by Vivian Wood
“Oh!” A nurse walked in. Brunette with a mane of wild hair she’d tried fruitlessly to tame into a bun. “Sorry, you surprised me. He usually doesn’t have visitors this time of day.”
“What happened to the others?”
“Excuse me?” She went about her business, checking the machines and adjusting one of the IVs.
“The other beds here, what happened to those people?”
“They both died,” she said quietly. It was clear that the whisper wasn’t for her benefit, but for Ashton’s. Clearly she thinks he might be able to hear us.
“Did—”
“I can’t tell you any details.” He shifted awkwardly in her way. While she bustled about, he inched towards the door.
“No, please! Feel free to stay, this will only take a couple more minutes. Visiting hours are on now, you’ll have plenty of time. Don’t mind me.”
Sean wasn’t sure how genuine she was, but he pulled Neal Stephenson’s Seveneves out of his jacket pocket and sat down in the stiff plastic chair by Ashton’s bed. He snuck glances at Ashton and tried to figure out exactly what the nurse was doing, but her hands moved too fast.
Was Ashton’s pallor worse than “lost Californian tan?” Had he always been that white under the golden bronze of the sun’s effects? Sean didn’t know. Hell, it’s not like spending weeks in a hospital room is going to do any favors for your looks.
“All set,” the nurse said with an easy smile as she rushed out of the room and onto the next patient.
Sean sighed and tried to find a position in the chair that was semi-comfortable. He found himself reading the same paragraph over and over again. There was no way to concentrate. “You’d like this book,” he eventually said to Ashton.
The only reply was the computer beeps. Still, holding the book in his hand as a shield and the methodic hum of the machines began to loosen him up.
“Shit, Ashton. I miss you,” he said. He watched his friend for any sign of movement, but there was nothing. “That’s something you probably never thought you’d hear me say,” he said with a small laugh. “Sounds weak, right? But it’s the truth.”
Unlike Joon-Ki, who was a great AA guide and listener, Ashton—especially now—held no space for judgment. He was there, but he wasn’t. No, he’s there. He’s here.
“Shit’s been crazy since … well, you know,” he said. He shut the book and put it in his lap. “Whole lot of thinking going on. Non-stop. It’s probably good in a way, right? But it’s driving me fucking insane.”
Sean stopped talking as he heard squeaking shoes make their way down the hall. A middle-aged woman in a white coat that brushed her thighs walked past. “I feel like a goddamned loser,” he told Ashton. “I mean, besides a clutch of women thinking I’m hot, what the hell else do I have going for me? Nothing.”
Instantly, an image of Harper flashed through his mind. That kiss, those lips. She was gorgeous, that was for sure. And fun, but not a party girl. But what else do you know about her?
“There’s this girl …” he began, but didn’t know how to finish.
What would Harper think of him if she saw him right now? If she saw Ashton? All the carnage he’d caused, and for what?
“I’m sorry, man,” he said quietly. “Ashton, I’m sorry.”
He didn’t know what he’d expected. For Ashton to magically sit up and tell him not to worry about it? There wasn’t even a blip on the machines.
You’re destructive. And you’re dangerous. And nowhere near good enough for someone like Harper … or Ashton.
He dropped his head into his hands and practiced the steady breathing. Equal count in and out.
His history, the evidence just an arm’s reach away, was only part of it. If I was just an alcoholic, that would be one thing, he thought.
But there was more. With Harper, especially, there was a lot more. The things he wanted to do to her, the things he’d dreamt about last night, they were filthy. Depraved. It wasn’t light bondage, that little fluffy handcuff bullshit people liked to play around with these days. It was tie her up so she had to beg, really, truly bed with rope burns blazing into her wrists.
God, if she had any idea of the things that got him hard …
“A new visitor!” Another nurse walked in, this one squeaky clean. She didn’t look older than sixteen. “That’s so nice. How do you know Ashton? Family?”
The last thing he wanted to do was sit here and admit to a Girl Scout that he’s the one who’d put her patient in this bed. “Gotta go,” he mumbled and shoved the book back into his pocket.
He didn’t look back at Ashton, or the nurse, as he stormed out of the room. But the machine beeps followed him all the way down the hall. They were everywhere.
As he waited for the elevator, his phone vibrated with a text. “Just checking in,” Harper had written, followed by a string of emojis he wouldn’t even try to untangle.
He hovered a thumb over the screen, but finally put it away without replying. It would be better this way, for both of us, he thought.
Sean felt like shit as he walked to the car. It was his fault, he’d led her on. Hell, he’d invited himself to her party, even though he’d never expected her to say okay. And that whole night, the playground bullshit, it was clear she was into him.
You didn’t have to kiss her. You should have pulled the plug way before that. He grimaced slightly at the phrase. Better late than never. Cut this shit out before it goes too far.
She was a gorgeous girl. Young, a model, the whole future ahead of her. She’d forget about him in no time.
7
Harper
She furrowed her brows together when she saw the little checkmark appear in the text box. No ellipses, no nothing. Obviously Sean had seen her text. He just chose to ignore it. She automatically relaxed her face and pressed a palm between her eyebrows. The last thing you need are deeper lines in your face.
He wants to give her the cold shoulder? She wouldn’t be put off that easy. Harper typed in the name of the tattoo shop. A woman with a lilting voice answered. “Mission Hells, this is Gita.”
“Hi, I was wondering when Sean will be in again?”
“Uh, let me check. Not ‘til tomorrow at eleven. Do you want to make an appointment?”
“No, that’s okay. Thanks.”
So he has the day off, and zero interest in talking with her. That’s fine, she could wait. One of the few good things her mom had taught her was to go after what she wanted. And Harper intended to do that full force. If Sean wanted to play this cat and mouse game with texting, he was on his own.
“You think you’re the only pretty girl out there?” her mom had said coldly when Harper was fourteen. She’d been crying non-stop after getting second place in the local pageant. “There will always be prettier girls. Younger girls, thinner girls. Get used to it. But if you want something? You go after it with single-minded determination. That’s the only way to get it. You didn’t want to win this. If you did, you would have.”
Her mom was cold, but right.
Sean doesn’t know what he’s in for. You want to reject me? Let’s see you try tomorrow.
Harper turned down her roommates’ invitations to hit up the opening night of a new club just so she’d get the rest she needed for a puff-free face. “Seriously?” Molly had asked. “It’s open bar!”
“You go. Have fun, have one for me. I’m on a mission.”
Molly had rolled her eyes, “You’re crazy. Loot my closet if you want.”
She’d taken full advantage of that offer. Molly was a trust fund baby who lived the starving—in more ways than one—model lifestyle because she thought slumming it was cool.
As Harper marched her way towards the tattoo shop, she didn’t even notice the blisters that blossomed from Molly’s unfamiliar leather ankle boots. The rouched vintage-style skater dress just skimmed her upper thighs.
The bell tinkled as she opened the doors and all eyes were instantly on her. Including Sean’s. He was
bent over an old fat man who winced in pain as his shin was inked. “Harper,” Sean said. He stopped the needle and the man let out a breath of relief. “What are you doing here?”
Suddenly, all her nerve poured out, right through the soles of Molly’s Brian Atwoods. “Uh … nothing,” she said. “Sorry, you’re busy. I was just in the neighborhood.”
“Harper—”
She turned right back around. Her ankle nearly rolled in the six-inch heels. Fuck, since when could I not walk?
“Who was that?” she heard the girl at the front desk ask.
Harper had never been more grateful for the humongous Oliver Peoples glasses that rested on her nose. Tears threatened to fall, but she’d hold it together at least until she got back home. The one-mile walk was murderous on her feet. Two blocks from the house, as if she couldn’t control it, she turned into the corner bodega and grabbed a travel-sized bag of Cheetos, two slices of pizza that must have been sitting out for days, a pint of chocolate ice cream and a six-pack of Coke Zero.
Harper tore through the Cheetos before she even made it back home to set the foundation. Thankfully, nobody was home. Most were at go-sees and who knew where Helena was. Harper grabbed a spoon out of the kitchen, slumped on the couch and ate the pizza without tasting it. There was the sound of some little, feral animal chewing and swallowing madly. It took her a minute to realize it was her.
The pizza gone, she crumbled up the little paper boxes it came in and balled them into the shopping bag. She finished the ice cream in less than three minutes with massive spoonfuls.
Harper downed a Coke Zero to make the last part of the process a little easier. Bubbles always helped.
She locked herself in the bathroom, though everyone in the house knew better than to try and open a shut bathroom door anyway. With practiced ease, she knotted her hair into a bun and crouched over the toilet. She knew instantly exactly how to place her fingers. As her eyes watered and she started to gag, she scraped her knuckles against her teeth as the purge began. Fuck, every time. No matter how many times she tried, she could never stop her teeth from scarring up her fingers.
She didn’t stop until her vomit turned orange. There, that was the last of it. Harper checked to see if any vessels in her eyes had burst, but she’d lucked out this time. As she dropped in Visine, just in case, the familiar wave of embarrassment washed over her. Still, it was worth it for that feeling of emptiness. That feeling of control.
You can make this right, she thought to herself as she looked in the mirror. Get it the fuck together.
She ran her left fingers over the knuckles of her right hand. Where there weren’t scars and fresh wounds, there were callouses. Fuck it, she thought.
Like always, as soon as she was physically empty, she needed something different to fill her. She thumbed through her favorites list on her phone to “Bestie” and pressed the big green phone icon. “P, you free?” she asked.
He groaned into the phone. “Is it before noon?”
“Barely.”
“Whore,” he said. “Yeah, I’m up. Now. You’d better tell me it’s something tragic or I’ll beat that perfectly molded ass of yours.”
“I’m not sure yet,” she smiled into the phone. “Can I come over?”
“As long as you don’t expect tea and scones. Ain’t nobody got time for that shit.”
“Be there in ten.”
She peeled off Molly’s dress, hung it perfectly back in the tiny closet, and pulled on some Lulus and a racerback tank. Running to P’s will burn a few extra calories, even if it is just a mile.
He waited for her on his porch, mug of coffee in hand and folded into a fluffy lavender robe that contrasted his oil-black skin beautifully. “You look like shit,” he said.
“Thanks.” She motioned for him to scoot over on the porch swing and he obliged with an eye roll.
“A pretty shit, but still,” he said. “So, spill. Last time you had the balls to call me before noon, you’d landed the Rachel Zoe campaign. Which I’m still pissed at you for, by the way. You can walk for her but not me?”
“Babe, you know I’ll walk for you as soon as you have a show that’s not at Eagle la at one in the morning.”
“You love it,” he said. “Everyone loves it. You should come to my shop and see the new inventory, by the way. High-end leather has gone colorful.”
“That’s kind of what I wanted to talk to you about.”
“Yes. Finally, you’re coming over to the dark side. I would just love to strap you into this new red catsuit I have in. I see it worn with this gold ball gag that’s totally safe after the last recall. I swear—”
“P,” she interrupted. “I’m serious. I’m down. What do you think if we take your leather designs and pair them with high-end models? Would you be up for working with tattoo artists to inspire a new line? Maybe even pairing some models with tattoo artists to work on some art pieces for photography that could be the backdrop for the show?”
He raised a perfectly shaped brow, microbladed fresher than hers. “Don’t toy with me,” he said. “Not unless you have a crop in your hand.”
“I’m not! I’m serious, what do you think?”
“I think it’s fucking brilliant. But I also think this isn’t a random idea from you. Spill the tea, bitch.”
“There’s nothing to tell! Seriously.”
“Lord, you’re easy to see through. I get the idea that, at the very least, you already have somebody in mind.”
She grinned at him devilishly. “As a matter of fact …”
Harper scrolled through her phone until she found the public Flickr photos of Sean she’d bookmarked after she’d first met him. “Holy fuck, who is that? And why isn’t he strapped to my bed as we speak?” P grabbed her phone and started to scroll through the photos. “Love the neck tat,” he said.
“Yeah.” She bit her lip as she remembered the perfect lines of the raven.
“Sean Cavanaugh,” P said as he read one of the descriptions. “I’m in. Like, balls deep in him if that’s an option.”
“Afraid not,” she said as she took her phone back.
“Oh, I see. You actually like someone! Oh, my God, there do be miracles. Thank you Jesus!” P yelled to the sky.
“Shh!” Harper said with a giggle.
“Okay, so where does Mr. Neck Tattoo with the forty-two inch chest work?”
“You know Mission Hells?”
“I’ve seen it,” P said. “Okay, I’ll get on it. And at least see what my boss says about the whole thing. I’d definitely need his inventory to complement my designs. I don’t do whips and chains, honey. Not my thing. Just the fab attire that goes with it.”
“I love you,” she said as she cuddled into his chest.
8
Sean
(8 Months Ago)
“I can’t believe this,” Ashton said as they cruised along Rodeo Drive. It was rididuclously touristy to head straight for the most famous street in the city, but neither of them cared. Los Angeles was worlds away from Washington D.C., and there wasn’t a suit in sight. “I can’t believe the girls here,” he added.
“Check that guy out,” Sean said as they passed Agent Provocateur. The hobbling old man was at least eighty, but a flawless blonde clutched his arm. She couldn’t be older than twenty-five.
Ashton laughed. “Man, we’re gonna own this city.”
Sean grinned at him. He didn’t exactly know how much Ashton made as a hedge fund manager, but given how they’d matched each other step for step, move for move, back in D.C., the salary was probably comparable to Sean’s trust fund.
For a month, they’d gone out every night. It was easier in Los Angeles than it was in D.C. Even though they’d known every single club, lounge, bar and underground scene that operated in D.C., there was always the sour air of judgment when you got shit faced on a Monday night—and that same stench didn’t exist in L.A.
There was a party every night. Red carpet events, debuts, the opening of s
ome celebrity pop-up shot that nobody gave a shit about but the booze and girls always flowed.
It happened on a Tuesday. Ashton and Sean spilled out of a bar that, predictably, played ILoveMakeonnen’s “Tuesday” every thirty minutes. Ashton’s arm clutched Sean’s shoulder a little too tightly as he sought balance with the camaraderie.
“Yo! You guys comin’ over, right?” Sean couldn’t remember the guy’s name, but the 24-karat gold chain with the ridiculous marijuana leaves embedded with emeralds was familiar.
“Yeah, dude, text me the address,” Sean said. He could hear the slur in his voice, but nobody seemed to care. He laughed into the California night sky that had started to turn pink with morning.
“Fuck, Sean, you been there enough,” the guy said, but he pulled out one of his phones to send it.
“Hey, man,” Ashton said as they piled into his Landaulet. “For real, I gotta be in the office in three hours.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Sean said. He watched Ashton make a messy line on the thick, custom steering wheel and snort it without giving a damn about the dust that fell to the floorboard.
“You bump?” Ashton asked, as always. Sean just shook his head and raised the flask of whiskey he’d tucked into the glove compartment. He never liked to chase a good drunk with coke. He’d tried a few times, but coke just wasn’t his thing—it had nothing on liquor. Ashton needed help staying up, functional, act like he wasn’t a coked up, highly functional alcoholic at the office.
“You seriously gonna go into the office like that? You know this dude’s place always reeks of weed,” Sean said.
“Hey, man, we can’t all afford to get art degrees and roll into a part-time gig at a tattoo parlor at four in the afternoon,” Ashton said. There wasn’t any judgment in his tone, though. He made another line and straightened it up with a girl’s hair barrette abandoned on the console.