by Abby Brooks
Liam does not look at the wall like I just asked him to. He brings his gaze right back to me and there’s a flash of emotion on his face that I recognize. It’s only there for a moment, one tiny little millisecond of feeling, and then it’s gone. Whisked away with a sniff of his nose and a shake of his head. But it doesn’t matter. I saw it and I recognized it for what it was.
Despair.
Brent goes off like a windup toy, a slew of words sliding from between his overly balmed lips.
“Holy fuck, Brent. Shut up,” Liam says without looking away from my face.
Brent does not shut up. “This is ridiculous, Liam.” He pinches the bridge of his nose and smooths back his perfectly shaped eyebrows. “I don’t know who she thinks she is, saying those things to you, but we’ll have you on the first plane to LA as soon as I get my assistant on the phone. And you…” He levels a finger at me. “You can rest assured that I’ll have your job for this.”
Liam sighs and closes his eyes. When he opens them again, they’re trained on mine, and for the first time since he’s been here, he looks real. “You might be the first person to ever be honest with me in my whole life.”
A million sarcastic remarks want out past my lips. Little caustic things, venomous revenge for every awful thing he’s said to me over the last couple weeks. A minute ago, I would have let them fly in a glorious display of self-righteousness. And in all honesty, I’m not convinced he still doesn’t deserve a solid dose of the truth. But that look in his eyes. The despair. I can’t say any of those things after seeing that.
I finally settle on: “I’m sorry.”
“I might be, too,” he replies. And then he blinks and the moment’s gone. “Now, finish whatever it is you’re doing to my face—” he waves a hand over his cheek and turns away from me, “—and get the hell out of here.”
“Gladly.” I bite off the word, instantly sorry I didn’t let my sarcasm fly when I had the chance.
I’ve never liked Liam McGuire. His music is vapid. Soulless sound designed to showcase his sex appeal. Combine that with the ridiculous headlines smeared across the tabloids—the temper tantrums, the womanizing, the utter asshattery—and you can bet that I’ve considered him a scourge on this Earth for the better part of a decade. But seeing that despair in his eyes just now? That bothers me. This guy has everything money could possibly buy, a lifestyle that anyone would be crazy not to lust after, and yet he still knows the cold, dark, empty pit of hopelessness. There’s something profound there. I’m just too pissed off to dwell on it.
I gather my things and leave the room. Liam and Brent start in on another argument as I pass Gary and Josh, pausing to blow a puff of air past my pursed lips once again. Whatever it is that Liam’s dealing with that hurts him like that, I’m sorry for him. I really am. But I sure will be glad when they ship his spoiled ass back to LA.
LIAM
“Hang up the phone, Brent.”
Brent hunches around the thing and turns his back to me. Assuming I didn’t speak loudly enough for him to hear, I raise my voice to better make my point. “Hang. Up. The. Phone. Brent.”
“Hang on a second,” he says to his assistant on the other line and then pulls the phone from his ear, waiting for me to speak, impatience tightening the space between his eyes.
I didn’t tell him to put his assistant on hold. I told him to hang up the damn phone. I stare him down, drumming my fingers on the armrest of this tacky chair, eyebrows lifted. Waiting.
With a heavy sigh and a shake of his head, he puts the phone back to his ear. “I’ll call you back in a few minutes. You better have a way to get him out of this backwoods shithole, sooner rather than later.” He ends the call and slides his phone into his breast pocket.
“I’m not going back to LA.”
Brent scoffs. “Yes, you are. We’ve got consults scheduled with four of the best plastic surgeons in the world—in the world, Liam. You’re going to come out of this just fine. Better than ever, even. PR is already putting out fires in the media, calling bullshit on any story that claims you’re hurt.”
“But I am hurt.” I turn my focus towards the window and the cluster of buildings soaking up the sunshine on the other side of it.
“They don’t need to know that.” Brent waves his hands through the air, grabbing my attention again. “To clarify, we’re admitting that you’ve been injured. You know how women are. If we can generate sympathy for you, a little worry about your safety and well being, they’ll be so worked up by the time you get back on stage that half the audience will orgasm the minute they see you. We’re just denying the allegations about an injury to your face.”
“Allegations. Are you shitting me right now?” I point to the bandage. “Does this look like an allegation to you?”
“As soon as we get you out of surgery, that’s all they’ll have. Allegations.” Brent waits for me to reply, but I’ve got nothing to say to him. He starts pacing excitedly, his polished shoes squeaking on the sterile floor. “We’ll have a tour scheduled the minute the doctors clear you to travel. Wait. No. Maybe it’s better if we hold off. Really drag it out. Leak a few stories about how hard your recovery has been. You know, really get those sympathetic engines revved up.” He smiles so widely his face might crack. “We’re going to make so much money off this accident.”
His eyes are glassy with adrenaline and I hate him for it. Our bus rolled into a ditch. People are hurt. Like seriously hurt. There’s a chance one of the groupies isn’t going to walk again. I’m hopped up on so much pain medication I can’t always see straight. And he’s busy planning a comeback tour and counting the money.
I look the bastard right in the eyes. “I’m not going back.”
“Bullshit.”
“You know it and I know it. My career is over. They get one look at this scar…” I can’t even finish the thought. “I don’t want sympathy selling tickets. I want my music selling tickets.”
Brent lets out a puff of air and laughs. “It’s never been your music filling the seats, Liam. You and I both know that or you wouldn’t be so concerned about what happens if people see that scar.” He softens his tone and uncrosses his arms. “Come home. Talk to the surgeons. We’ll drop the sympathy stuff and focus on getting you back on your feet.”
He says that but he doesn’t mean it. Brent will say anything to make me stop fighting with him. Next thing I know, I’m doing the very thing I didn’t want to do, saying whatever it is he tells me to say. Smiling for the cameras, strutting around mostly naked in underwear ads. As far as he’s concerned, I’m not much more than a trained monkey and I’m tired of it.
I stand and start pacing, yanking on the IV stand until the power cord comes out of the wall. Brent does his thing, talking at me from a million different directions and I do my thing—ignoring him until he goes away.
Of course, there’s nowhere for him to go. At least nowhere around here that he would deign to consider up to his standards. He complains about the shitty little motel he’s staying at. The lack of decent coffee in the entire state of Ohio. The general basicness of the food and the people. He forgets that I come from a town like this. It’s been a long time since I’ve been home, but my best memories come from a place almost identical to Grayson. All his complaining does is remind me why I decided not to trust him the first time I met him.
The damn IV pump starts beeping at me again, but I ignore it. I can see how it annoys the hell out of Brent. Combine it with the flapping of my hospital gown and the ample view he has of my ass, and his frustration has hit a level where it looks like his face is trying to implode. He’s staring at the cord with pursed lips, his meticulously groomed eyebrows so furrowed they look like the unibrow God gave him, wondering if he could get me to stand still long enough to plug it in.
He can’t.
I intend to pace until he can’t take it anymore and leaves. He can go sit in his shitty hotel room and I can finally get a minute to breathe. Some time to work on the song that w
on’t leave me alone. It keeps playing on repeat in my head, bits and pieces of phrases and a melody so sweet it’s like honey on my tongue. I think it’s going to be good when it’s done, which is a shame because no one but me will ever hear it. It’s not sexy enough to fit my brand. I’ll just put it with the rest. All the other songs I’ve written but won’t get to perform because the powers that be have deemed them ‘too deep.’
No one cares how you feel, Liam, they say. They just want you to sing songs and shake your ass so they have something to think about when they pull out the vibrators at night.
Whatever. Fucking assholes.
“Mr. McGuire?” The cute little nurse with the shitty attitude walks back into the room, shaking her head. She takes one look at the power cord trailing behind the IV and points to the bed. “Have a seat.”
Thanks to Brent, I’m so tired of arguing, I just do what she tells me without a word, plopping onto the shitty mattress and puffing out my cheeks. I can’t figure this chick out. She’s cute enough, in a ‘real’ way. Her blond hair piled high on her head, held there with a rubber band. She probably took all of five minutes to do it, but it works for her. She wears very little makeup, just a little mascara to darken her fair eyelashes, but she’s still pretty enough. Compared to the lacquered women I’m used to in LA, she’s a breath of fresh air.
When she scrawled her name on the whiteboard during her first shift with me—Bailey with a heart over the i—I thought for sure we’d be fucking in the bathroom by the end of the day. But, turns out Bailey with a heart over the i can’t stand me. Imagine that.
Brent pulls out his phone, stabs at the screen with his finger, and puts the thing to his ear. “Tell me you’ve got those plane tickets,” he barks at his assistant.
Bailey meets my eyes and smiles sadly. I know that look and I hate it. She actually feels sorry for me. Me. Liam McGuire. I don’t need anyone’s pity. Especially not from this tiny hardass of a nurse eking out a living out here in the middle of nowhere. I stand, grabbing the IV stand and yanking the cord out of the wall just as she finishes plugging it back in, and cross the room to Brent. As Bailey gasps and Brent turns to me, eyes wide, I take the phone from his hands and end the call.
“I’m not going back to LA.”
“You tell me how you think that’s going to play out.” Brent steps back and folds his arms over his chest. “Enlighten me.”
“I’ll stay here.”
Brent bobs his head. “And the paparazzi? How will you handle them? You know they’re stationed at every single motel in a fifty-mile radius, right? That I have to deal with them every time I leave here and every time I pull up into the parking lot of that trash heap I’m staying in?”
“I’m not staying in a hotel.”
“Right.” Brent draws out the word, his sarcasm fully engaged. “Of course you aren’t.”
“That’s right. I’m staying with her.” I jerk my thumb over my shoulder to indicate bitchy Bailey. “We discussed it last night. After you left.” I turn to her, smiling wide. “Didn’t we, Bailey?”
She’s got three seconds to close her mouth and accept my statement with a smile on her face before Brent calls bullshit. Of all the nurses, in all the world, why did I have to get the only one who wouldn’t jump at the chance to have me stay with her?
Brent watches Bailey’s reaction and lets out a snort of laughter. “Nice try, McGuire.”
I stare at the woman and widen my eyes, only to be rewarded with a jolt of pain through the stitches on my face. I’ve been talking too much today. My cheek hurts and I’m exhausted. I just want to crawl into bed and sleep. Pull the cheap little blanket over my head and pretend like none of this is happening. Like I’m back in LA in my own bed, sliding between my Egyptian cotton sheets.
“Yeah.” The nurse clears her throat, making a whole lot of eye contact with me, and then with Brent. “Yeah, he’s staying with me. I just thought we were keeping it secret is all.”
She needs to stop looking so baffled by the words coming out of her mouth. Like, now.
“Okay,” says Brent, holding up his hands. “I know he’s put you in a hard situation, sweetie, but you don’t have to cover for him.”
Bailey sets her jaw, anger flashing in her eyes. “I’m not covering for him. I was complaining about my patio and he offered to stay here and help me build a new one.”
Brent laughs. “I haven’t heard you say more than three words to him. You don’t even like him. Now you’re inviting him to stay in your house? Sorry sweetheart. Not buying it.”
“I like him just fine. It’s you I can’t stand.”
Score one for bitchy Bailey with a heart over the i.
“And you,” says Brent, pushing off the wall and heading over to me. “Since when do you think you can build a patio? You can’t even brush your own hair.”
“I sure as shit can build a patio.”
Brent laughs again, the condescending little snot. “Because you’re so accustomed to hard work and doing things yourself.” He shakes his head, crosses his arms over his chest, and turns away from me.
He has no idea how hard I work. The endless touring with back-to-back concerts in different states—hell, different countries—each night. That takes its toll. I barely sleep, but it doesn’t matter. I have to get up on that stage and dance and sing and smile whether I feel like it or not. This body, the one they’re working so hard to sell, I don’t just wake up with it. In between the travel and the performing and the press conferences, I have to find time to hit the gym and hit it hard. I’m no stranger to hard work.
All that being said, if this chick thinks I’m building her a patio, she can think again. Just when I thought she was someone who wasn’t interested in getting something out of me, she goes and proves that she’s an opportunist like everyone else.
C’est la vie. The world is a shitty place filled with shitty people. Everyone is out to get ahead and no one cares who they step on to get what they want. So, you know, do unto others and all that. I’ll use this nurse to get Brent out of my hair. Maybe take a beat and let my face heal in peace. And after that? Who knows? Maybe Liam McGuire will just fall off the map. Go out on a high note rather than ride my career all the way to the bottom.
Because let’s be serious, if I don’t have my face and my sex appeal, then I have nothing at all.
BAILEY
What in the world is happening right now? Did I really just invite Liam McGuire to stay at my house in exchange for building me a patio?
Why, yes. That’s exactly what I did.
It’s not like he’s actually going to stay with me. Obviously, he’s looking for a way to get his manager out of his hair. But, the guy is so used to taking what he wants, to spouting nonsense and having everyone nod their head in star-struck silence, I couldn’t help but add the bit about the patio in there. He put me on the spot? Well, I put him on the spot. All’s fair in love and war. Right?
Except there isn’t any love here. None at all.
So, what’s that leave us with? War?
Holy shit. What have I done?
As Liam argues with his manager, standing in a pool of sunlight streaming in through the window that’s turning his hospital gown all but transparent, I soothe myself with the knowledge that I haven’t really done anything. I mean, let’s get real here. Liam wants to stay with me as much as I want him to stay with me. So, like, not at all. But as Brent goes to work belittling the guy, I see more and more little flashes of sadness and anger on Liam’s face. He hides it well, wrapping it all up in disdain and irritation. Not many people would catch the nuance or notice the difference, it’s just that I’m particularly clued in to people hiding pain. I can’t stand it. No one should hurt and feel like they need to hide it. The deeper you bury emotions like that, the more destructive they become until it all explodes in one big dramatic event.
“You’re right about one thing,” I say, interrupting Brent in one of his condescending tirades. “Liam’s going to have
to fly under the radar and that’s not going to happen with him looking like that.” I gesture to the highly styled, pierced, and tattooed man with his ass hanging out of the back of his hospital gown.
Brent feigns shock. “Finally. Someone’s making some sense around here.”
“So,” I continue before he goes on. “You have to go buy him some clothes.” I turn to Liam. “And you’ll need a haircut. Maybe even go back to your natural color.”
Liam’s jaw drops, but I push forward.
“I don’t know what to do about the tattoos.” I chew on a fingernail and study his arms before turning to Brent. “How recognizable are they to his fans?”
Both men blink at me in silence.
“Alright, fine. You guys think it over, but I have work to do.” I move as if to leave the room.
Brent takes one last look at the stubborn set of Liam’s jaw and sighs. “Fine. You’re right. He’s going to have to blend in a whole lot more than he does now. I’ll call his stylist and get her flown out here. I don’t know what to do about the tattoos. His fans will notice and recognize them.” Brent reaches for his phone and I stop him.
“Nope. No stylists. Nothing fancy. You guys will just make him a different version of what he already is. If he’s hanging around here, he’s going to need to blend in, not stick out.”
For as certain as I sound about all of this, there’s a steady strain of ‘what the hell am I doing’ running through my head. But, I’ll be damned if I spend any more time listening to these men argue. If they can’t figure out which of them is in charge of this situation, I’ll take the choice right out of their hands.
“You,” I say, pointing at Brent. “Go to Walmart—”
“Walmart?” Brent looks horrified.
“Yes. Walmart. Buy him jeans. Shirts. Probably long sleeves if he plans on leaving the house. It’s summer, so that will suck, but at least the tattoos are covered. He can have short sleeves for when he’s at my house. Get him a bottle of hair dye, as close to his natural hair color as possible—”