“I’m thirsty. Let’s go get a drink,” he shouts, taking my hand and leading me away from the group.
Surprised, and yes, disappointed, I nod and follow him toward the kitchen island which has been transformed into a full-service bar. Instead of more champagne, however, he asks for water, and the bartender pours a glass for each of us. Then Casey pulls out a stool for me, and drops to the one beside it.
“Whew. It’s hot in here, huh?” he says, holding the glass up to his forehead. I know he’s just trying to explain away the sudden retreat, but I’m not buying it.
“Is everything ok? Is it your ex-girlfriend?” I ask.
He looks confused, then laughs. “Jana? No.”
“Oh, I see. So it’s me. I’m just a terrible dancer.”
He grins again. “Yes, that’s it.” Then grows serious when I refuse to let him off the hook.
“You don’t want to sleep with me, Callie,” he states bluntly.
I almost choke on my water. “What?”
He shrugs. “Am I wrong? Is that where you wanted that to go?”
“We can’t dance without sleeping together?”
He shrugs. “You tell me. Would you have let me kiss you out there?”
I look away, starting to understand. “Probably.”
“You would have. And you would have loved it,” he adds with a glint that somehow makes the boast sweet instead of obnoxious. His smile fades as he shakes his head. “Anyway, this isn’t your scene. I’m trying to remember that. The normal rules don’t apply.”
I swallow and look away. There it is. I’m filled with some strange mix of embarrassment, anger, gratitude, and admiration. I certainly hadn’t expected Casey Barrett of Night Shifts Black to play the gentleman, and I don’t know how to thank him without admitting he’s right, I don’t belong here. I certainly don’t belong with him.
Then, my eyes catch a glimpse of Luke, and I forget all about the awkward moment. Casey senses my shift and follows my gaze across the room. Distracted, I miss his reaction as my stomach turns at the sight of Luke surrounded by three women, all clearly from a magazine cover. Their hands run over his body as they move in sync with the music. Even in the dim light, I can see that he’s wasted. The women may be dancing, but he’s just trying to stay upright. I notice they’re practically supporting him, his other hand braced against the wall. One of the models pulls his shirt over his head, tossing it aside, and he laughs for a second before her mouth covers his. They all move in, shoving him into the wall. I can barely see him anymore.
Tears burn my eyes as I stare in shocked horror. I don’t know what to do. He’s so out of it, he can’t possibly be making this choice. And yet, I know somehow he made this choice the second he decided to “have some people over.” This is his world. Like he said. This is what he meant. This is what he wanted. This is today’s escape from the emotional scars. My efforts aren’t enough anymore.
“He doesn’t care about them,” Casey says gently. “I doubt he even knows them.”
I nod, completely numb. That doesn’t make me feel any better as I’m torn between running over to either rescue him or smack him.
“He’s completely wasted. He can barely stand.”
Casey nods. “Yeah. Believe me, they wouldn’t have a shot otherwise. He doesn’t fool around like that anymore.”
My gaze shoots to him in alarm. “Wait, what are you saying?”
He shrugs, but doesn’t seem nearly as distressed as I am. “Huh? I’m not saying anything.”
“Shouldn’t we do something?” I cry.
Now, he’s totally confused. “Do what?”
I glance back at the small circle and observe with concern that it’s moving away from the crowd. I can’t breathe. They’re going back to his room.
“Casey! This isn’t him! We can’t just let him do this!”
“Do what? What are you so upset about?” Casey is clearly annoyed.
“That! They’re taking him back to his room!”
“Taking him? You act like he doesn’t want to be alone with three models. He’s a big boy, Callie. He can handle himself.”
Casey pops another bottle of champagne as if to prove how ridiculous I’m being. “Here, have another drink.”
I shake my head in disbelief. “No, this isn’t like him. Something’s wrong!”
Casey laughs, and I glare at him. “This is exactly like him, sweetheart. That’s what I tried to tell you at breakfast. You don’t actually know him. The guy you know is very different than the real Luke Craven.”
He softens when he sees my expression and sighs. “Look, you’re a very sweet girl. I totally understand why Luke wants you in his life, and I’m sure you’re really good for him, but he’s not good for you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He shrugs. “Luke is a force. He’s my brother and I love him, but you’re lying to yourself if you think you’re going to fix him before he destroys you.”
I stare at him in shock, in anger. “You really think so little of your ‘brother?’” I mock.
He raises his eyebrows before letting out an irritated laugh. “Whatever, hon. Good luck with that,” he smirks, grabbing his bottle and leaving me to my craziness.
I glare after him, annoyed with myself more than anyone for not hating Casey as he retreats. He’s not a bad guy, I can see that, he’s just not used to fighting hard battles he doesn’t have to. In his own way, he was just trying to help me, and I hurt his ego by refusing to let him.
I glance back down the hallway toward the bedrooms, but Luke and his models are long gone. Then, suddenly, I don’t care anymore. I don’t need to fit in here. I don’t have to impress Casey Barrett, or that man with the fake glasses by the door, or the woman with the thousand dollar shoes. I’m not here for them.
I jump up from my stool and march down the hallway toward Luke’s room. I can hear the sounds as I approach, the giggling, the purring, and it makes me sick, angry. I don’t knock, I don’t care if Luke’s mad at me, and push through the door.
Three shocked faces greet me, then convert to a scowl.
“Occupied,” one of them spits.
I ignore her and try to peer past them to the body beneath them. Luke is still conscious, but the look in his eyes is not one I recognize. In fact, I’m not sure he recognizes anything.
“He’s obviously out of it. I think you’re done here,” I hiss.
“Really? I think you should mind your own business, hon,” another woman barks.
“Hon? I’m not the one climbing all over a guy who’s practically unconscious. What, he wouldn’t touch you sober?”
She looks ready to explode, but clearly has no interest in wasting her highly valuable time fighting with a nobody like me.
“Who are you anyway?”
“I’m his cousin,” I lie.
And they laugh. I expected as much, but I don’t care. This isn’t about me.
“Right. So are we.”
I cross my arms, making it clear I’m not leaving. They can stand here and waste their night arguing, or go have fun with someone else. They glare at me as they climb off the bed and begin gathering their garments from around the room. Finally, they’re dressed enough to return to the party and start filing out, each one shredding me with her eyes as she passes.
“He invited us back here. It was his idea,” the last one mutters.
“I’m sure he did. Have a nice time. Enjoy the hors d-oeuvres,” I reply evenly with mock politeness.
I close the door behind them and approach Luke slowly. He’s completely naked, and has tried to push himself up on the bed with little success. He falls back to the sheets, eyes closed.
“Where…” There’s some question in the string of sounds that follows, but I have no idea what it is.
“Do you even know their names, Luke?” I ask, more to myself than him, since I doubt he could answer me even if he did.
I don’t think I can handle the intimate act of dress
ing him at the moment, so I simply pull the blanket up to his waist. He’s sweating, and I can see he’s already too warm to completely cover him. I move to his bathroom and return with a wet rag, placing it on his forehead. He flinches and his face contorts into a brief grimace before he fades completely from consciousness. Concerned, I lean close, but hear his steady breathing. My stomach starts to constrict when I wonder what his “guests” would have done at this point if I hadn’t followed them. I think about what Casey had said. How could this really be what Luke wanted?
I study his face, so beautiful, so serene without the fear and grief in his eyes. Without the lines of ancient pain that make him look much older than he is. His body, marked with tattoos, perfectly sculpted for the consumption of the masses, now still against the silk sheets, held captive in its shell by a sickness no one will ever understand. A sickness no one wants to understand, I think, as I recall Casey’s disappointing show of concern for his friend’s state.
He’s Luke Craven. A force. A god. He’s not real. Just a fantasy outside the grasp of our own realities. A face. A body. A cover. A story. A goal for aspiring models.
I swipe at the hot liquid in my eyes and take his hand, tracing his palm with the other, wondering what it would be like to live in parallel with everyone around you. To know that they only see you for what they think you are. To not be able to truly connect with your own existence.
A knock at the door startles me, and I glance up to meet Casey’s concerned look peeking through the crack. I’m suddenly flooded with warmth and swallow the odd sensation. He enters and closes the door.
“Is he ok?” he asks, eyeing Luke’s motionless form.
I glance down at the patient as well. “I don’t know. What are the different stages of substance abuse unconsciousness?”
He covers the distance between us and kneels beside his friend. I watch quietly, a new sensation coursing through me as I observe Casey’s gentle evaluation. He’s done this before, many times, and I’m amazed his expression doesn’t hold an ounce of disdain or disgust. Just sadness. I start to regret my harsh critique of him a minute ago.
“He’ll be ok. We need to try to wake him up in a bit and get some water in him. Has he thrown up, yet?”
I shake my head. “Not that I’ve seen.”
Casey nods, concerned. “Ok. We’ll have to do that, too. Let me get some water. Hang on.”
He pushes himself to his feet and disappears into Luke’s bathroom. I wonder why until he returns with a basin.
“It’s for soaking feet, but in case you need this before I get back,” he explains with an apologetic smile. “I’ll be right back with the water as soon as I can.”
He closes the door quietly, and I’m not sure my opinion of someone has ever changed so abruptly.
∞∞∞
Casey returns as promised, and I find a strange sense of relief settle over me as he moves through the door. His arms are full, and I notice he’s brought more than just water for Luke.
“Gonna be a long night,” he explains with another smile. He hands me a bottle of water, as well as, a plate full of snacks. “Sorry they didn’t have French toast.”
I laugh, grateful for his joke as much as the food. I shift on the bed so Casey can take a seat beside me. He does, and leans against the headboard like I am.
“I’m sorry about how I acted out there,” he begins. “It hurts you know? Seeing him like this. Sometimes I’m not strong enough to deal with it the way I should. I try to pretend he’s the same person now that he was then, but he’s not.”
“Messing around with supermodels?”
He offers a weak smile, and I can see the guilt in his eyes. “That wouldn’t have been a cause for concern a year ago. But you were right to be worried. It doesn’t mean now what it meant then. It’s just…” He quiets and looks away, and something about his sad expression touches me. “I want to help him, I do, I just don’t know how. At some point...” He meets my eyes again, almost pleading. “How can I help him if he won’t even let me? You remember what happened at breakfast. He doesn’t want to be helped. I’d be here every day if he let me.”
I surprise both of us by taking his hand. I don’t know why I do it, it just seems natural at that moment. He accepts the gesture and runs his thumb over mine. It’s the best we can do to share our mutual struggle.
“What about you?” I ask after a long silence.
“What about me?”
I smile over at him to prove I’m changing the tone of the conversation. “What’s your story?”
He laughs. “You’re not some undercover investigative reporter or something, are you?”
I shrug. “Would that change your answer?” I tease, and I love his return grin.
“I guess not.” He leans his head against the bed again and studies the opposite wall. We can see our reflections in the mirror there. I would have thought it’d be awkward, but I actually like watching Casey’s thoughts flash across his face. He’s not nearly as guarded as Luke.
“I was one of ten,” he announces, and I stare at him in shock.
“Ten? As in ten siblings?”
He grins and nods. “Yes. Lucky number seven actually.”
I let out my breath and rest back against the headboard, trying to imagine life with nine other siblings.
“Wow. I’m surprised you ended up with Luke and Night Shifts Black, then. Shouldn’t you be committed to some cheesy family band? Geez, with ten of you, you could have the whole road crew, too.”
He laughs. “Oh, believe me, my parents tried. Three of my siblings actually still play together.”
“Really?” I ask.
He nods. “Yep. They’ve even put some albums out. I could never get into the country thing, though. The black sheep, I guess,” he jokes, and I grin.
“Seriously. When you made a left, you made a hard left, huh. Well, it seemed to work out for you anyway.”
He shrugs. “What about you?”
I give him a quick smile. “No bands. Not even country ones.”
He rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean. Luke said you’re a writer.”
It’s my turn to shrug. “I guess.”
“You guess?” he asks with a smirk. “What does that mean?”
I smile over at him. “It means that saying ‘I’m a writer’ implies I’m actually making a living at it.”
He seems skeptical. “Really? I thought it meant you spend lots of time writing things.”
I like his response and find myself shy for some reason. “I guess it can mean that, too. Would you still consider yourself a musician if no one paid you to play?”
“Of course.” He smiles. “Let’s hope that doesn’t happen for a long time, though.”
I laugh. “How much do you make for a show anyway?” I can feel his surprise, and immediately stiffen. “I’m sorry! I don’t know where that came from! Don’t answer that.” But he only seems amused.
“Not as much as you’d think. Well not anymore, anyway. We used to get three to four hundred in guarantees. Now, it’s more like one or two. Less when we’re not headlining.”
My eyes widen. “Two hundred? Like two hundred dollars? That’s it?”
He laughs and shakes his head. “Oh my god, I love you! Ha! No. Two hundred thousand, hon.”
I stare at him in disbelief. “Wait, per show? And that’s not much?”
He studies me again, and I can see his expression change, but I can’t read it. “I mean, it’s fine, I guess, but it’s not where the real money is. We make most of it through writing and performance royalties.” He glances over at our sleeping friend. “This guy here hasn’t touched a guitar in a year and is still making a fortune passed out on his ass, believe it or not.”
“Ok, Luke I get, but I thought you didn’t write. You said at breakfast Luke was the writer. You weren’t good with adjectives.”
He shakes his head in exasperation. “Seriously? Do you remember everything?”
I shrug wit
h a grin. “Am I wrong?”
He laughs again. “I guess not. I did say that. But to answer your question, I was just messing around. My name’s in the credits, too. It’s true, Luke tends to bring the magic to the lyrics, but I’m the music guy. That hook in ‘Better Get Back’ that they use for all those hockey ads? All me.”
“The hockey song is from one of your songs?” I ask in surprise.
He nods. “Yeah. It’s not one of our bigger ones. Well, it wasn’t when they negotiated the rights to it.”
“I’d say it is now,” I mumble. I instinctively start humming the line, and Casey rolls his eyes.
“Yep, that’s it.”
“Wow, I had no idea. I actually really like that song.”
He shakes his head with a smile. “You sound so shocked.”
I grin. “Sorry. I guess…I don’t know. I try not to think too much about Luke the Superstar, so I haven’t made much of a connection between him and his music. You know, staying out of the whole pop culture bubble thing so I can see him for who he really is. I guess I did the same for you by association.”
He nods, and I can tell he understands. “I like that. He needs someone in his life who’s real, but you should still pick up our stuff sometime. If you truly want to understand your new friend here, you need to listen to his music. I think it might surprise you.” He pauses and studies him. “Or maybe it won’t.”
“’Step back, fast, I’m coming for you. Step back, you can’t handle what I’ve got.’”
I recite the words absently, imagining the hockey players slamming up against the boards in a series of vicious checks.
Casey smiles and nods. “That’s it.” He quiets, and I can see from his reflection in the mirror that there’s a lot more to this. A lot more to him.
“People think it’s an aggressive song. A challenge to someone, and the hockey link certainly doesn’t help,” he muses. I glance over at him in surprise.
“It’s not?”
Casey shakes his head. “No. That’s not what Luke’s saying at all. It’s actually saturated with self-loathing.”
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