by Andrea Joan
“That is a riveting story. Feel free to expand on that epic personal opus of yours at any time.”
“You are such a smartass, you know that?” He kicks my foot again before he continues, “I was a terror as a child.”
“Shocking.”
“You want to hear my opus or not, Sky?”
“Sorry. You may proceed.”
“Anyway, I was a feral fucker, getting into trouble and fights because I couldn’t stand to be bored. I had a short fuse and too much time on my hands. I couldn’t sit still to save my life. My dad, who used to be a boxer in Ireland, hauled my ass into our garage one day after a particularly brutal fight in which I busted a twelve-year-old-kid’s nose. He had hung a heavy bag from the ceiling, and he said to me, ‘Boy, you can’t fight against your nature but you can fight for it. You can control it instead of letting it control you. Now hit this fucking bag until your knuckles bleed, and then I’ll teach you how to become a master to your beast and not a slave to it.’ Every day after that he trained me, worked me, taught me how to master my beast. I fought in matches starting at fifteen and fought my way up the ranks quickly. Made a name for myself in no time at all.”
“And did you?”
“Did I what?”
“Master your beast?”
“I thought I did. Until the night that beast turned into a monster. And you can’t master a fucking monster. You can’t control it. It controls you.” A detached look consumes him as he absently rubs at the scar on his neck, his eyes glazing over, and I realize I’m watching a person physically draw into themselves, into their darkness, into a past, a moment that changed everything. I know this because I’ve been there, and I hate that for him. I hate it. I can’t watch it anymore.
Do something. Say something. Pull him back. “So what was your superhero boxing name?” Maybe I should have thought that one through a minute.
The hand on his neck drops and he bursts out in laughter. “My what? What the fuck did you just ask me?”
I hope my face is not as red as the heat burning my skin suggests. How can I give speeches at big-ass award shows and charity events in front of thousands of people with no problem and yet be completely unnerved in front of one man?
“You know how boxers have those pet names for each other like Floyd Dollars Mayweather or that um…that Pacman guy?”
Why is he still laughing at me? I mean, really laughing at me. He is actually doubled over, head between his legs, sucking in air with one hand up as if to signal to me it’s going to be a minute.
“You are something else, Sky. Fuck, I haven’t laughed that hard in a long time.” He shakes his head and scrubs a hand across his face, gaining back his composure. “First off, boxers do not have superhero names. And we really fucking do not have pet names for each other. They’re just nicknames. Like Floyd Money Mayweather or Manny Pacman Pacquiao.”
Oops. I guess it’s safe to say he officially knows I know shit about boxing now.
“Second, I’m not telling you until you answer my next question. I do believe it’s my turn, after all.”
Feeling brave and almost a little high off pulling him back to me, I acquiesce to another question. “Hit me with your best shot.”
“Tell me about your mom. What does she do?”
Wrong shot.
Unease creeps through me at the mere prospect of even saying her name, let alone telling him anything about her.
“Sky, look at me.”
I do.
“Trust me, remember? I know your mom is a trigger for you. I saw it the other night when you started to talk about her. You held back. Why?”
“Hold on just a second,” I say, unbuckling my seatbelt and standing to make my way to the back of the plane where I know Paul keeps his liquor stash.
After pulling some Patrón out of the cabinet, I walk back to my chair and take a seat. I pop the cork out of the bottle and take a giant pull, feeling his judgmental stare on me the whole time. Or maybe his stare is not judgment but worry. I really don’t care. If he wants to know about my mother, then he needs to back up and let me have this.
“You want some?” I hand the bottle to him, knowing he will probably decline but no need to forget my manners.
“Thanks, but no. It’s a bit early for me, Skylar. You okay?”
“I’m good. Just need a little liquid courage for this one.” I go to take one more pull but before the bottle hits my lips, Liam snatches it and the cork from my hands. Placing the cork back in the bottle, he tosses it forcefully onto the empty seat next to him.
“Hey, careful! That’s good tequila.”
“You don’t need that bottle. If you can’t tell me without getting loaded, then wait until you can tell me.”
“Fine. I get it, but you don’t have to be so grabby,” I joke, hoping to get a smile from him. He doesn’t smile back. He just stares at me, waiting for me to speak.
So I sigh, close my eyes for a brief moment, and begin to tell him something only two other people in this world know.
“My mom, Raina, was stunning. She looked like a mix between Brigitte Bardot and Rita Hayworth. She could turn every head in a room.”
“Not unlike her daughter, I imagine,” he says with a genuine smile.
Don’t blush. Don’t blush. Don’t blush. Dammit, I know I’m blushing.
“Right, well, for as beautiful as she was on the outside, she was seriously tortured on the inside. She was so sick. Some days were good, some bad. The sun literally rose and set with her. One minute she was carefree and happy, and the next you could see darkness just wash over her. She would change into a whole other person. She would hurt people, hurt herself, create drama where it was unnecessary. I don’t remember a lot of it, sometimes only what my father tells me. He told me once when they had a housewarming party to introduce themselves to their new neighbors, she went into the kitchen to grab a bottle of wine, walked right into the dining room, and threw the bottle at one of the women who was wearing a dress that looked similar to hers. Then she walked back into the kitchen, curled up into a ball on the floor, and cried for seven hours straight. That was the first time my father had her committed. She got better. The doctors were able to regulate her meds and she evened out. But then she got pregnant with me. The doctors told her she shouldn’t go off her meds. That it was dangerous, but she didn’t want to hurt the baby. Hurt me. Things never went back to normal after that. They got worse. Something about her hormones changing after giving birth to me sent her spiraling deeper into depression, and at some point, she developed schizophrenia. She would start to hear voices and think demons were following her. My understanding of it from the stories my father told me is that she was convinced when she gave birth to me that she had given birth to the child of Satan, and that when I was born I brought all these demons with me to haunt her. To punish her, I guess.”
I start laughing uncomfortably, realizing how ridiculous this whole thing must sound to an outsider, someone who never lived through it.
“Shit, Skylar.”
The pity his whispered curse is laced with causes me to cringe. Pity is a wasted emotion because it never progresses into anything positive, and it makes me look weak in the eyes of others. I don’t want his pity. I don’t want anyone’s. I don’t want to be weak.
“Yeah. Shit. Anyway, eventually her depression reached the point of no return, so she ended her life.” I shrug my shoulders.
The haunted look that claims him tells me more about him than any words he’s spoken so far; he is no stranger to loss. “I’m so sorry that happened to you. Losing someone, especially someone you love—”
“I didn’t say I loved her, Liam. I didn’t even know her. Her being my mother did not entitle her to my love. Don’t feel sorry for me based on a misconceived notion that I lost someone I loved,” I snap, shocking even myself with that response.
“I think that’s enough for today,” he relents.
Thank god, because if I don’t shut up now, I may end
up telling him everything and ruin all of this. Whatever this is.
“You play poker?” Liam asks, grabbing a deck of cards from his back pocket. Grateful for the change in pace and surprised by his ability to stop me from spinning out of control with my own thoughts, I find myself laughing slightly in relief.
“Do I play poker? I don’t just play poker, I dominate poker.” I wipe away the single tear that has formed before it drops to my cheek, and I smile.
“Dominate, huh? We’ll see about that. I didn’t bring any poker chips with me though.”
“Left them in your other pants, I suppose.”
“Funny, Sky.”
“Hold on. I know where we can get something.” I get up from the chair and make my way to the back cabinet, pulling out a bag of Hershey’s Kisses I know Paul keeps hidden away.
“We can use these,” I say, tossing the bag into his lap. “Paul always keeps chocolate on his plane, it’s his only addiction. This is from his stash, and if I value my life I’ll make sure to replace the bag before he steps a foot back on this plane.”
“Understood. Well, I guess it’s game fucking on. Five card draw okay with you?”
“Perfect. Let’s do this.”
For the next two hours we play poker and talk about our lives. Not the hard parts like before but the stories you love to remember and share over and over again with friends. Liam told me about how his mother decorates for every holiday, including but not limited to Valentine’s Day, Halloween, Thanksgiving, the 4th of July, even Memorial and Columbus Day. But her specialty is Christmas, and I loved listening to him talk about how crazy his mom gets with that particular holiday. It was like watching the sun peek out of dark clouds on an otherwise stormy day. He told me how they had three Christmas trees and even a hot cocoa station in the kitchen, and about how his dad was forced to put twinkle lights on everything outside. The roof, outside trees and bushes, even the bird houses had mini lights. I’ve never decorated for Christmas—I barely even celebrate most years, but I don’t have a family like his, and I hope that one day I can experience Christmas the way he does. He even told me about his dad getting cancer, and it truly touched me when he explained how he had come home to take care of his family while his father recovered.
In return I told him how I met the only person I’m proud to call family. Meeting Noah was one of the few happy, untainted memories that I have. He came from a broken home, not unlike me. His father left him, his mother, and his eight-year-old sister when Noah was just fifteen. Noah’s mom worked as a waitress at a café in L.A. that I would often frequent. The café was open twenty-four seven, which made it convenient for me with my crazy schedule, not to mention the café had the best macarons, and I’m a macaron slut. Noah would often be there while his younger sister did homework at a spare table in the back because his mom, June, could not afford a babysitter. Because I was there as often as Noah and only a year older than him, we naturally gravitated toward one another, and he immediately ingratiated me into his family.
I wasn’t as famous then as I am now and not nearly as jaded, so it was easy to build a friendship with him. I told Liam all about how Noah would come to my house and help me put together outfits for red carpet events and his love of makeup and helping me to apply it. I think he thought I was his own personal Barbie doll, but I loved it because the boy did have a gift. By the time I turned seventeen and bought my own home, I moved Noah into it and hired him as my stylist.
We talked, laughed, and played as if we had known each other for years, and then all too soon the pilot announced the plane was set to land at LAX and asked us to buckle our seatbelts.
I’m terrified this private place we’ve built between our two worlds will be demolished soon after we enter mine.
“Well, Sky, I do believe you just kicked my ass at poker.” Liam clears his cards off the tray and places it back in place. He then buckles my seatbelt again before buckling his own.
“Don’t worry. I’ll make sure you get a chance to win all your kisses back, slugger.”
“I’m counting on it, sweetheart,” he says with that cocky crooked smile of his.
“I’m so sure. Oh by the way, when we land don’t worry about the bags, I have someone coming for them,” I say, attempting to ignore the innuendo in regard to the kisses.
“It’s only four bags. I’m sure we can manage.”
He only has three bags? For a three month stay? How is that even possible?
“We probably could, but walking through this airport is going to be tough enough as it is without the baggage. I should probably warn you that paparazzi camp out at LAX. It’s the perfect place to spot and stalk celebrities. And it will be even worse if it was leaked that I was coming back today. Not to mention the fans and autograph hounds.”
“What’s the difference between a fan and an autograph hound?”
“A fan knows and loves your work. An autograph hound just knows you’re famous and your autograph could fetch them some money on eBay. The fans and hounds are pretty harmless as long as they don’t get too hands-on. Typically, you don’t have to worry about them. The paparazzi, however, can be dangerous, and they come in swarms. They get too close and the lights of the cameras flash in your face all at once while they ask disrespectful questions, and it’s hard to ignore them sometimes. Hopefully my driver is already at the front of the airport so we don’t have to wait long. Are you ready for this, Liam? This world…it’s much different than yours.”
“I wouldn’t worry about me, Sky. I’ve gone twelve rounds with some of the best fucking fighters in the country. I’m sure I can manage a few people with cameras.”
Poor, sweet boy.
“Yeah, but you get to use your fists on the fighters,” I say as the plane touches down. “Here we go. Let’s see what you’re made of.”
FUCK. MY HEART IS hammering against my chest, thumping faster and faster.
Adrenaline is roaring through me.
My body shaking, jaw clenching.
It’s starting to spread through me, taking me over.
Running me.
Owning me.
I know because everyone and everything around me has slowed down. But the rage inside is unyielding and causing every part of me, every molecule, to speed right the fuck up.
I was not prepared for this. Sky warned me how bad LAX would be, but I didn’t fucking listen. When we got off the plane it was just a few stragglers flashing their cameras at her, asking her how she enjoyed her trip and welcoming her back home. I kept hold of her the entire time, except when she signed a few autographs for little kids, and even then I hated letting her go. But Sky obviously loved signing for kids because her whole face lit up when she did, so I begrudgingly released her hand whenever one came around.
But in less than two minutes, everything went to shit.
The paparazzi count has gone from four to five to ten to what can only be described as a mob. They are tripping over themselves, walking fucking backwards blindly down the stairs next to the escalator we are about to ride down. I have to let go of her hand because I’m too afraid I’ll fucking break it in mine with the way I’m starting to lose control of my body. I push her behind me with my arm and try and use my much larger frame to block her from the onslaught of the bright flashes that are currently blinding me to the point I have to slip on my sunglasses just to be able to see in front of me. She grabs my shirt, pressing her head into my back as if trying to hide herself in me, but she knows there is no safe place to hide because they are fucking everywhere.
Behind us. In front of us. Surrounding the space around us like fucking vultures waiting for their prey to die so they can pick apart and devour the body. Sky is the prey, and fuck if that does not have my blood boiling.
It’s fucking chaos.
But what really has me about to destroy everyone with a fucking camera in their hand is the obscene questions they are yelling at her.
“Skylar, how does it feel to be back in L.A.?”
“Hey, Skylar, is this the new boyfriend?”
“Skylar, now that Cassiel Logue is back from tour are you two going to hook up again?”
“Another five-day bender through L.A.?”
“What do you have to say about the rumors that someone is shopping topless photos of you around?”
“Skylar, what do you have to say about the interview Cassiel gave recently in Rolling Stone calling you an animal in the sack?”
“Hey, guy, can you confirm that she is good in bed? How long before she puts out?”
Between the vulgar questions hurled her way and the ambush of paparazzi coming at her, I’m shocked I’ve not blazed a path of fucking destruction to get her the hell out of here. But with each second that passes, I just focus on her touch against my back, her sweet scent surrounding me, her warm breath that slips through the fabric of my shirt. I absorb her calm. Her being. I anchor my sanity to it.
“Shit,” Skylar says as we finally make it outside to the pickup area.
I back her up against the glass wall of the terminal near the door we just walked out of and block her between my arms in an attempt to create some kind of barrier between her and the paparazzi. I bend down slightly so my mouth is right next to her ear. “What’s wrong, Sky?”
“The car isn’t here yet. I just texted my driver and he said he is two minutes away. We-we have to wait, Liam. I’m so sorry,” she whispers past her trembling lips.
Shit.
Clearly she is not as calm as I thought. In fact, she looks like she may cry as she trains her gaze to the ground in front of her. Probably in an attempt to hide from the humiliation these assholes are putting her through.
I feel fucking helpless. Worthless. I can’t hit them. I can’t even threaten them. I turn around, keeping in front of her because the only hope I have right now is being able to spot her driver the second he pulls up. This is exactly what my dad warned me about when I told him my decision to go with Skylar. Our whole fucking conversation is now playing through my mind like a fucked-up afterschool special.