CHAPTER 20
REID
Walt is into a my-body’s-a-temple phase. I don’t judge—I mean maybe he hit a wall. He was going pretty hardcore for a while, getting into shit I won’t even touch. And I’ve touched a lot. We’re at the bar they’ll be playing tomorrow, and while I’m on my second beer, Walt has charmed the chick bartender into heating water for a cup of tea (he brought his own Tazo).
Yeah, the half-Asian guy is having tea in the bar. And I’ll be goddamned if it couldn’t get him play from some of the girls nearby.
Bob, obviously still offended that I shot his avatar, sent Jeff with us tonight. Jeff is plenty imposing. He’s as much of a land mass as Bob, covered in tattoos, and has a single, thin scar running through one eyebrow, touching the cheek below and continuing off the jaw. At some point I’m going to be drunk enough to ask him how he got it. I just hope I remember his answer, if he gives it. Must be some story.
The band is good. Not as good as Walt’s, but decent. The floor space below the little rise on which the band performs is full of people dancing—mostly girls. As the evening wears on, they begin to notice Walt and me… and Jeff. That’s the thing about bodyguards. The main purpose of them is intimidation, with protection a close second. Enough intimidation and the protection element is never called into play. This is all great when there’s a threat, which is not the case at the moment. I’m about to tell Jeff to get invisible when a couple of girls break off from the herd and come over. Jesus, finally.
“Excuse me,” one says. “We were thinkin’ you guys look lonely.” None too original. But they’re both drop-dead hot, so who cares.
Apparently, Walt cares. “Nah. I’m enjoying the music and just watching you girls dance. Reid?”
The girl’s face goes through the emotions of having been rejected and complimented, and then her eyes widen and she looks at me, blinking. “Are you for real Reid Alexander? I mean we thought you looked like him but you’re really him? You’re not shittin’ me?”
Jeff sits up straighter, crosses his arms over his chest. The posture doesn’t go unnoticed, but it doesn’t dissuade them, either. “Seriously?” the second girl says. “Ohmigod.” She looks back at Walt.
“I’m nobody,” he says, and sips his tea, observing her through a black fringe of bangs.
She looks as though she doesn’t believe him. “Then it’ll be okay with him—” she gestures to Jeff “—if I take you with me?”
Walt laughs. “I suppose so, in theory. But I’m not interested in going anywhere. You’re welcome to have a seat, though?”
She looks at his lap as he hooks an empty chair at a nearby table with his foot and pulls it over. As she’s considering, some recorded pop song comes on because the band is taking a break. The girls both squeal and ask us to dance. Something about Walt’s expression says holy mother of God, no, but he sort of smiles. “No, thanks.”
Right then the guitarist for the band, a curvy chick with purple hair, multiple piercings and huge blue eyes, glides between the two girls and sits in the chair, ignoring the girls and me completely and leaning towards Walt. His foot is still hooked around the leg of the chair. “You’re Walt Riggs.” She sticks her hand out. “I’m Carrie.” Walt takes it, turns her hand over to read the tattoo on the inside of her wrist, which looks like Latin. “It basically says ‘been there, done that,’” she says.
“Cool… You sure you’ve been there enough, done that enough, to have it permanently inscribed?”
She shrugs. “Maybe not. But I’m getting closer, and I’ve already got the ink saying so when I get there.”
He gives her a genuine smile, and she laughs, throaty and full. I have to hand it to him, she’s hands down the most intriguing chick in here.
“BRB,” I say, taking both of the other girls, neither of whom Walt is paying any attention to, onto the dance floor.
Jeff and I drop him off at his hotel a couple of hours later. I thought he might take Carrie back to his hotel room, because they talked whenever she wasn’t playing, but he said, “No, man, that’s a professional relationship, you know? Ever heard the rule ‘don’t shit where you eat’?”
“But you just met her tonight, so how professional could that relationship be?”
He chews the inside of his cheek, thinking. “That’s the thing. How professional could it ever be, if we just use each other for sex now?”
Huh. “If you were playing her, I guess that reasoning makes sense. But if it was mutual?”
He smiles, shakes his head. “It’s never mutual. Somebody always wants more. People’s psyches are complex, man.”
I consider that for about five seconds. “Okay, so text me tomorrow with what time you want us at the back entrance. There’ll be between five to ten of us.”
“Awesome. See you tomorrow.”
*** *** ***
Emma
The last thing I expected, after a kiss like that, was to run the trails alone this morning.
The lobby was deserted but for the desk clerk and me. Nothing unusual for the early hour, and I’ve beaten Graham downstairs before. Grabbing a section of the newspaper off of a table in the lobby area, I stood while reading it, sure he’d be down any minute. I was nervous, hands cold and stomach shaky, but I was sure that once we started running, once we started talking, those sensations would subside.
“Ms. Pierce?” I turned to find the desk clerk standing four feet away. “I have a message for you.” She passed a folded sheet of paper to me, Emma Pierce scrawled on the outside. I recognized Graham’s handwriting from the note he left on my nightstand a few nights ago.
Emma –
Something came up and I had to go home. I’m sorry I won’t be able to make our usual run in the morning. I may be gone a few days. I’m not sure. Just didn’t want you waiting around for me.
Graham
For a few minutes, I wondered if there was a hidden message in the last sentence. And then I ran alone, glad for my renewed morning habit, which gave me something nothing else could: the ability to concentrate on little more than putting one foot in front of the other, marking time by counting each stride, until finally I was back in my room, standing under a hot shower.
***
“Earth to Emma.” MiShaun breaks through my inattention. While the film crew is working on backdrop shots in the front of the Bennet house, I’ve been sitting at the kitchen table, staring out the back window, reconsidering Graham’s kiss in light of his abrupt absence and possibly cryptic message.
“Sorry, MiShaun.” I make no attempt to come up with an excuse, having overplayed the lack-of-caffeine defense, when the actual reason has nothing to do with drinkable stimulants. I can’t get that kiss out of my head. Plus, before we kissed, he’d just come from Brooke’s room. I have no idea what he was doing with her, even if I did shove that thought out of my head before we kissed.
“I was going to see if you wanted to go over lines, but if you need to zone out, far be it from me to intrude…” She looks curious. I must be more distracted than I thought.
“No, I’m fine, just… a lot to think about lately, with my parents still here.” The truth is, I’ve all but forgotten they’re here. “I guess we aren’t doing the mall scenes this week?”
“I heard they’re holding off until next week to do mall scenes, since Graham’s in them.”
“Oh, yeah, Graham…” I say this as though I haven’t been thinking of him all day. My finger traces circles on the table. “Why did he leave Austin? Did anyone say?”
“I heard family thing in New York.”
I feel instantly guilty. “What kind of family thing?”
MiShaun shrugs, shuffling through sides. “I’m sure we’ll get the story when he gets back.”
I have all the emotional weight of a ping pong ball, flying back and forth between my own feelings for Reid and Graham, nevermind what either of them feels. On the surface, Reid is paying attention to no one but me, while Graham is often occupied with Brooke. Reid is a known player and Graham—who knows what he’s doing? Last night, he went from Brooke’s room straight to mine, and like an idiot I let him kiss me. This should be clear-cut… but the kiss last night felt so right.
And then Graham disappeared this morning and everything is more confused than ever.
“MiShaun? You’re pretty good at giving advice…”
“You need more? Shoot, baby.”
I swallow. “Okay. So… how do you know whether to follow logic or intuition? I mean, when something looks like one thing, but feels like another—how do you know which is the truth?”
She puts the pages down and levels a look at me. “Is this about Reid?”
“What? No, just a general question, not relating to anyone in particular.” Just two anyones. I should be crossing my fingers under the table.
She presses her lips together, a crease forming on her forehead. Finally, she sighs. “Sometimes, you just can’t tell. But I’ll say this, if what looks like the facts of the matter are conflicting with your feelings, then you need more information before deciding.”
“Even if your feelings seem really sure of themselves?” I ask, knowing the answer.
“Especially then.” She narrows her eyes at me, one eyebrow raised. “You sure this isn’t about Reid? Because this seems like the sort of questions a girl would start asking herself after being kissed senseless by him.”
“We haven’t—I didn’t—”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“So I noticed you being dropped off at the hotel Monday night,” I blurt out. “And the driver looked sorta familiar…” Emily calls this redirecting the subject. She’s a big fan of this tactic when losing an argument with her mom. “MiShaun, are you blushing?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. My people do not blush.” She puts on her prim and proper face and I smirk at her, because she’s wrong about that. “Well. I’m obviously not as sneaky as I think.”
“So what’s he’s like? What does he do?”
“He’s a computer guy. I don’t know the details and I already told him not to bother trying to tell me, because I get disoriented if I have to do any more to my laptop than turn it on.”
“Computer guy, huh?” I wonder vaguely if this ‘huh’ counts towards Graham’s tally. He isn’t here to rule on it, so I rule no.
“Among other things.” A wistful smile crosses her face.
“Such as?”
“Now, Emma. You know I don’t kiss and tell.”
“Right,” I say. “But you can ask me about kissing Reid Alexander.”
As if on cue, Reid walks around the corner, stops and puts his hands on the back of the chair next to me. “What was that?” He smiles, and I know he overheard me.
“Um, we’re just, uh…”
“Going over lines,” MiShaun says, straightening the sheets and placing them between us. “What are you doing here, Mr. Alexander? This afternoon is a Lizbeth/Charlotte scene. And as much as the producers would like your pretty face in every shot they can squeeze you into, you are not in it.”
“I had to discuss something with Richter. Also, there’s a concert tonight. It’s an LA band; I know the lead singer. He says we can come in the back way, separate from the crowd, and have our own cordoned-off area so the bodyguards can do their thing. You guys up for it?”
I nod at MiShaun, and she says, “Sure, we’re in.”
“Cool. We’re meeting in the lobby at eight to go get food, and the band goes on around ten.” He drums the top of the chair, blue eyes twinkling. “I’ll let you get back to… whatever you were discussing.”