Generations 2.7 kindle

by Folkman, Lori

  No response.

  “If you think about it that way, it makes it seem like a rather sizable sum. Which, in fact, for any decent, hard working American, it really is.” Paul sounded smug. He also sounded resolute … like he wasn’t about to offer another dime.

  “But …”

  “That is easily double what you would get from any media exclusives. And for that … you’d have to wait quite some time. They would have to verify your claims before they published it. But my offer … you’ll get paid tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “It takes time to transfer that kind of money around—so it’s untraceable. But I’ll give you ten as a retainer, right now.”

  “Ten thousand? Cash?”

  “Yes.” Paul gestured to Rogan, who left the room. He was only gone for a minute before he reappeared with an envelope. Paul slid it across the table to Emmet. “You accept this, you accept the deal. That recording is mine—every copy you’ve made. And you mention this to no one. Ever again. You speak to the press, and I’ll come to collect. With interest.”

  Emmet pulled the cash from the envelope. He thumbed through it. As if he could count that fast. He tapped the table with the thick envelope. “Deal.”

  As Emmet left the room, he grabbed Ben by the shoulder, kinda brotherly like. “You don’t have your dad’s balls, that’s for sure. He would have decked me for tryin’ to get money out of him.”

  Down. Down. Down. It was getting hard to hear. Hard to see. Ben wanted to crawl under the table. Never to resurface.

  Emmet was gone. Paul spoke to Rogan. Ben didn’t catch all the words, but the ones he heard were, “Follow him … Everyone he talks to. Everything he does. I want to know everything … out of your sight.”

  Then Rogan was gone. The room went dim, like the lights were losing power. Ben sunk lower and lower in his seat. All he could hear was static. He didn’t know where it came from. It was just this awful buzzing sound. And then it felt like everything was getting farther away. The table felt like it was now an entire arms length away, when his elbows were resting on it just moments ago. He felt like he was falling—falling out of this room, if that were possible. Through some massive hole in the floor.

  He shut his eyes, wanting to escape this misery. But he couldn’t escape. Within seconds, Paul was there, shaking Ben’s shoulders. Calling his name. Sounding panicked. And even though Ben tried to open his eyes, he couldn’t get his lids to pry apart. Until Paul shook Ben so hard that it felt like the penthouse suite tumbled to the ground.

  Paul was peering down at Ben, looking concerned. “Did you black out?”

  Ben wanted to answer, especially because he hadn’t passed out. He had heard everything—felt everything. But he couldn’t get his mouth to move.

  “Ben? You okay?”

  Ben nodded … or at least he thought he did. But his head must not have moved. Paul reached into his breast pocket and pulled out his phone. “I’m going to call Dr. Devlin.”

  “No.” Ben’s mouth and hand worked at the same time: he reached up and grabbed Paul’s arm before he could bring the phone to his ear.

  Paul smiled … almost slyly. “I should’ve known that’d wake you up,” he said. He bent at the knees and squatted, his face now level with Ben’s. Paul gave Ben a once-over. “I’m still calling.”

  This time Ben swatted the phone—not just Paul’s arm. The phone hit the conference table and slid to the opposite side. Ben hadn’t meant to do that, but it wasn’t like he had great control of his body at the moment. “I don’t need Dr. Devlin.” There. A complete sentence. Ben wouldn’t need Dr. Devlin if he could speak complete sentences. He sat up taller. “I’m fine. Now.”

  Paul’s grip was tight on Ben’s shoulder. Ben shrugged Paul’s hand off. Reaching behind him, Paul grabbed an office chair and rolled it closer. He sat right next to Ben. “What was that all about?”

  What Ben felt like saying was, “Gee, Paul. I don’t know. Might have something to do with my dad’s ex-drummer in here blackmailing me.” But instead, what he said was, “Nothing. Just tired.”

  Even though Paul nodded, Ben could tell that Paul hadn’t bought it. “What bothered you more? Emmet’s discovery or his references to … your appearance?”

  See, this is why Ben didn’t need Dr. Devlin. Paul was trained in all this psycho-babble anyhow. Even the manner in which he sat seemed to scream “therapy session in progress.” Arms folded loosely across his lap, one foot resting across his knee, face intent. Argh. Ben didn’t want to go there. But. Paul was better than Dr. Devlin. Because Paul didn’t jot down notes. Nor did he offer prescriptions. So, through clenched teeth, Ben answered, “Both, probably.”

  “Well, on the one count—his references to your appearance—I think most people are sensitive enough not to mention it. But we know it’s true. You look a lot like Dan. There’s no hiding that. It’s not like you’re going to go MJ and change your face on us. So it’s just something that you have to accept. And then learn to ignore.”

  Sounded so simple in that form. But Ben knew that there was nothing simple about looking like a carbon copy of Dan Wilder.

  “On to the next count … Emmet. I shouldn’t have brought you in on that one. I thought that—since we’ve been open about this from the start—you’d want to be here. I thought that you’d want to learn how to deal with these … problems. But I can see that you weren’t ready for that.”

  Okay, this wasn’t at all like Dr. Devlin. He’d never turn things back around on Ben like this. Like it was all Ben’s fault. Like Ben wasn’t mature enough to handle this. “A little warning would have been nice. You could have told me that I was up for my first blackmailing today.”

  “You saw that Emmet didn’t really give me a lot of options on how to handle this one. But you’re missing the point—and you’re overreacting. This situation with Emmet is under control. It’s not going to be a problem.”

  “How can you say that? He knows. He has proof. That tape—it’ll get out. I know it will.”

  “It won’t Ben. He accepted the money.”

  Paul was being naïve. Ridiculously so. Emmet was never going to surrender all copies of that song. Ben challenged Paul on that. How would they ever know how many copies were made?

  “You don’t need to worry about it. We’ll get all the copies.”

  “Of this song. But what about ‘Midnight With The Apothecary?’ Those lyrics? Will he recognize those? Will he have recordings … of Dan singing them?”

  “Of course not. Be rational. You said yourself that those were just lyrics—a poem, essentially. No tabs were written. How could Emmet have a recording of a song that was never written? How could he have heard lyrics to a song that was never sung?”

  “But what if he did hear them? What if he wrote them down too?”

  Paul uncrossed his leg and put down his foot, like the conversation was coming to an end. “You only used four lines from Dan’s poem. The rest of those lyrics are yours. There is no way that Emmet—or anyone else—is going to recognize those few obscure words. It’s not going to be a problem. Have a little faith in me. I’m not going to let a thug like Emmet kill your career.”

  “But …” Ben began. He had a hundred other points—a hundred other concerns.

  But it didn’t seem like Paul wanted to hear any of them. “Emmet’s a junkie,” Paul said bluntly. “There’s a good chance that he won’t even remember this tomorrow. I’m surprised that he was even able to make himself presentable.”

  “How do you know… that?”

  “I keep tabs on things, Ben. That’s my job. And I guarantee you that Emmet is not a threat.”

  Paul sounded so definitive. Like it was the end of the conversation. How could he see it so cut and dried? How could he be so confident? So sure that Emmet wasn’t going to destroy Ben’s career? For Ben—it felt like this was the end. Like it was all over.

  Paul stood and stepped away from Ben, heading in the direction of the door. Yep, c
onversation over. Paul’s hand was on the doorknob. “You coming?” he asked Ben.

  Ben nodded. “In a sec,” he said. But Paul stayed at the door, obviously waiting for Ben. Which wasn’t good. Because it was going to be more than just a sec. Ben couldn’t get up. He didn’t have an ounce of energy. Was it possible for a non-hypoglycemic to have zero glucose in their system? His muscles felt like spaghetti.

  Paul’s hand moved from the doorknob. He crossed his arms. He was scrutinizing Ben. How did Paul know that Ben couldn’t get up? “You’re still sheet-white, Ben. I’m not leaving you alone.”

  “I just need a minute. To think.”

  Apparently, Ben was going to have to spend that minute with Paul. Paul sat back down. Crud. Ben wanted to say something like “I’m fine, really.” But for some reason, his throat had constricted. Now he couldn’t talk as well as not being able to move. Paul didn’t say anything either. They both sat in this awkward silence. At least it was awkward for Ben. Paul was probably enjoying this.

  “You ready?” Paul finally said after what felt like a New York winter.

  Ben nodded. He could do this. He could stand. He could move.

  Nope. His legs wobbled too much. He stumbled like a drunk man. Paul was there to catch Ben by the elbow.

  “Thought so. Sit down,” Paul ordered.

  Not that Ben had a choice—his body was going back down whether he liked it or not. He put his hand up to his temple, trying to hide his eyes from Paul. There was moisture there, for some unwarranted reason. But the tears were merciful and didn’t spill over. That would have been devastating. Ben blinked them back rapidly. They were not going to escape. No chance. Ben could control that. He had to control that.

  It was painfully silent again. Ben was waiting for Paul to say something—admonishing or likewise. And Paul was probably waiting for Ben to bawl like a little baby. Neither one happened.

  After Ben swallowed those intrusive tears and his throat no longer felt like he was being strangled by a five-hundred-pound giant, he finally spoke. “I can’t do this. I … can’t be who you need me to be.”

  Ben had been staring into his lap prior to speaking. He looked up only slightly, almost not daring to look Paul in the eye. Ben’s eyes hesitantly met Paul’s. Paul was wearing a look that was unfamiliar to Ben. Could it be … compassion?

  “You already are. Everything I need you to be. And more. More than I could have ever imagined. Don’t let that burnout do this to you. Shake your confidence. Make you feel unworthy. Because you’ve already made it. You’ve earned your place in history. No one can take that from you.”

  “But I don’t want it.” Ben could hear his voice rise. His cheeks started to burn. “No one ever asked me … if this is what I wanted. If this is who I want to be.” He was practically yelling now, a surge of emotion zapping his body.

  “There are some things we can’t choose, Ben. Destiny. Talents. Birthright. This is what you were born to do. A king can’t throw in his crown just because the weight of the kingdom sits too heavily on his shoulders. You have to live up to your commission.”

  Ben’s throat was tight again. But he spoke through the flooding emotions. “But I can’t. I can’t anymore. Live this lie. My life is a lie. I want to be real. I want to be normal.” He tried to swallow twice, but his throat was too thick. When he spoke again, a sob escaped. “I. Don’t. Want. To be. Him.”

  Ben ordered the tears to stay back.

  Blink, blink, blink.

  Somehow, the tears obeyed his orders, even though they seemed to be operating without regulation.

  Paul rolled his chair next to Ben’s. Unexpectedly, Paul put his arm around Ben’s shoulder in a half-hug. “You’re not. Him. You’re you. And that’s all I’ve ever wanted. No one needs another Dan Wilder. We need something better. Mission accomplished, Ben. You’re career is going to supersede your dad’s.”

  Ben wanted to swear. Why didn’t Paul get it? Then Ben looked deeper into Paul’s eyes. Paul blinked a couple of times with uncertainty. Maybe he did get it. Maybe he just couldn’t say it either.

  “I know that it’s a lot to shoulder, especially at your age. But we’ve been training for this … you’re entire life. You’re up to it. And there’s help, Ben.”

  “Dr. Devlin.” Ben didn’t like Dr. Devlin’s philosophy: that Ben should medicate his way through life. Which, in Ben’s eye, was no different from alcoholism. “I don’t need happy pills, Paul,” Ben said firmly.

  “Don’t you? You’ve been anything but happy lately. You’re under a great deal of stress. You haven’t been sleeping. You just blacked out. And you’re still not capable of walking. I’d say it’s time to take something.”

  Paul’s word’s grated against Ben’s determination. It didn’t sound so great—so conquerable—when Paul phrased it like that. But somehow, Ben found the resolve he needed. “I’m not taking anything. And I’m not talking to Dr. Devlin.”

  “When was the last time you got more than four hours sleep?”

  No comment. He didn’t want to answer. More than that, Ben couldn’t remember when the last time was that he’d actually slept all night.

  “You can’t possibly think that you’ll sleep tonight—after all this. I bet you get in an hour—tops—before you’re up pacing your room.”

  Ben wanted to growl. Like a bear who should be hibernating. This was none of Paul’s business. If they were at home, in California, Paul wouldn’t know about Ben sleeping habits. This 5000 square-foot penthouse was stifling Ben’s style.

  “Think about the rest of the promo tour. You really think you can keep doing it half-steam? Everyone could see it on you today, Ben. The fatigue. The sarcasm. It’s getting harder for you to fake it. And you have three more days left. How’re you going to make it?”

  In his head, Ben called Paul every known swearword. In many different languages, even. Ben didn’t look at Paul. His eyes were fixed at the wet bar in the corner of the room. The empty wet bar. Ben had never wanted to see a stocked wet bar before. And not to drink. But to smash. At the moment, he couldn’t imagine anything feeling better than smashing bottle after bottle. Not violently … just therapeutically. To take his frustrations out on unsuspecting bottles of gin and vodka. Should he suggest it? That could be his way to make it through the next three days. But that would undoubtedly result in a call to Dr. Devlin.

  “I’ll make you a deal,” Paul said, snapping Ben out of his smashing fantasy. “I’ll cut the tour short. By two days. You give me tomorrow—full steam—and then we can go home.”

  “Go home. On Saturday?” Ben didn’t believe it.

  “Yep. We could even leave at midnight tomorrow if you want.”

  And the price? Ben hated to even ask. “Do I have to sell my soul?”

  Paul didn’t laugh. Or even smile. “You take valium. Tonight. So you can sleep.”

  “I’m not …”

  Paul’s hand came up to stop Ben. “There’s no compromise. You take valium. You sleep all night. You hit the promo tour tomorrow full force—smile on your face—and then we go home. That’s the deal. No valium means you have three more days to face with a fake smile on your face. Three days—not just one.”

  Ben groaned. He did not want this deal. But he so wanted to go home. “But I don’t have to talk to Dr. Devlin?”

  “No. I’ll call him and get the dosage. And then we’ll all get some sleep.”

  ……

  Ben still couldn’t believe that he agreed to this. He was in his bathroom. The room was steamy, despite a supposedly top-of-the-line exhaust system. However, he doubted that any bathroom ventilation system could withstand the heat of the shower he’d just taken. Ben’s skin was splotchy red. But he felt better. And he hadn’t even taken the valium yet.

  The fog on the mirror had cleared enough that he could see his reflection. He stood there in his blue boxers, trying decided what to do. What to do with that little pill with the cut-out “V.” He held it in the palm of his hand, like he
was holding his fate. He looked in the mirror. His shoulders were getting broader, his arms thicker. His jaw was covered in five o’clock shadow. He looked more and more like a man. More and more like Dan.

  He leaned in toward the mirror, looking himself in the eye. Who was he? He no longer had any of his mother’s traits, other than the dark hair. He felt like he was ninety-percent Dan. Five-percent Lena. And the other five? It seemed undecided.

  The dark circles under Ben’s eyes were in full bloom now. He looked like crap. He didn’t want to think what he’d look like tomorrow … if he didn’t take the pill. But he didn’t want to take it. He was in a heated debate with himself. And that was never a good sign.

  His eyes were empty. Dull and lifeless. Had the boy who had once fought to gain control of this body—this body that looked like it was stolen from someone else—lost the battle? Was that boy gone? Had Ben’s soul succumbed to reincarnation?

  “NO!” It wasn’t loud, but it was forceful. He smacked his open hand to the mirror, covering his face’s reflection. Crushing the blue-ish pill. “I won’t be you.” He choked. He wasn’t crazy: he wasn’t talking to himself. He was talking to Dan.

  Ben washed the powdery remainders of the pill down the drain. This wasn’t so different than what he used to do a few years ago, back when he was under the constant care of Dr. Devlin. No one had figured out that Ben had flushed more than half of his pills then. Paul wouldn’t figure it out now.

  Ben looked at his eyes again. A ribbon of life flickered through. He was still there. Ben. And he’d overridden the monster within. Dan had never had self-control. Not a single ounce of it. But Ben did. And that thought made him smile.

  ……

  He made sure he picked something stupid to watch. Something that would seem funny to someone under the influence, but dumb to everyone else. With his head propped up over a mass of pillows, Ben looked the vision of jovial relaxation. And he really felt pretty good for not taking anything. He felt triumphant, and that was better than a thousand pills. Well, of course it was. Because after a thousand pills, he’d be dead. He chuckled at the thought.