by Susan Ward
“Oh, Jack,” I whisper, fighting the lump in my throat. “Don’t you dare apologize to me. I’m sorry you’re going through this. But we both know that Chrissie has to be the priority.”
“We have so little time together and Walter’s managed to fuck even that up.”
He sounds angry and mildly defeated.
I slowly run my tongue over my dry lips as I search for the right words. “Walter can’t fuck up anything where we’re concerned. It’s just a delay. Nothing more. I’m not going anywhere. I love you.”
“I love you too, Linda. I’m all in. I don’t think I could make it through this without you.”
I smile sadly. “I’m all in, too.” In an effort to lighten mood, I add, “And you are in for big trouble in October. Two months without seeing you is long enough. Three months could be downright dangerous for you.”
Jack laughs. “I’m looking forward to it, Yolanda. In October I’m all yours.”
Pleasant tingles move along my nerve tips as flashing images of being with Jack fill my head.
“Definitely dangerous for you,” I whisper. “At least a dozen times a day I think about packing my bags and hopping a plane home. I’m miserable without you.”
“Are you doing OK?” he asks.
Jack sounds serious and concerned. Shit, he doesn’t need more dumped on him by me. He’s going through enough right now.
“I’m great. Just homesick and missing you,” I say. “And very ready for this tour to end and school to start.”
“Ah, so our young superstar in the making is still giving you a hard time, is he?”
I scrunch up my face. Crap, I don’t want to talk about Alan Manzone.
“The kid is rude, obnoxious, and goes out of his way to abuse and offend everyone. And yet everyone jumps through hoops for him. It’s the craziest thing I’ve ever seen. They all put up with it. The label. The promoters. The manager. Everyone. He kicks them in the face and they say do it again.”
“They see dollars, Linda. The potential for big money makes everyone crazy enough to eat shit. The kid is brilliant. A once-in-a-generation find. They all know it. They are desperate to latch on and get a piece of him.”
“Well, I’d like him in pieces,” I state in exasperation. “If this tour wasn’t almost over and if I didn’t need my job, I’d quit. Alan Manzone gives me nothing but fits and shit 24 hours a day.”
“You don’t need the job, Linda,” Jack says quietly. “I’ve always been willing to help you in any way you’ll let me. I plan to spend the rest of my life with you, taking care of you. I’d do it now if you’d let me.”
“I’m not letting you take care of me. I don’t want this discussion again. It’s important to me to take care of myself. I take care of me, Jack. Those are the rules of being with Linda.”
He sighs heavily. “You’re a frustrating woman. Have I ever told you that?”
“About a million times,” I tease.
Jack laughs. “So is the kid just giving you shit or is he trying to hit on you too, sweetheart?”
My cheeks flush as the picture of Alan on the bed with his lovelies has the unpardonable nerve to flash in my head. Every muscle in my body tenses. I rapidly assemble a response that isn’t a lie.
“That’s ridiculous. I’m too old for him. He’s barely nineteen. Why would you ask that?”
“You’re a beautiful woman, and you’re only twenty-two. You’re nearer his age than mine. If I were him, I’d hit on you. I wouldn’t be able to stop myself.”
“You did hit on me,” I remark playfully, hoping to change the subject away from Alan Manzone. “And you did it exceptionally well.”
“Exceptionally well, huh? Good, because I plan on keeping you.”
His voice is light, but a hint of something puts me on edge.
“You don’t have to plan on keeping me, you’ve already got me, Jack.”
“Do I?”
That question surprises me and my muscles grow tauter. “Of course you do. Why would you ask that?”
A long pause. A heavy sigh.
“I’m sorry,” Jack says heavily. “This being apart is making me a little crazy. These days it feels like I can’t hold anything together in my life. With all the shit I’m making you go through with me, I don’t know how you put up with me.”
“There is no shit with you, Jack. There is nothing but wonderful. All the nonsense happening now is not your fault. You bring nothing into my life but happiness.”
“I just wish this were behind us.” Jack sounds grim again.
“It will be soon. And you are my happiness, Jack. That’s what you are to me.” A deliberate pause. “Oh, and really great sex.”
Loud laughter floods the receiver. I smile.
“Just great sex?”
I start to laugh also. “I’m not telling you how good you are. Especially since it won’t do us a damn bit of good because you are not here.”
Jack’s laughter slowly melts and fades away. “You’re right. Not a good thing to do. I am very ready to see you.”
“I’m very ready, too.”
“I love you, baby.”
“I love you, too.” I check the clock. “I should let you get back to work. I really need some sleep. I have an early day tomorrow.”
“Pleasant dreams, sweetheart.”
I hear the phone click before I answer him, and I smile sadly. After losing both his wife and son, Jack hates to hear goodbye. There is always a click before I can say it.
I set the phone onto the base and refill my wineglass. I should be sleeping. Tomorrow will be another grueling day of Manny. I grab a document from the bed, a summary report on Alan’s life, and start to read:
Alan Wells has lived his life on stage since birth and probably hasn’t known a second of the real world in nineteen years. The most promising and talented in the third generation of a renowned British theatrical family, he spent his childhood in an elegant flat that was more like a museum, where your fingers got slapped if you touched anything, called his mother Lillian, and spent his days learning Chekhov instead of Dr. Seuss.
By the age of six he’d moved from stage to cinema, and carried on the bony shoulders of a boy the pressures of an industry giant: endless work, endless high expectations, the endless stress of having an entourage of people depending and making their livelihood off him. In a period of three years, he starred in nine movies.
Lillian had been a grotesque mother, dragging her sweet young son—who would have preferred to stay in his room composing music—to a never-ending stream of rehearsals and performances. When he refused, she was brutally manipulative, mental warfare her most accomplished skill since ruthless intelligence runs in the family, though she was not beyond physical abuse when the situation required it. If he had a bruise on his face when it was time for the cameras to start rolling, the artistry of makeup concealed expertly from the viewing millions that his life was little more than hell.
He can bring emotion to the surface with such sincerity most of the time you will not know if it is true or untrue. Tears, laughter, and his smile are mastered inventions of his craft.
He severed ties with his family at the age of eighteen, leaving behind an nine-figure bank account, and disappeared. The Oscar he won at age eight was the first thing he hocked when a heavy addiction to heroin had exceeded his meager savings. He surfaced a year later playing with a band in some of London’s least fashionable clubs, with a new name and a new look far removed from that clean-cut English urchin who had at one time claimed six figures even if he walked onto the set to speak two lines.
His whereabouts from age ten to eighteen are unknown.
Christ, this reads like a nineteenth century British novel. Frustrated, I toss the report on the floor and then shove the rest of the papers there with it. Who cares why Alan is fucked up? It doesn’t give him a right to be so hideous to people.
I climb beneath the blankets and turn off the light. So Alan Manzone had a fucked-up childhood. Do
they expect me to care? Who didn’t have a screwed-up childhood? Fuck, growing up I never knew my dad and I was raised in Reseda.
Three
Who the hell is pounding on my door? I quickly rinse my hair but the soap runs into my eyes. Wincing, I rapidly rub the towel hanging over the rail against my lids, trying to stop the burn.
The pounding has stopped. Crap, I didn’t need to hurry and get shampoo in my eyes. I’m about to ease back into the hot stream of water when there is another imperative rap of knuckles against wood.
Fuck, this had better be an emergency. Irritated, I shut off the shower, hastily wrap the towel around my head, and take another from the rack, securing it round my body without drying off.
Hurrying across the bedroom, I note that it’s only 9 a.m. I jerk the door wide.
“Rough, sleepless night, love?”
I don’t know which surprises me more, that Alan is here early or that he’s smiling.
“Sod off,” I snap before I can stop myself.
Those black eyes begin to sparkle. “You shouldn’t say such things, Linda. It doesn’t sound at all charming coming from the mouth”—his thumb lightly brushes my lower lip and a current of electricity jolts through me—“of such a beautiful American.”
More than a little rattled by being touched by Alan, definitely on full alert with his body just a smidge too close to mine and fighting desperately not to show it, I arch a brow severely.
“Go away. The car is at ten. I’m not ready to deal with you yet.”
He laughs and brushes past me into my room.
“You asked me to be on time,” he says, turning back to face me. “And here I am. Dressed and ready to be handled by you another day. And you are still not happy.”
Through my capering senses I note that I’m still clutching the door for support and staring at him. He’s dressed in the type of clothes he wears for interviews. Tight leather pants and a flowing white shirt that reminds me of something I once saw Jim Morrison wear in a photograph.
And crap, if Alan doesn’t look even better in that shirt. There is something about him that gives anything he wears a look of sexy chic. It’s probably because he was raised with money. Jack has it too, the ability to toss on anything and have it look casually chic. Alan: sexy and chic. Jack: casual and chic. Both men awe-inspiringly beautiful.
I shut the door. Alan settles on my couch without asking if he can and pulls from his pocket a pack of cigarettes.
He lights one and stares at me through the smoke. “You can finish dressing. You won’t disturb me. Not a bit.”
Rude, arrogantly spoken and yet tingles move along my nerve tips. He watches me through the smoke, takes another long drag, and in defiance of my want, my gaze locks on his lips as he lets the white puff slowly curl from his mouth into the air.
“You’re full of surprises today,” I say, moving toward the bathroom. “Unpleasant as always, but punctual for a change.”
He laughs. “I’m always punctual, love. It’s half the reason everyone tolerates me.”
No one gives a fuck if you are punctual. Have you looked in a mirror, Alan? That’s the only reason anyone ever tolerates you.
I go to the bathroom, grab my modest, full-length white robe and quickly shrug into it. I tie the belt tightly around me and then unwind the towel from my head. I give my hair a few fast rubs to remove the dampness, and scrunch my curls with my fingers.
I start to do my makeup and another knock on the door makes me jerk, totally messing up my eyeliner. Fuck, my room is like Grand Central Station today. It better not be the rest of the peckerwoods. Manny early is more than enough to deal with.
“I’ve ordered us breakfast,” I hear Alan call from the bedroom.
You did, did you? You don’t even know if I eat breakfast or if I’d be in my room when you came here.
I have kept my personal life completely private. Alan doesn’t know anything about me or my background, none of them do. The last thing I want these jerkoffs to know is that I’m having an affair with Jackson Parker.
I shake my head in aggravation and reach for my mascara. Affair. I don’t like the way that sounds. It’s more significant than that. Jack is right.
“Would you prefer coffee or tea?” he asks.
Duh, I’m American. “Coffee,” I say louder than necessary for my voice to be heard in the bedroom. “Black. No sugar. No cream. Just fucking coffee.”
More laughter floats in from the other room. “You are in a foul mood, aren’t you, Linda? You must not have gotten a minute’s sleep. You are very snappy today.”
I grit my teeth as I touch up my blush one last time. I scatter the thoughts of what caused my sleepless night and I start to untie my robe. I freeze. Crap, my clothes are still in the bedroom.
I step out of the bathroom and freeze again. Second shock in under twenty minutes. Where the fuck did all this come from?
Alan is standing beside the table. “Why don’t you sit down and let me serve you? You deserve someone taking care of you for a change, Linda.”
Both the subtle alteration of his voice and the scene in front of me strikes me mute. For a second, he sounded like a normal person. But there is nothing normal about this.
The table has been set elegantly with a linen cloth, china, silver and even a dozen red roses arranged as a center piece. Next to it is a cart artfully displaying a wide selection of breakfast entrees and pastries.
I move slowly across the bedroom and am startled again when Alan pulls back my chair for me. I drop into it, a little heavier than I wanted to, and am carefully eased forward.
I stare up at him. “What is this? Some sort of attempt to romance me over Danish breakfast? Trust me. I’m not interested. I thought I’d made that clear.”
He smiles, unruffled by my harsh tone, and lightly brushes my tense cheek with an index finger. “This is my apology for last night. It did not occur to me until I saw your face that I had made you uncomfortable.”
Really? I shake my head. “That would have made anyone uncomfortable. There is something seriously wrong with you if you didn’t know that before you let me enter the room.”
That intense black stare meets mine directly and his finger moves lightly to my jaw. The gentleness of his touch, the feel of his flesh makes my head spin. The expression on his face is puzzling, yet strangely unthreatening.
“There is nothing wrong with me.” His raspy whisper makes my heart leap against my chest. “I prefer group sex. Watching is part of it. Part of the thrill. You coming into my room added to the pleasure we were having together. I thought it was something you might be into. Might enjoy. And I was serious when I asked you to join us.”
I slap his hand away. “Bullshit. You fucked with me last night and you are trying to fuck with me today. And I’m getting very tired of it. I need this job and you make it unbearable.”
He turns back to the cart and doesn’t answer. He scoops small servings of each item onto a plate and then sets it before me. He fills my coffee cup.
I focus on my meal as he prepares his own breakfast and then he settles at the table across from me. I feel the heavy pressure of his eyes.
“I’m not playing with you, Linda. You are one of the few people I like.”
I look at him and tense. His eyes are smoky and leveling, but hidden within their shadowy depths is something I’ve never seen before. A hint of kindness and sincerity.
“If this is how you treat the people you like, I would despise it if you hated me,” I counter sarcastically.
Alan laughs. I’ve amused him. Damn.
“I admit I can be difficult at times,” he says conversationally.
“Difficult? No, you are more like a flesh-eating bacteria that someone needs to invent a cure for.”
His head goes back this time as he laughs, his dark waves dancing, his eyes flashing with shimmers. I drop my gaze and carefully fill my fork with eggs. He doesn’t insult easily and he does have a sense of humor. I’ll give him that.
“We’re going to get along just fine, Linda. You’ll see.”
I reach for my coffee cup. “I don’t think that we need to worry about getting along. The tour is over in two weeks. I don’t ever have to see you again.”
His eyes fix on mine and my insides begin to melt.
“You won’t have to see me again, but you will. You’ll see me again because you’ll want to.”
I shake my head. “Aha. So you are not just a twisted motherfucker, you’re a fortune teller, too.”
His lips quirk up in a half-smile.
“You are a bit of a paradox yourself. What are you doing in England, anyway?”
I roll my eyes. “Nothing shocking, I assure you. Sandy Harris gave me a job. It was the only one I was offered after college, and it has the added benefit of being where I was accepted into graduate school or I wouldn’t have taken it. I’m just here trying to make a buck to put myself through school. End of story.”
Alan lights a cigarette and sits back in his chair. He studies me. “No, I don’t think that’s end of story. You didn’t run to England toward something. You ran from California away from something.” He inhales and then exhales very slowly another long puff of smoke. His gaze sharpens. “Someone, I think. You ran from someone.”
Startled, I stare, battling to keep a reaction from my face. Oh God…how effortlessly he can he can strike at my heart and unnerve me. How can he see that? It is not even a truth I admit to myself. And as painful of a thing to know something, it is crueler to hear it.
“I’m right, aren’t I?” he says softly, confidently.
I ignore the question.
“You left behind in California someone you love because you had to. What was he, Linda? Married? Unfaithful? Or just unable to commit? You’re here because you’re running from him and hiding from yourself.”
Scrambling in an emotional tidal wave, I snap, “I’m not running from anyone. We are still together. I love him with all my heart. When I finish school, I’m going home and marrying him. You are wrong about everything.”