“Do you live here by yourself?” I ask.
He leads me up the white gravel walkway. “Yeah. There used to be other people... Now it’s just Hank, but he lives in the guest house.”
“Who’s Hank?”
On cue, one of the impressive front doors swings wide, and standing just inside the house is a wide-shouldered hulk of a man. “What’s up, T?” the man says, extending a hand and giving Tate a casual fist bump. Hank is tall and thick, with a shaved head and a neck as broad as a tree trunk. But his smile is easy and affable.
“Charlotte,” Tate says. “This is Hank, my bodyguard.”
“Except lately T’s been leaving the house without me,” Hank points out, looking over at me. “Said he wanted anonymity, and a bodyguard draws too much attention. I suspect it has something to do with you.” He smiles, belying his harsh words, and reaches out for my hand, kissing the top of it. “So this is the Charlotte who’s been torturing my boy,” he adds. “I like that you haven’t made it easy on him. He needs to be kept in check from time to time.”
I smile up at Hank, trying not to dwell on the fact that I know someone who has his own bodyguard. “I do what I can.”
“I don’t think I like you two conspiring against me,” Tate says, tugging on my hand.
“You done for the night, T?” Hank asks as we step into the foyer.
“I think so,” Tate answers, and his eyes brush over me.
“I’ll park the car in the garage, then. Let me know if you need it later.”
“Thanks, Hank.”
“And it was nice to meet you, Charlotte,” Hank adds.
“You, too.”
Hank closes the door behind him when he steps outside, and I’m startled by the expanse of the house before me. Dramatic concrete walls rise above us like a museum of modern art. Windows start at the floor, then sweep up to touch the ceiling. The whole place is lit by a soft golden light that seems to spring forth from every crevice and alcove, as if coming from the walls themselves.
We pass through the living room, where a large white piano sits in the corner, so shiny that it reflects the overhead light. Everything is clean and starched and perfect. Almost too perfect. There are no framed photographs of family and friends, no signs that this house is truly lived in.
Along one wall hangs a series of gold and platinum records—the titles of his hit songs and albums stamped below each one. It’s surreal. It hits me again, all at once—I’m here.
I’m in Tate Collins’s house.
SEVEN
THERE ARE MORE RECORDS THAN I can count, and I want to ask about them, but Tate keeps walking, brushing past them like they’re not even there. The wall of windows overlooks a pool that seems to fall away on the far side, revealing a sudden drop-off and an expansive view.
“Are you hungry?” Tate asks. “I don’t think I have much in the kitchen, but maybe some leftover pizza, or we could order something...”
“No, I’m fine.” I don’t have much of an appetite anyway. I’m still wary of him, still feeling guarded. Just his proximity makes my heart rate quicken. “Can we go outside?” I ask, drawn to the pale lights shimmering up from the pool. I don’t know if I’ve ever been somewhere so beautiful.
He touches one of the doors and it begins to spread open like an accordion, the entire glass wall folding in on itself so that the living room is now completely open to the back lawn.
The air smells instantly of freshly mowed grass. The long, rectangular pool stretches out before us, illuminated in a vibrant blue. Beyond the pool is a broad swath of lawn overlooking the horizon to the south, vast and wide and spectacular—the entire world suspended in the distance. Tate leads me to the edge of the grass and I sit cross-legged beside him, too awed to protest when he takes my hand. We sit staring out across the sloping hillside, which falls away, revealing the glittering, endless mass of lights that is Los Angeles far below. The city looks remarkable from up here, like a fairy-tale landscape stretching out to the dark ocean beyond.
“You get used to it after a while,” he says, as if reading my mind.
“I don’t think I would. It looks so different from up here.”
“It’s just an illusion.” He extends his legs out in front of him. “From a distance, anything can look beautiful.”
I shift my eyes away from the skyline, and allow myself to examine Tate’s face. He always looks so guarded, his jaw locked in a tight line. I grow self-conscious about my hand in his, and pull it away, running my palms over the blades of grass.
“Why?” I ask then.
“Why what?”
I dig my fingers down between the blades, feeling the slightly damp earth below. “Why didn’t you tell me who you were?”
His expression turns pensive, gazing out at the city lights for a long moment, and then he says, “I saw you, you know.”