by Megan Walker
Shit.
“I didn’t mean to,” she says. “But I was telling Thomas about it before dance practice, and Simone overheard.”
Double shit. If there’s one girl in this pageant who is most likely to make sure this particular piece of paranoia reaches every ear, it’s Simone.
“Okay,” I say, and hope Collette isn’t reading my internal cursing on my face. “It’s all right. Just—try not to tell anyone else, okay?” The last thing I need is a bunch of beauty contestants terrified of an onstage facial injury.
Though I have a feeling it’s too late for that.
Collette nods quickly and jogs back off toward the dressing room. I let out a long sigh.
“Oh my god,” I say, rubbing at my forehead.
“On the plus side, Cher didn’t say anything about some asshole shredding his emcee script,” Shane says dryly, and I give him a look, though I can’t help but laugh. Which is always a rare thing this close to the pageant.
I never thought Shane Beckstrom might be the very person who might get me through this with my sanity intact, but I’m finding I don’t mind that at all.
Sixteen
Shane
Before the benefit gala, Allison actually does dig up the shirt Felix Mays wore to the VMAs. It’s bright and sparkly and much more flashy than the stuff I usually wear, but I’m also a rock star with a reputation for not giving a shit what other people think, so I generally assume that I can get away with anything, fashion or otherwise.
At least in this case, Allison agrees with me. I pair it with strategically torn jeans and a pair of beat up black boots. The shirt hung loose on Felix Mays, but it fits me pretty tight. Allison examines all the seams before we leave her place to head to the benefit, making sure that she doesn’t need to take a minute to let any of them out.
“All I’m missing is that god-awful cross he wore,” I say.
Allison smiles. “Felix kept that, so I don’t have it for you.” She does, however, produce a loop of thick chain from a box filled with different laces and trims. “But you could try this.”
In the end, I decide the chain is too much, and I go without. Allison disappears into her room and comes out wearing a black cocktail dress with layers and layers of sheer black fabric falling from the waist, so it’s at once a little black dress and a floor-length one, showing off her legs through the chiffon, but giving her the silhouette of a more traditional gown.
“Nice,” I say, and Allison smiles at me.
“Yeah?”
“Definitely. I love it.” I wrap my arms around her waist and pull her close to me. Her arms brush my bare skin under the open shirt, and I smile. “Is that a surprise? I think you’d look hot in just about anything. And mostly nothing at all.”
“We’d get a lot of publicity if I went to the benefit in that.”
My throat closes up, and I remember why I haven’t been going to these things. “There is going to be a lot of press there,” I say. “Outside and inside.”
“We’re Facebook official. Plus, I probably got photographed in your shirt last night. So I think we’re past worrying about that.”
That’s not what worries me. Allison seems to catch on, and her smile fades. “Are you up to this?” she asks.
“Ha,” JT says from behind her. “Definitely not.”
The truth is, he’s probably right. I’ve had a hard time with the lights and crowd at the pageant rehearsals, and there are so few people involved in that compared to this.
But in three days, I have to be ready to get up on a stage and emcee. It’ll help that there’s this separation between us and the audience, so I won’t have to interact with people off script except when I choose to, but still.
I don’t want to make a fool of myself in front of Allison. I want to be able to function like a normal person. I need to try.
“Yeah,” I say. “But I don’t know how long I’ll want to stay.”
“We can leave whenever you need to,” Allison says. “And if we get there and you don’t want to go in at all—”
I hate that I’m fragile enough that she has to say this. “It’ll be fine. It’s just a bunch of industry people. It’s not like I care what they think of me.”
JT snorts, and I fight the urge to roll my eyes. All right. That’s never been true. But it used to be that I only cared what people thought inasmuch as they kept thinking they wanted to put out our albums and send us on tour and book us for gigs. The haters could keep on hating, for all I cared.
It’s not like I want sympathy from anyone now. In fact, it’s the opposite. I don’t want anyone to know what a wreck I am.
Anyone but Allison, apparently, and I haven’t even been completely honest with her.
She runs a hand up my arm. “It’ll be okay.”
I hope she’s right.
We take Allison’s car to the benefit—I’ll do basically anything not to drive, because I don’t want her to see me have one of my behind-the-wheel freak outs, or worse yet, get her hurt. Just the thought of that brings back the memories of my dream, Allison’s voice screaming my name, calling out in pain.
I tighten my fists, slip on my sunglasses, and try to push her voice out of my mind. It almost works.
We arrive at the hotel where the benefit is being held. I don’t have an invitation or anything, but Parker’s got my name on a list, and the bouncer at the door clearly recognizes me. He waves us on through ahead of the line.
The benefit consumes most of the bottom floor of the hotel. There’s a ballroom all decorated in roses and ivy, with an open bar and dozens of waiters wandering around with platters of food. I recognize several faces in there, and I notice a lot of people recognizing mine, even with the glasses. Hell, I’ve been wearing them so much since the accident that I’m probably more recognizable in them than without them.
The party sprawls out into the step-down back foyer of the hotel, and the large back doors are open, inviting people to wander into the well-lit gardens. By the end of the night there’s going to be a lot of well-lit people hiding in the recesses of those gardens, hooking up or getting high or both.
In another life, I would have been one of them, and while I could really go for a joint right now, the last thing that’s on my mind in the middle of this many people right now is sex. Even with Allison. I feel too raw, too exposed, like everyone in this hotel can see right through me, like they all know what a fraud I am, how damaged and broken. I never used to feel that way. Kevin used to say I was a chameleon, able to slip into virtually any social situation and get along just fine.
I guess that’s just one more part of me that died along with JT.
JT, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to have gotten the memo about that. I spot him on the far side of the room, dunking his head under the champagne fountain.
I hope he’s going to go party and leave me alone. “Come on,” Allison says, taking my hand. “Why don’t we get a drink?”
“Good idea,” I say. I realize I’ve just been standing there, staring into the ballroom like I’m afraid it’s a trap. I squeeze her hand and stride over to the bar, where we both order drinks. It’s dark enough in here that I can’t see much with the sunglasses, but I’m afraid to push them up.
I don’t want anyone to see me. I don’t want anyone to know. I already feel like the whole room is staring at me, and I’m probably ten seconds away from some people I used to work with—or some music fans who’ve paid way too much money to rub elbows with the people in this room—coming up to bombard me with questions. I scan the room, trying to figure out who that’s going to be so I can surreptitiously avoid them.
That’s when I see Felix Mays staring at me from across the room. Probably for an entirely different reason. He turns to Jenna, who’s hanging on his arm next to him, and says something to her. She looks over at us and her eyes widen.
She looks up, and I gesture to the other side of the room, where I now notice that Alec Andreas is standing with them. He’s the only one of them I’ve actually met in person, and he’s only ever spoken to me to tell me to get out of his way.
“Oh,” Allison says. She doesn’t seem embarrassed to be with me, even though she probably should be. “I love Jillian’s dress. I wish I could pull that off.”
I’m assuming Jillian is the girl on Alec’s arm. She’s wearing this strappy thing that crisscrosses over her chest, barely concealing her nipples. “You could,” I tell her. “Why not?”
Allison hesitates. “Without the prosthetic, you mean?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I mean, if you were to buy something like that you’d have to shorten one of the straps, right? But you would look amazing.” Something occurs to me. “Hey, have you ever thought about doing a line like that? Like, for women who’ve had mastectomies? It would probably have to be online, because it’s a niche thing, but you could design dresses that are meant to be worn without prosthetics, like, for women who want to go to formal things, but don’t want to have to hide their bodies.” As the words come out of my mouth, I wonder if I’m really stepping in it. I mean, it’s not like I think Allison wearing a prosthetic means she’s hiding. I get that it’s none of anyone else’s business what she looks like, and she just wants to blend in and remain conventionally attractive—which is not something she needs to worry about any day of the week. I’m about to open my mouth to tell her so, but she beats me to it.
“You really think I should do that.”
I shrug. “If you want to. It just seems like something there would be a market for. Body empowerment and all that? But maybe I’m wrong.”
Allison shakes her head. “I love that about you.”
I look at her skeptically. “My crazy-improbable business ideas?”
“That too,” she says. “But no, I mean the way you actually think that I should be proud of my body. And that other people who’ve had the same surgery should show off their bodies, just the way they are.”
“There probably wouldn’t be a lot of money in it,” I say. “But it would be good publicity, and I bet you’d make a lot of women feel really good about themselves.”
Allison looks up at me. “You’re incredible.”
I shake my head. I don’t think I should be getting credit just for appreciating a clearly beautiful woman whose scars are as sexy as the rest of her, but I’ll take it.
“I should go say hi to them,” Allison says. “You don’t have to come with me.”
“Want to hide me from your friends?”
“No. But I don’t want to rope you into a conversation with them if you’re already feeling overwhelmed.”
God. She’s treating me like an invalid, and it’s not undeserved. “Nah,” I say. “I’ll be fine.” We wander over, but as we get closer, I notice Jenna trying to get someone’s attention, and Felix still looking at me like I don’t belong here.
So they don’t approve of me dating Allison. That’s not unexpected, but it makes me feel even more out of place.
God, is this how Kevin used to feel at events like this? He got used to them eventually, and he always made a show of being fine, but especially in the beginning, he was always itching to get out as quickly as he could.
I’m not going to let myself bail for at least an hour. That’s the minimum amount of time I need to be able to deal with the crowd of people staring at me to maintain at least a portion of my self-respect.
“Dude,” JT says from behind me. “You lost that a long time ago.” I flinch, and have to fight not to turn around and look at him. Allison notices, and her grip on my arm tightens.
“I’m fine,” I say.
We reach Felix and Alec and Jillian, and Alec raises his glass at us. “Allison!” he says. “Good to see you.”
Allison lets go of my hand to hug Alec and then Felix, who makes some comment about the memories he has tied to my shirt. But I don’t really hear it, because I’ve just located Jenna again.
She’s standing behind Alec, right next to two people who’ve just emerged from the crowd to join the group.
Josh Rios and Anna-Marie.
Anna stares at me, clearly surprised to see me. I’m equally surprised to see her—yeah, we both live in LA, but our paths haven’t crossed since the last time I saw her back in Wyoming, when she told me what a dick I was and stormed out of my apartment. I think a lot of that has been by design—she didn’t even come to JT’s funeral, though she did send flowers. Neither she nor Josh are in the music industry, but they’re clearly here with their friends. Allison’s friends. People who, I remember now, all hate me because of what I did to Anna-Marie.
Anna-Marie is wearing a black dress with streaks of gold woven into the fabric, and she’s also largely and unmistakably pregnant.
“Hey, Anna,” I say, trying to sound relaxed. “Congratulations.”
Anna-Marie looks up at Josh, and he puts a hand on her back protectively, like somehow I’m a threat to their relationship, just standing here at a party with my girlfriend.
I never liked Josh much, and he most definitely never liked me. Though I suppose that last bit was mostly my fault.
“Thanks,” Anna-Marie says.
All eight of us stand there looking at each other, like we don’t know what to say.
Which pisses me off. Anna-Marie was one of the most important people in my life, once upon a time. The only people who really cared about me before Allison were Anna-Marie and the guys in my band. Now JT’s dead, and Mikey left us a long time ago, and Kevin’s out.
And she couldn’t even be bothered to call after she heard what happened to me. The only reason I wrote that fucking song about her in the first place was to get back at her for ditching me. She left town and never called, didn’t even give me her new number so I could call, even though she knew that’s what everyone did to me, even my own mother. She fucking knew that I didn’t have anyone else, but she didn’t care. Didn’t even have the time of day for me when she came back into town, at least not after she decided she didn’t want to use me to hook up.
“I didn’t know you guys were dating,” Jenna says, and I get the feeling it’s mostly to break the silence.
“Yeah,” Allison says. “It’s kind of new.” She glances up at me like she’s worried about me, and I hate that she has to be. I hate that I’m the idiot who still cares about what Anna-Marie thinks, when she made it clear a long time ago she wanted nothing to do with me—and that was before I wrote those songs about her in retribution.
“You’re Shane, right?” Alec says, like he’s confused as to why we haven’t been introduced. Not that he cared who I was until I came and crashed his conversation with my new insanity and old baggage. “What are you doing these days?”
Allison looks like she wants to murder Alec for asking me that. “I’m between gigs,” I say, hoping that comes out as breezy as I want it to.
“I get it,” Alec says. “I’m kind of looking at the next phase, myself.”
Like hell he is. He went through a rough patch professionally after the VMAs incident years ago—so bad he even ended up on a reality show, if I remember right. But over the last year or two, he’s put out some successful albums and is climbing his way back up to the top, with some music that’s a hell of a lot more interesting than anything AJ used to play.
Or Accidental Erotica, for that matter.
“If you’re interested in collaborating,” Alec says, “I’d be happy to discuss it sometime.”
Everyone looks confused except for Jillian, who shoots an apologetic glance at Anna-Marie. Anna-Marie is examining her fingernails and probably wishing to be anywhere but here, since apparently bei
ng in my presence is the worst thing in the world and has been since before we broke up.
I struggle to keep my attention on Alec. “Are you looking to get into punk?”
“I’ve been doing some experimenting,” Alec says. “I’m pretty firmly pop music, but I like playing with other influences. I’ve been working with some rappers, but I’d love to get together and jam sometime, see what we can come up with.”
I stare at Alec through my sunglasses. The old me would have been thrilled at this offer, not because I have any desire to work in pop, but because the old Shane Beckstrom saw potential in every opportunity. The old me would have gotten together to jam with Alec and pushed every possible angle to milk as much benefit out of that connection as he could. It was smart, and it’s what got my band to the level of success that we had.
“Sure,” I say. “Maybe sometime.”
It’ll never happen. I already know it. Because I can’t pick up a guitar, not even at home by myself. Every time I do I think of Kevin, his arm so messed up he can’t play the chords, or JT, blood and brains running down his face, his head bashed in.
I’m no good to anyone now.
Because I’m dead. I died in that accident.
“Don’t be so dramatic,” JT says from behind Allison.
My eyes start to burn behind my sunglasses, and the room suddenly seems much smaller. It’s spinning, like the van did after that truck plowed into it, turning and twisting with a crash and a bang and then suddenly standing still. Perfectly still.
“Shane?” Allison says. I lose my balance and stumble backward, right into a table where some people are sitting. I can’t tell who they are or if I recognize them, because my vision is tunneling, and there’s a roaring in my ears, and I’m fighting to breathe. There’s a crash of shattering glass as I knock something off the table, and I feel the windshield glass against my skin, bursting into a thousand puzzle-shaped pieces, leaving behind sharp bits of grit which I’ll find later in my teeth.
I push the sunglasses up off my eyes, but it doesn’t help. I can’t see. I can’t breathe. I can’t be here, not for one more second. I turn and tear off across the ballroom, stumbling over someone who doesn’t get out of my way fast enough.
