“Ok,” I say, somewhat disappointed. “When do you need me out of here?”
He glances over at me in surprise. “You’re not staying?”
It’s my turn to be surprised. “You want me to stay?”
He looks at me like I’m stupid and shakes his head. “Why wouldn’t I? You think I’d offer you a room in my suite and then kick you out for a party?”
I swallow. Offer me a room. But somehow I sense that this “giving me a drawer” thing doesn’t mean the same thing for the two of us as it does for most people. I have no idea what it means, only that I’m not about to refuse it.
“Well, I know I’m not really part of your other world.”
He lets out a bitter laugh and removes the lid from the decanter. “My world.” He spits the words like it’s some cruel joke. “No one is part of that world, sweetheart,” he mutters, taking a swig. “It’s not even real.”
He must sense me staring at him, waiting for more, but instead only waves his hand with a dismissive laugh this time. “I’m drunk,” he explains in the most obvious statement of all time.
It’s my turn to laugh. “Yeah. You are. You sure you’re up for having people over?” I ask, concerned. I study him closely. Today was a hard day. I would have questioned his intention to fill the void with his old life even if he hadn’t spent most of it drinking and acting like a crazy person.
He glares at me, and I know I’ve pushed the overprotectiveness too far.
“How about you just get ready? You may want to change into something less…Sheltertown.”
“Shelteron,” I correct, matching his annoyed eye roll.
“Whatever.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean, anyway?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. Nothing. Wear what you want.” But I hate the way his eyes scan me this time. It’s the first time I’ve seen him evaluate me as anything except his friend Callie.
“You know what, I should probably just go back to my place. Maybe we could use some time apart. I wouldn’t want to embarrass you with my Shelteron-ness,” I mutter, rising from the couch.
“Callie…”
I ignore him and make my way toward the guest room and my clothes.
“Callie, wait!”
I hear him call after me, but there’s no point in answering. He’s right. I have no business with his “people” and their “less Shelteron” attire.
I’ve already slipped on my underwear beneath the robe when the door opens after a brief knock. I spin around with indignation at the invasion of privacy, but my protest freezes on my tongue at the look on his face.
“Callie, I’m sorry. You know I didn’t mean anything by that. You’re my only friend right now. My only real one, I just…” he stops, and I can tell he’s sincerely trying to explain. “I’m not worried about me, but about you. I want you here tonight, but I know these people, and I don’t want you to feel underdressed. I don’t want you to be uncomfortable and want to leave. That’s all I meant. Really.”
“And you think I’d feel underdressed in your bathrobe?”
He seems startled at first, then grins when I do. “Maybe less so than the dirty jeans and hoodie you had on when you rescued me this morning.”
I sigh. “I know, Luke, but that’s what I’m trying to explain to you. A nice dress isn’t going to change the fact that your people are not my people. I’m not going to be comfortable no matter what I wear.”
He looks away, and I know I’ve hurt him somehow but I don’t understand how.
“Ok, sure, yeah,” he says finally with a weak smile.
Then, I get it. He’s still torn between two worlds, the one where he belongs and the one where he wants to be. His past and his present. I’ve been so consumed by my role in his present that I’d given very little thought to what it must be like to have such a powerful past constantly pulling you back.
“Here,” he says, pulling out his wallet. “There are shops on the second floor, by the spa. Go get yourself something. You won’t even have to go all the way back to your place.”
I almost laugh at the absurd thought, but manage to hold it in. He doesn’t mean anything by it. He’s not trying to offend me. Money means nothing to him. The ridiculous offer was just a simple solution to a current problem. I’m actually touched that he cares so much.
“Thanks, but I’ll just go home and change. It’s a ten minute cab ride, not a big deal.”
“You sure? You don’t have to go.”
I almost change my mind when I suddenly realize it’s not about me at all. He doesn’t want me to go. He doesn’t want me to leave him alone with today. With his poor choices, his guilt, his thoughts about reality. His upcoming battle to survive a night with “his people.”
But I have limits, too.
“It’s fine. Really. I’ll go home and change and be back in a couple hours, ok?”
He forces a quick smile, awkward almost, and shakes his head. “Yeah, of course. Yeah. Sorry. See you later, then.” He backs toward the door.
“Luke, hey,” I call after him, grabbing his arm. He stops, and I squeeze. “I’ll be back soon, ok?”
He laughs, but there’s no humor in his eyes. “Yeah, of course. I have some things to take care of anyway.”
He pulls away and moves in the direction of his own room. I sigh and finish pulling on my clothes.
∞∞∞
For some reason, I don’t want to rush back. I’m not sure what to make of the awkward end to our day. I pull out my best cocktail dress, sexy, but not slutty, and spend more time than I ever have before on hair and makeup. My goal is to completely disguise myself from Lobby Queen Mara Jacobson. Not because I care what she thinks, but because I’m amused by the challenge.
I slip on a pair of earrings and devastating heels, and stare at my reflection in the floor-length mirror on my closet door. I stare for a long time, scrunching my nose, surprised, maybe slightly disappointed, at what I see. It’s still me.
Sure, it’s a glamorized, polished version of me, but my eyes are the same color, my face the same shape. I’m taller and thinner from the heels, and my curves are more pronounced, but it’s definitely me. A girl from Shelteron pretending to be a girl from Hollywood. I’m almost angry with myself, embarrassed as it occurs to me that I’d actually thought I could somehow be one of “them” just because I tried to be. That deep down I had liked the idea of proving it was just fancy clothing and makeup that separated us. That I could fit into Luke’s world if I wanted to, I was just too good for that. I didn’t fit because I didn’t care, not because I couldn’t. But as I sense the unexpected disappointment creeping in, I realize my disdain isn’t for them, like I’d thought. Maybe for one night I actually did want to be one of them. Maybe there is something more complex separating his world from mine, something I didn’t understand as well as I’d thought.
Maybe he’d been right to ask me to go home and change into something less…Shelteron.
I glance at the clock and realize it’s later than I’d thought. I don’t know what time an event called “having some people over” starts, but I plan to be the first. I want access to Luke before anyone else, and yes, that includes having his undivided attention as he observes the startling truth that even girls from Shelteron, Pennsylvania own makeup and killer shoes. Then, my eyes fall on my laptop.
As the days have passed, it’s been getting harder and harder to resist the urge to open it. To search on the vast stores of truth and lies out there about the man I’ve come to care about deeply. Luke fills me with so many questions, and I know some of the answers could be at my fingertips, but I’ve been terrified of letting what we have be tainted by other people’s interpretations of his past. I care about him too much to let my opinion of who he is be corrupted by who he was. Casey had only cemented my fear that day at Jemma’s, warning me about a Luke I didn’t know and can’t imagine. The Luke that everyone knows but me.
I swallow as I realize that if I go tonight, if I tr
uly enter his world, I might meet that Luke. I might meet the man I’ve been afraid of, and I shouldn’t do it blindly. I sigh and drop to my bed, pulling the laptop off the nightstand and firing it up, even as every ember of my conscience screams against it. Still, it’s time. I’m not going to be naïve, and it’s not like I’m going to learn anything everyone else doesn’t already know. He can’t expect me to remain completely ignorant in a world that’s left him totally exposed.
It turns out to be a simple search. So simple. He’s everywhere. Pictures, articles, websites, everything I could possibly want to know about Luke Craven of Night Shifts Black is right in front of me. Well, everything except what I actually know. And yes, maybe everything that’s actually important.
I close my eyes, my fingers hovering, stuck between temptation and loyalty. He had asked me once, practically begged me, not to let these pages impact who I thought he was. I’d held out for so long, but I can’t do it anymore. Why should I have to? I shut off my conscience. I can’t deal with that right now.
Opening my eyes, I jump in.
I start with the images. There are hundreds. No, maybe thousands. I don’t know how you can even tell, but I skim through them, stopping longer at the ones that catch my attention. Luke’s face and body is all over my screen. Many of the photos are clearly professional. Staged shots for album covers, magazine shoots, promotional materials for the band and sponsors. He’s rarely fully-clothed in these images, and I’m not surprised as I study them intently, trying to convince myself it’s only research. It’s only because I care. But the truth is plastered all over my screen, bare and visceral. If I were his manager, and my client could market sex the way he does, I’d never let him wear clothes in front of a camera. Never.
I blink as my blood starts to pound, the images doing exactly what I feared they would, exactly what they’re intended to do, market Luke Craven as a commodity. A commodity my young, female body desperately wants to possess.
I suck in a deep breath and force myself to keep going.
There are many other pictures also. Some are harmless. Red carpet shots, live performance photos, fan pics, but my gaze starts getting stuck on the less innocent ones. These come with headlines. Rumors. Drugs. Disturbances. Disputes. Arrests. I skim some of the articles themselves, but they don’t seem real for some reason. It’s his name, sure, but the person they’re describing isn’t the man who offered me a drawer in his guest room. The man who loses sleep over a chair.
It’s time. I’ve delayed long enough, and I add the name “Elena” to my query.
I slam my laptop shut.
I saw it. It was too big, on too many links. I couldn’t escape it in time. I knew I shouldn’t have done this. I close my eyes and clench my fists, wanting to run to him and hide from him at the same time. I shouldn’t have given in, but I did, and now I’ve sentenced myself to the truth. One word. One clue that changes everything. And now it belongs to me, too.
Suicide.
Day Seventeen: Part II.
I can hear the music blasting from Luke’s suite as soon as I step off the elevator. Aidan, the elevator boy, and I exchange a look as he holds the door for me. I know he recognizes me, even if he’s as surprised as I am that I’ve tried so hard to not look like me.
“You look great,” he offers, and I can’t tell if he means it or if he’s just fishing for a bigger tip. I give him the same amount as always, but he doesn’t seem upset. Maybe he actually meant it.
I don’t bother knocking on Luke’s door. Luke and I had done away with that formality a while ago, but I doubt this is the kind of party where anyone would answer a door anyway. These aren’t people who knock.
I’m not sure what to expect as I open it, but it’s certainly not what I find. “Some people” means something very different to Luke Craven than it does to me. Music blares, the lights are dimmed to an uncomfortably low level, and voices swell around me. Laughing, talking, shouting, beautiful people pressed together everywhere. And sex. Lots and lots of sex. Not the shocking kind from Roman orgy documentaries, but the obscure kind, the subtle kind oozing from every flirtatious interaction and scantily clad body. The kind I’d just seen saturating every professional image of Luke. The kind that doesn’t define sex as an act but as a lifestyle. It’s everywhere and nowhere at the same time.
I’m about to turn and leave when I feel a hand on my arm. I spin toward it, expecting Luke, and fear I don’t cover my disappointment enough when Casey leans close.
“Breakfast club girl!” he shouts toward my ear.
I force a smile. “Rock god!” I return, and he laughs. He’s clearly already well on his way to a great time, and I make the decision right then to stop fearing and resenting Luke’s world. How can I even start to understand him if I don’t try to understand what created him?
“Where’s Luke?” I ask, and Casey points toward the main living area.
“Come on! I’ll get you a drink.”
I can feel him looking at me as I pass, and I realize, in yet another self-shaming moment, that I don’t hate the attention. In fact, it feels good to be admired. To be wanted. Even if deep down I know I would do anything to have Luke look at me the way Casey is. I also find it hilarious that he’s trying to guide me through a room in which I spend more time than my own apartment. It’s a valiant maneuver, however, so I allow him to show me around.
A tour guide turns out to be more helpful than I’d thought. I do my best to take in the lights and sound, but the peaceful oasis in which Luke and I have spent hours in escape has been transformed into a club-like atmosphere I barely recognize. Women who must be famous for being beautiful sway and move to the music, cocktails in hand, smiles suggesting they’re waiting for something. I’m not sure what, so I quickly move on, still concerned that I don’t see Luke.
“Here!” a voice interrupts behind me, and I turn to meet Casey again. He hands me an empty champagne glass and holds up a sealed bottle with a mischievous glint.
“I can tell you’re cautious. You don’t trust us wild rockers!” he calls, opening the seal on the bottle. He pops the cork and fills my glass. He’s not wrong, and I smile in-spite of myself. I would not have accepted a drink from him, or anyone. Not unless I’d watched him pour it himself. I’m actually kind of impressed that he thought of it, but then can’t help but wonder why he’d thought of it. Some answers are more flattering than others, but there’s something about him that’s always seemed genuine, so I go with the flattering ones.
“To Luke,” he says, holding up his own glass.
I stare at the bubbly liquid and nod. Fair enough.
“To Luke.”
I take a tentative sip and am afraid I don’t cover my reaction fast enough. Casey laughs at my expression.
“Princess of Tanzania, my ass!” he cries. “You’ve never even had good champagne before!”
I shrug with a grin and empty the glass. “A girl could get used to this,” I agree. He refills my glass, then his own, before placing the bottle on a table and pulling me toward the music.
“Where are we going?” I cry.
“To dance!” he returns.
“What? No way!”
He rolls his eyes and clearly has no intention of accepting a refusal. It’s my turn to laugh, and I let him lead me to the tight pack of swaying bodies.
“Hey, darling!” a gorgeous brunette purrs as we work our way through the crowd.
Casey accepts her embrace and kiss on the cheek, but I don’t miss the brief shadow that washes across his face. Her arm remains tightly around his neck as they exchange more words, and I find myself getting slightly jealous. Ridiculous, since I barely even know Casey, let alone care who touches him. It’s probably just my insane fear that if he abandons me for this woman, I will have no idea what to do with myself next.
The interaction doesn’t last long, and the other woman eyes me with a mix of suspicion and disdain as he pulls away. She gives him another kiss, this one less polite and more determin
ed, but he only smiles and ducks away with a very satisfying awkwardness.
“Sorry about that,” he says to me when I finally get him back. “Ex-girlfriend.”
“Ex? Does she know that?” I ask, and he shrugs with a smile.
“Sometimes the lines get blurred,” he explains. “Ok, enough stalling. Let’s dance!”
I manage to forget all about my discomfort, and even Luke, as Casey pulls me close. I know this means nothing to him, that this is yet another night in the life of a rock star, that I’m yet another decent-looking girl in a tight dress he can impress for a bit, but for me, every sound, smell, second, is like a dream I’m trying to absorb before reality dumps me back in my one-bedroom aimless existence.
Casey reminds me a lot of Luke, at least, according to the champagne, and as it works its way through my system, I start to find him extremely attractive. His hair is darker than Luke’s, almost black, and his eyes hold a constant amusement that’s the opposite of Luke’s saturated depth. I suspect that Casey would make me laugh if I let him. Humor without the constant eggshells. Right now, that’s exactly what I need, someone I can’t break, and when he pulls me against him, I suddenly remember the photos I’d just seen of him as well. Apparently, not wearing clothing is a popular pose for rock stars, drummers included, even though at the time I had skimmed over Casey’s images in search of Luke. Now, I wish I hadn’t. I suck in my breath at the annoying thought, knowing it’s not real, this sudden attraction. Casey isn’t Luke, and part of me is just grateful to him for taking me under his wing and showing me a good time. But as the moment pounds on, I find it harder and harder to care what my brain thinks.
Our bodies are close now, moving together with the music, pulsating in the sensual wave of light and heat surrounding us. Couples on all sides are touching each other, lips coming together, exploring, laughing, drinking. I glance up at Casey and am startled to meet his expression, very different than what I’d expected, what it was just a moment ago. I almost feel hurt as his constant smile fades and he puts some distance between us. He gives me a quick, almost apologetic, twist of the lips.
Night Shifts Black Page 10