I dry off and get dressed for the gym. I whistle a few times, even though I know my bulldog, Makayla, is way too fucking lazy to get up without the promise of a treat. I look for Makayla. I find her sprawled on the kitchen tile, waiting outside the cabinet where I keep the dental bones. She looks more like a pissed off, wrinkled blowfish. The little lady is eating her way toward a diabetic coma, but I’m soft when it comes to her. She just loves those fucking dental bones so much. On the plus side, her breath always smells great.
Makayla and I take the stairs down to the lobby. She could use the exercise and I need something to get my blood flowing. I really need to stop drinking and bringing home women, but it helps dull the memories. At least for the moment. It’s just the times between that drag at a snail’s pace, giving me plenty of time to dwell on the past. Walter waits in the lobby, manning the full-bar in his tight black vest and fluffy white sleeves. The decor of the lobby is dark, with thick wood paneling and blood red furnishings. The bar was a major selling point for me when I picked the apartment. It looked like the perfect place to waste my evenings. I can brood while I get smashed and I don’t even have to step outside.
The first floor is full of amenities. There’s a spa, a full-sized gym, a heated swimming pool, even a play area for pets. The entire play area is walled off by huge windows. Inside, half a dozen dogs run up and down a decent sized set of hills made from astro-turf. There’s even a fake fire hydrant and a few fake trees. Beside the bar, the pet area was another reason I chose this place. I figured Makayla might actually get some exercise, but she just lays at the bottom of the hill, conserving her energy for God knows what.
I drop Makayla off at the “Pet Stop”. A young blonde college student takes her leash from me with a big, toothy smile. I think she makes a few shameless attempts to get my attention or wring anything other than a curt thank you out of me, but I’m mentally somewhere else, and her efforts pass uselessly over me.
I give Makayla a quick scratch behind the ears and sneak her a dental bone. She gobbles it out of my hand and trots toward a small white dog that’s sniffing around the inside of the gated area.
I cross the lobby to the gym, heading for the power rack. Working out is the only thing that keeps me from exploding sometimes. There’s a darkness that builds up in me and threatens to make me fucking burst if I don’t let it out. I notice a fit woman with red hair step off the treadmill as I pass, huffing and storming out of the gym. She must know me, but I don’t recognize her. I’m not proud of it. Hell, if it wasn’t for the booze I wouldn’t put any woman through the misfortune of getting to know me. There's nothing good left of me. Nightmares and paranoia plague my days and nights leaving me a shell of a man. Sex is all I have to offer and even fucked up as I am, I know that's not enough.
Except that’s not entirely true. I had more to offer once. For her. Not a day goes by that I don’t wonder if I could still dig some of my old self out if I just had her back. My phone practically burns in my pocket when I think about her. I still have her number because I’ve religiously transferred it over every time I got a new phone, not that I need it. The numbers might as well be etched into my mind. The girl I pathetically named my dog after just so I could still hear her name every day. Makayla Pierson…I called her Kay back then. It’s hard to believe how long it has been now. Ten years since she let me slide my hand up her homecoming dress. Ten years since I told her I loved her outside Westfield Airport. Ten years since I broke her heart and left.
I push the thought back to where it belongs--in my dreams. She’s famous now, and if I go calling her up I’d just be one of the ghosts of her past trying to catch a ride. Not a chance. Everytime I think of calling her again, I realize I don’t want to taint my memory of her. I want to remember the sweet innocence I loved about her so much. She’s probably anything but innocent now. I still remember how surprised I was to see her on TV. I was at an airport and her show was playing over one of the big screens.
I guiltily looked the show up later, knowing I shouldn’t do it to myself, knowing the last thing I need is to think about her. But I did it anyway. The show is called Stalked, and it’s about a cult that makes a game out of stalking celebrities, one of which is Makayla’s character, Bella Frost. The show became a hit when suspicions started to grow that Bella Frost would fall for one of the stalkers. To everyone’s surprise, the show started a real life cult movement. Celebrities all over the country are reporting stalkers, and the famous country singer, Susan Kieran, was even murdered in her home a few weeks back. It’s a royal mess, but I guess I can’t complain.
Paranoid celebrities now make up the vast majority of my clientele, and they pay far better for protection than most. Plus, it’s a lot more interesting to shadow celebrities all day than it is to follow businessmen and their families.
I rack up a few forty-five pound plates on the bar and get under it, squeezing the bar and pulling like I’m trying to rip the thing in two. I push the bar off the rack and in a controlled motion let it drop down to my chest, then exploding upwards and pushing the three hundred and fifteen pounds like it’s nothing. I always get the best workouts when I’m pissed. And lately, I’m always pissed.
An hour later, I’m dripping with sweat and endorphins are flooding my system. It’s like a drug to me--feeling my muscles tight, full, and throbbing. My chest presses against the thin material of my t-shirt and my arms bulge, stretching the sleeves. I check my phone when I’m finished and see that I have a missed call from Vivian. Good. She only calls when there’s work, and I’m in desperate need of a distraction. Probably another pampered celebrity.
24
Makayla
I’m seated across from Kennedy in Bistro 51, a trendy restaurant tucked beneath one of my stepfather’s many luxury hotels downtown. The food is absurdly expensive, and not nearly good enough to warrant the price. The real reason people eat here is to be seen eating here. It’s a statement of status, like the thousand dollar white t-shirts celebrities buy just because they can. I have no personal interest in flaunting my wealth, but Kennedy always drags me to places like this. She claims her PR guy insists that she be seen somewhere wearing some of the products she endorses, but I know she secretly enjoys it.