When Stars Burn Out
Page 1
When Stars Burn Out
Carrie Aarons
Copyright © 2018 by Carrie Aarons
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Editing done by Proofing Style.
Cover designed by Okay Creations.
For SDG, my earth angel who became a star. You are so loved and missed.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Epilogue
About the Author
Also by Carrie Aarons
Prologue
Demi
Nine Years Ago
Glancing at the clock, I read the numbers 1:02 a.m.
Nothing good happens at this time of night. At this hour, people should be sleeping. Or getting off a shift at the hospital. Or waking for a glass of water or to soothe a crying baby.
What they shouldn’t be doing is sitting in front of a makeup mirror, the light all too bright contrasted in the darkness of a dorm room.
I slick on a coat of my favorite lipstick, careful to check that each eyelash is perfectly separated and inked with black mascara. Reaching for the hairbrush, I smooth out the curls I just spun into my hair, conscious of making it look effortless yet sexy.
I lie to myself, tell my stupid heart that this time he will notice the effort I put in. That when he opens his door, he’ll finally realize that I’m beautiful and worth talking to, not just calling in the middle of the night for a fuck. Denial runs deep in my pores, and I pick out the perfect “I just happened to be up and get out of bed to come over and hang out,” outfit.
But, of course he won’t recognize any of this. He will cover his mouth with mine, throw his hands in my hair, pull at my clothes … and then I’ll be a goner. All of the resolve I’ve built up, the hours I’ve spent talking to myself about how to form a real connection this time will go out the window.
And then I sit and wait, my foot nervously tapping as I stare at my phone waiting for the green light. Because when he calls, I come. I never have, and never will, say no.
My friends constantly look at me with disapproving stares when I make my way home with him from a party, or trek over to his dorm in the cold, or silently cry when I watch him kiss other girls on campus.
I’m weak, and I know it. But, I’ll never stop.
Because being with him is the best high I’ve ever known.
Because when he touches me, there is no better feeling in the entire world.
Because I’m the moth and he’s the flame.
And the thing is, I know he wouldn’t even notice if I burned completely.
One
Demi
Watching someone else’s dream come true is a blessing.
A tiny moment in which you have the privilege of witnessing that person’s joy, their unadulterated happiness when the one thing they’ve wished for is standing right in front of them.
It’s a high like no other, a selfish and selfless act at the same time. Knowing you are making it possible, and that you’d do whatever necessary to allow them to soar.
That’s what I do for a living. I watch as children’s greatest dreams are fulfilled, and then simultaneously as they themselves are pulled away from this world.
I watch them run with the greatest athletes on earth, scream their little lungs out on the rides at Disney, giggle as they make a cameo on their favorite television show. And then I swallow the bile in my throat as their mother’s attach their oxygen tubes, or give them a needle in the middle of Magic Kingdom, or shield their brittle bodies from the sun because being outdoors too much will compromise their immune system.
Over the years, my stomach has become a vault of steel, I’ve trained my tear ducts to become immune. But there are still those cases that wiggle their way under your skin, flay you open and make you hurt.
That’s how it is with Ryan Gunter. The seven-year-old boy who was recently diagnosed with the same cancer I watched dismantle my own brother years ago.
“We’re taking this one.” I throw the file on the gray-washed oak table in the conference room.
“Demi, we are so overloaded as it is, maybe we can wait until next month …” My vice president of operations, Farrah, shifts her eyes to the six other employees sitting around the table.
“I don’t care. We’re taking this one. I’ll work the extra hours, get the paperwork passed through, I just … this is one of mine.” My light brown bangs fall a little into my eyes, and I realize I need to visit my salon for a cut.
Every so often, one of my staff at Wish Upon a Star would claim a case as theirs. Some illness, or a kid they became attached to from reading the file, that was close to their heart. And even if we were buried in work, even if it would burden us to take on another case, no one said a thing.
That was how it was now, a silent compliance falling over the table.
“Okay, Gina, tell us where we are at with the other cases.” My hands smooth down my hunter green dress, the fit and flare a good color match for my creamy complexion and milk chocolate-colored hair.
I was the boss, the face of my nonprofit. While it felt materialistic and superficial to worry about curling my hair and strapping on stilettos each morning, it also showed the world that I was a serious business woman. And that gained me clients who would work with us, so it was a necessary evil.
My marketing coordinator ran through the current children we were trying to grant wishes for, and what was left in each case to get it done. Currently, we had ten children who needed their wishes fulfilled in the next two months. My team was talking to the professional baseball team in New York, a connection at the White House, a resort in Aruba, and the pop princess who was on her million-dollar world tour right now.
I’d started my company five years ago on a wish and a prayer with the inheritance I’d received when my grandfather passed. He had always supported my dreams, and when he’d left this world, I knew that it was time to do what I’d been thinking about for years. Every time I’d settle into my six-hundred-square-foot apartment back then, after a long day at the public relations firm I did grunt work for, I would think about starting this nonprofit tha
t made children with incurable illnesses happy. To give a little part of joy to the families who were suffering, because I knew all too well what that was like.
With hard work and elbow grease and just a few too many hours sucking up to useful connections, I’d built my business into a wonderful, successful charity. People heard the name Demi Rosen, and they knew I could get things handled. They knew I could make dreams come true.
“Let’s get a drink, I think after today, we’ve earned it.” Farrah comes into my office at the end of the day.
Looking around the room that is my private office, closed off from the rest of the beautiful space Wish Upon a Star occupies in one of the nicest buildings in downtown Charlotte, I think she’s right. My office, as much of the entire space, is primarily made of floor-to-ceiling glass windows that overlook the bustling city. While it isn’t New York or Chicago, our secondary city is a busy place in its own right. Modern furniture, desks with each employee’s personal touch, and walls lined with black and white photos of our wishes granted over the years complete the space.
The one expense I do splurge on is fresh flowers weekly for our office. It seems to keep everyone’s spirits up, and when families come to visit, a beautiful bouquet just sets them at ease or gives them the smallest boost of cheer.
“I think I’ll take you up on that.” I pick up my leather satchel and follow her out.
We arrive at McDaniels, the bar around the corner, in the swing of happy hour, and are lucky to find a table.
“Why do I feel like we get older every time we come here?” Farrah’s trim snakeskin patterned slacks and white bell sleeve blouse make her look anything but.
She’s edgier than I am, with a jet-black bob and a nose ring. When I’d first interviewed her, I hadn’t thought we would be able to work together. But, it turned out, Farrah was the yin to my yang when it came to running the business. And she has also slowly developed into one of my closest friends.
“Because most of these kids don’t even know what the word 401(k) means yet.” I flag down a bartender and order us two gin and tonics, having been very practiced at the two-for-one special they ran.
At thirty years old, Farrah and I were on the older end of the scene here, but it wasn’t as if we looked the part.
Farrah stretches her neck. “Damn, I need to get laid.”
She was, unlike me, very casual about sex. Often, she’d regale me with her tales of hookups gone wrong, and gone oh so right.
“Well, you have many eligible men to choose from.” I waved my hand around the bar.
She shrugged. “Eh, these are boys. I’d eat them alive. But it doesn’t mean they’re not your speed. Let me be your wing woman.”
She’s pleaded this before. “Nope, you know my rule. No dates, no men.”
“Are you a lesbian? Come on, seriously, you know you can tell me.” Farrah has posed this question before.
I chuckle. “I would have no problem telling you if I was, but no. Honestly, it’s just simpler this way, cleaner.”
She sighs and turns away, people watching and finishing her drink.
I nod to myself, knowing I’m right. If you never let anyone in, at least intimately, you never got hurt.
And I was never going to allow myself to be hurt again.
Two
Paxton
There is something severely humbling about getting older.
Not just in the mental sense, the learning and wisdom that comes along with adding years to one’s life.
No, for an athlete it is always about the physical. The aching bones that become harder to ignore each time you come off the field. The joints that crack with each movement when you get out of bed in the morning. The muscles that can no longer lift the amount of weight they used to.
And then eventually, the injury comes. It could be one, it could be many. But there is always that defining moment when you know your career has reached its peak, and now you’re on the slope tumbling down to retirement.
At the ripe old age of thirty, a year after I’d torn my meniscus, I knew that I was already halfway down that hill.
I circle my hip, warming my right leg up in the training facility that looks nothing like the one I inhabited for the last ten years. Because what also comes along with getting older, at least as a professional football player, is getting traded. It’s leaving the organization you’ve bled for, for years because they could sell you on the cheap to a team who could use a seasoned, even if he’s not one hundred percent, veteran.
I’m bitter, yes, but that’s the way of the league. Not that Charlotte isn’t nice; it’s warmer than Massachusetts. I attended college here, it’s sort of like coming home. It has a nice downtown and a good fan base, the apartment I was set up with isn’t half bad.
“How is the knee feeling?” Anthony, the trainer I’ve been working with since signing with the North Carolina Cheetahs, walks into the state of the art facility.
The best lifting equipment, lines of treadmills and bikes, weights, medicine balls, resistance bands … all in the bright warehouse painted in the team colors of maroon and gold. It looks similar to every other professional athletic center I’ve ever been in. In fact, this is the room I’ve spent the most time in since moving back to Charlotte two months ago. That’s kind of pathetic.
“Feeling loose, which is good. I think I’ll be good to go for practice this week.” We were a week out of the regular season, and I’d missed training camp.
After tearing the muscles in my knee halfway through last season, I’d elected to have the surgery and make the rough battle of a comeback. At thirty, many were counting me out. But I was going to prove those fucking talking heads wrong.
“Good, ’cause I’m going to push you to the limit today.” He smiles like he’ll enjoy my pain.
Which he probably will.
Anthony walks to the radio, tuning the Sirius to a heavy metal station that he knows will get my head in the right space.
“Hey, have you taken some time to learn the city yet?” He sits down next to the mat where I stretch out.
I repeat my physical therapy exercises, three reps before I attempt to work out. “Honestly, I’ve just been trying to get as healthy as possible to play.”
“I get that. But … you should get out for a little. Walk around, see how the fan base and the people here operate. Sometimes, it will give you even more motivation. Remember, football is as much of a mental game as it is a physical one.”
He was right, of course, but I hadn’t allowed myself to have a social life in years. The occasional drink with a teammate, a dinner with my brother when he came to town, the rare date … but that was about it. My life, for the last seven years, had been miserably lonely.
Anthony sees my hesitance. “Listen, I’ll tell you what. I’ll buy you a beer after I whoop your ass for the next hour.”
Warring with myself, I decide I kind of need the relaxation. “Okay, you’ve got a deal.”
Two hours later, the waitress sets our burgers down in front of us.
My mouth waters and I now believe Anthony when he tells me this tiny restaurant off Tryon Street has some of the best food in town. It’s been so long since I lived here, I have no idea what restaurants are good anymore. Everything has changed in the eight years I’ve been gone, including me.
I wash down my first beer, a hoppy IPA, before digging in.
“Shit, I needed this after the hell you unleashed on me today.”
He laughs. “For an old geezer in this league, you can surprisingly hold your own.”
I give him a stink eye. “Asshole. I’ll go toe to toe with any of these hot shots coming out of the draft.”
“I don’t doubt it. Honestly, I think you’ll be ready to play. That’s the recommendation I’m going to give Coach Bryant.”
He shouldn’t be telling me this, but I appreciate the openness. “Thanks, man. You don’t have to compromise yourself for me, but I know your word will go a long way with Coach.”
I lived and breathed football, it was my life. But sometimes, I wanted to shut down shoptalk. And right now, was one of those times. “So, you’ve been with the organization how long?”
He puts down his napkin, covered in barbecue sauce from his burger, and clears his throat. “About six years, and it’s a great place to be. The owners are great, coaches listen to us trainers, and they’re a no-nonsense club, so they don’t allow a lot of goons on the roster. My wife loves it here; our daughter just started kindergarten … it’s just a great city to live in.”
“I didn’t realize you were married.”
Anthony pulls a necklace out from under his shirt, a wedding band hanging in the middle. “Ten years, dude. I keep my ring here, don’t want the weights to scratch it. But, Lucy, that’s my wife, she’s the best thing that ever happened to me.”