The Complete P.S. Series

by Renshaw, Winter

  I drag my hand across my jaw, letting the bristles scratch my palm. There's only one “secret” I have, and if there's ever a time to confess it, it isn’t now. It isn’t in this way.

  When my brother was a year old or so, my parents had a few friends over, drinking beers and grilling outside. They left Tucker inside in his crib, assuming I was home and that I'd tend to him like I usually do if he started to cry.

  But I snuck out that night.

  A bunch of friends were getting together at the park and the girl I liked was going to be there.

  I came home around midnight that night, expecting to be able to sneak in the back door, only I was met with a flash of red and blue lights and an ambulance speeding my baby brother to the nearest hospital twenty minutes away.

  Turns out at some point that night he woke up, started screaming, and since everyone else was outside and I was gone, no one came to get him. Being the precocious one-year-old boy that he was, he attempted to climb out.

  The CPS investigators said it was an accident … that he bumped his head on the changing table, causing blunt force trauma to his head leading to permanent hearing loss.

  Had I been there that night like I was supposed to be, that never would’ve happened.

  “What makes you think I have secrets?” I ask.

  Melrose lifts a shoulder. “Because you always look like you have something you need to get off your chest. And chances are, whatever you tell me tonight, I won't remember in the morning. You could probably confess a murder and come tomorrow,” she swipes her palm across the air, “blank slate. Gone. Guarantee you’ll feel better too.”

  “I’ll pass.”

  “Of course you’ll pass.” She climbs into her bed, drawing her knees against her chest and reaching for the covers, pulling them over her. With half-moon eyes, she peers at me. And then she rolls to her side, cupping her hand beneath her cheek and smiling.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Do you ever wonder ...” Melrose yawns.

  My heart whooshes in my ears.

  “Do you ever wonder,” she tries again, “what it would be like to date each other?”

  Her eyes flutter closed and her breathing begins to steady.

  And then she’s out.

  31

  Melrose

  My Wednesday morning alarm might as well be a sledgehammer, beating the side of my head. Reaching for my nightstand with both eyes squinting, I feel around until I find my phone so I can silence the damn thing.

  I don't know why I’d have set an alarm for this morning anyway. I don’t have any auditions. No appointments. No meetings. Nowhere to be.

  Placing my phone back on the nightstand, screen side down, I roll over and pull the covers over my head.

  And then it chimes again.

  “Are you serious?” I groan, reaching for it again, only this time I see Nick’s name flashing across my screen.

  The brightness of the screen is a shock to my sensitive vision, but the time reads 8:04 AM.

  “Why are you up this early?” I ask when I answer.

  “Haven’t gone to bed yet,” he says when I answer.

  “Oh. right. What’s up?” I stretch my free arm over my head and give Murphy a gentle nudge so he’s no longer hogging two-thirds of my bed.

  “Just wanted to tell you congrats again.”

  I chuckle. “Dork. You already told me last night.”

  “Also, uh, I was going to see when you’re leaving,” he says.

  “If you’re worried about the rent, don’t sweat it. I’ll still pay it.”

  “No, no. God no, it’s not about the rent, Mel,” he says.

  “Okay ...”

  I’m really freaking confused now.

  “Just wanted to know when you’re going to Louisiana,” he says. “I think we’ve got a tour date lined up in Baton Rouge next month. Would be cool to meet up.”

  “Yeah. I’ll let you know. We’ll figure it out.” I yawn, my eyelids drifting shut despite the fact that my brain is suddenly wide awake. “We shoot in two weeks, but they want me there as soon as possible. I was probably going to head out by the end of the week.”

  “Cool, cool.” Nick stalls on the other end.

  Nick never stalls.

  “You need anything else?” I throw the covers off my legs and trudge across the hard floor, heading to the bathroom. The scent of Sutter’s body wash still lingers in the humid air, but he’s long gone.

  “You tell Sutter yet?” he asks. “About moving out?”

  “I mean, yeah. He knows. Obviously. He went out with us last night. But I’m not technically moving out. I’m going to be shooting for two months, then I’ll come back and finish out the rest of your lease,” I say. “That’s my plan anyway. Why?”

  “Was wondering how he took it.”

  “Stop being weird.”

  “I’m not.”

  “You sound jealous,” I say.

  “Don’t go replacing me, all right? I’m your best friend. Not him.”

  “Grow up.” I chuckle, cradling the phone on my shoulder as I smear toothpaste on my purple toothbrush.

  It’s then that I find one of my yellow Post-Its stuck to the mirror along with a note from Sutter.

  Melrose,

  The answer to the question you asked me last night is … all the time.

  Sutter

  What the hell did I ask him?

  I manage to get Nick off the phone before wiping my mouth and heading downstairs to let Murphy out and get a drink of water and find some ibuprofen and brew a cup of coffee. The shades are all drawn, and I can’t help but wonder if Sutter left the house dark on my behalf.

  He’s surprising me every day with this honeyed side of him I never knew existed.

  In many ways, I feel like we’re still strangers and there’s still so much I don’t know about him. But I know one thing for sure … when I leave in a week, I’m going to miss him.

  32

  Sutter

  “No fucking way.” I throw my needle nose pliers aside.

  “What is it?” Manny asks.

  We’re almost finished with the contemporary mansion on Dolce Pass when in walks the developer with a friend in tow.

  “Sutter,” Richard Kepner, the developer, flags me down. “Sutter, this is Mr. McCauley, he’s just put in an offer on the home. Robert, this is our electric guy. If there are any changes you want made, now’s the time to speak up. Feel free to take another look around, make some notes, and we’ll have Sutter and his team put everything into action. Sutter, would you mind coming with us?”

  It’s not like I can say no.

  My jaw is clenched too tight for me to speak anyway.

  Following the suited assholes around the fifteen-thousand square foot manse, I find myself repeatedly distracted by the balding backside of Robert McCauley’s egg-shaped head.

  It might as well be a damn target.

  “Sutter, what kind of wire did you run here?” McCauley asks.

  He looks at me like he’s never seen me in his life, though I don’t know him well enough to know if he’s bluffing to save face or if he’s truly that socially inept.

  McCauley does seem like the kind of guy who doesn’t exactly give a shit about anyone else but him, and if you’re not giving him something he wants, you’re not worth the effort it takes to memorize your face.

  I answer his questions like the true professional that I am, but when he interrupts my explanation to take a phone call, I have to walk away.

  “Yeah, babe. I’ll meet you at the Chateau for dinner at eight. Reservations are under my assistant’s name. I’ll text it to you … and yeah, wear the black dress … the one I like.” He scratches at his temple, making his way around toward the window with a smug grin on his face.

  “Excuse me, gentlemen, I have a call I need to take. It’ll just be a minute.” Richard respectfully excuses himself, disappearing into one of the several bedrooms down the hall.

  With Richard
absent, Robert pretends to check his phone, scrolling and thumbing the screen mindlessly. For someone who’s networked his way around Hollywood, I find it interesting he can’t be bothered to so much as attempt to make small talk with me.

  Then again … I’m blue collar.

  I’m a laborer.

  The help.

  I’m worthless and useless to someone like him.

  He clears his throat, glancing up from his phone toward me for a moment, and each passing second brings with it the challenge of keeping my mouth shut.

  Robert takes another call before I get the chance.

  Lucky bastard.

  “Hey, hey. Was wondering when you were going to be back in town,” he says in a pathetic attempt to sound sexy. “I’m busy tonight, but tomorrow night? All yours. Wife is out of town this week.”

  “Wife?!”

  Oh, shit.

  That wasn’t in my head.

  Robert whips around, brows knitting as he shoots me a look.

  “Love, I’m going to have to call you back.” He ends the call. “Is there a problem … what’s your name again?”

  It’s hot as literal hell in here. My ears burn. My jaw clenches. My entire body tenses from head to toe.

  Dragging in a long breath, I take a few steps closer, until I’m towering over him, and I keep my voice low. “I don't want to bother you with having to know and actually remember my name. Just call me The Guy Who Wired Your Security System. Might be a little easier to remember that way.”

  Robert puffs his chest out. “Is that a threat?”

  “I didn’t make a threat. I simply answered your question.”

  His left eye is squinted as he sizes me up. “Why do you look familiar? Let me guess … failed actor? Wiring houses to make ends meet? Blaming people like me for your lack of success?”

  “You’d be so lucky.” That asshole. What I wouldn’t give to slam his back against these framed walls right now. “I’m not an actor, you sick fuck.”

  Robert eyes the doorway, like he’s anxious for Richard to return. He’ll be back soon, so I take one final step closer. When our stares lock, his tan skin washes in white and he swallows hard.

  Pencil-dicked coward.

  “If you ever so much as think about touching Melrose Claiborne again, I promise … you’ll live to regret it,” I say.

  This piece of shit should be sitting in a jail cell instead of wandering around his next multi-million dollar purchase, but I’ll take what little justice I can get.

  At least for Melrose.

  She’ll never have a chance to stand up to him, and he needs to know he’s not going to get away with this shit forever.

  When Richard returns, Robert wastes no time mumbling some excuse about having another meeting to get to, and then he says he’ll send his wife to finish the rest of the lighting picks when she’s back from Fiji next week.

  I might not have money, fame, or fortune, but I’m rich with a conscience, and that’s more than Robert McCauley can say. And I have to admit, watching guys like him sweat, guys who hide behind attorneys and gated houses but back down like chicken shits when a regular guy gets in their face … was fucking priceless. And if McCauley’s got any smarts about him, he’ll keep his mouth shut to Richard.

  Richard isn’t afraid to ask blunt questions, and he doesn’t put up with anyone’s bullshit. He didn’t become a multi-millionaire by being a doormat.

  I tug at the collar of my t-shirt, fanning myself and taking a moment to gather myself before heading back down to finish the main level with Manny and the crew.

  Taking the stairs a minute later, I find myself grinning like a child when I think about the look on his face—sheer terror, shock, confusion.

  I can't wait to tell Melrose tonight.

  Hell, I can't wait to see Melrose tonight.

  33

  Melrose

  The front door opens and shuts Wednesday night at five-thirty on the dot. I tug the zipper on my first suitcase. Half my things are packed. I’ve set out enough clothes to get me by these next few days.

  I was under the impression I had more time, that I wouldn’t have to leave for at least another week, but the director wants me there as soon as possible, and my agent managed to get me three more days.

  Three days to say goodbye to Gram. To Mom and Dad. To Aunt Catherine and Uncle Charles. Maritza and Isaiah.

  Sutter.

  His footsteps are heavy on the stairs, and the floor creaks when he reaches the top. His heavy presence fills my doorway a moment later.

  “Hey,” I say.

  He leans against the frame of my door, his white shirt covered in dirt and his skin slicked in sweat from the day’s heat.

  “Packing already?” he asks with a laugh.

  “I’m leaving Saturday.”

  His expression falls. “You … you okay?”

  “Don't cry for me, Argentina,” I tease. “I’m excited. It’s literally a dream come true. I just … thought I’d have more time, you know, to say goodbye to everyone. But I guess it’s only two months. Three if there are weather delays and things like that. You never know.”

  “I see.”

  “Oh, hey, what’s this about?” She unsticks my Post-It from the top of her dresser and hands it over, her blue stare narrowing. “What did I ask you?”

  “You don't remember?”

  I laugh. “Nope.”

  His tanned fingers hook the back of his bronze neck as he drags in a long breath, but the moment he begins to respond, my phone rings.

  “It’s Nick,” I say a second later.

  He straightens his back and gives a nod. “I’m going to take my shower.”

  I press the green button on my phone and hold the screen against my chest. “See you downstairs in a little bit?”

  He shuts the door when he leaves, and I take a seat on my bed.

  “What’s up?” I ask.

  “I’m having an existential crisis.” Nick’s words are slurred.

  “Where are you?”

  “New Jersey.”

  It’s not even 9 PM where he is and already he’s hammered.

  “This whole touring-with-Maroon-5 thing not turning out to be what you expected?” I ask.

  He exhales into the phone, then I hear something rustling in the background, like he’s shifting around to get comfortable.

  “It’s lonely as hell out here, Mel,” he says. “The different city every night thing is just ...”

  “Please, Nick, tell me more about your First World problems.” I chuckle.

  “I know. I know how I sound.”

  “Are you homesick? Maybe you're homesick.”

  He exhales into the phone, pausing. “Yeah. I think I am. I think I want to come home, Mel.”

  “You’ll be home before you know it,” I say. “And think of all the wild stories you’re going to have. You’ll be eighty years old someday and still telling people about life on the road.”

  He’s quiet for a minute, thought I can make out sounds from the tour bus in the background. People talking. Doors opening and closing. Beer cans hissing.

  “Maybe you’re tired?” I ask. “Maybe you should take a couple days off from partying and … I don’t know … deal with whatever it is that’s bothering you. I feel like soul searching after, like, five Jager bombs is probably a really bad idea.”

  “I miss the local scene, you know? Small bars. Same faces every weekend. No need for security.”

  “Nick, get some sleep. We’ll talk about this when you’re sober.”

  “It’s just ...” he continues, ignoring me. “I look at Adam with his insane bank account and his supermodel wife and millions of screaming fans and I have to ask myself … is that what I really want?”

  “Yeah, you have to ask yourself—”

  “No, Melrose. The answer is no.”

  “Okay.” I lie on my bed, shoving the suitcase out of the way. If he needs to let it out, then by all means. “Go on.”

  “
I thought I did,” he says. “For the longest time, I really thought that’s what I wanted. And I was embarrassed about it. That’s why I never told anyone. But now? Now that I’ve seen everything up close? It’s all a fucking facade. These people aren’t happy, they’re pretending to be happy. Where’s the meaning in any of it?”

  “The meaning is in the entertainment value.”

  “No, I mean …” Nick’s voice trails. “I feel like I’m not making any sense.”

  “It’s okay. You’re drunk.”

  I hear him laugh through his nose.

  “I wish you were here.” His voice is low, like the words he’s saying are solely meant for my ears. “You always make everything better, Mel. You always have.”

  Staring at the ceiling, I think back to our younger days. Childhood is meant to be carefree, nothing but long summer days by the pool and riding bikes down the street and letting popsicle juice drip down our chins.

  But Nick didn’t have that.

  His parents fought nonstop.

  Every day.

  Every night.

  That’s what happens when you have two hotheaded, artistic types with raging insecurity streaks and an odd competitive component to their marriage.

  I didn’t realize it until years later, but the reason he gave me his other walkie-talkie shortly after we first became friends was so he’d have someone to talk to at night … so he could drown out the screaming match that always seemed to be a precursor to bedtime.

  His music was his escape.

  I was his distraction.

  And his band, Melrose Nights, was a culmination of the two.

  “Get some sleep, okay?” I switch my phone to the opposite ear. “I promise your life is going to make more sense after a good night's rest. And don't think too hard about things. It’ll just make you crazy.”

  “Yeah, yeah. All right.”

  “I mean it, Nick. Get some sleep. We’ll talk more tomorrow.”

  “Melrose?”

  “Yes?”

  “I miss you.”

  “I know. I miss you too.”

  I end the call and dock my phone on the charger. Now I’m worried. He’s never sounded so blue before, so conflicted. He should be having the time of his life, but instead it's like he’s doubting everything he’s ever wanted for himself, second-guessing his life choices.