to the central part of the city.

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “You tell me — last time we spoke you couldn’t remember the name of your hotel. Any luck now?”

  He frowns. Hiccups. “No.”

  “Remember what it looks like at all?”

  “It’s very big —”

  I roll my eyes at him.

  “And there’s a silver dolphin in the lobby, if that helps. And —”

  “Say no more, it’s the Cape Majesty.”

  I navigate a route towards the V&A Waterfront, where the super-exclusive hotel is located. Logan sits quietly for a few minutes, hiccupping every now and then.

  When he speaks, he sounds embarrassed. “Um … I’m sorry, I may have been a bit rude back there. I was unnerved — with the graveyard and all. I’m Logan Rush.”

  “I know,” I say, smiling at him.

  “Yes, but … um?” His eyes look a question.

  “Oh, yes, sorry. I’m Rosemary Morgan.”

  “Right, right … And, um, why am I in your car?”

  “You don’t remember what happened?”

  He frowns, narrows his eyes, and cocks his head. Which, for the record, makes him look super cute.

  “I remember the party and then … did I go swimming?”

  “You could say that.”

  “And there were screaming girls —”

  “Yup.”

  “And a penguin!”

  “It’s all coming back to you now.”

  “And my sho —”

  “Logan,” I interrupt. “I swear, if you mention the sh-word again, I will personally feed you to the lions.”

  “What lions?”

  “You’re in Africa. Lions are never far away,” I threaten, completely untruthfully. Still, it distracts him from his preoccupation with his missing footwear.

  He shakes his head as if trying to clear it, then winces and lifts a hand to his forehead.

  “You’ve got a nice egg forming there,” I tell him.

  He quickly flips down the visor, lifts his hair off his forehead, and peers worriedly into the small mirror on the back.

  “Damn!” He examines the lumpy bruise from different angles and then tries to hide it under a thick lock of hair.

  “Yeah, your looks are totally gone,” I say, amused. No other guy I know is this vain. Zeb will laugh his head off when I tell him the story.

  “They’re going to kill me.” Logan flips the visor back up and slumps back in his seat.

  “Who?” I ask as we drive through the entrance to the massive waterfront tourist complex where trendy restaurants, exclusive hotels, hot nightclubs and high-end stores almost entirely disguise the working docks of Cape Town around which they’re built.

  “Make-up, lighting, continuity. Cilla.” He groans the last word.

  “Cilla?”

  “My nemesis and slave driver. The queen of the underworld. If they have to reshoot, she’ll skin me alive!”

  “Who is this woman?”

  “My director.” He suddenly sits bolt upright and swears, then casts me a contrite glance. “I apologise. Bad language is one of my vices.”

  In person, his accent is more lilting and Southern than it is on-screen, and perfectly charming, though his words are a little blurred around the edges. He’s obviously still slightly buzzed.r />
  “I should let her know that I’m okay. She’ll be really worried.” He pats his pockets. “Well, not worried so much as enraged and on the warpath.”

  “You said you left them a note.”

  “I did?” He sounds impressed at his own foresight.

  “And I think you’ll find that your phone —”

  “— doesn’t work, yeah.” He holds up the sleek, black cell phone. A bead of water oozes out of its bottom seam and drips off. “What the hell did I do tonight? Go swimming in my tuxedo?”

  “Pretty much. You know, they say memory blackouts are a sign of drinking too much.”

  “I don’t do it often,” he says defensively.

  “Here we are — the Cape Majesty,” I announce as we pull up to the impressive high-columned entrance of the swanky hotel, where a horde of tourists is disembarking from a luxury coach.

  I’ve already turned into the short approach leading to the guest drop-off point, where a pair of doormen in top hats and gold livery wait, when I see them. I reach out my left hand and shove Logan’s head down.

  “Get down. Rushers!”

  Logan bends over double in the passenger seat of my car, but to be extra sure he isn’t visible to the rabid fans outside, I pull the towel over his back and head. I whizz straight past the surprised hotel doorman, who’s already stepping forward to greet us, squeeze around the luxury bus, and keep going. As one, the waiting girls scan my car quickly, find it lacking in the hot heartthrob department, and return to watching the incoming road.

  I’ve got to figure out a way to get Logan inside his hotel without alerting the pack of Rushers.

  “Now what?” Logan’s voice is muffled under the towel.

  I rack my brain for a few moments. I’m quite enjoying this — today is the most exciting day I’ve had since, well, ever really.

  “I have a plan,” I say, zipping into an entrance to the multi-storey, under-cover parking garage that adjoins the back of the Majesty hotel. “You can sit up now.”

  “I’m sorry to keep repeating myself, but where are we now?”

  “There’s a direct entrance through the mall into the hotel,” I say, driving up the ramp that leads to the upper parking level. “It should be mostly empty at this time of night, provided it’s still open.”