Break It Up

by Tippetts, E. M.

“You do?” says Zach. “Can you email it to Mark Wilcox?”

  “Mmm-hmm. You want me to do that now?”

  “Please. You are the best. Thanks for keeping a copy of that.”

  She blinks, shrugs, and says, “Okay, I’ll go do that.” Unlike Rick, she waits until Zach turns away before she shuts the door.

  By now, it’s past two in the morning and even the floor is looking like a comfortable place to crash. All the drama has worn me out. “So, that’s about all we can do tonight, right?” I say.

  Zach nods and I turn to head for my room. I’m glad he found the contract and all that, but now that that’s all cleared up, I’m still mad at him.

  He jogs to catch up with me. “Hey,” he says, touching my wrist. “Thanks.”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “Kyra, wait.”

  I stop and turn, and hope this isn’t the start of another confrontation.

  He catches me under the chin with his crooked finger and makes me look him in the eye. “What’s wrong?”

  “Insulting Chloe is off limits, okay? Doesn’t matter who you are. She’s one of the best friends I’ve ever had.”

  “What’s she like?”

  I fold my arms. I should have known better than to bring up this argument again. While I do want to make my position on Chloe clear, I also want to get some sleep tonight. “She doesn’t have to smile for the cameras. She doesn’t owe it to the world to be photogenic. Seriously. You try saving the life of a child, failing, and then explaining to the rest of the planet how this happened. You’re all stressed out over one contract over one film depicting one stinking band. It isn’t a life or death situation.”

  His eyes, looking into mine, widen slightly.

  “Yeah,” I dig. “You were mocking someone who’s just dealt with a death. A traumatic death. Of an innocent child. She felt responsible. You have no idea what that’s like.”

  “Okay, okay. Yes. You’ve made me feel completely shallow.”

  I shrug, not backing down. It’s what Chloe would do. If the choice is her or Zach, it’s no choice at all.

  “Kyra, I’m sorry.”

  Not what I expected. “Now you’re sorry?”

  “Yes.”

  “But earlier you were showing me videos of her and mocking her and when I defend her—”

  “I was out of line.”

  Huh? I press the heel of my hand to my forehead. “Listen… Okay. Thanks for saying that. I’m gonna go to bed.”

  “Hey, no.” He grabs my wrist. “Really, I’m sorry.”

  “I heard you.”

  “Don’t be mad at me.”

  “I’m just tired. I’m going to bed now.”

  “Can I walk you to your door?”

  I’m far too tired and fed up to argue.

  Once back in my room, I shut myself in the bathroom without even bothering to tell Zach goodbye. I slide my clothes off and hose myself down in the shower. The warm water is liquid comfort, sluicing over me.

  I towel my hair dry, give my body a once-over, and then clutch the towel to my front as I open the door. I’m too tired to put on pajamas tonight.

  Zach is seated on my bed, fully clothed, his shoes still on, and when he looks up and sees me, he’s startled. “Oh, sorry. I, uh, I should’ve let you know I was still here. I…”

  I hastily wrap the towel around myself. “No, it’s my fault.” Why is he still here?

  “Well, okay, I’m not actually sorry. But I’m pretending to be sorry that I saw that much skin.” He’s trying to lighten the mood.

  Not. Funny. At. All. I am in no mood for stupid games, or jokes, or whatever it is he’s doing.

  “My pajamas are under the pill—”

  He gets to his feet and pulls his shirt off. “No, it’s all good.”

  Okay, I think. What the hell? His chest and abs are chiseled perfection.

  Zach walks towards me, the air steamy thanks to my hot shower. I readjust the grip on my towel.

  With a fluid motion, he holds up his shirt and slips the neck hole over my head.

  Chivalrous, I think. And messed up.

  I fumble around, not sure what I’m doing as he guides first one arm and then the other through the armholes. Then he smoothes the cotton fabric down my back. The shirt’s big enough to hang to my mid thighs. I’m able to shimmy out of my towel without flashing him. It’s too late at night, and this is all too weird and I can’t help but feel my distinct lack of underwear. I turn around to hang the towel on its hook.

  No sooner do I turn, though, than Zach hugs me from behind and presses his lips to the nape of my neck. I drop my towel and reach back and grasp his bare shoulder while he proceeds to run his hands over my stomach, his fingers taking note of my curves. I gasp and lean my head back as his kisses become more fervent. My eyelids flutter shut and my breathing is labored now. “Zach,” I whisper, “what are you doing?”

  “I’m tired of being your friend, okay? It’s killing me.”

  I turn and his lips find mine immediately. The kiss is everything I dreamed of—literally. His hands press me firmly against his body, and the skin of his neck and chest is soft and smooth under my fingertips.

  His fingers dig into the thin fabric of his shirt I’m wearing, and I break off the kiss before this goes too far. For a long moment we just stand there, our foreheads together, our breathing heavy. His fingers trace along my hairline as he pushes stray strands back from my face. It’s obvious he’s stressed and not entirely in his right mind.

  I could have him tonight. That much is obvious. I could unfasten his jeans, slide them off, and lead him over to my bed, and he’d go with it. We’d keep each other up until all hours, burning off all the stress and frustration between us, and I bet he’d still talk to me in the morning.

  But I also know enough about bad ways to hook up to recognize this for what it is. A distraction. Confusion. Him feeling all alone in the world with no one to turn to. Our fight clearly rattled his foundations, and this is his way of trying to bind me to him so that he doesn’t feel so isolated.

  Those eyes of his search mine, trying to read me and coming up blank.

  I exhale and press my lips to his again, gently this time. His arms tighten around me at once, but I don’t escalate. Instead, I lead him over to the bed, climb in, and tuck the covers around me before I pull him to lie down next to me. This is a pretty pathetic way to avoid having sex or feeling each other up, but that isn’t what he needs right now—or what he really wants.

  He settles himself beside me and leans in for more hungry kisses, which I return with equal fervor, stroking my fingers along his shoulders to help him relax. “I’m here, okay?” I whisper. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Kyra,” he whispers. “I’ve wanted to be with you ever since we met.”

  “When I acted all awkward and stupid in the restaurant?”

  “No, I got it. Your friends were trying to seduce the three of us, and you… You’re not like that.”

  Yeah, he really doesn’t know me at all.

  “So I don’t ever want to push you further than you want to go. We’ll take this at your pace. Just be with me.”

  I shut my eyes. How to get out of this mess? He’s the one being coddled here, but he hasn’t got a clue.

  I’m too tired to figure out how to fix this. I just kiss and hold him and tell him over and over that it’ll be all right and that I’m here for him until he falls asleep in my arms. Only then do I let myself cry. How did I screw this up so badly? The moment he learns who I really am, he’ll ditch me and not look back. Hours ago, that would have hurt. Now, after this? It’ll feel like having my still-beating heart ripped out of my chest.

  From this angle, all I can see is his shoulder and the line of his jaw and his bac
k rising and falling. I run my fingers over his cheekbone. At least for this moment, he’s mine. I try to be content with that.

  I wake when Zach jerks suddenly and open my eyes to faint sunlight streaming in through the gauzy curtains. “Sorry,” he whispers.

  “Hmm?”

  He’s on his feet, running his fingers through his hair. My side feels cold without the press of his body, and my mouth tastes like something furry crawled inside and died during the night. I bet I could knock him dead from ten feet away with my morning breath, so I speak softly, thinking that won’t expel much air in his direction. “You want your shirt?”

  “Hello?”

  Through my squinting lids I see he’s on the phone.

  “Wait, what?” he says.

  I open my eyes and roll to look at the clock. It’s four in the morning.

  “Okay. Okay. Um…can we do that? Well…I don’t know. I’ll talk to everyone.” The color has drained from his face and his hands are shaking.

  I sit up and smooth my hair as best I can. At least I lay completely still when I slept. There aren’t a ton of tangles.

  “I’ll convene a meeting. Right. We’re in Lisbon. Sure. Okay, I get it.” He listens for a moment longer before he startles again and holds his phone out to look at it.

  “Who was that?” I ask.

  “The lawyer.”

  “Oh.” I do the math in my head quickly. It’s only seven p.m. in LA. “He read the contract?”

  “He says we gave the crew the right to do whatever they want, film whatever they want, and we have no say on the final product.”

  “So what did he say to do?”

  “Call a meeting, see if we can renegotiate. Our one way out of the deal is if we cancel the tour.” He’s at a loss.

  “Well, one thing at a time,” I say. “See what happens if you call a meeting.”

  He runs his fingers through his rumpled hair and paces, looking every inch the rocker sex god. Minus the tattoos. “I screwed up.”

  “Your band mates screwed up. You tried to talk them out of this.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  I’m back in best friend mode, even though it hurts something awful. “You’re not their caregiver. They’re grown men. I mean, come on. Why aren’t you angry? Why the guilt?”

  “Because like you said, those guys are my family. They’re my little brother and my idiot cousin. I’ve always looked out for them.”

  “Well, I’m sorry. But, you know, save your panic until you have something more specific to panic about.”

  That earns me a smile. We may be across the room from each other now, but I still feel this sense of closeness. It fills a void in me I never quite understood. This is what I thought sex would provide, but it never did. The guys were every bit as much strangers to me after the deed as they were before. And now I’m really confused.

  He flops down into the chair. “I really want you to be there. Can we find an excuse to have you there?”

  “Um…” I rub my face with my hands before I realize it’s not a very attractive move. He’s found his way into my personal space in every possible way.

  “I’ll think of something,” he says.

  “Tell me to get breakfast for everyone.”

  “You’re not my intern, though. You’re Aidan’s.”

  “He stole a bunch of your rights. You steal his intern. I can complain about what an arrogant…um…person you are.” I catch myself before I break into casual swearing. The game’s not up yet. I can still pretend to be the girl he wants for a little while longer.

  He laughs. “And that’s the perfect cover. I order you around. You act annoyed. People will think we get on each other’s nerves. They won’t know we’re together now, if that’s what you want? I’m also happy to tell the world, though.”

  My stomach gives a little flip-flop. He’d tell the world? If only that weren’t a catastrophically bad idea… “No, let’s keep this on the down low. Pretend to annoy each other and stuff.”

  “I like it.” He glances at his phone. “I should sneak back to my room.”

  “You want your shirt?”

  “No. That a joke? Although I wouldn’t mind seeing you take it off, let’s wait on that one.” He winks at me and saunters over to the door. “I expect brunch arranged and served at ten sharp.”

  “Roger.”

  “But if you need help—”

  I snort. “My stepmom’s a chef. I was in craft services on your last movie set. I got brunch.”

  “Well, don’t let me actually slave-drive you.”

  “It’s cool.”

  “Sweet dreams,” he whispers as he slips out my door.

  I collapse back on my bed. Surely this contract affair doesn’t have to be a disaster? There’s no denying it could be, though. I wish I knew more about Aidan Greer. I tap out a text to Jason asking what he can find out about this particular director-slash-producer.

  I get some pastries from a bakery around the corner and arrange with the hotel for a big pot of coffee and another one of hot chocolate, which seems to be a popular breakfast drink here. Zach also tasks me with getting five printout hard copies of the contract, which Amy and the concierge help me with.

  Aidan catches me in the hall with one of the concierge people and says with surprise, “You speak Portuguese too?”

  I break off my instructions to get the contract printed out, switch gears in my head, and say, “Spanish. Lots of people here speak Spanish.” Especially in the tourism industry. The concierge person points out that the margins of the printout will be smaller because of the different paper size. I assure her that it isn’t a big deal.

  Aidan catches on to what I’m doing and says, “Wait, why are you getting copies of the contract?”

  Oh…right. He’s my boss, and here I am, helping the band fight him. I am an idiot. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” I improvise. “Zach Wechsler told me to make copies of whatever this is and…I told him I don’t work for him.”

  “No, but he’s had his eye on you,” says Aidan. “I’ll talk to him.”

  This is going to be awkward.

  Everyone convenes in Zach’s room. Some seat themselves on his couch and others pull chairs over from the dining table. As the logistics worked out, the only people here are ones who will travel to Geneva on the private jet. Everyone on a commercial flight has already left and is likely on their plane already. I set the pastries down on the coffee table five minutes after the scheduled start of the meeting, just as Zach instructed. Copies of the contract have already been handed around.

  “Stick around please,” Zach orders me.

  I don’t have to feign the confusion and slight terror I feel as I take a seat.

  He pretends not to notice and stands while everyone else sits. Ben waggles his eyebrows at me and Logan just looks lost.

  Rick is also on his feet, his arms folded and a look of pure irritation clouding his features.

  Aidan is relaxed, his feet stretched out and an easy smile on his face. “There a problem, Zach?” he asks.

  “We need to review the contract.” My boyfriend-of-eight-hours holds up the stapled sheets of paper. “I want final cut.”

  “No can do.” Aidan’s reply isn’t exactly rude, but it isn’t polite either.

  “Why do we care about this?” asks Ben.

  “Because you’ve already got footage of fights and people drunk,” says Zach to Aidan. “This movie is supposed to be fun. Like a virtual concert for our fans with a little back stage time.”

  “I agree,” says Aidan, “but I can’t work if I feel second-guessed all the time. Just because I could make the movie a certain way doesn’t mean I will. Long contract negotiations mess up the relationship here, and a contract that restricts what I can do i
s a hassle. I just want the freedom to do a good job for you guys without having to look over my shoulder all the time.” The way he says it is perfectly convincing.

  “I’m not comfortable with this,” says Zach.

  “Oh please,” snaps Ben. “Seriously? You want to do this now? We signed. They’re shooting us. End of story. I’m out of here.”

  He gets to his feet.

  “Freeze,” Zach orders him.

  “Bye.” Ben saunters across the room and towards the door. This is a problem because he’s one of the signatories on the contract.

  “Ben,” I snap.

  That stops him in his tracks. He mutters under his breath and stalks back to his seat.

  “He’s not worried,” says Aidan with a sidelong look at me.

  Why can’t I keep my big mouth shut?

  “He isn’t all that concerned with our image,” Zach points out. “He wouldn’t care if the world saw every ugly moment.”

  “I’m right here,” says Ben. “Don’t say ‘he.’”

  “Zach, calm down.” Aidan holds his hands out, palms up. “We already discussed this. I share your vision. We’re making something fun here. Not something that’s going to win me awards in documentary filmmaking.”

  Zach’s still on edge, though. “Our lawyer has instructed us to end the tour.”

  “Well, how do you think that would look?” asks Aidan.

  “It’s our one way out of the contract. Your rights are only to film this tour.”

  “End your tour and you leave me with only the footage I’ve got and not much incentive to work with you when it comes to how the final product looks. We’ve got to have a relationship of mutual respect here.”

  “So if we break the contract, you’ll smear us?” says Zach. “Sounds like blackmail.”

  “Oh, quit with the drama.” Aidan shrugs. “I’ve invested a lot already. I’m out a lot of money. All the equipment we’re renting for future shows? Those deposits aren’t refundable, and I need to make a living here. I suggest you keep going with your tour and give me more footage so we can do this right.”