by Kim Loraine
“What are you yelling about? I’m trying to sleep.” Valerie threw her pillow across the room.
“Stop it. I’m working on something.”
“Is it that bracelet thing you’ve been making for weeks?” Her sister padded over to Angela’s side of the room and plopped down onto the bed.
“Yes. I can’t get it right.”
Valerie shrugged. “Looks good to me.”
“No. Look.” She pointed to the pattern. “This is supposed to be flat and it keeps twisting.”
Valerie took the instructions and looked back and forth. “That’s because you’re using leather instead of twine. It’s too thick.”
Tears came to Angela’s eyes. She was tired, frustrated, and embarrassed that she cared so much about a stupid gift.
“Angie, it looks cool like this though. Who’s it for?”
She sniffed. “Garrett.”
“Your drummer?”
“He’s not just my drummer. He’s my best friend.”
“He’s going to love it. Just keep going and finish it.”
Puffing out a harsh breath to blow a stray lock of hair from her eyes, Angela continued the painstakingly intricate pattern until she was done.
The next morning, she was bouncing with nervous energy. The band had two hours to practice before Garrett’s family headed to Maryland to spend Christmas with his grandparents. After devouring her scrambled eggs and toast, gulping down some orange juice, and brushing her teeth, she placed the wrapped gifts in her backpack and waited at the door for Valerie and her newly minted driver’s license. She’d had to barter chores for a month in order to get Val to agree to drive her to Garrett’s house this early in the morning.
“Why do you have to practice so early? No one is even awake yet,” Valerie whispered as they tiptoed past the nursery where their baby brother, Simon, lay sleeping. The sound of the front door as it closed must’ve woken him because as they made a break for the car, the familiar sound of his wails filtered through the windows.
Valerie winced, but started the car and pulled out of the driveway.
“Garrett’s leaving for Maryland for a few days.”
“So.”
“We want to get one more practice in before he goes.”
“Because you love him,” Valerie teased.
Angela’s cheeks burned and she had to look away so her sister wouldn’t see the truth in her words. “Shut up.”
“You totally do! I knew it.”
“I said shut up.”
“Angela and Garrett, sitting in a—”
Angela punched her sister in the arm, effectively silencing her as they turned onto Garrett’s street. “Pick me up in two hours?”
“No way, you can walk home.”
“Come on, Val.”
“Fine, but you owe me laundry for a week since you punched me.”
Angela rolled her eyes, but nodded. She bit her lip in apprehension as her feet crunched across the gravel driveway. Garrett met her at the door and pulled her downstairs without a word.
“Sorry, my dad has a migraine. We need to keep things quiet.”
“Oh, so no music?” Her heart sank. She’d been looking forward to practicing.
“Not today. Sorry. Parker’s coming over soon though. We can work on lyrics if you want.”
Her stomach clenched. She’d never shown anyone her lyrics.
“I have something for you,” she blurted, trying to change the subject.
He raised his eyebrows. “You got me a present?”
As she dug around in her bag, self-consciousness took hold. What if he thought it was stupid?
She shrugged as she handed him the wrapped box. “It’s nothing really. I made it.”
He flashed her a brilliant smile and tore into the wrapping. As he opened the box, she gauged his reaction with her heart in her throat.
“This . . . this is awesome.”
Relief flooded her as he slipped the leather bracelet over his hand and tightened it around his wrist.
“You made this?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s so cool. Thanks. I’ll never take it off.”
She smiled so wide her cheeks hurt. All those hours and the worry was worth it. As she watched him run his fingers over the plates and twist the leather around so he could inspect it, she felt a sense of belonging and pride.
His reaction to her gift bolstering her courage; she pulled out her lyric book. “I’ve got a bunch of lyrics in my notebook. You want to look at what I wrote? Maybe there’s something we can use,” she offered.
He raised his gaze to hers and grinned. “Yeah. I bet you’ve got a lot to say. They always say it’s the quiet ones with the most interesting minds.”
He walked over to the couch and picked up his own careworn lyric book.
“Gare?”
“Yeah?”
“Merry Christmas.”
“You, too.”
Chapter 38
The humid July air coated Garrett’s arms in a sheen of moisture as he stepped out of the airport and hailed a taxi. His parents had offered to come get him, but he couldn’t pull them away from Jamie’s bedside.
His heart ached for all he’d lost. His brother, badly burned and still in danger, his band, and Angela. The wound was raw and exposed. He’d seen a friend crash his motorcycle once. The guy hadn’t been wearing any leathers, and he’d skidded along the pavement like it was an ice rink. He’d been lucky to escape with his life really. His left side had been one big scrape of road rash. That was what Garrett felt like now. His whole body, inside and out, covered in road rash.
His dad was waiting for him at the emergency room entrance. Fear gripped him tight as soon as he saw his father’s defeated face.
“Is he . . .” Garrett couldn’t get the words out. His throat was clogged with terror.
“It’s bad. They think he’ll pull through, but it’ll be a long road for him.”
Garrett wrapped his dad in a hug and shock ran through him when he felt the shudder of a sob. Things must be more serious than he’d let on. His dad never broke down. In the twenty-five years Garrett had lived, he’d only seen his dad shed a tear once.
Jamie lay in the burn unit. Garrett watched him sleep from behind the glass of the small window that separated them. They were lucky he’d survived. His neck was wrapped in white gauze and the skin of his cheek was an angry red.
“Gare, honey.” His mother’s voice was thick with tears. Instinct took over and he enveloped her in a tight embrace
“What happened?”
“The fire department says it was arson. Jamie was in the loft of a barn with Sicily . . . you know, that girl he was going with.”
“Oh, God.”
“They couldn’t get out. Michael Oliver and Donovan Miller pulled them free.”
His hands started tapping an anxious beat on the windowsill as his mother continued. “From what we were able to get from Sicily, Jamie covered her with his body when part of the roof collapsed.”
Pride swelled in his chest. His brother, the selfless hero.
“Is he going to make it, Mom?”
A look of steely resolve came over her. “Yes. It’s going to be rough for him, but he’s alive. He’s got us.”
His mom looked around, expectant. “Where’s Angie?”
Swallowing the hurt her name caused, he shook his head and stared over his mother’s shoulder.
“What is that supposed to tell me?” She mimicked his headshake and put her mom-face on.
The unwelcome sting of tears pricked at his eyes. He couldn’t handle all of this. It was too much. “I’m not here to talk about me. I’m here for Jamie.”
His mom’s face soft
ened into a look of pity. “Oh, baby. What happened?”
Now his fucking chin was trembling. Blowing out a shaky breath, he moved away from the window and sank down onto one of the ugly, vinyl-coated chairs.
He didn’t speak—couldn’t trust his voice to contain his emotions. He screwed his eyes tightly shut and willed away the urge to break down. Until he smelled his mother’s perfume as it drifted into his bubble. The touch of her hand as it rubbed gentle circles around his back demolished his walls. Just like when he was a child.
“It’s over. All of it. She’s changed. She’s not the girl I loved.” He hated the wobbling in his voice and wanted desperately to stop the outpouring of his heart. “I left it all. The band, her, everything I wanted. I asked her to choose. She didn’t choose me. I can barely breathe it hurts so much.”
His mom didn’t offer words of advice, no sage wisdom or even comforting lies. All she said was, “I know, honey. I know.”
Angela pressed her fingers against the pressure points at her temples. Her head ached, eyes hurt, and her lungs burned from the residual smoke from a night spent out at clubs, drowning her senses in alcohol and cigarettes. She stared at herself in the darkened bathroom mirror, the dim nightlight casting a sickly glow over her skin. This was what maintaining her public persona left her with. What was she doing to herself?
The harsh light flicked on without warning, bringing with it jarring clarity.
“Rough night?” Aiden leaned against the doorframe, arms folded across his chest and an amused smirk on his lips.
“Stop talking.”
Her head continued its pounding and a cold sweat formed on her brow.
“Come on, we’ve got a press conference in thirty minutes.” He tossed her sunglasses at her.
Her gut clenched. Thirty minutes? A week ago, she’d lost everything—everyone— and he wanted her to put on a confident face in front of the press? What was wrong with him?
She ran a brush through the rat’s nest that passed for her hair and cursed when the bristles stuck on a tangle, sending a sharp pain running over her scalp.
Her phone buzzed and clattered as it danced across the counter. Her heart leapt at the hope that it was Garrett calling.
“Hello?” She winced at the desperation in her voice.
“Angie, babe. Quick update on the press conference.” Marcus’ voice made her skin crawl.
“What do you mean? It’s just another bunch of media.”
Putting him on speakerphone, she spritzed on a light perfume and made quick work of pulling her hair into a loose braid.
“This time it’s different. Aiden is going to stand by you. The press is going to eat you alive. Keep your mouth shut and let Aiden do all the talking. This shit-storm is either going to blow over or get a hell of a lot fucking worse.”
Slipping her feet into her shoes, she rolled her eyes and fought back the bitter retort that bubbled to her lips.
“You’d better count your lucky stars that he’s willing to keep you. You made him look like a saint.” The phone line clicked as Marcus ended the call without another word.
Her pulse pounded in her ears and she couldn’t get her breath.
“You ready?”
Aiden was waiting for her, this time with a sympathetic look on his face. The stupid fucking cameras were ghosting behind them as they made their way down the hall.
A wave of dizziness caught her off guard and caused her knees to buckle. Pressing a hand against the wall, she tried to steady herself but Aiden wrapped an arm around her to help her up.
“Whoa, baby doll. Jesus, you’re burning up.”
Her vision blurred as she tried to push him away. She wanted distance from him, his smirk, his band, his bullshit.
Her head swam and the world went black.
She woke to the sounds of shoes squeaking on tile floor, the uncomfortable cold, dry flow of oxygen pumping into her nose via plastic tubes, and a stiffness in her hand. She was in the hospital. Again. Dammit.
A young nurse walked in with a large metal clipboard clutched to her chest. “Ms. Peters. How are you feeling?”
Angela tried to shift in the bed and grimaced. Her limbs ached and felt like they were moving through a pool of molasses. “I feel like crap. What happened?”
“You’ve got the flu, and it looks like the beginnings of a nasty case of pneumonia. It’s a good thing Mr. Boyd brought you in when he did. You were severely dehydrated and your temp was dangerously high.”
The flu. She’d been feeling terribly for the last few days, maybe even a week or two, but had chalked it up to depression.
“How long do I have to stay here?”
The nurse offered her a placating smile. “At least a day or two more. You’ll need to be significantly improved before the doctor lets you go home.”
Panic set in. She couldn’t be trapped in a hospital in Los Angeles when she was trying to salvage her career. She sat up a little higher in her bed and winced when the I.V. pulled where it connected to her body.
“Does the press know I’m here?”
The nurse leaned in close enough that Angela could smell the coffee on her breath.
“Don’t worry. Mr. Boyd took care of keeping it all under wraps.” She turned to leave and muttered under her breath, “Although, I don’t know why he even cares.”
Angela didn’t miss a word.
The TV was on. Angela heard the muffled sound of chatter and dramatic music through the thin walls of the bedroom in her apartment. Who was here? What was happening? Her head swam as she got out of bed. Still sick, then. She needed to pee in the worst way and her mouth tasted awful.
Shuffling to her door, she peeked around the corner and smiled when she saw Valerie sitting on the couch, watching Doctor Who.
“Don’t you ever watch anything else?” she teased as she made her way across the room and to the bathroom.
“You’re up! How do you feel?” Her sister’s perky attitude annoyed her.
“Like shit. How long have you been here?”
Valerie’s lips turned down in a frown. “You don’t remember me getting here?”
“No.”
“I’ve been here for three days. God, you’ve really been out of it.”
“Three days? Shit. I have so much to do. I’m supposed to be a guest artist on Hollywood Dance-Off.”
“Not anymore. Aiden did it with Freema Talavera.”
“What?”
Freema was the latest name in Latin music. She was hot, young, and a hell of a singer.
“You needed a break. Clearly.”
Her bladder protested yet again and she held up a finger to pause the conversation as she took care of her needs.
Valerie was smiling down at the screen of her phone when Angela came out of the bathroom.
“Donovan?”
Her sister’s smile widened as she finished sending a text. Her aquamarine eyes were bright and her cheeks held a slight blush. Valerie let out a contented sigh and stood, stretching her tiny frame before turning her attention to Angela. “How are you feeling?”
Angela took a deep breath and assessed. Head pounding, skin clammy, shoulders and back filled with a deep ache that reached all the way to her bones. “Better,” she lied.
Her sister cast a speculative glare her way and shook her head. “Bullshit. You’ve always been a terrible liar.” Valerie held up a blanket and motioned her to the couch. “Rest. Now. I’ll even let you control the remote.”
Angela did as she was told, not having enough energy to argue. She watched her older sister move around the kitchen of the apartment. It was strange that the place Angela was supposed to be calling home could be so unfamiliar. Valerie knew her way around better than she did.
She heard th
e clinking of ceramic against ceramic and water running. “What are you doing in there?”
“Tea.” The bright chirp of Valerie’s voice made her smile. “If I learned one thing during my time in the U.K. it was tea fixes everything. I was going to make chicken soup but you barely have anything in your kitchen.”
“I’m not here that much.”
Valerie came around with two steaming mugs and sat on the other end of the couch. “I don’t understand your life, Angie. You live like a gypsy.”
She shrugged. There really wasn’t any rebuttal to her sister’s comment. She felt the same way. Like she was floating in the wind, no direction, no threads to grab hold of and pull her to sturdy ground.
Angela sipped at her tea, inhaling the soft, spicy scent of Earl Grey and letting the steam soothe her. “Where’d you get this tea? I know I don’t have any.”
“I brought it from home. Drew and Grace sent it to me. It’s a special blend from Ten’s.”
“Mmm, special tea sent from a special British store owned by a gorgeous British man. I must have done something right.”
Valerie’s face took on an expression of pity and it made Angela’s throat clench. It was the look of someone who held a heavy dose of disappointment but didn’t want to let it show.
“You’ve done a lot of things right. This isn’t your finest hour, I’ll give you that, but don’t start down the poor me road. You need to get your shit together.”
Tears came to her eyes as she listened to her sister. “I feel like my whole life is falling apart.”
“I think you’ve lost sight of who you are and who you want to be. Are you this person? The girl who forsakes all of her standards to get what she wants. If you are, I guess I don’t know you like I thought I did.”