Tone Deaf

by Olivia Rivers

  “Ali,” I repeat, my voice nothing but a small croak. “Where’s Ali?”

  They all exchange uncertain glances, and I start to panic. I sit up, and the world spins wildly. As I gasp in a breath, pain ricochets through my chest and limbs, tearing a groan from me. What the hell happened? And why don’t I remember any of it?

  The room finally stops spinning, and I manage to focus on the figure standing at the foot of my bed. It’s a doctor in a white coat, and he stares down intently at a clipboard. He has salt-and-pepper hair and glasses with thick lenses, and I get the feeling that he’s avoiding my gaze. The doctor shuffles uncertainly when he feels my stare on him, making me think he’s not used to working on celebrities.

  “You should try to rest, Mr. Beckett,” the doctor says. “We were able to flush most of the flunitrazepam out of your system, but you’re going to feel weak for a couple of days.”

  “Fluna-what?” I say.

  “Roofie,” Arrow says to me. “Someone drugged your drink in the club. You overdosed.”

  My skin crawls at the thought of having drugs in my body, and I blink hard, trying to remember what I’d even had at the club. I’d asked for bottled water, but when my order was forgotten, I’d accepted a glass of punch. It was alcohol-free, so I figured the worse thing in it would be the sugar. I should have known better.

  The doctor shakes his head at my chart. “You can consider yourself lucky to be alive. Whoever put the flu-nitrazepam in your drink used a dose that could have knocked out ten people. The police are looking into it, but so far they haven’t found a culprit.”

  And they won’t—I know at least that much. Maybe it was a crazed fan targeting me, maybe the dose was actually meant for a girl, maybe it was some sort of prank. Doesn’t matter much why the drug ended up in my drink, because the police aren’t ever going to figure it out. The downtown club scene is just as tight-lipped as it is risky.

  I close my eyes and let out a curse, wincing as the loud sound strikes my aching head. I’ll probably never know who drugged me, but that’s not going to stop me from hating their guts.

  Killer rests a comforting hand on my shoulder, and I wait for him to make some crack about the irony of the situation—I always go out of my way to avoid alcoholic drinks, and I still ended up getting roofied. But Killer stays quiet. That’s a first.

  I swallow hard, and more pain burns my throat. “Why does my throat hurt so bad?” I ask. “And the rest of me?”

  The doctor glances up from his chart and says, “Your throat hurts because we had to intubate you for a short period. You stopped breathing on the way to the hospital. The rest of your body is probably sore from the seizure you had, but there was no serious damage from it.”

  I stare at him incredulously. “My breathing stopped?”

  He nods. “Like I said, the overdose was very serious.”

  “And what about Ali?” I ask, turning back to Arrow.

  The doctor clears his throat and announces, “You’re on a light dose of painkillers, and the IV saline will flush the last of the toxins out of your system. You should be feeling back to normal within a few days, but you need to stay in bed for now. We’ll talk later about when you can be released from the hospital. Any questions?”

  I shake my head, and the doctor quickly shuffles out the door, his nose buried back in his notes. My focus shifts back to Arrow, who is shaking his head. Oh hell. This can’t be good. My pain is suddenly a hundred times worse, and my stomach clenches with nausea. I squeeze my eyes closed as I wait for his answer.

  “The cops have her,” Arrow says finally. “I called the local station and managed to talk to someone. He said they’re putting her on a plane back to Los Angeles. Her dad will pick her up at the airport.”

  Something pokes at the back of my mind, a clouded memory I can barely grasp. It slowly comes into focus, and I hear Ali’s voice whispering to me, “I know it makes me crazy, but I love you.” She must have known at that point that she was about to get caught. But she still said she loved me, like it didn’t even matter that I had completely failed to keep her safe.

  I tear out my IV before anyone can stop me. It hurts like a bitch, but I don’t care. I deserve the pain.

  Clenching my fists, I stumble out of the bed. Dizziness slams into me, and Arrow yells at me to lie back down, but I ignore him and head for the door. I need to get to that police station and make them realize it’d be dangerous to send her back.

  Something hard slams into my face, and I vaguely register that it’s the floor. Voices erupt around me, and everything goes black.

  33

  ALI

  WHEN MY PLANE lands in Los Angeles, I swear I feel the whole ground shake. Then I realize it’s not the ground—I’m the one shaking. I wish my emotions were something innocent, like fear or terror, but that’s not the case. What I’m feeling is pure rage. It eats at my insides until I can’t keep it in anymore, and my whole body trembles.

  As soon as the cops picked me up, they called my dad and made arrangements to transport me back home. No one has spoken to me in-depth about Jace, although one of the officers told me that Los Angeles authorities will be filing kidnapping charges against him. I still haven’t gotten over the relief of hearing Jace is alive, but I’m choking on the guilt of knowing he’s in trouble because of me.

  Next to me, the airplane’s deputy watches me with mild concern. He’s the guy who was put in charge of monitoring me during the flight and getting me back “safely” to Los Angeles. He wears his gun and security badge on his right hip, so everyone walking down the airplane’s aisle can see them. The deputy hasn’t told me his name, and I haven’t asked. I’ve kept quiet ever since I was handed over to his custody.

  The deputy raises an eyebrow at me as the plane comes rolling to a stop. “Not fond of plane rides, huh?”

  “Screw off,” I snap, surprising both of us. I don’t think I’ve ever said that to an adult. Maybe Jace is rubbing off on me in more ways than I thought, although I’m not sure that’s a bad thing.

  The deputy’s brows narrow, and he opens his mouth to retort. But then the seatbelt light turns off, and a voice must come on over the intercom, because he stares at the speaker above us.

  The next few minutes are quieter than ever before. My mind should probably be buzzing with angry thoughts, but it’s not. All that’s there is a simmering sort of rage, and the solemn knowledge that I can’t simply go back to my old life. I made it so far. I almost escaped, almost started over. Jace gave me a taste of life—real, vibrant, free life. And now that I’ve had a taste, I don’t think I can ever let it go.

  I’m not going back to my dad.

  The plane clears of people, and the deputy stands from his seat, gesturing for me to follow. I stand slowly. My legs are still shaking, and my heart beats too fast for my lungs to keep up with it.

  We come out of the landing tunnel, and the vibrations of the noisy airport strike me from all sides. All around us are bustling travelers coming and going from various terminals, but no one seems to notice me.

  To my right, I see a little girl run toward a man dressed in a suit. She tackles his waist in a hug, and the man laughs as he scoops her up into his arms. The scene should probably make me smile, but instead, it just inflates my anger. Why can’t I have a dad like that? What did I do to deserve a father like the one I have?

  No, that’s not the right question. What I should be asking is: what did my dad ever do to deserve me? I’m a good teenager; I don’t smoke or drink or cause trouble. And, if given half the chance, I’m more than capable of loving. Hell, most parents would consider me the perfect kid.

  Nothing. That’s my answer; my dad did nothing to deserve me. He doesn’t deserve me. I should have no hesitations to fight his hold over me.

  So then why is my heart beating so fast? And why is my head so dizzy, my palms so sweaty?

  I swallow hard, gulping back the fear and replacing it with anger.

  I can do this.

&n
bsp; I will do this.

  The deputy starts leading me toward the main hallway. I assume my dad is somewhere in this crowd, and that makes my gut twist and my blood burn. I’ve felt like this so many times before: terrified and filled with rage.

  But now it’s . . . different. Before, there was shame mixed in with my emotions, and that always stopped me from trying anything stupid to get away. Or maybe anything smart. I’m not really sure which it is, but I do know that there’s no shame now. There’s just this intense concoction of fear and anger, and I’m finally going to put it to use.

  I look around as we walk, searching for what I need. I pass a couple of bathrooms, but they’re too small. Finally, I see one of those huge airport restrooms with two entrances.

  Bingo.

  I nudge the deputy to get his attention. He glances down at me, but keeps walking. “What?” he asks.

  I bite my lip and say, “I have to go to the bathroom.”

  He sighs. “Hold it.”

  “I can’t.”

  Annoyance flashes across his expression. “Look, kid, my job is to get you back to your dad safely. I’m not here to change your diaper.”

  There are a thousand and one things I want to say to him: that I’m not a kid, that he has no reason to be so demeaning, that it’s impossible for me to return to my dad and be safe. But instead, I think back to that puppy dog expression Killer always uses on Arrow. Even deputies can’t be immune to that level of pathetic, right?

  I channel every ounce of inner puppy I have in me, pout my lip a little, and say, “Please? I really, really have to go. I’ll come right back, sir.”

  Maybe it’s the puppy look that does it, or maybe it’s because I called him “sir.” But, for whatever reason, he gives an exasperated sigh and nods toward the bathroom. “Okay, go ahead. But I’ll be waiting right by the door, so don’t try anything.”

  I nod and hurry into the bathroom, weaving through the crowd as fast as I can. A couple people shoot me annoyed looks, but to my surprise, not one stops me. With all the Amber Alert stuff, I figured someone would recognize me and try to “save” me. But no one does, and I make it into the bathroom without incident.

  I figure I have about one minute before the deputy realizes there’s another entrance to the bathroom. Maybe two minutes, considering his level of intelligence. Either way, it’s not much time to escape.

  I walk toward the opposite entrance, going as fast as I can without drawing attention. I’m twenty feet from the door. Ten. Five. Two . . .

  A woman shoves open the door, and I stumble back to avoid smacking into it. I glance up to find the woman gaping at me, her eyes wide with shock. Then she points to me and says, “You’re Alison Collins! Sweetie, are you okay? People are looking all over for you!”

  Heads turn toward us, and while most people immediately look away, a few start walking toward me. Shit. This is so not good.

  I run. It’s a stupid thing to do—what better way to attract attention than to go sprinting through an airport? But I don’t have any other choice. Nothing I say is going to convince those women to leave me alone, and I’m not going to let go of my escape that easily.

  I sprint out the door and dive into the crowd, pushing and shoving people out of my way. My heart pounds so hard that I think my chest might explode. I accidentally knock some guy to the ground, and I hesitate for single second, but then I just keep running.

  Ahead, I see the main exit. I still have to get past security, but maybe I can do that. They should be more concerned about people running in than out. So they hopefully will let me by, and then—

  Arms wraps around me from behind. I struggle wildly against them, but they’re too strong, and I’m trapped. A stream of profanities erupts from my mouth, and I hope I’m yelling them loud enough for the entire airport to hear.

  The arms spin me around, and in a gut-wrenching moment, I realize how familiar the hands feel.

  Rough. Indifferent. Angry.

  Dad.

  I have a single second to take in my dad’s face. He’s glaring down at me, but forcing a smile to appease the people surrounding us. The crowd converges around me. People are pressing in, and my chance at escape is long gone.

  My dad keeps his hands on my shoulders as he guides me toward the exit. His grip grows tight, warning me not to try anything else. Tears press against my eyes, but I don’t let them fall. I can’t cry in front of my dad. Even if he’s won, I can’t let him see me break down.

  His hands dig into my shoulder blades, and I don’t think he’ll be loosening his grip anytime soon. He talks to the man at the security station, nodding and smiling at all the appropriate times. If I try to look at him objectively, I can see the relieved father happy to have his child back. But I peer closer, and I see the truth all the people around me are missing: he’s only relieved because he has me back under his control. And he’s not happy to see me, not really. He’s just happy he doesn’t have to chase after me anymore, and that his reputation as a good man is secure.

  I look around, silently hoping someone else will see the truth in this situation. But the airport security is busy ushering passersby away from me, and I’m left alone with my dad. I see two police officers hurrying toward us, and I let out a quiet curse, which just makes my dad dig his fingers into me harder. I shut up and just glare at the officers as they approach. They’re no doubt friends of my dad who are here to help escort me away from the airport.

  My dad spots the officers, and his brows raise in surprise. Then he lets his smile grow, excuses himself from the airport security guard, and turns toward his colleagues. I watch his lips as he greets them: “What are you boys doing here? You’re a little late to the party, you know.” He smiles down at me and pats my shoulder a bit too hard. “I’ve already found my Ali.”

  The two officers exchange utterly uncomfortable looks. For a moment, I think they’re just intimidated by talking to their retired chief. But then a girl steps out from the crowd, and none of the security tries to stop her. My breath catches as I recognize her: it’s Avery. Avery’s mom strides forward next, followed by her father. They all look deadly serious as they stand next to the officers.

  One of the officers steps closer, his throat bobbing as he swallows hard. He looks my dad right in the eye as he says, “Chief Patterson, sir . . . I’m afraid you’re under arrest.”

  I blink a couple times, certain that I’d misread his lips. But then the officer reaches for the pair of handcuffs at his waist, and I realize this is really happening.

  My dad smirks, but beneath the cocky expression, I see a tinge of worry. “Come on now. You can’t be serious.”

  I hold my breath as I wait for their response. Avery’s parents have tried reporting my dad multiple times, but they’re always brushed off, just like me. So why should this time be any different?

  The officer nods curtly. “Yes, sir, I’m very serious.”

  My heart stops beating for a long second, and then starts pounding wildly. Holy shit. This is for real.

  My dad’s hand tightens on my shoulder until it hurts. “What charges could you possibly be arresting me on?”

  A moment of uncertain silence passes, and then the second officer steps forward, finally finding his voice. “Child abuse.”

  The worry in my dad’s eyes pushes closer to the surface. “Those charges have already been looked into and dismissed. They’re bogus.”

  Avery’s mouth opens in a disbelieving scoff, and she snaps, “We have six people who say differently.”

  “Six?”

  Everyone turns to me, and I realize I’m the one who blurted out the question. Avery smiles at me and nods. “Yeah, six.”

  This makes no sense. The only people who have ever dared to confront my dad are Avery and her parents. Everyone else has always turned a blind eye to my abuse, all of them too scared to face my dad’s wrath. It’s impossible that six people have stepped forward.

  “Is this true?” my dad asks the officers.

>   The first one nods. “Yes, sir.”

  “Who’s claiming I’ve abused my daughter?”

  The second officer squares his shoulders and says, “You know we can’t tell you that, Mr. Patterson.”

  I almost start laughing right then. He’d called my dad Mr. Patterson. Not Chief Patterson, but Mr. Patterson. Little bubbles of giddiness inflate my head, and I shake off my dad’s grip. He doesn’t dare to stop me, and I stride to Avery’s side. She reaches out and takes my hand, giving it a comforting squeeze. I squeeze her hand back, letting her know I’m fine. Hell, I’m more than fine. I’m freaking, flipping, flying wonderful.

  The next few minutes pass in a blur. I watch the officers step forward and read my dad his Miranda rights as they handcuff him. They lead him away, and my dad doesn’t resist. He’s still trying to reason with the officers and get them to let him go. But the officers won’t listen. As they approach the exit, my dad glares over his shoulder at me. He doesn’t even try to hide his rage. I just turn away.

  The doors close behind my dad, and I turn and tackle Avery into a hug, laughing through a new rush of tears. No one tries to stop our celebration, and Avery’s parents even join in on the hug. I’m surrounded by people who care, and for the first time in years, there’s no one to get in the way.

  I wipe a happy tear out of my eye and sign, “Who are the six people?”

  Avery quickly signs back, “My parents, me, two of your teachers, and one of your former doctors.”

  I shake my head. “Why now? People have always been too afraid to say anything.”

  “A certain musician convinced them otherwise,” she signs as a grin overtakes her expression.

  My stomach does a happy little flip. “Jace?”

  Avery nods. “He called me last night and explained everything. We had to scramble, but we managed to get all six witnesses together. After that, it was just a matter of filing an emergency case with CPS. The police took care of everything else.”