"And I was too drunk to find him," the pervy buddy adds.
"Oh, well isn't that just so presh." Maggie wrinkles her nose. "I mean, hello. You are obvi-dirty. Ever heard of a shower? Bath and Body Works? Soap?"
"Don't feed the buzzards."
"He started it!" she whines. When I mock her, she elbows me in the side. The TV blips back from a commercial to Nick Lively. She perks. "Ooh! Guard-man!" she calls to our guard, who doesn't even acknowledge us, "Turn it up, please!"
"Quiet down!" He snaps, grabs the remote, and turns it up. Maggie sticks out her tongue behind his back and nudges me to get up with her. We walk over to the side of the cell closest to the TV. I press my face between the bars because the cool metal sooths my sunburned cheeks.
Nick Lively must be in his media van since he's standing in front of a black backdrop where my face, and a very old image of Roman—when he still had mocha-colored hair and no tattoos, are superimposed beside each other. Between them, Jason Dallas slowly fades in, his black hair pulled back behind his head. I never noticed before, but his eyes are slanted, and his face is long. Like a fox.
Maggie squints at the news banner zipping across the bottom of the screen. "I think they're talking about the concert next Saturday—oh, I'd give my right ovary to go to it!"
This time, the guard turns around, his bushy black eyebrows furrowing, like two emo caterpillars in heat. "Shhhhhhh!"
We hold up our hands instinctively. "Sorry," I mouth.
He turns up the volume, and slides back down into his comfy chair. I strain my ears to listen.
"...Talk about one hell of a roman holiday,” Nick Lively tries to joke with a bleached white smile and forces a laugh so that even if you don't get the joke, everyone will laugh at the poor attempt.
Maggie just scowls. "You'd think he'd have better material."
"I'm just surprised he knows what a roman holiday is."
She raises her first in agreement, and I fist-bump it.
Nick Lively goes on, “Jason Dallas, a fellow singer who has crossed one too many paths with Roman Montgomery in the past, is live from New York City where he’ll be performing next Saturday night—a concert which, any Holidayer would know was originally Roman Holiday’s first Madison Square gig and reportedly Holly’s long-time dream. How do you feel about it, Jason?”
The screen splits open, and the pallid face of Jason Dallas blips up. His hair is pulled back into a tiny ponytail, a leaf of jet-black bangs feathering into his eyes. “I feel fine. How about you, Nicky?”
"He's totes gorg," Maggie tells me, off-handed. "I wouldn't say no."
"If you could pick between him and Boaz..." When she mocks aghast, I bump her in the shoulder. "Oh come on. Like I didn't see you making your sex-kitten eyes at him."
"I do have a think for men in kilts..." The scary thing is, I don't think she's kidding. Not that we'll ever see them again, but I make a mental note to tell the next guy she dates to wear a kilt. She'd go nuts.
Nick Lively cuts in with a harsh laugh. "Oh, Jason...you're a riot." His lips spread over his teeth in a pained smile. “Roman suddenly resurfacing is a little unnerving, isn’t it?”
Jason Dallas quirks a black eyebrow. The ring on the left side of his lip glistens as he grins. “Unnerving? Nah.”
“After Roman Holiday fell into oblivion without its two lead singers, you were quick to fill their place at the Gardens, were you not?”
“We're under the same label. We have the same manager. So listen, if he decides to pay me a visit, I’ll be glad to fight him for the stage. He still owes me fifty-five dollars for a fuckin’ game of strip poker.” He pauses. “I wasn’t supposed say 'fuck,' was I?”
Nick gives another nervous laugh. “You’re something else, Jason. So what are your feelings about the streakers at Holly Hudson's vigil?"
Jason Dallas shrugs. “Don't care. The black girl's got nice tits."
Maggie jumps up and down excitedly. "Nice tits!" she echoes. "Jason Dallas says I have nice tits!"
"Yeah, you do," one of the homeless men baits, and we blindly throw back a middle finger together.
"Don't you think it was a little rude?" Nick tries to egg, but Jason shuts him down.
"What I think is rude, Nicky—"
"Nick."
"Bless you. What I think is rude, Nicky, is you sniffing for trouble on the anniversary of the death of a friend of mine.”
Nick blanches. “Of—of course, and she is sorely missed. So, you and Roman used to bump heads…”
Jason murmurs something underneath his breath.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that.”
“I said,” he pulls himself up in his chair and narrows his eyes. They match the deep blue sky in the Starry Night replica hanging above his head. “Nicky—”
“Nick.”
“Whatever. I don't have time for you. So, yes, I’m playing next Saturday night at eight in the Gardens, and I’m going to rock the whole fuckin’ house—or you know, maybe I won’t. And yeah, that’s a challenge. So I expect Roman to show up for the fight.” He reaches his hand forward and his screen goes dark.
Nick's smile is beginning to strain the Botox around his cheeks. "You heard it here first—it's a challenge!"
"Too bad he wont show up," I reply, stepping back from the cell bars, shaking my head. Roman's probably halfway to Charlotte by now, or Charleston, or Columbia, or Raleigh—anywhere, really. He could be anywhere at all. I feel tired just thinking about it.
"At least Roman's got the memory card," Maggie points out, pulling her dreads over one shoulder, giving the guys in the corner another stink-eye.
"If he doesn't chuck it first."
The iron door to the room opens, and Officer Nesky comes back in. We instantly perk up, thinking that someone's paid our bail, but he just shakes his head when he sees the hopeful gleam in our eyes. "Junie?" He asks me and I nod. "Someone's here to see you."
"Really?" My heart leaps out of my chest in a moment of complete insanity, thinking that it could be Roman...until I remember what happened in the cemetery, and suddenly I don't want to leave the cell at all. He unlocks the cell door, and with a hesitant glance back at Maggie, I follow him out of the room and down the hallway into a small interrogation office. I don't notice who's waiting for me until the door closes. Suddenly, it's very, very hard to breathe.
"You," I gasp.
John Birmingham grins.
Chapter Twenty-Six
John extends a friendly hand. It's big and tan, and the ugliest peace offering I've ever seen. “I think we got off on the wrong foot. I’m John, John Birmingham.”
"I know who you are." My voice is as cold as ice as I glare at him.
His darker-than-coal eyes sparkle with amusement. "Ah, see that's where the misconception comes in. You know of me. See, I'm actually a pretty nice guy."
"That's funny."
"I'm not very much of a joker." He retracts his hand and slips it into his pants pocket. His gray fedora is resting beside a glass of water on the table. Slowly, he eases down into his chair, expecting me to do the same, but I hover behind mine and wrap my fingers around the back of it. A table and a chair isn't nearly enough space between us. He studies my white-knuckled grip. "You dislike me."
"No shit," I snap. "This is all your fault!"
"My fault? I didn't buy you ice cream. I didn't make you get into his car. The only part of this that is my fault is the tabloids, and those I will gladly take responsibility for."
I clench my jaw. "You're sick."
"Nonsense. I'm only interested in people worth my time, and apparently, you're worth it."
"Was Holly worth your time?" I ask bitterly.
His eyebrows raise a fraction in surprise, but he doesn’t take my bait. "I have a proposition for you, Junie," he says instead.
"I don't want to hear anything you have to say."
“Now, now, don't assume. At least, not until you hear me out,” he tsks. “Picture this: you and me...”<
br />
“As I said, not interested.”
“And a great deal of money.”
I open my mouth to reiterate the fact that I am so not interested, that every word he’s saying is shooting blanks, when my voice comes to a complete and sudden stop.
At my hesitation, his grin grows. "See, I knew you'd come around. It might even be enough to save your father's bar—what's it called? The Silver Lining?"
My stomach churns. "Who told you?"
"No one had to tell me anything, Junie. See this?" He taps his nose. "I know good stories. And you are a good story. You're an even better story now that you can save your poor dead daddy's bar with just one word..."
I think my fingers have gone numb from clutching the back of the chair so hard. I can feel the indentions of Made in China on my fingertips. "It won't be enough."
"Can't it? Just think about it. You get off scot-free, I push the trite little dirty bits of you I've strung out over the tabloids under the proverbial rug, and give you enough money to resurrect your dear old Dad's trash-heap!" He raises his hands into the air as if he's just scored the winning touchdown. "And all you have to do is give me back what's mine."
Which I don't have anymore. My fingers release from the back of the chair as I sit down in it. "How much?"
"Five-hundred thousand dollars."
"You don't have that money."
He leans in close. "You'd be surprised what money I can get from a few well-placed stories."
"You mean lies."
Lacing his fingers together in front of him on the desk, he leans back in his chair. "Then, option two. I take your little naked escapade viral."
"Go ahead, I'm already slut-shamed."
"You are," he agrees, "but your friend...what's her name? Magdalena?" The way he says her name as a threat turns a sick feeling in my stomach. How much does he know about us, exactly? "She's on the fast-track to NYU, isn't she? I'm sure they wouldn't think twice about revoking her application after this debacle."
The fate of Maggie rests in my hands?—and in a memory card I don't even have anymore? He couldn't be that cruel, and NYU wouldn't be that shameless. What did I do to deserve this sort of karma, and what did Maggie do? My mind races with something, anything, I could give him instead of that stupid memory card. Maybe—wait.
I narrow my eyes. "So, let me get this straight, I give you the card" —which I don't have anymore— "and you give me the money to save the Lining, or I don't give it to you and you throw my friend under the bus?"
He throws his hands into the air again. "Touchdown!"
"But why help me out with the bar? Why don't you just give me the second ultimatum? What is the Lining to you?"
His grin drops a fraction. "It's just a little extra cushion."
"So that I'll give you the card."
"You got it."
"And you'll give me the money from a few 'well-placed stories,'" I quote him.
"You betch—" Then he stops himself and curses. "I mean, no. That isn't—"
"The answer is no." I shove my chair out from behind me. "And if you do start spreading rumors about Maggie? You'll have her to deal with, and she'll make your life a living hell with that card. Goodbye, John." With that, I bang on the door for the Officer Nesky to open up. John doesn't know my threat's empty. All he knows is that I was the last one to have the card, and that's enough leverage to make John jump after me.
The door opens and I duck out under the officer's arm. "I don't know him, sir." I shake my head, not having to fake fear because I really am afraid of John Birmingham. "He's insane."
"Get her back here!" John roars, but another officer blocks him inside the room.
Officer Nesky escorts me back to my holding cell with an apology, saying that John said he knew me. Gave my date of birth and everything. Note to self: buy pepper spray.
Back in the cell, Maggie is stretched out over our bench. She sits up when I come over, and take a seat. She gives me a once over before asking, "What the hell?"
I shake my head. "It was John Birmingham."
"No fucking way."
"Yes fucking way." I slouch against the cold wall and shut my eyes tight. "He said he'd give me the money to save the bar if I handed him the card."
"Shit."
"Yeah."
I chose to save a secret, instead. I hope he's okay wherever he is. Is he flipping a coin between his knuckles and staring out of the window, listening to NPR shit while Boaz drives the first stretch? Are they humming the song on that CD while sitting in a terminal at the Myrtle Beach International Airport, waiting for their plane to Paris, or Spain, or Italy? Or are they checking into a Super 8 Motel somewhere in Marion and drinking beers on the hood of Holly's Rabbit? And I'm sitting in a jail cell paying time for a man I never should have met.
None of this would've happened if I'd never gone out for ice cream with him...but that was never my choice, was it? He made a guess, and he guessed right. "Hey, Mags...remember why I don't like ice cream?"
She gives me a strange look. "That's what John wanted to know? That time some snot-nosed brat made you cry?"
"No. That's how Roman knew what ice cream flavor I liked."
Chapter Twenty-Seven
For the next hour, Nick Lively goes through—in horrifyingly specific detail, I might add—the events that led up to mine and Maggie's arrest. When they show a live view of the police station, the guard swivels back to us with a wide-eyed look. "That's you?" he gawks.
"Fame!" Maggie singsongs.
The guard's face grows wide in surprise before the door opens, and he quickly scrambles to his feet. "Sir," he greets the other officer, who stops at our cell door and barks both of our names in a rumbling baritone. Maggie and I jump to our feet. No wonder the guard looks scared shitless. This guy is a behemoth.
"This way, girls," the new officer rumbles.
We scuttle after him. We'll take the hell-hath-no-fury officer over the copious amounts of drunks who have begun to populate our small cell. We barely have any elbowroom as we wiggle our way out. Nesky was right about Thirsty Thursday, and one of the drunks was beginning to look a little grabby.
Big 'N Tall leads us to a nondescript office and closes the door after us, waving his hand to two metal chairs. We plunk ourselves down in them, the metal cold against my bare thighs. I really want my shorts back. The cold seeps right through these gym shorts.
The officer—no, he has to be more than an officer to have an office, a major? Lieutenant?— takes a seat on the other side of the desk, and his thin gray mustache twitches as he reaches down and pulls up two bags full of our clothing. I sigh in relief.
"Let's talk, girls," he says, sliding an emerald gaze between the two of us. It looks familiar, but I can't quite place it. Had he been to CherryTree before on a disturbance complaint with my dad?
Maggie elbows me in the side and whispers out of the corner of her mouth, "Check. Tag."
Oh, dear fuck.
Maybe the policeman had been to CherryTree on a noise ordinance, but that isn't how I recognize the eyes. His badge reads, in full, BYRD MONTGOMERY. I swallow hard. I can finally put a face to the man who disowned his son. I don't blame Roman for never confronting his father—the man's a giant. And he has a look that could freeze steam. I probably have a death wish, but I summon up enough courage to ask, "I'm sorry, this is a stupid question but...are you Roman's..."
He studies me and leans back in his chair. "If I am?"
"We're big fans?" Maggie offers with a timid laugh, shooting me an are-you-insane-or-do-you-have-a-death-wish look.
"Most young women are," he replies. "What I don't understand is why two fans would desecrate Holly Hudson's vigil by streaking naked to give my son time to escape."
"Did...he get caught?"
"No, he called me."
I blink. Once. Twice. Had I heard wrong? Roman...called his father because of us? And his father answered?
Seeing my confusion, he adds, "Multiple times." He slides
the plastic bags with our clothes in it back over to us. "Both of you are banned from every cemetery in Horry County for life."
We stare at our wrinkled clothes. At the very bottom is the Roman Holiday underwear that started it all.
"That's it?" I ask. "We're free to go?"
"What about our bail?" Maggie adds.
"Paid." He stands and adjusts his belt. "And both of you are advised to be out of the county by morning. As in, you will be out of this county by morning."
Maggie's jaw drops. "You're kicking us out of Myrtle Beach?"
He inclines a graying eyebrow. He really does look a lot like Roman, from the facial structure to the condescending way he can raise just one eyebrow and make the rest of the world feel infinitely stupider. "Or I can escort you back to your cell."
Maggie turns to me with a definitive nod. "You know, I'm feeling totes homesick. You?"
"Totes," I agree.
We grab our bags, and they take us out the back. Officer Nesky is kind enough to drive us back to Maggie's car on his patrol so we bypass the media vans setting up out front. Through the rearview mirror, I watch as Roman's father greets Nick Lively with a handshake—and then promptly scares him back into his van.
By the time Nesky drops us off by Maggie's car with the warning that, come morning if we're still around we're more or less under arrest again.
"Didn't even get to lay out..." Maggie mutters, pulling onto the road, our esteemed officer following close behind. "Eh, I'd get all ashy, anyway."
I pick up the tabloid I'd tossed down into the floorboards earlier today and leaf to the article about me. I can't even remember what I thought was going to happen five hours ago—that he'd ask me to come along? That he would forgive me for something I had no control over in the first place? That somehow, in this odd, strange mess of a circumstance, he could realize how we deserved each other?
Which, I now realize, was a stupid idea.
"I mean, he totes can't follow us all the way back to the condo, right? He wouldn't, would he? I mean, I might gotta take a poo when we get back to the condo, and you still have to pack..."
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