Spin A Novel

CHAPTER 23

Fade to Black





I wake up from a total blackout. I don’t know where I am. I don’t know how I got here. I’m not even entirely sure of my own name.

OK. Let’s establish some basics.

My head f*cking hurts. My stomach feels like I drank battery acid. My tongue has that scalded feeling it gets when I’ve been smoking. The room seems to be spinning.

Perfect. I’m both drunk and hungover. Well, I’ve been here before. I’ll survive.

What else?

I seem to be lying in a very big, soft bed. I stretch out my hand, feeling the sheets. They have a really nice hotel feeling. I take a deep breath. The air smells clean, almost antiseptic. Oh shit . . . am I?

My eyes fly open. Relief. There’s no way this is a hospital room, not even in the nicest, Angelina-Jolie-gave-birth-here kind of hospital. So, it must be a hotel room, right?

I look around. My eyes grate against their sockets like someone threw sand in them. The room is dark, but there’s a crack of light seeping under a door, maybe to the bathroom, that makes it bright enough to see. There’s heavy wallpaper on the wall above wood wainscoting, a dark wood desk in the corner, and a nice chest of drawers. Hotel room for sure.

OK, but whose hotel room?

Hearing seems to be the last sense that returns, but after a few moments, I can hear the sound of water running. A lot of water. Someone’s taking a shower.

So, I’m not alone. I didn’t book myself into an expensive hotel room in a drink-fueled display of wealth I don’t have. Good. Only, that means . . .

Did I . . . ?

I do a quick body check. I’m wearing a T-shirt, bra, and underwear. I still feel relatively clean, you know, down there, so we clearly didn’t have sex last night, or this morning, or whenever the hell we rolled in here.

And who the hell is “we”?

Um, me and . . . me and . . . Nope, no idea.

OK, start at the beginning. What was I doing last night?

I search back. OK. Amber and The Party Girls. We had dinner. Not much dinner, but some. Then we went to that bar. And I had those drinks. And those other ones. Right. This is starting to make sense. The bathroom gin and tonic, and all those doubles makes . . . two, four, nine drinks. So, nine belts of liquor + almost no dinner + no drinks for thirty-six days = blackout. Good to know.

But that still doesn’t answer how I got here, or who’s in the shower. Surely it can’t be Amber, or one of The Party Girls. Even nine drinks + nearly empty stomach + no drinks for thirty-six days ≠ suddenly gay. There weren’t any men at dinner. Or at the bar that I remember. I roll through the images like I’m fast-forwarding a movie. Hey, Greer was there! Shit. I hope Greer got home OK. No, wait. I remember her telling me she was leaving. Right around when . . .

Uh-oh.

The water in the bathroom turns off, and I hold my breath. I’m pretty sure I know who’s splashing around in there, but what if I’m wrong? More importantly, what if I’m right?

What the hell is he doing in there, anyway? Drying himself off? Getting dressed? Applying self-tanner?

Come out, come out whoever you are.

The door handle turns, and in a panic, I close my eyes. I breathe in and out evenly, feigning sleep. I can hear the soft pad of feet on the carpet, and I wait for the feeling I get when someone’s standing over me, watching me, but it doesn’t come.

Maybe I should open my eyes? Maybe I should say something? But what is there to say?

More feet-padding across carpet, only they sound heavier this time. He’s put on shoes. The noise is getting fainter. A latch turns. Shit. Don’t.

“Wait . . .”

But I’m too late. My voice is barely audible, and by the time I’ve propped myself up and my eyes have focused on the door, it’s been closed gently and I’m all alone.

I sit up. Oh boy. Maybe that wasn’t such a good idea. The room tilts and whirls and does a loop-the-loop. I hope my legs are working because I need to get to the bathroom right quick.

I fling off the covers and sprint toward the bathroom. I assume the position over the toilet bowl, waiting for the inevitable. It comes before too long, and when I’m done I feel slightly better, though still extremely dizzy. I sit on the cold tile floor, waiting, wondering how I’ve come full circle back to here.

I’m not sure how long it is before the I-may-ralph-again feeling passes, but it does, and I get unsteadily back to my feet. I strip off my clothes and climb into the enormous tiled shower, swinging the heavy glass door shut behind me. I turn on the spray and let the cold water rain down on me. All I want to do is escape, but I force myself to stand steady and take it. I’m not sure why exactly, but I feel like I need to be punished, and this is the closest thing to hand.

When my skin is gooseflesh and I start shivering uncontrollably, I switch the water so it’s as hot as I can stand it. My shoulders turn red, and the glass door is opaque with steam. I open the expensive shampoo in its little two-time-use bottle and slather it onto my hair. It smells like eucalyptus, and leaves my hair squeaky clean. I rinse, turn off the water, and envelope myself in a large white robe I find hanging on the back of the door.

God, I could use some aspirin and a good teeth brushing. There’s a toothbrush sitting on the counter near the sink. It looks new, like it’s only been used a couple of times, maybe only this morning. What the hell? I slept in the same bed as its owner, didn’t I?

When I’m done brushing my teeth, I root through my purse until I find what I was hoping for: a little foil package containing two extra-strength Tylenols. I run the water in the sink until it’s cold and swallow down the pills and two glasses of extra-cold water. Not wanting to get back into the clothes I slept in, I search through the dresser until I find a clean T-shirt and some crisp white boxers. They smell like Henry, or at least I hope they do.

Feeling more like a human, I crawl back into the bed and flick on the TV. I do my usual slow march through the channels until I come across a rerun of Men in Trees. Perfect. I snuggle down into the bed to watch Jack flirt with Marin in a fisherman’s sweater.

This really is the most comfortable bed I’ve ever been in. I wonder if its owner, or renter, or whatever a hotel guest is in relation to their room, will be coming back soon. Or at all. What if it’s not him? What if it is? Ack. These questions are making me dizzy again. Maybe I should close my eyes. That’s better. All better. No need to stress. I’ll find out soon enough. What will be, will be.

What will be, will be.

“Kate,” Henry says sternly, a hand on my shoulder. “Wake up.”

I open my eyes. Henry’s standing above me. He’s wearing a navy sweatshirt and a faded pair of jeans. There’s a trace of stubble on his chin. He looks more like rehab Henry than he did last night.

“What time is it?”

“It’s coming up on noon. Time to get up.”

“I was up earlier,” I reply lamely. “I took a shower . . .”

He looks away. “I left a toothbrush for you by the sink.”

Of course you did. Because you’re perfect, and I’m a nightmare who doesn’t deserve you.

“Thanks.”

“Forget it.”

Henry opens the blinds, letting in the daylight, and I push back the covers and put my feet on the thick carpet. I still feel a little dizzy, but I think that has more to do with the cold look on Henry’s face than the lingering alcohol.

I stand up, and Henry looks me up and down with a bemused expression I don’t understand until I remember. I’m wearing his clothes.

“Sorry, I borrowed these.”

“It’s fine.”

“Give me a few minutes and I’ll be out of here.”

“Yeah, that’s probably best,” he mutters.

The rational part of my brain kind of knows why he’s acting this way, but the feeling part of my brain is pissed off. Does he have to be this cold and distant?

“What’s the matter, Henry?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s bullshit.”

His eyes flash. “Yeah, well maybe it is, but that’s my business.”

“Look, I get that you’re disappointed in me, or whatever, but I’m not perfect, all right? You don’t know the week I’ve had . . .”

He holds up his hand. “I don’t want to hear it. Whatever excuse you have. I’ve heard them all, and I’ve got bigger problems right now.”

“God, Henry, I’m not Connor, all right. . . . What did you mean by you have bigger problems right now?”

He hesitates. “Amber’s missing.”

“What?”

“No one’s seen her since last night. She stormed off when Kimberley arrived, and she’s not answering her cell phone.”

“Is Connor looking for her?”

He looks angry. “No.”

“How did you find out?”

“Olivia called.”

Something pops out of the blackout. I think Henry and Olivia used to date. Why, oh why, is that the first thing I remember?

I wait for something more, but nothing comes.

“Has Amber done this before?”

“A few times. The last time she ended up on YouTube . . .”

“Crap.”

“Yeah. Crap.”

“We should go look for her.”

“I know.”

“Well, come on then, let’s go.”

He bites his lip in concentration, looking like he’s struggling with something. After a few moments, he sighs. “OK, you can come.” He walks toward the door and picks up a shopping bag. “I got you these.”

I take it from him and look inside. There’s a T-shirt, jeans, a bra, underwear, and a pair of sneakers. A quick check reveals they’re all in my size.

“How did you do this?”

He shrugs. “I’ve had some experience.”

All righty then.

I keep my tone light. “From bringing home so many drunken girls?”

I get no answering smile. “Nope. It’s part of the job. It’s kind of Connor’s MO.”

“Having an outfit ready for a one-night stand?”

Shit. Why did I just call myself a one-night stand?

“Yup.”

“But I thought he and Amber have been together forever.”

“Come on, Kate . . .”

“Right. Sorry. I shouldn’t be so naive.”

His face softens. “No, you really shouldn’t.”

I carry the bag into the bathroom and take off Henry’s clothes. As the shirt passes my face, I can smell him—part fabric softener, part spice. I hold the shirt to my nose and breathe in deeply. If only being with Henry could be as simple as this. Soft, and warm, and smelling good.

“Everything fit OK?” Henry asks through the door.

I hurriedly put the shirt down and pull the clothes out of the bag.

“Yeah. How did you figure out my size?”

Because this bra and underwear (simple white cotton, exactly like the ones I was wearing last night) fit perfectly, and that’s kind of freaking me out.

“Practice.”

I slip into the clothes and open the door. “How many girls are we talking about, exactly?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“You’re probably right. So, what’s the plan?”

“I have a few ideas of places she might’ve gone.”

“Bad places?”

“Yup.”

“Lead the way.”

We go downstairs, and Henry directs a cab to an area of the city I’ve never been to but have heard about frequently on the nightly news. The Middle Eastern cabdriver shoots us a look that says, “Why the hell would you want to go there?” and Henry repeats the directions firmly. The driver shrugs and puts the car in gear.

Henry watches his cell phone the whole way, waiting for it to ring. I watch the gray sky, wondering if Henry’s ever going to forgive me for being another person in his life that he enables.

The cab pulls up in front of a rundown red-brick building. Henry asks the driver to wait, hands him some bills, and tells me to stay in the cab. On the sidewalk, he hunches his shoulders and pulls the hood of his sweatshirt over his head. He walks up to the heavy wooden door and knocks, says something, and is admitted.

I wait nervously for him to come out. As I watch the door, a guy in his forties wearing grimy clothes casts a nervous glance down the street before knocking on the door. Like Henry, he says something and is admitted into the building. After he enters, an extremely large man with a tattooed face sticks his head out and gives our cab a hard stare. As he pulls the door shut, I catch a glimpse of something black and hard sitting on his hip.

Jesus Christ. How the hell did I end up in “Gangsta’s Paradise”?

The cabdriver turns around. He looks afraid. “If your boyfriend doesn’t come out in five minutes, lady, I’m leaving.”

“No, you can’t leave him here.”

“Watch me.”

“We’re not buying drugs, you know. We’re looking for a friend who’s in trouble.”

“Lady, I don’t care what you’re doing. He’s got five minutes.”

I peer back out the window. Hurry up, Henry. Why didn’t I take his cell phone number down before he left the cab? Stupid, stupid, stupid.

With a minute left, the front door opens and Henry comes out. I move over to let him sit next to me.

“Was she there?”

“No.”

“Had they seen her?”

“No.” Henry leans forward. “Take a left at the corner.”

The driver shakes his head.

“He doesn’t want to take us to any more places in this neighborhood.”

“Why not?”

I lower my voice. “I think he’s scared.”

Like me. I’m scared.

Henry makes a face. “It’s broad daylight.”

“That tattooed guy was wearing a gun.”

“There’s always a guy with a gun in places like that.” He pulls his wallet from his hip. “Look, buddy, we’re looking for a friend, a famous friend, who’s in trouble. I need you to drive us to a few more places. I’ll make it worth your while.” He throws several hundred-dollar bills onto the passenger seat.

The driver glances at them, wavering. “Who is it?”

“Amber Sheppard.”

His eyes widen. “The Girl Next Door?”

“Yes.”

“That girl is messed up.”

“Will you help us?”

“Yeah, all right.”

“Thanks. Now take a left at the corner.”

Henry leans back into the seat. He punches a number into his phone and puts it to his ear. “Hey, it’s me. No, she wasn’t there. I’m trying that place on Parker next. No, I haven’t spoken to him. Can you call him? I’ll text you the number. Yeah. OK. I’ll call you later.”

He ends his call, writes a short text, and resumes his stare out the window.

“How many more places are we going to?” I ask.

“Till we run out of places.”

“Shouldn’t Connor be doing this?”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea for Connor to be going into crack houses right this minute.” He turns to me. “Shit. I wasn’t thinking. Are you OK?”

“God, Henry, I’ve never been to a crack house.”

“Good.” He turns back to the window.

I stare at the back of his angry head. “Henry, what happened between us last night?”

“You don’t remember?”

“Not much.” I take a deep breath. “And not anything that would explain how I ended up in your bed.”

He turns and looks at me blankly. “Nothing happened.”

“Then how come you didn’t take me home?”

The cab jerks to a stop in front of another run-down building.

“You were too drunk to give me your address.”

Shame floods through me. “Oh.”

“You going in there or what, man?” the driver asks.

“In a sec.”

“Give me your cell number so I can call you in case something happens,” I say.

I pull out my phone. Henry takes it and types in the number. When he hands the phone back to me, I hit the dial button just to be sure. His phone buzzes in his hand.

He ends the call. “I’ll be out in a few minutes.”

“Be careful.”

He nods and opens the door. I watch him walk to the front step.

“You really think Amber Sheppard’s in there?” the driver asks.

“I hope so.”

Six hours and eleven crack houses later, the cab pulls up in front of my apartment building. Henry and I are exhausted and defeated, and no one’s heard anything from Amber. We’ve decided to take a dinner break and brainstorm, so we pay off my new best friend, Ahkmed, and climb the stairs to my apartment.

“Joanne?” I call when we get inside. There’s no answer. “I guess she must be out. Why don’t you take a seat and I’ll get the takeout menus.”

He sits down on the couch in an exhausted slump. He lets out a sigh, then checks his phone for the millionth time. He places a call. Probably calling Olivia. Again.

“What do you want to eat?”

He lowers the phone, covering the mouthpiece. “I don’t care. Order whatever you want.”

I walk into the kitchen, pick up the pile of menus from the counter, and shuffle through them, hoping one of them will magically stand out. The phone in the wall rings loudly next to me.

“Hello?”

“Lassie.”

“Hey, Greer. What’s up?”

“What’s up? That’s all you have to say to me?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Don’t play coy with me, minxy. Joanne told me you didn’t come home last night.”

I close the swinging door between the kitchen and the living room.

“She what?”

“Calm down. She was worried about you.”

“Yeah, right.”

“She thought you’d fallen off the wagon, but I assured her you were simply indulging in another vice.”

If you only knew.

“Joanne was really worried about me?”

“She was.”

“So, is she, like, your new best friend?”

She laughs. “Don’t be daft. Now spill.”

“Um, well nothing really happened, and he’s kind of here right now, so . . .”

“Nothing happened? Even after that kiss?”

“What . . .” I stop myself. Telling Greer that I don’t remember the kiss (The kiss? We kissed? Damn you, alcohol!) is going to raise way too many questions. “It wasn’t that good, was it?”

“Looked that way from where I was sitting.”

Then why did Henry say that nothing happened?

Why do you think, idiot?

“So, you spent the day together?”

“Yeah.”

“Sounds serious.”

“No, it wasn’t like that.”

“He’s cute.”

“Uh-huh. Anyway, I’m supposed to be ordering food right now.”

“OK, lass. Run along. But call me tomorrow. I insist on receiving more details.”

Right. Just as soon as I remember them.

I hang up and look down at the menus. The one on top is from an Indian place that’s pretty good.

“Hey, Henry,” I say as I walk into the living room. “You like Indian?”

“Sure.”

“Would you mind ordering?” I hand him the menu. “I need to use the bathroom.”

He agrees, and I walk down the hall and close the door to the bathroom. I examine myself in the mirror. I look like hell. Hangover city. No wonder Henry didn’t want to admit he kissed me.

And kissed me real good, according to Greer. Why, oh why, can’t I remember it?

I run a brush through my hair. The phone rings.

“Let the machine pick it up,” I yell.

The phone rings once more, then stops, but I don’t hear the loud clicks our old answering machine usually makes. I guess whoever it was hung up.

I finish up in the bathroom and head back to the living room. Henry is standing with the phone receiver in his hand. He looks stunned.

“Henry? What is it?”

He replaces the receiver slowly but doesn’t say anything.

“Henry, you’re freaking me out. Who was on the phone? Was it something to do with Amber?”

“Yeah, it was something to do with Amber.”

“Is she OK? Who called?”

He meets my eyes with a blank expression. “It was Bob calling to remind you that your article is due on Friday at five, no excuses. And he’d also heard that Amber was MIA, and wanted you to follow up.”

I suck in my breath, frozen in place.

“You answered my phone?”

His face hardens. “Is that all you have to say? Jesus, Kate. Give me a f*cking break.”

“Henry, it’s not what you think.”

“Oh, really? So, you’re not writing an article about Amber’s time in rehab for a f*cking gossip magazine, and you’re not working me for material?”

“No. I’m not working you for material.”

“Kate, will you stop lying to me? Will you please just stop?”

He’s angry and disappointed and disgusted. And that’s exactly how I feel. I’m angry and disappointed and disgusted with myself. At least we can agree on something.

All the tiredness I’ve been holding at bay descends. I don’t have the energy to lie anymore.

“I’m not sure I know how to stop.”

“What am I supposed to do with that, Kate?”

“I don’t know. What do you want me to say? What do you want me to do?”

He stares at me. I wait for him to yell, or scream, or walk out. But instead, after a moment, all he says is, “Start at the beginning.”