by Kat Turner
Brian backed away a foot, a curtain of blankness falling over his face. He gathered her tumbler and blasted the inside with a stream of water. A shrunken ice ball dissolved under the tap, ending their camaraderie in an unceremonious trickle down the drain. “I need to get back to my hotel room now. I’ll call you a car so you don’t have to walk across the grounds to the car park.”
As she registered Brian’s expressionless visage in profile, his physical and emotional shutoff as he turned his back to her and fussed at the sink, an irrational wallop of pain and anger sucker punched Helen in the middle of the chest. She should be in sleuth mode. But his rejection hit too hard.
She tamped down her hurt. “You need to listen to me. Because there are people plotting to harm you with witchcraft.”
“Is that a threat?” He slammed the cabinet door, the sound as harsh as the question he fired.
“Of course not. Like I said, I overheard Joe breaking down the plot with someone else.”
“I’m sorry, Helen, I’m not buying this story. Shall I call you a car, or not?”
She stepped closer, trapping him with the most intense look she could muster. “Pushing me away won’t help. Rejecting me will do the opposite.”
“I can’t do this right now. I need to talk to my daughter and get some sleep.”
Persisting undeterred, she grabbed his hand and squeezed assurance into his warm, dry palm. “You mentioned the past. A while ago, you would have dismissed all of this supernatural talk as mumbo jumbo, but not now. Meaning facts changed. What? If I know, I might be able to work with the information. Put new details in context with the things I heard.”
Brian pulled his hand away. “Who are you? What’s your angle?”
He’d entered full retreat mode, stabbed some celebrity panic button and shut down. And in his shoes, she would have done the exact same thing. No wonder so many famous people lost their minds, turning into recluses while babbling about microchips in their heads.
“I don’t have an angle beyond trying to repair damage. If you knew me, you’d know I’m the least duplicitous person on the planet. I think I’m physically incapable of guile.”
Brian offered a ragged exhale, evidence of weariness that kept his humanity in the foreground despite his guardedness. “I played a two-hour show on three hours of sleep, and I’m repeating the process tomorrow and the next day. I’m sorry, Helen. Not now. I can’t. I’ll hang on to your card. I sent a text alert to one of the band’s drivers. A ride will be here in one minute.”
Game over. For a second, she thought she’d broken through. Teased herself into thinking she and Brian shared a special connection. But nah. Helen didn’t connect with people.
Her shell, a spiny exoskeleton forged in defeat, fury, and an indefatigable drive to guard her soft bits, closed over her body. A blast of air tore through a ceiling vent, making her hair squirm like cockroach feelers to round out her buglike sense of alienation. She’d empathized hard with poor Gregor Samsa ever since reading Kafka in her Existentialism seminar.
“Whatever, Brian. Your choice I suppose. I drove, so no thanks on the car.”
Helen left. But she didn’t march off into the night lacking direction. No way.
Crossing the sparsely populated lot on route to her car, she dialed Nerissa’s number. Time to get some information and get cracking casting spells, because she had a hex to reverse and a business to save.
Six
A trio of journalists strode into the dressing room, chatting as they lugged tripods, cameras, and black cases. Seated in a director’s style chair with taut fabric supporting him, Brian brushed a thumb against the hard bump of the crystal impressing into the material of his jeans. Of course he’d saved Helen’s gift. Chances were, “out of sight, out of mind” didn’t apply.
Whether Helen was spying or conspiring against him, he couldn’t say. But after Tilly had confessed to him what she’d seen at some Hollywood Hills party, he couldn’t dismiss or laugh off subjects like witchcraft. Though now he wondered if he ought to have trusted Helen enough to tell her the entire horrific story of Tilly’s witnessing.
Brian glanced at Jonnie, who sat beside him in an identical chair. On the rhythm guitarist’s mobile phone screen, a social media feed blew past. “What was the rumor you heard about Joe?”
Jonnie set the device on his lap. “You really want to know?”
“I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t.”
“Just making sure, because before you said you didn’t want to hear the gossip.”
That was before he needed to rule out the possibility that the kind, intelligent, and witty woman he’d met was embroiled with the manager in question for God knows what reason. He’d been a world-class arsehole to Helen, closing down and sending her away. But if she was party to some supernatural plot, he could not abide. Not when he had a child.
“Now I do.”
Jonnie leaned in, close enough that Brian could smell the sandalwood scent of the gel the man used to spike his shaggy black hair. “They say he’s into witchcraft. That he’s a witch himself, or a warlock or whatever.”
A sizzle of dismay skated across Brian’s breastbone as a link between Helen and Joe clicked into place. A tenuous and vague one, though, rooted in hearsay. Starved hope trembled inside of him, hope that he didn’t need to write Helen off yet.
“Who’s ‘they?’ If such a thing is even true, so what?”
“Right behind ya.” The voice came from one of the interview crew, a lad of perhaps twenty with a black cord looped over his shoulder and a mop head of beach bum blond hair.
The bloke shoved a cardboard bookcase into an empty spot behind Brian and Jonnie, leaving a cloud of patchouli fragrance in his wake. He pulled items from a messenger bag and stuck a cheap vase and a neglected bonsai tree into one of the empty shelves.
Adding a romance paperback with a rip across the cover that tore Fabio’s body in half, the guy nodded in triumph. “Spruce up the joint a little bit.”
“It’s a spitting image of my living room.” Jonnie’s deadpan response startled a chuckle out of Brian. The rhythm guitarist winked, his usual cheekiness on point.
Brian treasured his closest band brother. A commitment to professionalism shone through in how Jonnie curated and maintained his image. Plus, the man had shared his mum’s secret curry recipe with Brian. All around good people, Jon was, someone who’d earned the gift of Brian’s tested trust.
The interviewer rejoined his colleagues in affixing cameras to tripods and fiddling with wireless microphones.
“As you were saying.” Brian matched Jonnie’s conspiratorial lean, coming close to laughing at his own furtive behavior.
“I went out on a few dates with a bird who said she’d escaped some weird cult. Long story short, around two weeks ago her cult sponsor, or recruiter, or whatever the fuck they call them drives her to a West Hollywood mansion for some kind of leveling up ritual. This person puts a hood or mask over her face and leads her into a room. When nobody’s looking, she peeks, right? Claims she saw your boy Joe standing in the middle of a pentagram chalked on the floor, chanting with a book in his hand. According to her, there was an A-list actress levitating in the pentagram with him. Someone you’ve definitely heard of.” After dropping his bombshell in a rapid whisper, Jonnie sucked in a loud breath. “A being floated in there, too. An inhuman creature.”
Air fled the room, leaving Brian’s lungs tight. A chill threaded up his spine. His rational mind grasped for purchase, though Jonnie’s piece of gossip came too close to Tilly’s account for logic to gain much traction. “What did Joe do with the actress and this inhuman thing?”
Jonnie’s olive complexion paled to the color of putty. He splayed a hand over his flat belly. “According to my date, Joe cut…he took out organs…removed parts of her to make space for this entity. The entity went inside her body cavity.”
A dark, empty feeling settled in Brian’s lower belly and seeped outward, leaving him with an upset
stomach. Tilly had reported chanting and cutting, but minus Joe. Brian was the record label’s most dependable ATM machine and bankable cross-platform product, though, meaning hurting him didn’t align with Joe’s best interests.
He didn’t like or trust the man, but at the very least he wanted to believe that the two of them existed in some semblance of a symbiotic relationship where Joe got to enrich his brand by attaching himself to a top act, and Brian got nods of approval from the big shots over Joe’s head.
Plus, Jonnie’s piece of tabloid gossip made no sense. For all of his foibles, Joe wasn’t capable of murder.
When Brian’s rationalizations failed to soothe him, he asked, “Who was she?”
Jonnie named the woman. Brian’s jaw fell at the mention of the award-winner. The actress was alive and well, and if the ritual in question actually happened, no way would she survive it.
The dressing room’s four walls, cinderblocks painted a drab eggshell hue, advanced in a claustrophobic squeeze. Grimacing as he pictured this ghastly scene Jonnie had painted, he bit a knuckle and ran through his memory log. Jonnie’s date could have lied, but to what end?
“I said hello to the actress at a fashion show the other day, and we made small talk.”
“I don’t know, mate. I’m repeating what I heard. Take it for what it’s worth.”
Many questions remained. Chief among them in Brian’s mind: who the fuck was Helen Schrader?
His heart jumped in with answers.
Someone caring and tender and disengaged from the fake celebrity rat race, whom he could appreciate every second of getting to know.
Someone with a network of freckles dotting flawless skin he longed to kiss and touch.
Someone who inspired him to create again. Someone he could be his best self around—who saw his best self.
Or so he thought. He shut off his heart’s wishful thinking.
Jonnie returned to phone land. “I know that was outrageous and utterly bizarre. The source was a classic unreliable narrator, in any event. Dragged me to a Kabballah meeting after she told the whole weird story. I stopped seeing her when she tried to recruit me to join her latest multi-level marketing obsession.”
Brian managed a limp nod, sickening imagery still branded on his brain.
A purple-haired, heavily pierced girl of perhaps twenty dashed into the room. “Woot, woot. Who’s ready to get the old stallion ready for the auction block? Spoiler: me. Now sit back and let Miss Teagan work her totes awesome sorcery.”
She unfolded a wheeled table, slapped it, and unrolled a soft makeup palate the size of a computer keyboard. Using tweezers, Teagan attacked Brian’s brows.
“Nobody’s looking at my bloody eyebrows.” Brian rubbed his stinging forehead, but he couldn’t patch the holes burned into his stinging heart.
“Gotta keep those fangirls swooning for as long as possible. I’d say you got five years, but maybe ten. Technology’s magic these days. For example, this we can fix in post-production, since you refuse to get work done.” Smacking red lips, Teagan traced the line down his face, her fingernail scratching his cheek.
She returned to pruning and dusting and daubing. The stranger’s clammy, presumptuous, unwanted touch made his skin crawl. He’d grown rather tired of people pawing him.
Helen’s memory invaded his weary mind, everything about it offering solace and respite from the present. The gentle yet intelligent way she’d talked with him, how she’d listened to him, soothed his battered soul. Everything about her did. Her throaty laugh and folksy Minnesota upswing. The freckles dotting her nose and arms like miniature constellations of stars.
He’d never forget those eyes. Forest fire eyes. Inquisitive and catlike, golden with sparks of jungle green, they glinted with brilliant mischief. Danced, like lush leaves in the warm heart of summer. Looked at him with such sweetness.
Helen hadn’t seen him as a sex object past his prime. Nor had she seen the entertainment product: Brian Shepherd© Aries Records, LLC. She’d seen him as a person. A man.
Or so he thought.
Hurt and panic stormed the gates. Brian tried to shut down. He hit the reset button, seeking his numbed-out mode. Emptying himself out and filling the cavity with the blankness he needed to cope worked, so he did it.
Except now, a torch blazed in the cave. A certain brunette held it, someone who inspired in him a raft of giddy fantasies of things he assumed he’d forsaken. Picnics on the ocean. Laughter and kisses on the couch. Movies and conversation and drives up the coast. He’d give back all of his platinum records to experience a taste of normalcy. Of genuine human affection.
Too bad he couldn’t trust the woman who’d awoken that side of him from torpor.
Teagan dabbed a damp sponge triangle on his face. Surfer Lad fumbled with a boom mic. Another reporter, a voluptuous woman in a suit, stalked up to Surfer Lad, and they argued.
Brian tensed, bunching his shoulders as the kerfuffle escalated to raised voices. What was wrong with these journalists?
He fixed his posture. Like the reporters, Helen was a wild card he couldn’t predict or control. But his persona he could control. He’d put on a damn good interview. Act polite and professional, as expected, showcase his likeable, relatable, down-to-earth reputation for any label executives or television producers who might be watching. He’d embody his image with as much authenticity as he could muster until he drew his final breath. His goal in the moment was to remain on brand, and he could accomplish it.
A rotten urge spiked his blood. He clenched a fist. What would it feel like to trash the room? Upend chairs. Break cameras and stomp on mobile phones. Wreck the entire sodding place like the tantrum-prone manboy of a rock star he wasn’t. He saw, though, why they melted down. To feel alive. To counteract the ennui. The freak-outs amounted to resistance. Refusal to pay the price of celebrity, rejection of the bum deal.
Tears nipped his ducts, and he screwed his lids shut, sucked in air, and opened them once the threat passed.
“Sneezing is bad luck.” Teagan tapped his nose and finished up her makeup application.
“I’ve never heard that wives’ tale,” Jonnie said. “Do I need a touch up, love?”
“Nah. You’re good. You could pass for thirty-two. You a vamp, with your whole eternal youth vibe? Drink the blood of groupies, only the ones on their periods get backstage?” She threw her makeup kit in a patch-covered backpack.
Following an odd beat of silence that Brian lacked the energy to analyze, Jonnie laughed and shook his head. “No, but I do avoid the sun, and I use quality moisturizer. You get points for creativity though. You come up with that on the fly, sweetheart?”
Teagan flicked her eyes from one man to the other, handing each a pink business card.
She advertised herself with a multitude of artsy titles from graphic designer to jewelry maker and looked to be on every social media platform in existence. Everyone was hustling, trying to get famous. No. Not everyone. Not Helen.
“Yeah. I have a screenplay I’m seeking representation for, so keep me in mind next time you mingle with film industry people. Can I pitch?”
Jonnie shrugged as he flipped the card over and looked to Brian. The others deferred to him when matters veered into business territory, a protocol which fed him a dose of pride.
“Sure.” Brian widened his legs. Like a good dancing monkey, he reviewed the interview statement from Aries.
The crew arranged their cameras in a circle. A trio of dead black eyes stared Brian down. Cords lay across the floor, writhing as the reporters pushed their mounted camcorders. Someone said “test, test” into a clip on microphone, and the device emitted an obnoxious electronic whine.
“In the midst of a zombie apocalypse, a campus Republican and a radical feminist activist fight to destroy the undead—and their growing feeling for each other. Yeah. That’s it.” Grinning, Teagan whipped out her mobile and tapped.
“I’d go with radical feminist or activist. You don’t need both
to convey her values and how they conflict with those of the opposing lead.” Brian stuck a finger in his ear and rubbed out the lingering pain left by the static squeal. These interviewers couldn’t quite get their technological shite together, and it set his teeth on edge.
“Thanks, man.” Teagan dashed off.
Surfer Lad and a female reporter set up three folding chairs.
The third, the brunette whose pinstripe suit was tailored to hug every curve on her lush figure, strode over.
“Christine Durlinger, Currently Amplified magazine.” She extended her hand to Brian. Christine’s firm, confident handshake matched the attractive and successful woman.
“Brian Shepherd, good afternoon.” His voice came out authoritative, booming, and he escaped to the respite of his own sense of power.
Currently Amplified threatened to usurp Rolling Stone as the music magazine, and the publication’s finger caught the scene’s pulse. Brian squared his shoulders, locking her molten chocolate eyes and shoring up perspective. Fyre still sold out most shows, sold millions of records. This. Was. Him. He forced thoughts of Helen from his mind, forced himself to stay on task.
“Better now.” Christine leaned down, offering him a peek of ample cleavage beneath her the scooped neck of her blouse. She clipped the mic to his collar, her hand brushing his jaw as notes of sweet, floral scent she wore shimmied to his nose. Christine smelled a bit like Helen and had a similar body type.
His cock twitched. Her mink-colored hair wasn’t far off, either.
“Is that so?” He did his signature wink, excitement blooming below his belt. He was a man, after all, a man with needs. Why not enjoy, now and again, some of the countless women who made themselves available? Christine was offering herself. Flirtatious foreplay games were as clear to him as checkers.
“Yeah,” she whispered in his ear, threading the slim black cord under his shirt, treating herself to a feel of his chest. Long nails gave a bit of scratch, offering a preview of wildness. A stew of arousal, shame, and loneliness churned in his lower belly. “That’s so. Hyatt Regency, room eight-sixteen. Come by later and tell me in that hot accent of yours all of the filthy fucking things you want me to do.”