by Jillian Dodd
“She just started going psycho. Yelling at her dad. Screaming at the dean. At me. She tried to attack her dad.
“My parents dragged me out of the room and told me they were extremely disappointed.
“My mom marched off, but Dad slapped me on the back and said, You know you're going to be expelled.
“I was like, Really?
“And then he told me that was the best story he's ever heard and how he hated her dad’s pompous ass.”
I’ve been trying to hold in the laughter, but I can’t anymore.
“See, you're laughing.”
“Because it’s funny. My story isn't funny-embarrassing it’s more scary-embarrassing.”
“At the time, it was pretty embarrassing. Can you imagine sitting in the dean’s office hung over as fuck, listening to the dean explain in detail your being naked on a float. I couldn't even find my pants. I was half frozen.”
“I’m glad you told me your story, but I really don’t want to tell people mine. Maybe in a few years when it’s not so fresh. And if I’m still alive.”
“You really think he wants to kill you?”
“I think he will keep me for a while. But eventually, yes, I think he would.”
“So we’ve seen three movies and I’ve eaten two tubs full of popcorn, two boxes of candy, and three slushes. Do you think we can go back?”
I check my phone for the time. It’s after six o’clock. Vincent’s flight doesn’t leave until seven, but he should be there by now.
I text Garrett.
Me: Any word?
Garrett: He’s at the airport.
Me: Oh, good. That’s a relief.
Garrett: I’ll let you know when he’s on the plane.
“Am I going to get in trouble at school for skipping?”
“I think if you do, you should say you were upset about what the dean told you. That you left to handle some financial stuff. To check your account or something.”
“That’s a good idea. Can we go in the mall for a bit before we go back?”
“Are you dragging me to the shoe department?”
“We can go wherever you want. Do you want to look at clothes for you?”
“Not really. Let’s go with the shoes. They seem to make you happy.”
“That they do.”
I try on a bunch of shoes, buy a couple new pairs, and am paying for them when I get a text from Garrett.
Garrett: He boarded the plane, and we watched them close the doors and pull away from the gate. I really don’t think he knows where you are, Keatyn. If he did, he wouldn’t be going back to LA.
Me: That makes me feel a little better. But you said he’s a planner. What if he went back there to plan? What if he knows you’re watching him?
Garrett: What do you think?
Me: I don’t think he would wait.
Garrett: Me either, but still be cautious. Pay attention to your surroundings. Listen to your gut. If you feel danger, get somewhere safe. Just like you did this time. And please put the locket back on.
Me: I will.
I grab my packages and we head back to school.
When Riley drops me off at my dorm, he tells me, “I’m sleeping in your room for the next few nights, just to be safe.”
“I think I’ll be fine. He might have hired someone to break in, but I think the rest of it, he’ll want to do himself. And he just got on a plane back to LA.”
“Still, I’m sleeping in there.”
“Riley, he’s strong.”
“Doesn’t matter. I’d have the element of surprise. He wouldn’t expect a guy to be in there. What are we going to tell Katie?”
“We don’t have to say anything to Katie. That girl sleeps like a rock. Dawson has come over a couple times and she never even knows he’s been here.”
When Riley sneaks in my room a bit after midnight, he lays down on my fluffy rug.
“Riley, just come up here and sleep with me. I feel bad you’re on the floor.”
“Don’t feel bad. I love this rug. I just want to keep petting it, and I so want to do Ariela on this rug. That’s how you can pay me back. Lend me the rug.”
Vincent goes back to Los Angeles feeling invigorated. Although he failed, he was so close. He can still smell the scent of her hair, can still recall every shade of her iris, and can immediately recall the warmth of her touch. He knows those hands will run the length of his body when they are finally together. He glances at his arm, and instead of seeing the beautiful chaos symbol, all he can see is the whore’s name, permanently engrained on him.
He must change that.
He decides to go back to Tiny to see if he can cover it up, turn it into something else.
Tiny jokingly suggests he turn it into baby and cover the A with roses or something equally ludicrous. Vincent inquires about completely covering it with waves, a nod to the ocean where he first met his Lacy and to his grandmother’s famous movie.
Unfortunately for the tattoo artist, he starts asking too many questions. About why he has the name Abby on his arm. About copying her daughter’s chaos tattoo. He uses words like twisted and obsessed.
He thanks the man for his time and makes an appointment for next week to make the changes. That way if the police would ever suspect his involvement in Tiny’s upcoming demise, he can pretend to be shocked. Because it’s clear that the man has to die.
At halftime, I change into my formal gown, then meet Garrett just outside the field house. We gather with the other Court members waiting for the processional. The game has been going in our favor. We’re up by fourteen already and you can feel the excitement in the air.
Except for here.
Here, there is tension.
Peyton is happily sashaying around in her new dress, but you can feel the tension between her and Whitney. You can see the glares Whitney gives her and you can tell that Peyton is pretending not to care.
Whitney is standing next to her perfect-looking parents.
Where there is even more tension.
I think it’s safe to say that Whitney’s mother does not approve of her dress. She keeps looking at it and scowling.
I have to hand it to Whitney though. She has her head held high and a smile plastered on her face.
I didn’t think she could pull off a dress covered with jewels, but she so is. She looks amazing and I can see why she fell in love with the dress. It makes the rest of our gowns look plain in comparison.
Dawson grabs me from behind, kisses my neck, and whispers, “You look hot.” Then he gets in line with his own parents.
I forget about Whitney and Peyton and just stare at him. He looks so sexy in his football uniform and my mind can’t help but wander back to wearing that jersey and nothing else yesterday. Although, in my daydream we are not interrupted by his parents.
Garrett is reading emails from his phone. He coughs and a troubled look crosses his face.
“What's wrong?” I ask.
“I just got some news.”
I instantly panic. “Bad news?”
“I’m not sure yet. We had an interview scheduled next week with a guy regarding Vincent and, possibly, your case. Now he’s dead.”
“Dead?” I croak out.
The band director, who is in charge of leading us all out onto the field, yells out, “Okay, line up by class starting with the freshmen. We’re about ready to go out.”
We’re supposed to follow the band director out onto the field. Then, as our class is called, we’ll walk down the sideline, then turn and go up through the 50-yard line toward the home crowd.
“Yes,” Garrett replies. “He was apparently killed in a random mugging.”
Random mugging. Where have I heard that before?
He continues. “His family doesn’t think it was random. They think he was murdered. And, I mean, they’re right . . .” He stops to listen to the stadium announcer who starts talking about the Homecoming Court tradition over the loudspeaker.
The band di
rector yells out, “As soon as he says freshmen, all freshmen proceed on your route.”
And this year’s Freshmen Court is . . .
Garrett whispers to me, “The guy was huge. I can't imagine anyone trying to mug him.”
“What did he have to do with Vincent? How did Vincent know him?”
“He had an appointment with him a few weeks ago.”
"And this year’s Sophomore Court is . . .
“Was he a doctor?”
Garrett looks at me and shakes his head. “No, he was a tattoo artist. He did Vincent’s chaos tattoo.”
“All right, juniors, walk down to the fifty-yard line and hold,” the band director instructs us.
Garrett and I walk to the fifty-yard line. I hear someone shouting my name from the Visitor’s section, which I’m now standing in front of. I look up and see Braxton waving at me.
I smile and give him a little wave back, but there’s something gnawing at the back of my brain.
“We had hoped Vincent might have said something about the tattoo that would help our case. Like maybe he mentioned why he was getting the same tattoo as you. Or something like that.” He shakes his head. “It was a long shot.”
And this year’s Junior Court is . . .
I remember the tattoo artist who Brooklyn brought in to do our tattoos. How big he was. “Tell me he wasn't covered in tattoos and looked like Santa Claus.”
I take a step forward to walk onto the field, but Garrett doesn't come with me.
He’s firmly holding his stance and my elbow.
“How do you know that?”
The band director yells, “Miss Monroe, go, please.”
I pull Garrett down the center of the field, putting on a big smile that completely masks the sick feeling in my stomach.
“Because Brooklyn hired a guy who looked like that to do our tattoos. Everyone called him Tiny.”
“That’s the guy who is dead,” Garrett says.
Keatyn Monroe.
As I accept a bouquet of flowers, the student section yells, “MON—R-O-A-R!”
I plaster a fake smile on my face and wave to the crowd.
Then it hits me. Where I heard it.
“Garrett,” I say out of the side of my mouth, while still keeping a smile plastered on my face. “Vincent’s mom and stepdad were killed in a random mugging.”
Garrett says, “This is quite disturbing.”
“Yeah, it is.”
And this year’s Senior Court is . . .
We all turn to watch Dawson, Jake, Brad, Whitney, Peyton, and Mariah walk down the fifty-yard line toward us.
Garrett holds my arm tight. “Are you okay? You’ve got a smile on your face, but I can feel you shaking.”
“I’m fine. I’ll be fine. But I’ll be better if you can prove Vincent killed him. Then he can go to jail and I’ll be free.”
“Do you need me for anything else after this?”
“No, this was the big deal,” I say, looking down at the designer dress and shoes I’ve had on for a total of twenty minutes. “Kinda silly, isn’t it? Like, in perspective.”
“Yeah, it kinda is. As soon as this is over, I’m catching a plane to LA.”
“I think that’s a very good idea.”
Abby is upset after Garrett tells her about the tattoo artist’s death and his connection to Keatyn. And although he tells her his death appears to be a random mugging, she knows better. And to prove her point, this morning when she gets to her dressing room, she finds a single piece of mail. She knows immediately who it’s from. She doesn’t bother showing it to anyone because she knows there is nothing they can do—no proof who sent the photo. And what a photo it is. A man is standing next to a blown-up photo of Keatyn coming out of the ocean, her tattoo visible. There’s an arm in front of the picture. Vincent’s Abby tattoo is covered with his sleeve, but she knows it’s there. On his wrist, Vincent has a chaos tattoo that matches Keatyn’s.
She hides it away with the others.
While she’s getting her hair done to prepare for their next shoot, Vincent is all that’s on her mind. Bile fills her throat, causing her to jump out of her chair and rush to a trash can, where she wretches—the thought of Vincent’s obsession sickening her.
“Are you expecting?” the hairstylist whispers to her.
And in that moment, she sees an opportunity. She doesn’t want to lie, but she has to, for her children’s sake. And even though the thought of it possibly being true breaks her heart, she sees no other choice. She has to distance herself further from her daughter, her husband, and her little girls—for their safety.
“I certainly hope not,” she confides. “I’m afraid our relationship is a little rocky right now.” She touches the woman’s arm gently for effect and continues, “Please, don’t tell anyone.”
And you know what the child-rearing books say about when you start with a don’t, that’s exactly what they will do. And she’s hoping the woman will find this news so juicy, she won’t be able to keep it to herself. She needs the tabloids to say their relationship is rocky. She needs Vincent to read them—so that when she leaves Tommy and the girls, no one will be surprised. Including Vincent.
An alert pops up on Vincent’s email screen. He has them set to notify him whenever certain names show up on the Internet. He clicks the link and reads:
A Miami club owner’s answer about its secret guest performer for this weekend has taken the Internet by storm. When questioned by a local radio show, the man simply answered that his club goers would be getting a little twisted. Fans are speculating that means none other than Damian Moran of Twisted Dreams will be on stage, causing VIP table prices to skyrocket quickly.
While Vincent is considering a trip to Miami, his cell phone rings.
“It’s me,” the girl says.
“Do you have something to report?”
“Yes.”
“What is it?”
“We’re maybe, kind of dating now. I just wanted to be upfront with you about it.”
“I told you to get close to Brooklyn. If it goes beyond that, it’s none of my business.”
“Um, there’s sorta maybe something else.”
“What?”
“A girl. He has a photo of him and a girl on his Facebook page. It’s a photo from before he started on tour. He won’t really tell me much about her other than they were friends. But I think it’s more.”
“Yes, they dated before he left on tour.”
“What do you know about her?” she asks.
“I’m paying you to get me information, not the other way around.”
“Did you know that she was at his tournament in Long Beach?”
“New York?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this before?!”
“I just found out. He mentioned it in passing.”
“What did he say?”
“Why does it matter?”
“I told you before his personal relationships matter. Particularly if they are volatile.”
“They got into a fight. She left. He says they are over, but he doesn’t act like it.”
“He’s still in love with her?”
“He says she’ll always have a piece of his heart.”
“Why did they fight?”
“He won’t tell me.”
“Did he say where she is?”
“I assume she’s back in California.”
“I need you to find out specifically where she is. Check his phone. Find her address. We’ll need to vet her, too.” Vincent pauses, hoping. What could be better than Matt falling for someone else and staying out of the picture? “Are you in love with him?”
“Love? Oh, I don’t know—maybe. He’s really amazing. Deep. Like really deep. Being with him is so different than being around all the Hollywood types who are hustling for the next role, hoping for their big break. He’s so chill, but so focused. And,” she sighs, “so cute.”
“Find out more about
the girl. Report back,” Vincent says, then hangs up the phone.
She went to Long Beach. They were both there. His men were there and never saw her. He reads the Internet alert one more time and makes a decision.
He picks up the phone again, calls the club and asks to speak to the owner. He offers an exorbitant amount of money for backstage passes and a VIP section.
And gets them.
It’s clear. The thugs are worthless.
He’s going to Miami himself.
Lacy is waiting for him. And this time, he’s not coming home without her.
We get to the club and immediately go backstage, do some shots, get backstage wristbands, and get Damian set up to go. After that, he comes out and dances with us for a while.
About an hour later, it’s time for him to go backstage to prepare for his performance.
“Hey, Riley, I'm going to run to the restroom before he comes on. I’ll be right back.”
I wait in line.
Forever.
No. Like, F-O-R-E-V-E-R.
I didn’t have to go that bad when I got in line, but now I do.
Finally!
I pee.
Then I stop at the bar to get a bottle of water. After the shots we did backstage, I need some water.
I stand on the edge of the dance floor sipping my water and looking for Riley and Dallas. The dance floor is packed.
I’m scanning the crowd when I feel someone move in close behind me.
I’m pretty sure it’s Riley. I start to turn around as he wraps his arms tightly around my waist.
“Come out, come out, wherever you are.”
My heart stops.
I’m face to face with Vincent.
"Aren't you the tricky little minx?" he says. "I've been looking all over for you."
