by Tineka Brown
Bathed in too-bright fluorescent lighting, they filled out paperwork, answered questions, and then waited, for what seemed like hours. There was no sign of Valentine — he would be detained overnight, and then probably given a trial date. Olympia cursed her luck. This would tie her and Valentine together for months, even after they returned home. She’d probably be asked to testify, and he’d probably spend the interim weeks trying desperately to get on her good side.
When they were finally allowed to leave, it was after midnight. Everett’s parents walked ahead, apparently ignoring their son now.
“You can come back to my place,” Everett said in a hushed voice, when he was sure they were out of earshot.
Olympia turned to look at him, ready to launch a tirade at him for even considering such a blatant proposition after all that had happened. Then she saw his face, and all her anger melted away.
There was no hidden motive, no sleaze in Everett, only a desire to protect her. And despite everything, Olympia felt safe. She felt safer than she had in years, since before she and Valentine had even met. Not thinking, she grabbed his hand, threading their fingers together. His hand was warm, slightly calloused in a way that spoke of hard, honest work — she’d been too preoccupied to really notice, during their encounter in the dressing room, but now all her attention was focused on this simple touch.
Everett grinned. There was nothing else to be said.
They were still holding hands when they walked through the sliding glass doors at the front of the precinct, and Everett’s parents turned to look at them with disgust.
“Get your hands off my son,” said Mrs. LeBlanc, wasting no time.
A lump rose in Olympia’s throat. “No.”
She felt Everett’s grip tighten.
“Everett--?”
“Mom, dad… I love Olympia. She’s a wonderful person. And if you refuse to see that, when she’s done absolutely nothing but be civil toward you… well, I don’t know what else to do. But I’m certainly not going to let go of a good thing because you think you can control me.”
A ripple of tension passed between them, singing momentarily, then it snapped.
“Alright. Then I suppose I can no longer call you my son.” Everett’s mother turned from him. His father seemed to balk at this for a split second but put his arm around his wife and took one last look at Everett before turning away as well.
“Fine,” said Everett. “Go. I’ll call you a cab.”
“We’ll call one ourselves.”
And that was it. They watched as his parents walked to the corner, and quickly managed to hail a cab. They got in and were gone. Everett never let go of Olympia’s hand. When the cab was out of sight, he turned to her.
They stared at each other for a while, then Everett pressed his lips to hers as if trying to block out his vision, his senses, to feel only her touch.
“Let’s go,” he said finally.
Chapter 8
The quiet and dark of Everett’s penthouse seemed less comforting and more foreboding as they entered. Everett had spoken only to give the cab driver directions, and Olympia feared that if she said anything he’d realize his mistake, abandon her and run back to catch his parents before they boarded a plane.
Everett took off his shoes and methodically placed them by the door. Olympia followed suit, then walked with him to the kitchen. He opened a high cupboard and pulled out a heavy bottle of something dark amber in color, along with a squat, flat-bottomed tumbler.
He raised his eyebrows and shook the bottle in Olympia’s direction. She shrugged, then nodded. “Thanks,” she said quietly.
Everett fetched another glass and poured out two double whiskeys, neat, pushing Olympia’s across the counter.
He downed his entire glass in one gulp, then refilled it.
“I’m so sorry,” he said, finally, his voice husky with the afterburn of the alcohol. He sounded as though he was fighting back tears.
“Sorry for what? Defending me?”
He looked at her. His eyes looked a different color in this light, a blend of brown and green and gold. “For my parents.”
“You’re not responsible for your parents.”
“Still… I don’t suppose you’d ever want to go with a guy if you knew his parents hated you with every fiber of their being.”
“Well…” Olympia took a sip, held it in her mouth for a moment, feeling the pleasant tingle of the alcohol on her tongue. “I’ll be honest, I don’t feel sorry for them anymore.”
“You felt sorry for them?”
“The way you told the story, it sounded as though they spent a lifetime desperately scraping just so you’d have good opportunities in life. They sounded like people who actually cared.”
“They care about me, I guess.”
“But they don’t trust you.”
Everett’s face grew stormy, and Olympia worried that she’d gone too far. It was one thing to criticize Everett’s parents in a vacuum, but a little uncalled for to analyze their relationship. She took another gulp of the whiskey.
“Maybe not,” he said at length. “But… god, Olympia… I want to reassure you that I don’t share their sentiment.”
“Well of course not. You would never have hired me or Valentine if you felt that way about us.”
“God, and Valentine. Christ, I’m so sorry.”
“Stop it. Stop saying you’re sorry.” Olympia slammed her glass down onto the counter. “You don’t have anything to be sorry about. You invited me here, you gave me a brilliant opportunity. You helped me through unforeseen bad circumstances, you even let me sleep in your house. And now you’re telling me sorry? No. I’m not buying it.”
She crossed her arms, and turned in her seat, looking at a large painting on the wall — an abstract, mostly blue, with fervent splashes of brighter color occasionally marring the smooth monochrome.
Everett was standing, staring at her. She turned back to look at him. “Everett... “she took in a sharp breath. “I love you.”
His face didn’t change, but she felt an almost imperceptible shift in the air around them. He took a pointed sip of whiskey before he responded, and Olympia was almost, almost amused.
“I love you, too.”
For a moment she almost thought that a “but…” or an “and…” was about to fall out of his mouth, but he shut it, and they just stared at each other for a few more minutes, Olympia now painfully aware of a clock ticking somewhere. She could swear she’d never heard it before.
She downed the rest of her whiskey. “I’m exhausted,” she said.
“Me too. You’re uh… well. You’re welcome to sleep in whichever bed you want.” Olympia read the implicit offer in that, and couldn’t deny that she was tempted, but decided better of it. “Thanks,” she said. “But I think I need to be alone for a while.”
“I understand.”
They parted with a chaste kiss, Everett staying in the kitchen to rinse out the glasses while Olympia made her way to the bedroom in the hall, where all her luggage still sat, untouched. She turned on the light and stared out the window for a moment, watching the way the soft light made her reflection look like a ghost out on the horizon. Nearly one in the morning and the city seemed to be just getting started. The sidewalk was crawling with shadowy figures, ambling from one party or show to another.
Olympia yawned hugely. She suddenly missed her cat, and Alex, and her tiny apartment, and the lounge where she’d spent so many nights singing her heart out.
That was something that they’d have to address. Love was all well and good while they were together, in Everett’s beautiful penthouse, but she still had round-trip tickets for a flight that was leaving in another week. A long-distance relationship was not what she’d signed up for when she took this gig — and all the tender, unconditional love in the world couldn’t stand up to that gulf of uncertainty.
Pushing the thought from her mind, Olympia snuck away to the bathroom, brushed her teeth and wiped off
her makeup. Her face was a mess — in all the fear and confusion of the past few hours she’d barely given it any thought, but of course her mascara and eyeliner were smeared halfway down her face, mingling with dark foundation and blush and tears.
She shook her head, almost laughing to herself. First time I meet his parents, and I look like a clown. But then, no aspect of that meeting had gone how she would have wanted it to.
When Olympia finally laid down, sleep didn’t take her as quickly as she would have liked. Her final waking thoughts were of Valentine, spending another night in some police holding cell. Serves him right, she thought. But all the same, she couldn’t shake a certain amount of concern, of worry.
First thing in the morning, we’ll get it sorted out, she told herself. If only she believed herself.
*****
When morning finally came, Olympia awoke to the smell of bacon frying. Wrapping herself in a bathrobe, she emerged from the room to find Everett working over the stove, humming a disjointed tune to himself that might have been one of the songs from last night.
She cleared her throat. “Good morning.”
He spun around, wielding a spatula as though it were a weapon. Then he broke into a grin. “Good morning, Olympia. I’m making breakfast — I hope you like eggs Benedict.”
OIympia smiled and nodded.
The meal was delicious. Between bites, Olympia took a sip of coffee and said, “so why do you even have a personal chef, if you’re such a good cook?”
“Cooking isn’t as enjoyable when you have no one to cook for. Besides… I don’t always have the time.”
“Right.”
Another bite, then she worked up the courage. “So… you’re not going to be able to bail Valentine out this time, are you?”
Everett gave her a hard, searching look, then replied, “No. But I’m not sure you’d want me to.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“Come on, Olympia. You want him to be punished for what he did to you. I’m not… I’m not trying to put words in your mouth…” he took a sip of coffee as if to gather his thoughts. “But I don’t think I’m wrong in thinking that all his bad deeds are finally catching up.”
Olympia swallowed a pang of protective anger. Everett was right, and she didn’t know why she’d try to deny it. Valentine had a lot coming to him — maybe her anger was at herself, for not letting it catch up to him sooner. The number of times that she’d tried to protect him, told people over the phone that he wasn’t at her apartment when he was, covered for his lateness, his absences… yes, she’d wasted a lot of time on that man, and it was about time that he took the fall.
“You’re not wrong,” she finally said, looking everywhere but Everett. “I guess… you know, I still think of him as someone close to me, and it’s hard to accept that someone close to me might be doing jail time. But I guess that’s that.”
“Well, no need to get ahead of yourself. He might not go to jail. He might just have to pay a fine or do some community service.”
Olympia shrugged. “As long as he learns his lesson.”
“A man like that? I don’t know.”
Olympia gave him a crooked smile.
After breakfast, Everett insisted on washing the dishes, so Olympia decided to go and try out the gym, on the same floor as the pool. Though rehearsal had been grueling, she still felt as though she’d spent the better part of three days lazing about in a penthouse and drinking.
She maintained a punishing momentum during her cardio session, as if trying to sweat out all the thoughts that wouldn’t leave her alone. She showered in the gym and returned to the penthouse an hour and a half after she’d left, feeling refreshingly exhausted.
Everett was sitting on the sofa, holding his phone and smiling.
“Olympia!” He said, grinning even wider. “I’ve got great news!”
She raised an eyebrow as if to ask the question.
“I just got a call from a label guy who was at the show last night. He’s offering to negotiate a contract with you!”
Olympia suddenly felt her knees go weak and made her way to the nearest chair. In all the excitement, she’d totally forgotten about her initial hopes, that this gig might lead to a real record deal. It was the big-time, after all, a casino stage on the Vegas strip — in retrospect, she counted her lucky stars that she’d forgotten that. The pressure might have gotten to her.
“I... That’s amazing,” she said. “When… what…?” She realized she barely knew the first thing about contract negotiations and couldn’t begin to formulate the right questions.
“He wants to meet us this evening — we’ll go back to rouge. I’ve met the guy before, he runs Diamond records. It’s based in L.A. but he’s all over the place recruiting. I might not be a music guy, but I know about contract negotiations, so I’ll be here to help you. Right now, I’m technically your manager. While you’re in Vegas, anyway.”
“Works for me,” said Olympia, then breathlessly added, “what should I wear?”
*****
They entered the restaurant at eight p.m. sharp, Everett dressed in a smart suit with a subtle pinstripe pattern, Olympia in an emerald-green dress that was tight in all the right places. Rouge, now open to the public, was quite packed, but they found their man sitting toward the back of the place in a booth very near the one where Olympia and Everett had first talked. He was dressed in a rather loud baby blue suit that contrasted interestingly with his dark skin.
“Hi! You must be Olympia. I’m Terrence.” He stood and took Olympia’s hand. She gripped it as firmly and confidently as she could manage. “Please, take a seat.”
When they were settled, Terrence pulled a thick file folder out from a briefcase that was sitting on the booth’s seat and placed it on the table. “I’ve drawn up a starter contract for you. This is the contract that we offer all our new acts — it’s for two years, and it covers the basics like royalties, rights to lyrics, recording rights, shows, merchandise, and all of that. Tell me, Olympia, have you ever been with a label before?”
Terrence turned to pull three pens out of his briefcase as Olympia answered.
“No.”
“No, excellent. It wouldn’t be an issue if you had, but it’s always a plus for the label when we’re signing someone that no one’s heard of yet. It’s very exciting.”
Olympia tried not to be miffed at the idea that no one had heard of her. What about the audiences at the lounge back home? But she supposed that they didn’t really count, in the eyes of a record label on the other side of the country.
She picked up one of the pens and turned it in her hand. Everett glanced at her with a look that said, don’t go signing anything just yet. Olympia flashed him a knowing smile, and his look took on a sheepish air.
Terrence pulled a thick wad of papers out of the folder. “Everett,” he said, “I took the liberty of copying the contract for you, as well, since you’re acting manager. Olympia, do you have another manager that looks after your gigs?”
“Not really. I’m a lounge singer back at home, and the owner of the club schedules all my shows. But since I’m always singing in the same place, there’s no need for a manager — not in the sense that you’re thinking of.”