Amber

by Elle Casey

  I hear a soft knock at the door, so I walk over and look through the peephole. There’s another man in uniform waiting. More gold buttons. I open the door.

  “Hello.” I give him a smile. He’s older than Jeremy, I think, but not by much. They have a very young staff inside the building, whereas the guys out front looked like lifers in comparison.

  “Hello, Ms. Fields. My name is James. I’m here to see if there’s anything I can get for you.”

  “Like what?” He’s kind of stumped me with his offer. Do I need to ask for towels, or are they already in the bathroom? I can’t remember what I saw in there other than eight tons of marble.

  “Anything you could possibly want.” He smiles big, revealing super-white teeth. “Extra pillows, tickets to a Broadway show, a driver to take you somewhere . . .”

  “Wow. You really did mean anything.”

  “We try to make our guests’ stay here as comfortable as possible.”

  My curiosity is piqued. “How much would a ticket to a Broadway show cost me?” I hadn’t considered doing anything like that, but if the band members aren’t going to be back until tomorrow, maybe I should.

  “It depends on which one you’re interested in seeing. Do you have one in mind?”

  I shrug, not especially wanting him to know that I have no clue what Broadway shows are playing or even what they’re like. “I don’t know . . . one of the more popular ones.”

  “Well, it depends on what kind of seat you want, the day of the week, and the time of the showing . . . but if you want something not too far back and near the center, weekday, eight o’clock, and not one of the hottest shows going, probably about a hundred and seventy bucks.”

  Well, I guess that settles that. “Okay. That’s good to know. I’m not interested in seeing a Broadway show right now, though.”

  “Okay, that’s fine. If you change your mind or if you need anything else, just ring the front desk. You can ask for me directly or the concierge. Anyone will be happy to help you.”

  I can’t believe how nice he’s being. After the little scene at the front desk, it’s a nice change. “I will do that. Have a nice day, James.”

  He smiles. “You too.”

  As he’s walking away an idea comes to mind. “James?”

  He pauses and turns around. “Yes?”

  “How much does this suite cost per night?” I’m still not sure I’m okay with being indebted to Lister. I wonder how long it’d take me to pay him back.

  “I’m not sure. I can have someone at the front desk call you and give you that information, if you wish.”

  I chew my lip, not sure I want that girl down there knowing I’m snooping. “It’s probably pretty expensive, huh?”

  “Definitely above my pay grade.” He smiles, and it makes me feel like we’re co-conspirators—two people in this building who could never afford to stay here for real.

  His answer reminds me that he’s a working man and that he came up here to offer me help. I’m pretty sure I’m supposed to tip him. “James, hold on a second.” I dig around in my purse and find that floating ten-dollar bill given to me by the taxi driver. It’s a huge chunk of what I have left, percentage wise, but I’m pretty sure I’ll still be able to afford a hot dog and a ride back to the airport with what I’ll have left. I hold it out. “Here. Thanks for your help.”

  He walks over and takes it from me. “Thank you. That’s very generous of you, especially since I really didn’t do anything.”

  “You can pay me back by telling me the best place to get a hot dog.”

  “No problem at all. My favorite place is Gray’s Papaya on Seventy-Second and Broadway. Times Square is only a ten-minute subway ride from there, if you want to experience that whole thing too.”

  I mull that over in my head. “Gray’s Papaya, huh?” I must look confused because he elaborates.

  “Yeah. They serve hot dogs and tropical drinks. Believe it or not, it works. It’s not too far from here. You could walk, since the weather’s nice, or grab a cab or hop on the subway.” He looks down at my shoes. “You have sensible shoes, so . . .”

  I look at my ballet flats. “Yeah. I guess I didn’t get the memo about the stilettos I see everybody wearing around here.”

  “Believe me, you’re better off. All the women I work with moan and complain about how sore their feet are. I think if they wore shoes like yours, they wouldn’t be in so much pain.”

  “It’s kinda silly what women will do to show off their calves, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah.” He takes a couple steps toward the elevators. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  “Nope. All I needed was the hot dog.”

  “I could go get the hot dog for you, if you want.”

  “Really? It seems kind of silly to make somebody take a walk for me just so I can have some junk food.”

  “Nah, we do that kind of thing all the time.”

  “Oh. Well, no, thanks. I appreciate the offer, but I need some fresh air.”

  He laughs. “Then you probably shouldn’t go outside.”

  I grin back at him. He totally gets me. “Yeah, you’re probably right. I guess I should’ve said I need some New York air.”

  He lifts his hand and waves goodbye as he works his way down the hallway to the elevator. “Have a nice day, Ms. Fields.”

  “You too, James.”

  I close the door, smiling to myself. What a nice guy he is. I wonder if everybody who works here is this nice. The girl at the front desk wasn’t that bad. She was just flustered because I threw her a curve ball over that credit card. And besides . . . she’s a conflicted vegan, wearing those leather shoes and all; they probably don’t make many cloth stilettos. Maybe she just needs a nice juicy steak to help her fix her mood.

  There’s another soft knock at the door. James must’ve forgotten something. I throw the door open with a big smile on my face. “Hello again, Ja . . .” The word dies in my mouth as I see who’s standing there.

  “Wow, you’re happy to see me for a change,” Mister Grabby Hands Ty Stanz says. “That’s nice.”

  I lose my smile and good humor in a flash. “I thought you were someone else.”

  He looks around, up and down the empty hallway. “Who else would I be?”

  I shake my head. “Never mind. Why are you here?”

  “Lister told me to come over.”

  “Is Lister your boss?”

  “No, actually, Lister works for me.”

  “Then it’s kind of weird that he’s telling you what to do and you’re doing it, right?”

  He shrugs. “Maybe. I’m just trying to handle things for the band while they’re out of town.”

  I lean on the doorframe and look him up and down. “So, what exactly is it that you do, Mr. Stanz? Because it seems to me that those people outside Lister’s office were pretty excited to see you.” He doesn’t strike me as an errand boy. More like a heavy . . . someone’s bodyguard. But if he’s a bodyguard, why isn’t he guarding someone? And how does that make him famous?

  He plays with the brim of his hat, twisting it left and right. “You’re not funny, you know.”

  His response confuses me and puts me on the defensive. “I’m not trying to be funny. I’m asking you a serious question.”

  He looks up at me and pulls his sunglasses off. Now I can see his eyes and they’re squinting at me.

  “What?” I say, when I can’t stand the tension anymore. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “Because . . . I’m trying to figure out if you’re for real.”

  “I am for real. What is your problem, anyway? I’m just asking a simple question.” This man could not be any more frustrating, and I don’t think he’s even trying to be.

  “I just don’t believe you don’t already know the answer to that question.”

  “I wouldn’t ask it if I already knew the answer, okay? I don’t play games like that.”

  His laugh is bitter. “Everybody pla
ys games like that.”

  I shake my head. “Whatever. Are you going to answer my question, or am I going to shut this door in your face like you did to Lister’s secretary?”

  He gestures at the interior of my room. “Are you going to ask me in there or not?”

  I bark out a laugh. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “What? Are you afraid of me or something?” He’s smiling like he’s funny.

  “Oh, I don’t know why I would be,” I say sarcastically. “I mean, you approach me at the airport and manhandle me, dragging me around by the arm—not once, but twice—and then you try to accost me in my cab when I have my money out. Why on earth would I be afraid of you?”

  He hisses out a quick sigh. “Oh, give me a break. I’m no threat to you. You’re the one who smashed me in the eye, remember?” He points at his face again, ripping off his hat so I can get a good look. The spot he’s indicating is a little more purple now than it was before.

  Without even knowing me, he’s sensing exactly what buttons he can push to get me to react. I hate that he’s labeling me as some kind of abuser. My mothers have preached peace and kindness to our fellow man every day of my life, and here I am . . . one day in the big city and I’m already giving people black eyes. “Stop saying that. I didn’t hurt you on purpose. You stuck your face in the cab and came after me. I was just defending myself.”

  He puts his glasses and hat back on and sticks his hands in his front pockets. “How about we make a deal . . . I won’t tell anybody how you messed up my face if you let me in there so we can talk for a few minutes. Clear the air before the band gets back in town.”

  I back away from the doorway a little bit, almost ready to concede. “Not that I agree that I messed up your face . . . but fine. We don’t need to tell anybody about our previous interactions; that would be perfect with me. But if you lay a single finger on me, I will Mace the shit out of you.” I don’t care if he’s Lister’s client or whatever. If he tries to take liberties with me, he will pay the price.

  I reach into my bag that’s still over my shoulder and pull out a tiny aerosol can of water that I bought in the airport to help keep my skin hydrated and protected against this polluted environment. It’s pretty much the opposite of Mace, but he doesn’t know that. I wrap my fingers around the label so he can’t see it as I hold it up. “This will make your eyes burn like the fires of hell, so stay far away from me.”

  He holds up his hands in surrender. “Don’t worry, I have no intention of getting anywhere near you, trust me.”

  “Fine.” I back away, opening the door wider. “Come on in.”

  He walks through the door and into the living-room area, settling down in a chair. I shut the door behind him and turn around to face the music. When I join him in the living room, I find him with one leg crossed over the opposite knee while he looks around. “Nice digs,” he says as he pokes the top of the couch cushion with a stiff finger.

  I take a seat across the coffee table from him. “It’s not what I would’ve picked, but it’s free, so whatever.”

  He nods. “I guess you like the simpler life?”

  I get the distinct impression from his tone that he doesn’t believe what he just said. “Actually, I do.”

  “Sure. Right.” He looks around some more.

  Rather than continue to be insulted by him I push to get an answer to my question. “So? You’re here now. You’ve reached the inner sanctum.” I hold up the fake Mace so he knows I’m not messing around. “Tell me what your situation is.”

  He leans back and laces his fingers behind his head, tipping his cap up off his forehead. “Sure. What do you want to know?”

  “Who are you and how do you fit into the puzzle? You said you don’t work for Lister but he works for you. But you wear eyeliner, you were conscripted to pick me up at the airport, and you look like a baggage handler who works for the airlines, so I’m at a loss as to who you really are.”

  A slow grin spreads across his face as he stares at me. “A baggage handler?”

  I shrug. I’d tell him that he has the muscles for it, but I don’t want his ego getting any more involved than it already is.

  “Man, that’s cold. I’ve been called a lot of things in my life, but I don’t think I’ve ever been called a baggage handler before.”

  When he laughs, it takes the edge off my anger. And when he takes his sunglasses off and his hat with them, the rest of my negative emotions disappear almost completely. I have to admit . . . he is pretty cute, even though his eyeliner is smeared and his hair is sticking out all over the place. I’m actually interested to know the answer to my question now, when before I was only mildly curious.

  He stops laughing and looks at me, his expression softening. “You really don’t know, do you?”

  I shake my head and sigh. “Don’t make me Mace you.”

  He tips his head back and laughs loud and long. When he finally stops he grabs his hat, twisting it in his lap. “I am . . .” He pauses and seems to go into himself, no longer totally with me in the room. His voice lowers and loses all emotion. His expression goes dark. “I am . . . a replacement for an irreplaceable man.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  What does that even mean?” I ask. A replacement for an irreplaceable man?

  Ty still seems lost within himself when he answers. “It means that I took over the job of lead guitarist for Red Hot after Keith James died, but according to pretty much everyone in the entire world, I’m not up to the job.”

  Now the makeup, hairdo, and tattoos are starting to make sense, along with the fact that he was in Lister’s office. “You’re not up to it because you can’t play their songs well enough?” I find it hard to believe that a band as experienced as Red Hot would accidentally hire someone unqualified.

  “No, that’s not it.”

  After trying to imagine my mothers’ reaction to him being onstage, knowing how much they cherish Keith James and all the rest of the band members, I nod. “Okay, I get it. You’re thirty years too young, you’re not sporting a teased mullet, and you don’t yet have a beer gut, wrinkles all over your face, or hanging jowls.”

  He looks up at me slowly, his expression at first suspicious but then more relaxed as the lines of worry ease away. “No, that’s not it either.” His smile is barely there, but it’s charming, nonetheless.

  “Oh, trust me, I’m sure it is.” I roll my eyes and shake my head, lowering the fake Mace to my side. “The women who fell in love with these guys thirty years ago or whatever are all the same; they’re lost in the past. They see these guys who haven’t changed their clothes, hair, or music, and they picture their own pasts, imagine they’re still living in them—still young, still vibrant, still wild and free. I’m sure when you walk out onstage you destroy the illusion. It won’t matter how well you play . . . you turn the clock forward just by being you.”

  I can picture my mothers going to one of their concerts and complaining about how there’s a baby up onstage where he doesn’t belong. It’s probably why they never mentioned there being a replacement for Keith; they figured if they said it, it would make it real. They can get really weird about Red Hot. I made fun of one of the band’s album covers once, and I got sent to my room for half a day, and was only allowed out when I apologized to all three of my moms for being disrespectful.

  “Maybe.” He’s studying his fingers as he rubs his knuckles. He doesn’t sound convinced.

  It’s possible he sucks. That could explain why people aren’t excited about him being there. “Are you good?” I ask.

  He looks up at me. “What do you mean? Good about what?”

  “Not good about something. Are you good at something . . . playing guitar? You must be, otherwise they wouldn’t have hired you.”

  “I think I am.”

  Maybe it’s a genuineness issue. “Are you a fan? Were you a fan before you got the job?”

  “The biggest.” He sounds very confident about this part of his st
ory, and his mood becomes more animated. “I’ve been listening to their music since I was a kid. I know every single one of their songs backward and forward.”

  I smile at his silliness. “I think I might like to hear one of their songs backward.” This situation is obviously bugging the hell out of him, but at least he can joke about it.

  His smile disappears. “I wasn’t kidding. I really can play them backward.”

  I laugh. “Why on earth would you want to do that? Their songs are boring enough going forward.”

  “Boring? Are you kidding me?” He sounds offended now, like my mothers would be if they heard me say that.

  I’m taken aback by his strong reaction. “Are you also the president of their fan club?”

  He looks confused, which softens his angry expression. “I don’t get it.”

  I smile to put him at ease. “Your feathers got a little ruffled there. I was starting to think you’ve been running the fan club since high school or something.”

  He shrugs, relaxing back into the couch. “I am a fan. Hardcore. I have been my whole life.”

  “Well, I’ve been listening to the music my whole life too, but I have to be honest . . . I don’t get it.”

  He throws his arms over the top of the couch and drops his head back. “Yeah, well, it doesn’t matter.”

  His comment shouldn’t hurt, but it does. I’m way too sensitive today. “No, I don’t suppose it does.” I look around the room, trying to come up with a conversational topic that will get us past the awkwardness, but I’m coming up blank. I wonder why he’s here when the band can’t see me until tomorrow. I’m also curious about why he’s not with them. But knowing that he’s not exactly welcomed by the fans, I figure it’s probably a touchy subject, so I decide not to bring it up.

  “So what’s your deal?” he asks. “How do you fit into the puzzle?”

  Now it’s my turn to look at him suspiciously. “You must already know that, seeing as how you’re Lister’s errand boy and the lead guitarist for the band.”