“I’m far from it.”
“What are you doing out of the hospital, Silas? Don’t you have bandages that have to be changed, and physical therapy and all?” There’s something here I’m not getting.
“I never went to the hospital.”
“What? Silas, you could get an infection. Burns are notorious for that. You have to—”
“There was no accident,” he replies, cutting me off.
“Wh-what do you mean no accident?” I manage to stammer. “Stewart said—”
“Just what he needed to say to get you on the plane.”
“I don’t get it. What have I done?”
“You really want me to answer that?”
“But how could you know?”
“A little birdie told me.”
I’m speechless. No way could he know about the article. Even if Brand did win, the article wouldn’t be out until December. They’re certainly not going to issue a spoiler alert and ruin the big reveal. And if Brand has won, surely they don’t want him blabbing about it before the magazine has had a chance to put it into print. This is not making sense to me.
“Got a call from Hugh Goldstein this morning. He’s one of the execs from our record label. Said he got a call from the Editor and Chief of Guitar Player, and they had in their hands some very inflammatory information. Thought we should hear it from them before it goes to print, seeing how we’re in the middle of our sold-out world tour. It was a courtesy call really. They don’t normally let the cat out of the bag about stories, but it seems somebody at the magazine owed our label big time and was calling to settle a debt. Why’d you do it June? Do you really hate me this much? So much that you had to go and ruin my career, my life?”
“B-Brand was dying in the hospital...”
“Brand? The guy whose medical bills I paid? He did this?” For a moment, his angry penetrating gaze softens. He thinks Brand did this. “He did it for the contest? The Get the Dirt contest? He ruined my life so he could win some fucking contest? He...”
I wish I could go on letting him believe it was all Brand, but I can’t. Every time I see Silas for the rest of...whatever, I will always remember my secret. If he ever found out about it, we’d have to go through this whole awful conversation again. I don’t think I can do this twice. Silas takes my silence as an admission of guilt.
“But it wasn’t all Brand was it?”
I shake my head miserably.
“You did it for him. You betrayed me for Brand. But it’s not just me whose life you’re trashing. This is going to ruin us as a band. Do you fucking think anyone is going to buy records from guys who lip synched and played air guitar during their shows? Then there’s all the people who put the show together and take it down every night. They’re all out of jobs because of you. What do you have against them and their families? Or were they just casualties of war? You disgust me. Tell me why you did this.”
“Look Silas...I thought it was true. After that other band got busted for using studio musician’s recordings in their live shows—”
“And you thought that’s what we were doing. But did you even try to verify your information? Information, I might add, that came from three guys who’d love nothing more than to see me fail so they can replace me with their top prospect and not Stewart’s. Pathetic.” Our limo is stops. I look out the tinted window. I hadn’t realized it, but we just pulled into the downtown Los Angeles Greyhound Bus station. Silas looks at me with smoldering eyes. “This is your stop. This is where you get out.”
“Silas, please—”
“Save it and get out.”
The door on my side opens. Guess this is it. I step out, squinting in the bright sunlight. The chauffeur presses an envelope into my hand. “For a ticket,” he says, then shuts the door and turns to leave.
“My bags! They’re in the trunk.”
He comes back around to the rear of the limo and unlocks the trunk. I wrestle my bags out, and returns to the front of the vehicle without so much as a glance back. As the car speeds off I slip on my backpack and pick up my suitcase. This is gonna be one long hellish ride back home.
Chapter Nineteen
Go Greyhound
Forty minutes later it’s finally my turn at the ticket window. I’m dead on my feet and I just want to sit down some place where I don’t have to keep one eye open.
“Where you headed?” asks the man at the counter.
“Oakland. I just need a one way ticket, and please make it a direct route and not some 24 hour milk run.”
“Sorry ma’am, but we specialize in 24 hour milk runs. You want a direct route, take a plane. I can put you on the 8 o’clock bus, number 2112 from LA to Oakland.”
“Eight? That’s in four hours. What am I supposed to do, hang out here for four hours?”
“That would be eight in the morning, Missy. You’ll have to hang out here for 16 hours.” I look around the crowded station. There isn’t even a bench to sit on, much less lay down. This cannot be happening to me. “Well? Asks the ticket man.
“I’ll take it.”
He spends a couple minutes punching buttons then prints out a ticket for me. “You’ll want to board bus 2112 at 8am.”
I trudge across the station saying a silent prayer for someone to get up to use the restroom. After a half hour or so of standing, shifting from one aching foot to another, I decide to just sit on my bag. Three hours later, three times as desperate for a seat. I search around in my purse and pull out two twenties. Surely some homeless fellow will be willing to give up his seat for forty bucks. I walk up to the guy who seems to be the most approachable and in the most need of a little cash.
“Excuse me,” I begin. “Would you be interested in giving me your seat for twenty dollars?”
He looks up at me and scoffs. “Twenty, seriously?” he asks as his eyes roam my things.
“Forty?” I ask. He looks a little more interested, but still he hasn’t made a move to get up or to take my money. Time to sweeten the pot. “Sixty?” I ask.
Still he makes no move for the money. If he thinks he can outlast me here, he’s probably right. Every second my feet hurt more, and with every passing second of pain I become increasingly willing to sweeten the pot.
Finally, a cool one hundred dollars lighter, I get my seat. I glance at my watch. It has taken exactly three hours to secure a place to sit and wait for my bus. I lean back on the filthy bench, breathe a sigh of relief, and seriously consider sleeping. I have my backpack in my lap and my feet on my suitcase. I think I’ll wake up if someone tries to steal either one. I’m just about to close my eyes when I see a little old lady making her way into the station. The poor thing must be nearing eighty, and is quite frail. I watch as she surveys the room, obviously looking for a place to rest. Surely one of these guys here will relinquish their seat for an old lady.
Twenty minutes later I’m pacing the station, seething with anger. How did I get forced into giving up my hard-earned seat? I decide to stand by one of the selfish young guys and see if I can guilt him into giving up his seat. The guy I walk up to looks like he’s no older than twenty one. I stand in front of him, making a show of how much pain my feet are in. After ten minutes and not even a sideways glance from him, I give it up.
It’s nearly eleven at night, only nine more hours of pacing left. As I sit back down on my suitcase and lean against the filthy wall, the gravity of my situation sinks farther in. If this legal thing with the email hacking ends up in any kind of conviction, my career as a paramedic is dead in the water.
I cannot keep my license with any kind of a record, even a misdemeanor, and impersonating someone online and hacking their account is probably more than a misdemeanor. There’s gotta be some way to get Brand to back off and help me out. I’m pretty sure if he pleads my case they’ll understand I had the best intentions and will not be interested in prosecuting me.
But the more I think about it, the more unlikely that seems. Brand is way too pissed and feeling far
too betrayed to consider helping me out. As I pace around, I try to use the time constructively by thinking of a way out of this mess, but I’m just too mentally and physically exhausted.
The toll of the last few days is rushing at me like a freight train. My vision is beginning to narrow, and the room begins to spin. What the hell is happening to me? Maybe I just need some fresh air. I get up from my suitcase that I’ve been sprawled out on and something suddenly occurs to me. I haven’t seen my backpack. I look around frantically, but it’s nowhere to be seen. Someone has lifted my backpack! I struggle to my feet. It has to be somewhere in the station and with the person who took it. Despite my fatigue, I feel a sudden surge of energy. I have to get that pack back. My purse was in there with my bus ticket, my ID, credit cards, and my money. If I don’t get that back, I can’t even go home.
I lurch from person to person, expecting to find either it or the evidence of it and the person who took it. I make three rounds of the station and no one seems to have it. Somebody has it, and more than one somebody saw who took it. I try another tact. I stand up in the middle of the station and make my plea,
“Excuse me? Someone just stole my backpack. Somebody here saw who took it, and whoever did, you can have the money, I don’t care. I just want my bus ticket back, my driver’s license and my credit cards. The rest is yours. Give it back and no questions will be asked and I won’t call the police.”
I look around the room expectantly. Most people only give me a cursory glance before returning to whatever held their attention before I made my little speech. I wait a couple more minutes then decide to sweeten the deal.
“Okay look, whoever took this, I guess you plan on using the credit cards, right? Fine, knock yourself out. But please, I need my ID and my bus ticket. I just wanna go home!”
I look around the room again, paying special attention to people’s faces. My attempt to read them proves fruitless. Nobody will even meet my gaze. I’m starting to feel desperate. Well, more desperate than I was ten minutes ago. I decide to give my speech one more try.
“Look people…I just wanna go home. I have been up for the last…four days with no sleep, no rest, and almost nothing to eat. Now I have no money and no ticket. Please, whoever took my stuff, I’m gonna sit right over there on my suitcase and I’m going to bury my face in my hands and close my eyes for one minute. When I’m finished I expect to see my ticket sitting on top of this trash can. So please do the right thing and give me back my ticket so I can go home.”
I sit down and do just what I said. This time I feel certain that someone will do the right thing. I give them five minutes. You know, just in case someone is wrestling with his conscience and needs a little more time. When I finally do open my eyes, I am sadly disappointed. There’s nothing on the trashcan lid, not a single thing. I look around the station for the other trashcans just in case someone was confused about which can to leave my stuff on, but they don’t have my stuff either. How can a shitty bus station have a code of silence? This is ridiculous!
Having done everything I can think of, I collapse back on my luggage. This time despair comes like great black ocean waves. I look at my watch. It’s nearly one in the morning. That means I have seven hours till my last hope of getting home departs the station.
I thought I felt pretty crappy when Brand was raking me over the coals about what I had done to him. I also thought I felt pretty damn shitty when Silas told me off and dumped me here. But all that, it’s nothing compared to how low I feel right now. I have no money, no ID, no credit cards, no cell phone, no nothing.
Finally, the person who’s spent her entire adult life saving others needs saving herself and no one is coming to my rescue. Guess you could make a pretty strong argument for Karma here. If I hadn’t have done what I did to Brand and Silas, I wouldn’t be in this mess. In a way, it’s payback. I was trying to do the right thing, though. I only wanted to help my dying boyfriend and my new lover. There’s not a malicious bone in my body.
Finally I can hold the tears back no longer. With each sob, my body quakes and shudders, almost like the tears are being forcefully taken from my body. It’s not an easy cry, and it’s not one of those soul cleansing ones either. It’s a deep, dark and despairing cry. Dirty tears sluicing over a sickly soul. I have no idea how long it takes to empty my body of tears, but when I my eyes finally dry up I feel no better. In fact, I think I feel worse.
I take a peek at my watch, it’s almost three. Holy crap! Did I really cry for hours, or did I pass out? I must look like hell too but I don’t want to risk losing my suitcase by getting up and going to the bathroom. I guess I could drag it with me, but I just don’t have the energy.
“Where you headed?” someone says beside me.
Shit, someone is actually talking to me? Can’t they see this is not a good time for conversation? I decide if I ignore the voice it’ll go away.
“Ma’am?” Damn, why couldn’t people talk to me before I just spent the last two hours crying? “I couldn’t help but overhear. You’re headed to Oakland, yes? I’m headed there myself with my partner. Thing is, he kinda split and I’ve got this extra ticket and all. The thing about these tickets, when you buy one you need your ID, but once you’ve got the ticket, the driver doesn’t even check to make sure the ticket you’re giving him even belongs to you. I’ll just set it here next to your foot.”
His voice trails off. I hear him shuffle his feet around for a few seconds, then I hear him walk away. I keep my eyes squeezed shut for another five minutes before I dare open them up to see if that little exchange was for real or I’d just dreamed that a total stranger gave me his partner’s bus ticket.
“Hey, if you’re not gonna take that,” It’s a totally different voice now. I open my eyes to see a pair of feet covered in grime, blisters, and fungus standing not six inches away from my own feet. I jerk my feet back away from them as a hand descends to grab the white bus ticket.
“Oh no you don’t!” I spit out.
I finally spring to life and snatch up the ticket before the owner of the feet from hell can get it. I don’t even look up. I launch myself up off my suitcase, grab it by the handle and lurch across the station floor trying to get as far away from those feet as I can. I find a clear space along the opposite side of the station and park my suitcase and my ass down to wait out the next four or five hours before I can finally be on my way home.
I look around the station to see if I can spot the owner of the feet. I don’t see anyone barefoot. Could that have totally been my imagination? Is the ticket even for real? I pull it out of my pocket and examine it. It’s real alright. I look at the name of the person it belonged to. David Pearson. His address is in Emeryville, kind of a nice suburb of Oakland and not far from where Gabby and I live. I wonder what happened and why he chose not to return with his partner?
When seven rolls around I can barely keep my eyes open again, but I have to do something to try to get cleaned up a little. This time I drag my suitcase with me when I go to find the bathroom. I’m totally amazed that the bathroom I find is actually not so filthy after all. In fact, it’s probably the cleanest part of the whole bus station.
When I catch my reflection in the mirror I just about scream. I look like hell! Actually, I look far worse. My eyes are bloodshot and so puffy I can barely open them enough to see out of. My face is covered with dirt and grime from the station and my hair is matted down, tangled and filthy. I have never been in more need of a shower than right this moment. Of course there’s no shower here, so the sink will have to do.
Twenty minutes later I stagger out of the bathroom with a clean face and wet hair. My eyes have benefited as well from the cold water I kept splashing on them. I’m sure I must be in dire need of deodorant as well but that’ll have to wait. I look at my watch.
The bus leaves in thirty minutes. It’s probably boarding right now. I run back to the main part of the station and sure enough, my bus, number 2112 is in the process of being loaded with eve
ryone’s baggage.
I drag mine over and deposit it where it can be loaded with the others. Fifteen minutes later I’m walking down the aisle looking for my seat. I find it, two thirds of the way back. It’s right next to an incredibly handsome man in his early thirties. He’s got model good looks, but there’s an air about him that screams business professional, not someone who belongs on the other side of the camera.
He’s dressed in a pair of designer blue jeans and a muscle-hugging black tee. His blue blazer is crisp and is very obviously an expensive piece of clothing; not what you’d expect to find on a Greyhound bus. He’s got a shock of short black hair with a natural windblown look and a couple days growth of hair on his handsome face.
His smile triggers a smile on my own face, something I haven’t done in almost a week. He extends his hand for a shake as I make to sit down beside him. He has a firm grip, but not crushing. His hand is smooth and his nails expertly manicured. The guy reeks of power and success, yet he appears to be genuinely nice.
“Glad you decided to use the ticket,” he says by way of introduction. “My name’s Walker, by the way.”
“June. And thank you for the ticket. Sorry it didn’t work out for your partner, but I am deeply grateful for it.”
“No worries June. I’m sure you’ll be good company for the trip.”
I’m not complaining here, but something is a little off. He dresses and looks like he should be flying in his private jet, not on a Greyhound bus.
“I don’t mean to be nosey, but you just don’t look like the Greyhound bus kind of guy. You lose your jet or something?”
He laughs. “Something like that.” Instantly I feel so much better. I can feel the despair and the fatigue leave my body as the sound of his laughter rings in my ears.
Broken Strings (A Rock Star Novel) Page 15