by Natalie Wrye
My heart climbs further into my throat with each word.
The day behind me flashes behind my eyes, and I see myself as I was just hours ago, sequestered inside my Hollywood cocoon, caring of nothing…
Or no one.
The smell of rose champagne—sweet and decadent—is still inside my nose, and just ten hours ago, on the other side of the country, I stumbled headfirst into the backseat of my waiting limousine, tasting the metallic iron-filled flavor rolling around on the tip of my sluggish tongue.
The familiar taste of blood.
It was as intoxicating as the tequila still in my system, and I swallowed both as I landed on the leather seats, my thoughts spinning along with my vision.
The only items keeping me tethered to earth? The tiny hands that pulled on me. The same ones that had been pulling on me all night. Acrylic-tipped nails scratched at my skin and tailored tux, turning the twitch along my skin into a veritable crawl.
But this wasn’t what I was used to. At least, for the last year.
I was an LA boy now, drunk off its bevy of beautiful women and sin as far as the eye can see.
And the woman in front of me was all sin. Blonde and buxom.
Her buttery skin barely covered by the bits of silk that clung to her most intimate places, she pushed me backwards into the waiting black limo, crawling on top of me. With a shrill “Drive” to the chauffeur, we pulled away from the chaotic scene near the curb, leaving behind a cacophony of flashing photographer lights and drunk celebrities filtering outside of the silver-plated double doors of the Hollywood Roosevelt hotel, the tires skidding loudly as we peel away.
The blonde purred, rubbing her fingers across the cotton at my chest.
“You were magnificent,” Miss Acrylic whispered in my ear. “Just fucking magnificent.”
She ripped at my cummerbund, sliding it to the floor. Another flick of her fingers, and she loosened what was left of my half-bounded bowtie, her toned thighs straddling me as I sank back into the cushions, clutching the only object that made sense in the confines of the luxury car.
My award.
Reality TV producer of the year.
I vaguely remembered drinking out of its gold surface before finding my way into Miss Acrylic’s arms. Several fuck you’s to a couple of angry-looking bouncers and many shots of Don Julio later, and I was heading God-knows-where with a very plastic-looking, life-sized blow-up doll in my lap, my bruised fists and bloody lip just a few signs of all the fun I’d been having.
I smiled, spreading more blood across my teeth. I look up at my unexpected guest with a grin.
“Am I being kidnapped?”
She blinked sweetly down at me. “More like man-napped.”
“Uh huh.” I nodded, my temples starting to throb. “And might I ask the name of my man-napper?”
She kissed the buttons of my white collared shirt, her lips sinking lower as she gazed up at me, her body sliding down mine over the elongated seats. She stared.
“Does it matter?”
I wanted to say “No, it doesn’t.” I wanted to say “Who gives a fuck?” And any other night, I would have, if it weren’t for the niggling in the back of my tequila-soaked mind, a simple thought that told me I was forgetting something. Something damned important.
But I couldn’t think about it that much.
My phone, tucked in the confines of my tux, started blaring and I fished it out of my pocket, just as Miss Acrylic’s pink lips took a detour between my legs.
I answered the call, my eyes sinking closed. “Sparrow,” I grunted.
“Holy fuck, man. I’ve been calling you all day.” Brett’s voice on my speaker breaks the silence.
“I’ve been preoccupied,” I murmured. And getting punched, I don’t add. “I won the producer award, in case you were wondering,” I told my best friend, my teeth tightening. “But you would know that if you actually brought your ass out here to LA once in a while.”
“Sparrow.” His voice sank. “We can talk about that another time. Right now, I’ve got something more important to tell you.”
“What?” I laughed, the sound long and loud. “Have you decided to take me out of my misery with this wedding shit and elope?”
That was what I forgot. The wedding.
My best friend’s nuptials were just over two months away, the pre-wedding events even less so. The grunt I gave when my phone rang turned into a groan, and though my cock was dangerously close to splitting the cavern of Miss Acrylic’s eager lips, the noise that grumbled in my throat was more from anger that I was losing my best friend than arousal.
He exhaled loudly. “I wish, bro.” His silence was deafening as he waited. “It’s about Marilyn.”
His words were the beginning of the end, and in the span of an hour, I’d booked a flight back to the cold streets of New York, not a bag in sight, my bowtie still attached as I ran for the next flight back to the city.
Now here, in the hospital, sweating in a five thousand dollar Tom Ford tux, the laughter has stopped, been twisted and replaced into a strange regret. The regret turns into a hardened rage when a balding man in a suit enters my sister’s hospital suite without knocking, a phony small smile on his wrinkled face.
I know that look. Can smell the lawyer on him. And as he comes closer, I hold out my hand, stopping him from approaching the doctor and me any farther. My frown slides into a scowl.
“Don’t. Don’t you even dare. Leave.” My voice is a grisly growl. I lean towards him. “Now.”
Despite my anger, the attorney in front of me is as cool as a cucumber. His graying blond hair sits proudly on top of his tanned head, and he sweeps a hand through it as he regards me with warm, steady gray eyes. He nods as if understanding.
“I don’t meant to intrude, Mr. Sparrow…”
“Then don’t.”
“But it’s about your father.”
My brow furrows, my hand lowering as the lawyer talks. I blink. My father?
“What about him?”
His stare slants at me, his skin pulling tightly at the corners of his eyes. His proud shoulders sink as he glances at the doctor beside me. His stare returns back to me.
“They didn’t tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
He sighs, a weighty sound. “Your father was in the accident, too, Mr. Suh-Sparrow.” His tongue seems to trip over my name. Maybe because it’s a bitter surname to say. Even to me. He inhales as if needing his next breath more than life, and I watch his face, reading it. As I’ve done with so many others so many times before.
The look in his eyes translates to tragedy. He glances up at me, misery hidden in his rainy irises.
“Mr. Sparrow…your father is in a coma. He’s suffered major brain damage, and according to his living will, he would like for you to…”
But the words are fading from my consciousness. Replaced by a roar that doesn’t end. I blink slowly as my vision becomes blurry and as I glance over the head of the older man in front of me, I swear I almost see a vision. A hallucination. An image in the hallway that can’t be real.
Red hair and long legs pass through my periphery across the open door, and flashes of memories I’d rather forget swirl in with the other images floating through my muddled head. None so powerful as the thought that nothing—not a goddamned thing in my life—will ever be the same.
Chapter 3
VIOLET
The beating of my pulse matches the rhythmic beeping across my wrist.
The ground is cold beneath my feet, especially hard, and as I run across its black surface, I can hear my own breathing, feel my body coming alive.
It’s the December air, the winds of winter.
The early morning air is crisp, beautiful to taste. And though I open my mouth to inhale that New York oxygen, it mixes ominously with the bitter flavor of worry, still sitting on my tongue from last night.
I couldn’t sleep last night. And it shows.
My stride is slower than norm
al, my gait stilted. Even New Kids on the Block in my headphones can’t drown out the vision of Marilyn—one of my now closest friends—laying in the hospital, nearly lifeless, the blood practically drained from her pretty face.
I turn the corner, my jogging jacket and tights stiff amongst the East Coast cold, and I consider abandoning my morning run altogether when my Apple Watch rings against my wrist, signaling an incoming call.
I answer it, holding my hand up to my frosty lips as I continue huffing down the beaten paved path. I take a deep breath, releasing it quickly.
“Violet Keats.”
“Violet!” I hear from the other line. My name on the call is more of an order than an acknowledgment, and my body perks up, my pulse peaking as excitement finds its way into my skin, making the air shimmer around me. I haven’t heard this voice in several days. I grin.
“Elsie!” I exclaim, puffs of my tired breath meeting the cold air. “Where have you been?”
My best friend scoffs. “The question is: Where haven’t I been? Brett and I have had so much to do. You know, with the wedding and all.”
I smile, warmth spreading in my body despite the chill. “I know,” I say. “And I can’t wait.”
“You can wait,” she jokes. “And you will. I’m so not prepared for this. Not with everything going on now. What with the case and all…” she trails off, her normally chipper voice turning stale. “And Marilyn.”
I nearly stop, my Nikes sliding against a patch of black ice as I run. I catch myself before I can fall. I exhale loudly. “Have you seen her yet?”
“Not yet,” she breathes, her voice a sullen whisper that I can now hardly hear. “But I will. Brett and I are headed there now.”
“Good.” I nod, my body bobbing as I cross the next set of hills along my Central Park running path, my heart kicking into high gear. “She’ll be glad you came to visit.” I hesitate. “Even if she won’t be awake to see it.” The next sentence on my tongue makes my stomach swirl. I swallow a mouthful of chilled air, inhaling the frigid burn. I blow out another breath. “Have you seen Heath?”
“No,” she answers quickly. “But we know he stopped by the hospital last night. Really, I’m surprised you two didn’t bump into each other. He caught a flight from Hollywood last minute as soon as he’d heard.”
I thank the Heavens that we didn’t collide—a confession I would never tell Elsie, but she cuts me off suddenly, the sound of a voice over a scratchy loudspeaker interrupting whatever she was going to say next. She murmurs in the background before coming back on the line.
“Vi, babe. I’ve got to go. We just walked into the hospital. And this place is packed. A hell of a time of year to have your loved ones here. I wouldn’t wish this on anybody.”
“Nor would I,” I say, my gait slowing. “Call me when you have time. I’d like to talk more.” I inhale slowly. “I miss you.”
I can hear her sad smile. “I miss you too, Vi. Call you shortly. Love your face.”
“Not as much as I love yours.”
The call ends. And so does my run. I slow to a walk, staring at my multi-colored surroundings. The dying trees come alive around me. In misty hues of red, orange and yellow, the wind whipping through the trees whispers to me, telling me sad tales I don’t want to hear, and I pick up the pace again, my stride stretching until I’m running again, my red hair blowing in the icy breeze as I try to escape my own thoughts.
I run all the way home.
With a ten-minute shower and a quick change of clothes, I head towards the huge office building—the law offices of King & Sparrow—feeling more spent than ever—yesterday’s late flight weighing more on me than I care to admit.
I hustle through the tiled, shiny lobby of the SparrowHead building, my red-bottomed shoes clicking noisily as I cross past the silver walls, the big black granite structures looming just outside the elevators.
I catch the next lift heading up to the thirtieth floor, and as I do, a news report on the in-door elevator television shouts at me, showing a broadcast I’d rather not see. But I can’t help myself.
My mascara-lined eyes are glued to the screen as a report that I’m only too familiar with flashes a barrage of images in my bitterly-cold direction. A blonde, coiffed woman appears on the screen, holding a mic bigger than her arm.
The case against infamous New York financier Chris Jackson is only heating up in the wake of new allegations against the long-time businessman. Late last year, Jackson was publicly arrested on federal charges of fraud, accounting malpractice and securities law violations.
Reports are conflicted on the ongoing testimony of the witnesses in the case against the renowned entrepreneur and philanthropist. Our sources lead us to believe that more witnesses may come to the stand against Jackson, and that additional charges—both criminal and civil—may be pending against the…
The shudder of the elevator as it comes to a stop shocks me back into reality, and I blink as the doors part, straightening the growing frown from my face as I head into the halls of one of the most reputable law offices in the entire country.
Mahogany and gold fixtures meet me as I swipe in at the front receptionist’s desk, and as I stroll past the glass-encased offices, my eyes find those of a man standing behind the clear-plated walls, his blue eyes alive with passion as he gestures in front of a seated meeting of twelve suits.
He glances up at me, smiling. David King.
I return the smile of the man whose name is on the moniker above my head, a sudden warmth creeping its way up my neck, as I nearly collide with the slightly scratched desk of lead legal secretary, Emily Armand. Her caramel colored hair smells of lilac as she flips it over her shoulder, her hazel eyes blazing up at me, as she regards from the safety of her leather-lined seat. She grins.
“Distracted by something?” Her grin reaches her eyes, reflecting back a suspicious glint. I clear my throat, coughing as I throw back my shoulders and try to shake off an impending blush.
I glance down at her. “Not really.” I shrug, struggling to remain flippant. “Just wondering if I’m missing an important meeting or something. I’m several minutes late today.” Damn that run I just had to have before work.
But Emily doesn’t miss a beat. She glances over my shoulder, her eyes shooting in the direction of the suits sequestered around a large oak table. Her eyes hold the hint of suspicion I feel. She frowns.
“I don’t know… They’ve been in there all morning. Some secret meeting. The senior partners never keep me in the loop.”
I grunt, glancing backwards with her, my nerves needing coffee more than ever. “Don’t feel too bad. They don’t tell the junior partners much either.”
“At least you fall somewhere on the totem pole. I’m the gunk under the pole. I’m sure I’ll find out about the secret meeting once the stack of paperwork surrounding it needs to be taken care of.” She stares up at my face, her pretty head tilting as she inspects me, her stare scanning slowly over my face. Emily inclines towards me. “You alright?”
I plaster a smile on my face that might crack if I push too hard. I force the gesture into my tired eyes. “Sure, I’m fine. Don’t I look it?”
“To be honest? Not really.”
I deflate, my shoulders sagging. “Gee, thanks, Em.”
She laughs softly. “I’m sorry… You just…look like you need to get laid, that’s all.”
“The world would be a better place if it was that simple. Just got a lot on my mind, is all.”
I don’t tell her that “a lot” is short-form for a “shit-ton” and that I could cover the globe twice over with the amount of baggage barreling down on me, a year’s worth of emotional trauma taking its turns setting on my weary shoulders.
I can feel the burden on my body even now.
The flight from Chicago. Marilyn’s hospital visit. The prospect of running into her wayward brother.
Just the last twenty-four hours have been enough to send even the sanest person over the edge, and I
swallow all of my feelings down with a mouthful of determination, my willpower hardening as I walk past Emily, to my office, my legs threatening to give out every step of the pearl carpeted way.
I lock the door behind me, letting out a shaky breath. I bite my lip so hard it might bleed. And I begin my work.
As always.
Work was always something I dove into when life got its worst. And it’s a salve to me now, on the coldest of winter days, as I try to sweep the worries of the world behind me.
With a Nirvana playlist in my headphones and my fingers on the keyboard, I knock out a month’s worth of work in the span of ten hours, and as the clock ticks towards seven o’clock, I pack up my things, feeling more accomplished than ever.
With the majority of the office clearing out, I cut a path towards the elevators, desperate to sink myself into an after-work Scotch when a text from Elsie hits my cell phone, stopping any plans I had before.
I open my Messages app, reading the tiny text on the screen:
Come over when you’re off work. We should definitely finish our talk. I want to hear all about Chicago.
I agree. More than she knows.
I shoot her a text back, reminding myself that it’s been days since we’ve spoken. The Chicago trip is the last thing I want to talk about. But even in the midst of my annoyance with what happened to me back in the Windy City, I know I need to.
To purge myself of all the poison the fiasco has left on my brain.
I catch a yellow cab on the street, heading towards uptown. I bundle in my oversized coat in the back seat, and by the time I make it to Elsie and Brett’s extravagant apartment building, I’m almost half-asleep, my body taking over my brain as its tired limbs sink into the faux-leather inside the taxicab.
I thank the cabbie, tipping him generously.
I hop out of the car, heading towards lobby security as I do, the flash of what feels like five-hundred light bulbs go off in my face as a sea of reporters, holding a myriad of black and gray mics crowd the marble floors.
I nearly trot backwards, tempted to run as the microphones and large lenses swing towards me, each stoic face attempting to see if I’m a person of importance.
