by Emma Scott
My eyes widened as I looked at the glass art with new eyes. There were two sphere-shaped paperweights, one that looked like it was filled with sea life from a coral reef, and the other holding an incredibly intricate swirl of color. Beside the paperweights was a bottle striped with gold dust soaked in ribbons of red.
I picked up the paperweight with the sea life in it: anemones with white and yellow tentacles, ruffled ribbons of color, and—somehow—the speckled colorations of tropical fish.
“A piece of the ocean in my hand,” I murmured. I glanced up at him. “You made this?”
“Yeah. It’s what I do. I’m not a limo driver. That’s my night job. By day I’m an industrial artist. Lighting, metal, glass. Mostly glass.”
“You’re really good,” I said. “More than good. This is astonishing.”
“Yeah, thanks.” He rubbed the back of his neck, watching me hold the glass.
He probably thinks I’m going to break it. I carefully set the paperweight back down.
“So, I gotta get to the hot shop,” Jonah said. “That’s where I make them, the glass. I’ll be there until about two this afternoon.” He pressed his lips together, thinking. Finally he said, “I guess… Well, I guess you’re welcome to stay here until then.”
“Really? You don’t mind?”
“I don’t know if I’d go that far,” Jonah said with dry smile. “There’s some food here in the fridge, if or when you’re up to eating. Help yourself to the bottled water, too. If you really need to smoke, there’s a little courtyard in the middle of the complex. You’ll see the sidewalk just to the right as you go out. It has benches and an ashtray.”
“Okay, sure. Got it,” I said, relief flooding me that I had a few hours before I had to face the music. So to speak.
At the kitchen counter, Jonah scribbled something on a piece of paper and brought it back to me. “This is my cell number. If you need anything, just call. Phone’s in the kitchen”
I took the paper and met his gaze. Up close, his eyes were warmer. A deep, rich brown.
“Thanks a ton for letting me crash,” I said. “I really appreciate it. Not many people would let a total stranger hang out in their place unsupervised.”
Jonah smiled tightly. “Tell me about it.”
He pocketed his keys and went out, locking the door behind him. He left me alone in his place. Me. The girl who wrecked the Pony Club just hours before, puked in his car, invaded his space and almost cost him his job. He was being so cool about it. More than cool.
He trusts me. Sort of.
Not that I deserved trust. I winced at the thought of what the green room was going to look like tonight. Having to go and do another show filled me with a strange kind of dread.
What is wrong with me?
I figured I could get into less trouble if I slept, and I wasn’t lying to Jonah about needing a nap anyway. My headache thundered and I wanted to sleep for a million years. I lay down against the couch cushion and pulled the old afghan over my shoulders. It wasn’t as ugly as I thought at first. Its weight was comforting. Like a good hug.
My heavy gaze fell over the beautiful array of blown glass on the coffee table. Gorgeous swirls of color and design, trapped and floating in the center of the paperweights, wrapped like ribbons along the body of the bottle.
“Beautiful,” I murmured. My scattering thoughts imagined it would be peaceful and quiet inside one of those paperweights. I could float weightless in a glass ocean, suspended in beauty, surrounded by color and stillness. No noise. No pounding drums or tearing riffs or screaming fans. Just…silence.
And safety.
I was asleep within moments.
I woke up, unable to remember where I was until my gaze found the glass paperweights. My limo driver’s apartment. Jonah Fletcher. Fletch, like the Chevy Chase movie. I smiled to myself and stretched.
The light streaming in from the window was sharp and white, the kind that arrived with high noon. The DVR clock said it was one. I’d slept for six straight hours. My stomach was no longer queasy, but clamoring for food.
I wanted a cigarette more. I took my pack and headed outside, toward the courtyard Jonah told me about.
The heat smacked me upside the head and my headache threatened to return. I didn’t know how anyone could get used to desert heat. Born and raised in San Diego where it was almost always 74 degrees and breezy, I couldn’t tolerate this kind of stark, dry heat for longer than a day or two. It was like living in an oven. Though I sort of loathed the idea of rejoining the band, I was glad we were leaving Nevada on Tuesday.
I sat on one of the wrought iron benches in the dinky courtyard, shaded by one half of the L-shaped apartment complex. The courtyard was dirt and crushed limestone, lined with cactus and some other desert brush I didn’t recognize. Nothing here was real green, only pale green, as if coated in desert sand.
I puffed my cigarette and mentally examined my thought about rejoining my band. Did I really loathe the idea? We were on the verge of stardom. Buckets of money and loads of fame lay ahead.
So why did I feel like I wanted to walk away?
Because you don’t want to end up dead, came a helpful thought.
I shivered despite the insane heat, and took a long drag on my smoke. An apartment door facing the courtyard opened and an older lady in a peach-colored housedress, slippers, and curlers in her short hair started out. She stopped when she saw me.
I waved. “Hot enough for ya?”
The woman snorted and flapped both hands at me, then retreated behind her door with a slam.
I glanced down at my boobs that were pushing out of the bustier and had to laugh. I was still encased in the latex and vinyl of my show outfit and sweating like mad. The old lady probably thought I was a prostitute. Sweat trickled down my back and I could feel it along my sides where the corset-like top squeezed me. Going outside in the heat had been a bad idea.
I crushed out my cigarette under my boot and headed back to Jonah’s apartment, praying I hadn’t locked myself out. Not only had I not locked myself out, I’d left the door slightly ajar.
Nice, I thought. He lets you crash and you leave his door open.
The apartment complex didn’t exactly scream wealth and riches lie within, but Jonah had his beautiful blown glass. They looked valuable to me.
Back inside the merciful air conditioning, I sat back on the couch and pulled off my boots. My fishnets were torn in a dozen places. I took them off too, closed my eyes in relief and stretched my legs. The cigarette had done nothing for my hangover. My tongue felt too big and my teeth tasted like I hadn’t brushed them in a week. Maybe Jonah had some mouthwash. Or I could finger-brush my teeth with his toothpaste.
After taking a short pee in the one bathroom in the place, I went to wash my hands in the sink. I expected to find all kinds of scary guy-living-alone nastiness—shaving residue, or phlegm wads. During the short time I lived with Chett, he was always leaving disgusting messes in the sink or toilet.
Jonah was not Chett.
Like the rest of his place, the sink area was clean and uncluttered. I started to rinse my hands, but the reflection in the mirror stopped me cold.
What was left of my eye makeup was smeared down my cheeks, as if I’d been crying. My lipstick had left a pale red stain under my lower lip, like some kind of rash. My hair was a tangled mess and my pale skin appeared sallow under the fluorescent lights. Mortification that I had been sitting around talking to Jonah like this all morning punched me in the gut.
“God, Kacey…”
I cleaned up the smeared eyeliner and lipstick with toilet paper, then opened the medicine cabinet in search of toothpaste. I froze at what I saw.
The Crest and the Listerine were there, but they were crowded out by row after row of medication. Orange pill bottles with white caps as far as the eye could see.
“Holy drugstore, Batman.”
I turned some of the bottles my way to read the names. None were remotely familiar.
>
Prednisone. Rapamune. Gengraf. Cyclosporine. Norvasc.
“What the fuck?” I turned more labels to face me. Some had names I thought I recognized from TV ads: pain meds, a few for high blood pressure, two for lowering cholesterol, and one bottle of antibiotics.
Why would a young guy need meds for cholesterol and blood pressure?
The pink seam of the scar on Jonah’s chest reared its head in my memory. Some kind of heart condition? That would explain the anti-smoking and the small pharmacy he had going on in this medicine cabinet.
I closed the cabinet door quickly, toothpaste forgotten, feeling like I’d just walked in on someone naked or had read a highly private diary entry. I left the bathroom and went into the kitchen in search of more water. I needed to wash out the bad taste in my mouth from having snooped into Jonah’s life.
In the fridge, I found the bottled water Jonah mentioned and not much else. Some wilting vegetables, packaged salads, and at least three trays of various casseroles covered in tin foil. I gave a peek in the freezer, taking a moment to appreciate the cold air, and saw more packaged food: Lean Cuisine and ‘heart healthy’ brands, as if Jonah were on a diet.
This was not the fridge of a typical Las Vegas bachelor.
And the medicine cabinet is?
My stomach twisted with nerves instead of hunger. I’d never been good around sick people. I never knew the right thing to say, could never find the right balance between sympathy and pity. I clammed up during any kind of health discussion and hospitals gave me the absolute heebie-jeebies.
You’re being stupid. You need to eat. You haven’t eaten since…
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d eaten. Apparently I was on a diet too. A liquid diet.
A bowl of cereal might be safe. I opened a few cabinets, looking for a plain old box of Cheerios. Instead, I found a shit-ton of vitamins, supplements, and protein powders.
I closed that cabinet in a hurry.
“Dammit.”
Jonah had said I could help myself, but now my appetite was gone completely. He wasn’t just a total stranger; he was a total stranger who had a serious medical condition. It felt really intrusive to know all this so soon. I was getting a crash course on his extremely personal shit, and he knew next to nothing about me. I wish I’d been brave enough to just let him take me back to the Summerlin house.
I wandered back into the living area, not entirely sure what to do. The TV might have a news report about what happened at the Pony Club last night so I left it off, and tried to let the quiet of Jonah’s place settle me.
I couldn’t sit still. As a kid, my mother had been quick to diagnose me as ADHD, using it to excuse my exuberant behavior to my dad, who got irritated at the slightest noise or sign of rambunctiousness. I was always restless in my own skin. As I got older, I felt like two people trapped in the same body, an introvert who shied away at her dad’s angry lectures, and an extrovert who practiced her electric guitar in the garage as loudly as possible to piss him off. At constant war with myself.
Right now, the introvert in me whispered to enjoy the quiet.
The extrovert wanted a drink.
Bookshelves lined one wall of Jonah’s living room: industrial arts, art history, biographies of artists—some I’d heard of, most I hadn’t. I liked romances, horror, and a fun mystery now and then. Jonah was all non-fiction. Boring.
I kept moving.
On the opposite wall hung a bunch of framed pictures. Most showed Jonah smiling with what looked like his mom and dad, and a good-looking, broody guy. A brother, maybe? The guy had the same basic facial structure as Jonah, the same dark hair, but he was shorter and bulkier. His features were more chiseled. His eyes were a lighter brown and harder. Dark tattoos snaked around his well-built arms.
He looked exactly like the kind of guy I loved to take home for the night, losing myself in everything that was masculine and strong and powerful about him. A guy who would bail at the first rays of sunlight the next morning, no strings attached, just how I liked it.
Jonah looked like the kind of guy you wanted to meet on the side of the road at night if your car had a flat.
Or if you got blacked out drunk and wrecked a Vegas club.
“That too,” I muttered absently, and kept perusing.
The same hot brother and two other friends—an African-American guy and a pretty girl with long hair—showed up in a lot of pictures: at a club, at a party, surrounded by tall green trees on a camping trip, or on a desert plain with the sun rising or setting behind them.
In almost every picture, Jonah wore a bright, open smile that made his whole face light up. Such a contrast to the stiff, serious expression he wore around me. I couldn’t help but smile back at him.
I noticed that one girl—a beautiful brunette with delicate features—was beside Jonah in a lot of pics. Jonah usually had his arm slung around her, that same happy smile on his face, while the woman looked pinched and posed, as if she had turned her ‘best side’ to the camera.
Above the photos were the two framed degrees I’d noticed this morning. One was a diploma from the University of Nevada, Las Vegas, and the other from Carnegie Mellon.
Carnegie Mellon… That was a big time university. Maybe even Ivy League. Jonah was talented and smart. He looked young, only a few years older than me. Shouldn’t he still be at Carnegie Mellon? Or did whatever medical condition he had force him to quit?
I touched a photo of a laughing, smiling Jonah. “What happened to you?”
He’s fine. He’s making glass stuff at a hot shop, whatever that is. You, on the other hand, started a riot and then blacked out. The better question is, what happened to you?
“I’m fine,” I told no one, even though I’d have given anything for a Bloody Mary just then.
All at once, that damn bustier felt like it was ten sizes too small instead of only two. I couldn’t breathe and started to sweat all over again. The AC unit was churning quietly at the window overlooking the busy street. Rather than give the neighbors a thrill, I went back into the kitchen, pulling at the laces that held the bustier together on the sides. I peeled it off and let it hit the floor, leaving me in a black, strapless bra as I threw open the freezer.
I was too short. The icy air hit my face but not where I needed it. I spied a stepstool near the cabinets, dragged it in front of the freezer and climbed up. I lifted my hair off my neck and held it bunched to my head, letting the air hit me under the arms and chest, cooling my burning skin and dampening my urge for a stiff drink.
“Um…hello?”
Jonah. I hadn’t heard him come in over the whir of the freezer. I nearly toppled off the stool.
“Oh my God, seriously?” I snatched my bustier off the ground and held it over my chest like a shield. “Scare a gal to death, why don’t you?”
He looked like he was biting back a smile. “Sorry. I was just trying to figure out what you were doing.”
“Fishing out one of your Lean Cuisines with my boobs,” I retorted. “What do you think I was doing? I’m cooling off.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s what the air conditioner is for,” he said, jerking his thumb behind him.
“Yeah, but it’s by the window, smart guy. I didn’t want to flash the entire street.”
Jonah held up his hands. “Point taken.”
A short silence descended where it was obvious neither of us knew what to do or say next.
I huffed a sigh. “Look, are you going to stand there staring at me all day or maybe help me out? Your neighbor already thinks I’m a call girl. This is a stage outfit, not leisure wear.”
Now it was totally obvious he was trying not to smile. “Hold on a sec.” He went into the bedroom and came back with a plain black T-shirt. “This work?”
I turned my back to him, and pulled the shirt over my head. It was too big and a V-neck, which was totally not my style, and it smelled like him.
Once more, the feeling of being too personal too soon with this
guy came over me. Now I was standing barefoot in his kitchen, wearing his shirt.
“Thanks,” I said, turning back to face him. Another short silence, during which Jonah stared at me. Not in a creepy way, more like he was trying to figure out what to make of me.
I got that a lot.
I shifted from foot to foot. “How was your glass-making?”
“Blowing.”
“Pardon?”
“It’s glass-blowing,” Jonah said. “I don’t make the glass, I make things out of super-heated glass by blowing air through a pipe…” He waved a hand. “Never mind. It’s a long process. I don’t want to bore you with the details, and we’d best get you back—”
“It doesn’t sound boring,” I said quickly. “I can’t even imagine how you make that stuff. So intricate. The paperweight with the sea creatures? I mean…How do you do it?”
God, I was babbling like an idiot, trying to stay above the surface, because the thought of going back to Summerlin was like a lead weight, dragging me down. Jonah frowned, clearly trying to decide if I really cared or if I were just stalling.
Both.
“I could explain,” he said, “but that would take all day, and I have a tight schedule to adhere to, and…”
“Me being here is a huge pain in your ass,” I finished, trying not to sag. “I get it. It’s cool.”
“You’re not a pain in the ass,” Jonah said.
I cocked my head at him.
“Okay, maybe a little,” he said with a small smile.
I took that smile as a good sign. “Hey, you know what? I’m fucking starving. How about we get some food somewhere? I still have about an hour before I need to get back and get ready for the show. Whaddya say? You up for something? My treat.”
Jonah’s face stiffened and the muscles in his shoulders tensed up. “I have to drive tonight, at six, and I’m on a really tight schedule…”
“You keep saying that.” I chucked him in the shoulder, like we were old pals. “Don’t you ever break your routine?”
“No. I do not.”
“Oh.” I bit my lip. I was nothing if not tenacious. “One greasy, post-hangover diner lunch won’t take that long, will it? Half-hour, forty-five minutes, tops.”