by J. L. Brooks
After this I was finished with my contract. The four book deal was over and I could move onto self-publishing if I wished, keeping a higher percentage of the profits and most importantly my rights. I ached, knowing I was obligated to leave my work with them in exchange for what I thought was a good deal at the time, when in reality I was royally fucked.
As I closed the last cover during the signing, my heart told me I was in for a brutal awakening. At the crescendo of my journey, I knew this was temporary. I smiled brightly and refused to give into my doubt. At any moment, the rug could be swept from under my feet. Such is the life of an artist. You take risks and hope it pays off. I waited for my soul to become inhabited by vivacious characters eager to tell a story through my words. Unfortunately when I sat before the computer, my mind was desolate.
7 months later
Not a hair was out of place, nor was there a missed wrinkle in the fabric of the beautiful, coral ball gown that was cut so exquisitely, I appeared to glide with each step. There was no remnant of the girl I once was, hard and insecure, fighting everything to make something of herself so she could get the hell out of Cleveland. Failure never looked so fabulous. If I was going down, they would surely miss the view as I walked out the door. Knowing that tonight would be my last night with Blank Page Publishing was a bitter pill to swallow, yet it was my decision.
Three days previously, my agent Dinah Vogel showed up at my doorstep in a pair of hot pink and black Louboutins I had spied on a recent shopping trip, a poignant reminder of what I would never be able to purchase again. I had thirty-six hours to produce a sample worth pitching, and here I was without a manuscript and with an apartment full of half-packed boxes simply waiting for me to hit the send button. I had spent the morning typing up my resignation without shedding a single tear. I knew they would let me go, so I chose to save them the trouble and hoped to leave with a shred of dignity. No one wants to admit they could have prevented their demise, even though I knew word would fly and the questions would come.
“What happened?” they would say.
Dinah would run her mouth and slowly rim her immaculately manicured nails around a martini glass while telling the tale of how she offered me the plot of the century, how I could have been rich, but no, I was a stubborn fool who couldn’t get over her demons in order to save her career. I wouldn’t even touch it. Dinah had found the small shoebox full of plastic laminates and postcards sitting on the coffee table, half-opened and beckoning her to peruse the contents.
She audibly gasped while digging through the tangible fragments of a past no one except those closest to me was privy to. Once upon a time I wasn’t afraid to take chances, could have been labeled wild, and never hesitated to make a move when an adventure presented itself. That was then. Months had passed since The Little Traveler released, and the advance had run dry. I tried my hardest to find some inspiration, something new, yet everywhere I turned, I failed to find that spark that would eventually turn into four hundred pages of perfection.
“This is your story; you have to write about this!” Dinah shouted, wide-eyed and a bit crazed.
I shook my head. “Absolutely not, end of discussion.”
She would not take no for an answer, especially when she came across the faded image of a younger me perched on the knee of a handsome man, smiling innocently and full of promise.
“You have to be fucking kidding me, Lila. Tell me this is not him. Tell me this is not Arial Assault.”
Hearing her refer to him by his DJ name reinforced why this story would never happen.
“‘Him’ has a name. Hunter Michaels. And yes, it is. We knew each other when we were kids, but I haven’t heard from him in years. He still talks to my brother occasionally, but I do not know him like that. Not anymore.”
A tinge of sadness pained my heart as I looked at the photo. I was able to date it by the lack of ink covering Hunter’s body. This was not as simple as penning a story about being a salacious club bunny. The contents of the box spoke volumes about late nights in seedy clubs and abandoned warehouses transformed into massive dance halls . . . nights that would ultimately end with broken hearts.
Cleveland was proud of their latest music hero; there were even talks about inducting him into the Hall of Fame. However, like everything else when it came to him, I would only become aware through family chattering and social media. I did not actively seek out to know anything about him. If I could, he would remain at the bottom of the shoebox where I placed him, never to be heard from again.
Sliding into the jeweled, gold-strapped heels, I took one last gulp of Cabernet and headed for the party. It was Blank Page’s annual black tie gala, their most extravagant and dramatic event with the upper crust of literary aristocracy in attendance. Tonight I would play my part of publisher’s darling and smile politely as others spoke on my behalf. Guests strategically socialized as the evening progressed, using the party as an opportunity to expand networks and verbalize deals. Dinah made a beeline towards me as I entered the ballroom, gritting her teeth in a saccharine smile and holding her arms out emphatically.
“Why is your phone disconnected? Come, come, there are so many people excited to see you this evening.”
She gripped my arm tightly and moved swiftly in the direction of the stage. Glasses were raised as I was dragged behind her in confusion. Whispering as low as I could and keeping a cool demeanor, I began to seethe. Something was very wrong, and I was about to find out.
“What is going on, Dinah? Why is everyone looking at me like this?”
Spinning me around in her direction, her arm squeezed with more force as her grin pulled tighter.
“Don’t say a fucking word. I just saved your ass. Go with it and everything will be fine.” Dinah’s eyes looked over me as she patted my cheek firmly. “Showtime, Miss Keaton.”
Just then, a familiar, firm hand placed itself against the bare skin on my lower back, creating a painful shiver. I didn’t have to turn around to know who it was; I could smell him. Instantly memories flooded my brain as my skin flushed under his touch. Before turning around, I gave Dinah a lethal glance, which she returned with her own nefarious gaze.
Standing next to Mr. Nunnery, the CEO of Blank Page, was none other than Hunter Michaels. Before I could process what was happening, Mr. Nunnery’s arms opened wide and pulled me into a suffocating embrace.
“Congrats, Keaton. I was sweating bullets until Dinah came to me with your next series and said Mr. Michaels was on board. He flew in right away as soon as he heard we would be announcing the deal tonight. Isn’t that something? I do love enthusiasm, and I must say you both outdid yourselves. Let’s celebrate, shall we?”
There was no way to protest without appearing a fool. Dinah knew exactly what she was doing, or so she thought. I refused to be cornered into a project I had rejected to begin with. I could only imagine what she told Hunter to convince him to come here on such short notice. As Dinah laced her arm through his elbow and began to strut beside us, his smile faded with each step. He knew something was terribly off and did less than I to hide his discomfort.
Stopping at a large table where a maître d’ held several glasses of champagne on a serving tray, Mr. Nunnery handed them out to the small group before lifting a silver knife from the table, gently tapping it along the stem. I refused to look at Hunter as my world came crashing down. Not only was I being utterly humiliated in public, the aftermath of submitting my resignation would be even more dramatic. I knew Dinah played dirty, but I never imagined she would use such tactics on her own client. The only thing keeping me breathing was knowing that in a few hours from now, this would all be over. My decision to leave the game could not have come at a better time, although it would not be with the graceful exit I had hoped.
As the impromptu speech was given, the crowd grew larger, making a departure that much more difficult. The hands began to extend along with the invitations to power lunches and weekends in the Hamptons or Martha’s Vineyard—pl
aces where I did not belong and would never appear. Excusing myself to the ladies room, I slipped through the revolving doors of the lobby and into the bustling night. I caught a break in the flow of traffic and crossed the street to take a seat on a low concrete wall surrounding the flower beds and trees on the islands of Park Avenue. Making sure I was within the concierge’s sight, I caught Hunter’s eye the moment he walked out as he attempted to dodge his own way across. It was difficult to plan an escape from where I was seated.
“Look at you all fancy, asking to be mugged or abducted. What’s a pretty thing like you doing out here unescorted?”
Glancing up into his vibrant green eyes, I allowed myself to take in the face that haunted me on cold winter nights when I had had too much to drink or when my heart was sinking. Hunter Michaels was like my shadow, and I would never be able to get rid of him. He was an extension of me that only appeared under certain circumstances, which I taught myself to avoid because the pain was too much to bear. Feeling the tug on my heart strings, I decided to be cordial.
“Well. This is the Waldorf Astoria, so I was hoping a geriatric real estate tycoon might be waiting for me in a white Maybach with a ten-carat diamond, ready to whisk me away to Tahiti or something.” I nodded my head with a crooked brow, and Hunter laughed while pulling me into a stiff hug.
“Well, I have none of the above, except the Armani suit I am wearing, which is only a loaner. I can, however, steal you away for Cantonese while we browse vacation sites on my phone. Will that work?” He reached out to pull me up and into an embrace, and my eyes closed immediately as I relaxed and snuggled under his chin. A part of me was happy to see him, despite my feelings about our past. Although taken off guard, the one thing about this situation stabilizing me was the surprising comfort of his presence and willingness to abduct me from the pits of hell.
He held my elbow for stability as we walked back to the valet, and a town car pulled forward as the staff rushed to open the back door.
“Mr. Michaels,” the driver said while tipping his hat.
As he held the door open for me, I wondered whether I should have been more concerned about leaving in the middle of a dinner party where I had become the impromptu guest of honor. There was nothing in there for me, which made leaving that much easier. Looking ahead to my immediate future was just as frightening, yet in this moment, for the first time in years, I simply let go. After all, I had nothing else to lose.
“Care to tell me what’s going on?” Hunter asked in a delicate tone. As I began to speak, my tongue caught in my throat. Nothing I could say would make this any better. If he could notice my subtle distress signals, surely he would see through a lie.
“I didn’t know you would be here,” I whispered quietly.
“I could tell by your face that you were shocked, but I am here, and it’s because of you.”
Shaking my head, I could feel tears begin to burn. “You shouldn’t be, though. You are here because my agent wants to fuck me in the worst way possible. She found a picture of you in my apartment and suggested I write about us. I told her absolutely not.”
Hunter’s jaw clenched nervously at my admission. “So that’s it? What about tonight? All of those people? Are you not under a contract?”
“Technically no, but they wanted one. It doesn’t matter. I had a deadline and I missed it. I have already typed my resignation. I am sorry she wasted your time.”
The salted emotions I had been fighting poured silently down my cheeks. Using the back of my hand, I dabbled as gently as I could to keep my makeup from smudging while I focused on the buildings that rapidly passed by the tinted windows.
Hunter coughed before speaking coldly. “She told me you needed the money—that you were almost broke. Is that true?”
As I paused for several moments, the car felt claustrophobic, and I wanted out immediately.
“Please take me back, Hunter. This is not your problem, and my financial well-being is none of your concern. She was wrong to disclose something so personal like that, acquaintances or not.”
“Acquaintances? Is that what I am to you?” he asked angrily.
“Yes. We are not really friends,” I said matter-of-factly.
Hunter tugged at the fabric of his slacks before turning his body towards me defensively, but he didn’t speak a word—just stared hard in bewilderment.
“This just keeps getting better.”
Banging back against the headrest I could not prevent myself from becoming furious. The old wounds ripped open, unraveling any delusions I had about this evening.
“If we were friends you would have called and spoken to me personally before showing up as I am about to be paraded around like a fucking trophy. But no, I bet you think we are old chums and all is well in the world. We have been in the same city for more than five years and never once did you say, ‘Hey, Lila, let’s do lunch. Or hey, Lila, what’s up.’ Friends don’t do that.”
“Damn it!” he shouted. “Do you know how busy I am? I am rarely here for more than a few days. I never stop. You know what I do, and you know who I am.”
All I could do was shrug sadly. “How could I forget?”
The ride was silent as we headed uptown on Park Avenue. Before getting too far away, I asked the driver to go back. “Yes, of course, Miss.”
“What would you do if you were me, Lila? Right now. Right here. How would you feel?”
Hunter was stern as he asked the questions.
“I would go back to your busy life and forget any of this happened. Chalk it up to an opportunity that didn’t work out in your best interest.”
Keeping my head tilted on the glass, I closed my eyes and waited for the car to come to a stop.
“Are you talking about the book or us?”
My eyes remained closed while giving him his answer.
“Both.”
The tires squealed slightly against the pavement as the car came to a stop in front of the hotel. With white gloves and broad smiles, the valet did not bat an eye at our quick return. Holding the handle, Hunter grabbed my wrist, imploring me to wait.
“Lila, don’t forget you were the one that stopped talking to me first. I begged you to give me a chance and make it up to you. I knew the only way I could try to redeem myself was to get clean and make something of my life. I did. I did it for you.”
Feeling my jaw tremble, I couldn’t be near him any longer. I couldn’t handle it. The only thing more agonizing than the nightmare was the possibility I would be in a place to care about him again. Standing on the precipice, I offered up his atonement.
“I forgive you,” I said quietly before stepping out.
He did not try to stop me this time. I did not know if I was expecting or deserved a different reaction. It was well enough that things ended as they began. Rushing up to my room, I packed the few items I had brought for the evening and quickly stripped from the layers of silk and constricting undergarments. Calling the concierge to notify them of my departure, I was able to slip out of the hotel unnoticed. Hunter’s car was still sitting in front of the hotel unoccupied as I hailed a taxi. Looking around, I viewed him in the lobby waving his arms at a panicked Dinah and Mr. Nunnery.
Things were about to get a lot worse than I had originally anticipated. The feeling in my gut was akin to a heavy rock I was unable to carry. The ride to my apartment was brief, and for that I was thankful. As I cracked open the door, the quiet darkness was a welcome respite. With a case of wine sitting in the pantry, I could manage my way through until dawn.
Two hours of self-pity was all I could manage before the inner rage finally consumed me. Furious that Dinah took such drastic measures against my will made me realize I wouldn’t sleep until I officially severed all ties. She may have pitched the story, but without my consent it would never leave the ground, or so I wanted to believe. Who knew what she had gotten from Hunter. She knew that a celebrity endorsing a book was great for sales, and Hunter Michaels had a cult female following.
/>
Finding myself on the sofa with the small shoebox, I peeled the lid off and ran my fingers across the smooth plastic cards coveted by so many. All access, VIP, Staff.
Before he got his big break, I was there for his ascension. I watched as the crowd of followers grew larger and he gained more and more attention. Hunter was bound to be a star, and now he had his very own spot in the heavens. It was hard to turn on the radio and not hear one of his songs, whether it was from one of his several albums or a collaboration with the latest chart-toppers. Everything he touched seemed to turn to gold, which is why Dinah wanted a piece of him.
Sliding a photo out from the stack, I could literally feel my heart shattering to pieces. The image of me balanced upon his knee in a friendly embrace—we looked so happy and carefree. Instinctively, I reached back and dragged my fingers across the tops of my shoulder blades, feeling the pigment in the skin come alive. It was his gift to me. Several hours of lying face down on a table while delicate feathers were etched into my skin. They were a daily reminder that ink against a subject, whether it be paper or flesh, can change someone forever.
Resting at the bottom of the box was the last thing I had heard from him: a letter Hunter begged my brother to give to me, which he’d done with reluctance. Being caught between his best friend and sister was a hard place, but of course family came first. Hunter tried to explain that after the accident he was so lost without me, that he slipped further and further into the darkness. Someone offered him heroin at a party, and he justified smoking it wasn’t as bad as shooting it up. It did not take very long before a needle was in his arm. The day that I walked into the dilapidated house and found him sitting on the couch getting a blowjob from another junkie was what finally woke him up. He said he would never forget the look of terror on my face as the girl lifted her head and smiled while his seed spilled down her chin. The sound of my scream that echoed through the crumbling walls and above the techno music haunted him, just like the moment would be permanently burned into my soul. He was so strung out that he couldn’t even get off the couch to come after me. Forced to wait for the hit to wear off, he then bought a one-way plane ticket to his aunt’s house in Fort Myers and checked into a rehab facility, vowing to make it up to me any way he could. That was the last I had spoken to him, until tonight. Nearly two decades had passed between us, and I wanted to hate him for hurting me so deeply. I knew firsthand that drugs make people do horrible things; however, he had kept his promise and gotten clean. Who was I to keep condemning him?