Stolen Tyme

by S. L. Ziegler

  Tara slides up next to me, her phone clutched in her hand, the Bluetooth attached to her ear where she has a person telling her where to place me next.

  “Just breathe. One reporter…that’s all they need tonight. We’ll go in and get you some food. Okay?” Her voice seems so distant, but I nod anyway as she steers me to a nightly entertainment reporter. David? Dave? Luke? I don’t know. My brain is a jumbled mess.

  I shrug to mask my confusion.

  He smiles, almost too hard. When he sees me walk up, he raises his brows at Tara.

  “Never mind, Matt, Ms. Minter isn’t feeling very well,” she says.

  But Matt ignores her. His mic is in my face before I can back away, his stare drilled into me. “Naomi, it’s good to see you. Even with your Tonys under your belt, it must be something else to be nominated for song of the year at the Grammys.”

  Inhaling—calm.

  Exhaling—cool.

  I open my mouth to answer, but the only thing that comes out is a muddled chaos of sounds. My heart bounces around erratically in my chest, my pulse spinning out of control along with my brain.

  I turn to face Tara. Her normally calm features are etched with worry. Nothing makes sense. Everyone around—the flashes, the voices, the air—they all blur. My feet feel as though the rug has been pulled from underneath them. I reach for something—someone—to hold onto. My jaw tenses, and the bile rises from my stomach before I can do anything.

  My head is whirling, searching for its center, only it can’t be found.

  The faint sounds become whispers as my knees buckle, and I collapse. My whole body seizes on the ground before the bright blue sky dims and everything goes pitch black.

  Yep, “I’ll be fine” are my famous last words. Obviously, I’m anything but.

  The door to my apartment thunders open. Tara’s low voice hums down the hall, telling him right where I am. I pull the covers over my face, peeking one eye out. I knew it was coming. I knew the second Tara came into the room at the hospital without even a hint of a smile on her face to try to soothe me, she would call him. She’d have to, and I knew he wasn’t happy.

  He was coming.

  He is here.

  Of course he would be.

  I am his daughter after all.

  The very one who had tears pouring down my face while he kicked me out, dragged me onto a plane, and threw me into an apartment seven years ago—without thinking twice about it.

  I guess his version of helping only worked when he thought I was a drug addict, not when I was some teenager with a broken heart. A heart that still has a bandage holding it together.

  I needed him then when I was a blubbering mess trying to pick the shattered pieces of my wounded soul off the ground.

  I don’t need him now.

  I can handle things by myself now. Alone is the way I’m meant to be.

  Times between us over the last seven years have been too sparse. He’s visited on holidays wherever I was, but never came back to the apartment he dumped me in. We always have one dinner a year where the only sounds made are the forks on the plates, our conversations lacking anything of substance before he rushes back on a plane to head home. Holidays are a thing of the past for us. A home I haven’t stepped foot in since I left—well, was pushed out of. But I make a fool of myself one time, and he’s on the next plane to clean up the mess.

  The mess now being his daughter.

  Figures.

  His hard steps echo as his boots pound the floor. And I know the calm I’ve been surrounded by since I was released from the hospital will now vanish, replaced by my father’s booming voice of anger.

  Bracing myself, I sink lower, pulling the covers farther over my head, relinquishing any visible line of sight. Just like I had when I was a kid and got in trouble.

  But it doesn’t help—didn’t then, won’t now—as he yanks off the layer of security the fabric offered me, and a rush of cold air hits me all at once.

  “Naomi, what in the fuck were you thinking doing drugs? I didn’t raise you like that.”

  “Nice, Lock.” My words are cold as ice. He steps back, like I slapped him. It’s the same reaction I’ve gotten since I stopped referring to him as “Pops.” Since he became more like my mother than I ever thought possible. I pull myself up on the bed. Steadying my voice, I say, “You don’t even ask me what happened. Typical.” I yank the covers back from him. “It’s great to see you. How long has it been since you’ve been here? Oh, never mind…I remember. How could I not? Now, if the only reason you’re here is to lecture me, you can leave the same way you came in. And for the love of all things holy, may the door hit you where the good Lord split you.” Sarcasm drips from my words, and my smile is hard and forced.

  His dark eyes bore into mine and fill me with a fury of my own. His chest heaves in rapid succession, his tattooed arms strain under his self-imposed control, and his mouth is set in a thin line.

  Lock is furious.

  Probably way past.

  Beyond.

  But the hell with him. Fuck him. I’m pissed too, and it’s only building more with each second we share the same air in the same small space.

  “Do you know what I spent the last ten hours thinking? When I couldn’t get in touch with you? And Tara ignored my first call?”

  “Not a clue.” I cross my arms, just like I did as a teenager. This is what being in the presence of Lock does to me—turns me into a petulant brat.

  Fuck. Him.

  “That you were dead. That you, my only damn daughter, was dead! Do you know what that does to a parent?”

  “Payback is a fucking bitch. Isn’t it?” I mumble, not loud enough for him to hear, but something in him changes. Lock just went soft.

  “Listen, Omi.” He sighs, rubbing his hand over his bald head, and hesitates for a few beats of his heart. “I fucked up.”

  I nod. I’m stunned by his admission and my eyes burn with tears that so desperately want to be released, but I blink them away.

  Crying is for the pathetic, and I’m not that anymore. But somehow, the elephant that’s been in the room with us for years is about to get his own covers ripped off, and I’m not sure I’m ready for that yet.

  My bed shifts as he sits. “One day you were my little girl with no fashion sense and thought every boy but me sucked, and the next, you weren’t. You grew up in the damn blink of an eye and then shit went to trash. I didn’t know what to do, or how to take it. All I knew was you needed out of there, and kicking you out was the only way I could let you go.”

  Yep, that big, fat elephant is naked in the middle of the room now. There’s no sheet big enough to cover this problem anymore. It’s out and must be dealt with no matter how much I never wanted to. The air is being cleaned by something as simple as our words.

  I swallow down the choked sob threatening to escape. “I didn’t go out with him with the intention of letting you down. I didn’t think about anything I was doing but being with him. I was young, and head over heels for him the moment he paid me attention. Nothing would’ve stopped me, even if you knew before.” Another hard swallow, more air being cleansed. “But after the disastrous ending, you failed to realize I needed you, my father…not some lecture on what I did wrong or how I couldn’t fix not having your trust. Just you. Just my Pops to hug me and tell me the pain would eventually let up. That’s what I needed most. You to be there.”

  That’s all—to be in the safety of the arms of my father.

  Lock never blinks as he watches every movement of my face.

  “I know that now. And it didn’t fucking help anyone that I let my pride get in the way.” He takes my hands in my lap, gripping them tightly in his rough palms. He stares and says the two words I’ve never heard come out of his mouth before, “I’m sorry.”

  My heart rips in two when our eyes meet. All I ever wanted was for Lock to admit he was wrong. And in this very raw, real moment, he did, and everything is forgiven. My father has tears building in th
e corners of his eyes—real solid ones. Tears that I’ve never seen him shed. Because to him, any pure emotion meant he wasn’t truly a man, and now he’s given that to me.

  My throat burns as though I’d swallowed sandpaper; my chin starts to tremble. “I’m sorry, too. I should’ve known it would ruin everything.” And boy did it. Ruined me, us, my father. X and I ruined everything I ever cared about. And all in the name of unrequited love—at least on his part.

  Love—it’s fucking messy and not worth it in the long run. However, getting my heart and brain on the same wavelength has never happened, and I’ve tried.

  “Oh, sweetie.” My father’s rough voice turns soft as he pulls me into his arms. All it takes is my head to hit his shoulder and the floodgates I thought I locked away rip open. Tears flow like a waterfall from my face.

  I missed this. Us. Him speaking right now just took us back to when it was us against the world.

  “Come back home and get some rest.” His body tenses as he speaks.

  “It’s so damn stupid. I’m stupid,” I cry, hiccupping through the tears. “I don’t do drugs. Never touched them—at least not the drugs you’re thinking of. But the way things went, it could have killed me. I had a seizure from too much caffeine. I don’t know why Tara didn’t tell you. I thought she did.”

  His arms are still around me when he confesses, “No, I saw it. She told me you were being rushed to the hospital, and I got on the first flight here. Jesus. Are you okay now?”

  “I am. I just have to rest and go to follow-ups to make sure there’s no permanent damage.”

  “Pack your shit.”

  “I don’t…”

  He ignores me. The sweet man is gone, and back is the father I grew up with. “I do, and you’re coming home. When I walked in, Tara said you have a month off. Let the fucking vultures parked outside waiting for your picture take a vacation, and you come home and get some sleep. Real sleep. You’re far too young to have bags under your eyes like you do now.”

  I nod against him.

  “Good, because it wasn’t a request.”

  My fingers automatically go to the chain around my neck…where the ring sits. Where it has sat for the last five years when I finally couldn’t keep it on my finger any longer. It was the burning reminder of something else.

  It should remind me of him, of all the things we had. And sometimes it does, but that’s not why I keep it—kept it. That’s not why it’s the first thing I put on after I leave the stage, or the very last thing I take off before I go on.

  It centers me, brings me back, when I could so easily float away. It reminds me not to sink inside myself or let the hurt boil over. It gives me hope for something more out there—something I desperately crave.

  I twist the silver chain around my finger, tighter and tighter, cutting off the circulation as the thought of going home creeps in and festers deep inside. I’ve reached my dreams, but the pile of awards collecting dust, checkmarks next to things I’ve done, and money in the bank aren’t filling that need, that desire—that thing I can’t place my finger on—that’s just out of reach.

  Chapter 2

  Naomi

  The sun breaks through the slits in the blinds. I rap my fingers on the table, willing the creativity to flow. My brain’s completely empty of any ideas on where the show should go—the very one I’ve been contracted for and was given a fifty-percent advance to write.

  I always have ideas, and often dream up new things to add to those existing to make them even better. But today, nothing—nada—zip—zilch. Every idea I’ve ever had has simply vanished into thin air. My brain must’ve slammed into a stop sign and gone on vacation.

  It’s his fault. My very own poison apple in my real-life Garden of Eden.

  Damn it. Damn him. Damn me.

  Hoping a break might help the process, I open a new tab on my browser, and somehow, end up taking a stroll down memory lane. It takes a total of five seconds to hate myself for opening an email account I long ago forgot about—there sits an email from him, and it isn’t an old one. Nope, the date on the side is just short of two weeks old. I didn’t open it. I sent it right to trash. Where it belongs. Where the time we spent together should join it. After years of silence, he chooses now—when I’m back here, feeling more alone than ever—to reach out. It’s like he knows when to pour salt onto an open wound.

  And man, does that shit burn.

  Unless he thinks I’m a druggie, too. Everyone’s saying it. Can’t pass a tabloid without a picture of me falling. Can’t go on social media without someone sharing the video.

  Maybe he thinks I turned out just like him.

  I’m the damn train wreck this time—only mine wasn’t caused by the things that brought him down.

  “You still having problems?” Lock’s voice successfully breaks through the raging memories.

  “Yep.”

  He huffs as he sits. “What are you stuck on?”

  I glance at the blank screen on my computer, puffing out my cheeks. “The first word. No, scratch that. The first letter. It’s madness.”

  It’s never happened to me before.

  “I’ll tell you what you need.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “A damn break. You’ve been stuck inside the house for too long. Get out, go explore.”

  I have. It’s been two weeks, and the only place I’ve gone was to his shop. But leaving requires effort to actually put real pants on, and that requires energy I don’t have.

  I shut down my computer. “Nothing to explore. In case you’ve forgotten, I lived here my whole life.”

  Nothing changes in this town. That’s why I liked it for so long, but it’s also not exciting to come home to.

  “Can I ask you a question?” The intensity flows in his lowered tone.

  “Of course.”

  “Were you happy?”

  I tilt my head to the side, biting the top of my lip. “After the shock of everything wore off, I made a good life for myself. I can’t complain.”

  Shouldn’t complain. People would kill to have the things I do, accomplish what I have.

  “That’s not what I asked, Naomi.”

  I avoid his stare. “I’m not sure.” It comes out breathless, but he hears it.

  “When was the last time you were truly happy?”

  My heart drops to the pit of my stomach. I know exactly the time, exactly the place. Exactly who I was around when I felt it. And that kind of happiness isn’t an option—and the realness I felt in those days…I’m not sure it even existed outside of my mind.

  What I do know is I felt free, which in turn gave me a piece of freedom—undamaged freedom—I’d never experienced.

  If I had the ability to step into a time machine and turn it all back with one flick of a switch, the only thing I would come back with is a bottle of that feeling. I’d hold onto it for the rest of my life. Not him or us, just that simple—untainted, unadulterated—sense of love. There’s something about the first taste of love—I’m sure it’s the key to all being right in the world.

  If only it were just me experiencing it.

  “Right before I left.”

  He nods in understanding, yet the vein in his neck strains. “The time before that then?”

  “When I taught classes at those two studios.”

  “There you have it then.”

  Raising my eyes, I look at him in question. “I have what?”

  “Your answer. Center Stage closed down, but Ms. Lucy’s is still open. See if you can help out there.”

  I breathe a sigh of relief. Center Stage was where my sister was—that’s something I refuse to deal with. She can have the golden life with the mom and the dad. She doesn’t need to ever know that maybe her mom is simply a fake, or that she has another sibling out there.

  “I don’t have a car.”

  “Borrow mine.”

  “I don’t know if she’ll want me there.”

  “When did you let no
get in your way?”

  “Never.” Because I didn’t, ever. Not when I was younger, in my career—hell, even with Xavier. “No” has never been in my vocabulary.

  The clink of keys hitting the table rings in my ears. “Go. Your dance stuff is still up in your room.”

  Oh, to hell with it. Excuses aren’t going to stop Lock from pulling me out of my rut. “Okay.” The pull of a smile hits my cheeks, and for the first time in ages, I have something I’m antsy to go do. “Thanks, Pops.”

  His large, tattooed arm waves me off, but he has the biggest grin on his face as well. “Fucking go, before I turn into a woman and you have to buy me tampons.”

  Right before I run up the stairs, his voice booms off the walls. “I got a friend who owns a boxing gym. It’ll be good for you to go there, too.”

  I turn around and smile over my shoulder. “Are you implying I have anger issues?”

  “I’m saying you have things building inside you that hitting the shit out of a bag could help.”

  My smile falls from my face—he finally seems to get it. “I love you, Pops.”

  “You too, Omi. You too.”

  It may be the way the light hit his eyes, but I would put all my eggs in one basket betting he had tears in them.

  That’s two times in as many weeks that I’ve seen him like this. Lock’s right, I may have to get him some tampons before I go back to New York.

  The reflection in the mirror mocks me. The long-sleeved black leotard is like a glove against my body, effectively covering every tattoo etched on my skin. My dark hair is up in the tightest, sleekest bun, and I’m bathed in the strangest feeling having pink, full-coverage tights on instead of the black fishnets I usually wear.

  They feel alien.

  Everything about this feels foreign.

  But perhaps being here will give me the something I’m missing, just like years ago.

  And now, the reflection staring back at me, the one in the black leotard, opens the door to a memory I’d forgotten. The actions of that day, the person I was then, changed the course of my life.

  When I got to New York, I was so lost I didn’t know which way I was going, which way was up or down. A piece of my heart was gone, the piece that actually loved what I was doing. Six months into my time there, I was on the verge of calling it quits. I heard “no” so much I swear I thought it was my name, my father ditched me, my apartment was broken into, and my savings had dwindled to one hundred twenty-seven dollars.