Take Me

by Anna Zaires, Pepper Winters, Skye Warren, Lynda Chance, Pam Godwin, Amber Lin

  The phone rang, tinny from the small speaker, echoing off the dingy tile walls.

  “Hailey?” Chloe’s voice was panicked, and another wave of remorse hit Hailey, threatening to send her doubled over to the toilet again.

  Her voice was still hoarse from last night’s episode when she spoke. “I’m fine, Sis. I’m sorry I didn’t call sooner.”

  “Tell me where you are right now. Wherever it is, I’ll come to you.”

  “No, you can’t…you can’t fly like that.”

  “Yes, I can. I’ll drive. Or I’ll ride a dragon. I don’t even care. Just let me come get you.”

  Tears sprang to her eyes. God, when she had nothing else, she had her sister. It was a gift she hadn’t even acknowledged. Hadn’t even wanted to acknowledge. As long as she was the big sister, the caretaker, then she’d never had to worry about being abandoned. But they were both adults now—even Chloe’s nineteen counted as such—and either one of them could leave. Either one of them could walk out the door, leaving only a disconnected number to be reached at. Either one of them could end up like their mother…and they each had been like her, in their own way, but they were still their own women. They could still choose to come back.

  That firmed her resolve. “I don’t need you to come get me. I’d feel better knowing you’re safe anyway. Don’t worry about me. I’ll figure it out.”

  Starting by going home. She ended the call and ignored the little twinge that said home was no longer a six–hundred-square-foot apartment in the middle of nowhere. The man sleeping on the bed—still tense, still somber—wasn’t home. He was a wrong turn. He would take her for a ride and then spit her back out again, worse for the wear.

  In the bottom of her bag was a rumpled copy of the contract, signed by both her and him. She snagged a pen from the nightstand and circled the subsection marked Confidentiality.

  In the event that the contents of this contract or its resultant acts are made public, this contract may be terminated immediately.

  That was for his benefit, but she used it for herself. She draped the VIP lanyard Lock had given her over the folded pages. Had it really only been two days ago? It felt like a lifetime, as if she’d always been the girl sitting in the wings flashing rock stars, a backstage pass nestled in her cleavage. But the truth was, she was not that girl. She never would be that girl again. It had been a whirlwind vacation and identity crisis all rolled into one—and it was over now. She walked out the door of the motel without even looking back. And kept on walking, down the sidewalk until she found a cab.

  Hailey was going home.

  Lock would never really hurt her, not with his fists or even cruel words. But he’d hurt her anyway, just by not trusting her, when he made her sign the contract. And their time together hadn’t changed that, because he still hadn’t trusted her when the video broke—which was why he’d checked her phone.

  He hurt her just by being him: a sex god, a famous musician, a man of excess and depravity. Someone she could never have a future with. That part hurt worst of all.

  * * *

  He woke angry and disoriented, slick with cold sweat. Another dark hotel room, lit only by the glow of a muted television. Another time zone. His nostrils flared against the scent of stale cigarette smoke, and he bolted upright. Who booked us this shit hole? As soon as his feet hit the scratchy carpet, he remembered. The flight and the video and devastated Hailey.

  He’d spent the night trying to soothe her. When he’d run out of platitudes, he’d murmured song lyrics, nonsense, anything to keep her from panicking more. When she’d finally fallen asleep, he’d called everyone. He wanted a plan, but no one answered except Moe, who told him to clean up his fucking mess.

  He could take his lumps, but Hailey shouldn’t have to take them too. They could deny it was her. They could trot out a decoy, some starlet who wanted the attention. He’d seen it done. If his agent would just answer his messages. The clock on the nightstand flashed nine o’clock. So, eight in Chicago and six in LA. The phone would start ringing soon. Keep her out of the public eye for a few more hours, that’s all he had to do.

  Bang. Bang. Bang. The whole wall rattled with every thump on the door. “Room service.”

  The fuck? He peered through the peep hole to see the oversized forehead of the sleazy desk clerk from last night. A crumpled paper bag clutched in his hands.

  “Go away,” Lock said.

  “Hey, Mr. Big Shot. I’m just trying to help you out. I could go back to my desk and start tweeting about asshole customers.”

  He knew that jerk had figured out something was up last night. Throwing extra cash at him to avoid using a credit card had been a mistake. It wasn’t like his stage name was on his cards. But he definitely hadn’t wanted Hailey’s name tied up in all this. Stupid. And now this weasel was going to black mail him.

  He cautiously opened the door and growled. “What do you want?”

  “Thought you might be used to better accommodations. A few creature comforts.” He thrust the bag at Lock. He hesitated to open the surprisingly heavy bag, not wanting to find a horrible surprise inside. Used condoms. Worn panties. Fans could get weird.

  “Just some breakfast sandwiches and a little hair of the dog.”

  Shit.

  Slowly, like something might pop out and bite him, he opened the offering. There, nestled in with hash browns and sausage biscuits, was a bottle of Jim Beam. He pulled it out, watching the amber liquid slosh. The asshole knew what he drank. Used to drink. “I didn’t ask for this.”

  “My privilege.” The dude wiped his nose on the sleeve of his filthy flannel and held out his hand. For a tip.

  “Hang on.” Lock tossed the bag in the trash and set the bottle on the dresser so he could fish out his wallet. He plucked two crisp fifties from the billfold and dropped them into the grubby outstretched palm. It was easier than arguing. He couldn’t afford a scene.

  “Pleasure doing business with you.” Lock watched him slink down the hallway and closed the door.

  “Hailey? Babe?” He called into the silence. No answer from the bathroom.

  The room was too quiet, the rattle and hum of the air conditioner the only sound. A hacking cough pierced the stillness, someone choking to life in an adjacent room. If he could hear that, he’d hear Hailey padding around. He unmuted the television and let the drone fill up the empty space in his head. Maybe she’d gone looking for food. Not a bad idea, he surely wasn’t going eat the paper bag brunch from hell, but she should have woken him. What if someone recognized her? He paced in the small space between the two beds, step, step, turn. They’d be screwed. Did she have a room key? Money? Any idea where they were at all?

  And then he heard his name. Not from Hailey’s lips, from the overly glossed mouth on the screen to his right.

  The Elevator Tape isn’t as polished as Lock’s previous work.

  We don’t know if they’re going up, but bassist Krist Mellas and that mystery girl are sure going down.

  This was bad. They’d identified Krist, his damn tats giving him away. And soon they’d have Hailey’s name. Fuck. He grabbed his shirt, yanked it over his head, and checked the clock again. Only five minutes had passed. Folded white pages caught his attention, pinned to the dresser with that fucking bottle of Jim Beam. When his hand made contact with the neck, his skin crawled. It shouldn’t. It hadn’t before. He should be able to touch a bottle to move it out of his way without it affecting him. Was it even the bottle? Or was it the papers underneath? Because he knew what they were before he picked them up. The contract. Blue ink circled a particular passage. Terminated.

  She wasn’t off to find breakfast. She was gone.

  He’d failed on every level. His vision blurred. A tightness seized in his chest. And he was so thirsty. So thirsty he could drain the Great Lakes and still feel dry. Raw. Thirsty like sandpaper lined his throat and only a burning flood could clear it.

  No. He was angry and weak, but he would not do this thing. He
could touch a stupid glass bottle and not open it. Not drink it. He reached for it again, and his hand trembled. He pounded his fist into the dresser top to make the trembling stop. The cheap laminate cracked, reverb vibrating up his arm. It felt good, this pain he could tie to a specific action, this destruction he’d wrought on purpose. A power chord.

  He kicked the bed he’d slept in alone. The skanky bedspread pissed him off. He’d lain on that all night. He’d tucked Hailey underneath one just like it. He’d checked them into this nasty pit because he’d failed. Because he was fucking weak. Because he couldn’t keep his hands to himself and his dick in his pants. Because he was a piece-of-shit alcoholic addict who destroyed everything he touched.

  He deserved this room. He deserved worse.

  And then he was slamming everything. Punching and clawing. Kicking and stomping. His body wild and beyond reason. Nothing was safe. Not the remote or the lamp or the stupid drinking glasses with their sanitary wrap. Not the painting of a buck bolted to the wall. Not the darkness. He yanked the dank curtains from their track and lost his balance, falling to the floor in a tangled heap, surrounded by musty fabric and debris, releasing a cloud of dust and filling the room with light.

  Oh God. He’d done this. Destroyed a hotel room like a rock-and-roll cliché. If only Colt could see him now, that would be the end of his hero worship. Nobody knew how hard he worked just to maintain some semblance of normal, how often he failed. The kid was better off without the spotlight, the celebrity, the fucking pressure. He shook, the adrenaline leaching out of his bloodstream, leaving him cold. The loss of control was as frightening as a blackout drunk.

  He yanked himself free, sweat and grime a sticky film on his clammy skin, and stood to survey the wreckage. The bottle, unbroken, spun on its side in the corner of the room. Four steps and he was on it. The glass was smooth and cool in his hand. One long step and he was in the bathroom. He broke the seal and poured it down the drain. Steady.

  He hadn’t failed Hailey. He’d failed himself, by thinking he still couldn’t face his own demons. He stared himself down in the mirror, the scent of the whiskey turning his stomach. He had and he could.

  His phone beeped. He had to dig through a pile of torn pillows to find it. One missed call from Krist. The only call he wanted, other than Hailey’s. God, did she even have his number? No, she didn’t.

  “I fucked up, bro.” In so many ways, in all the ways—

  “Are you still sober?”

  —except for the way that counted most. “Yeah.”

  Krist’s sigh of relief crackled their connection. “Then we can fix this.”

  “How? They’ve got your name attached to this thing too. Soon they’ll have Hailey’s. They’ll eat her alive. It’s snowballing. I don’t know what to do. You said you wouldn’t forgive me for destroying the band…” He dropped to the pile of bedding on the floor, the weight of this conversation too much to bear standing.

  “This won’t destroy us if we don’t let it. And you’re not worried about the band right now, are you?”

  He was, but it was second on the list. His biggest concern, his first and last thought, was Hailey.

  “I can’t let her deal with this alone.”

  “Do you love her?”

  The question brought him up short. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “Relax. I’m not on your jock or anything. I have an idea for how to fix this, but it fucking sucks for me. I am not making the call unless you love this girl. Unless you want to ride off into the bullshit happily ever after sunset with her.”

  Is that what he wanted? A sunset ride into always? After three days? That was insanity. Except…her absence pained him. He knew he didn’t want to wake up in another hotel room without her, and he’d never felt that way about anyone before. “Yeah, I do.”

  Krist sighed again. “I thought as much. You know Madeline Fox?”

  “The pop diva? From the kids’ show?”

  “Diva is right, but she’s done with the kid stuff. I think she might be able to help.”

  “What? How do you know her?” It didn’t make sense. Krist didn’t party with pop stars.

  “Ward hooked us up for a musical play date. Doesn’t matter. What does matter is that she knows a thing or two about making a spectacle. And I think she’ll do me a favor.”

  “What kind of favor?”

  “One that’ll get people talking about something other than your dick. That girl can’t sneeze without someone drafting a press release.”

  “Okay.”

  “Give me an hour. I don’t know if it’ll help or not. You owe me either way.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Hailey trudged into her apartment, bracing herself for her sister’s anger. Well-deserved anger, because Hailey had gone off the rails. It was like she’d funneled every selfish impulse from the past few years into a single weekend. When she’d stayed up late to help with Chloe’s drama project or when she’d woken up early to do laundry so they’d both have something to wear, she’d thought that was who she was. A good sister. A good person.

  Poof. She’d signed that stupid contract and turned from Glinda the Good Witch into the Wicked Witch of the West. Disappearing from her life, abandoning her sister. She’d even called in a fake sick day just to hit the full three days of contracted sexual bliss. Well, she was a little sick—if temporary insanity counted as sickness.

  That was all over now. And next on the agenda? Sleep.

  “Chloe?” she called.

  No answer. She could feel the stillness in the apartment too. It was empty. Of all times, she could hardly blame her sister for not letting her know where she was. A slightly hysterical laugh bubbled out of her. She’d lost any right to demand explanations ever again, but maybe that was for the best. Her sister was an adult now. It was time Hailey started treating her that way.

  She took a hot shower, enjoying the massaging spray of hot water on her aching muscles. The flight plan had included a six-hour layover in Madison, which meant she arrived home late at night despite her early start. It also meant her back had bunched into knots from hours curled up on two plastic airport seats, watching the still frames of her naked body on TV.

  Cringing, she remembered the press speculation when she’d boarded the plan.

  The fact that this mystery woman hasn’t come forward indicates she wasn’t doing this for attention. If she were a paid escort, exposure could mean criminal prosecution in the state of Illinois.

  Paid escort? They meant prostitute. Somehow she was more offended on behalf of Lock and Krist. As if a woman would have sex with them for attention or for money… instead of the real reason. They were incredibly sexy, virile men, and any woman should be so lucky as to kneel beside them.

  Although she had a hard time feeling lucky right now.

  When she got off the plane, things had been impossibly worse.

  Sunday School Teacher or Sex Worker?

  They’d figured out who she was. How much worse could this get? She imagined press trucks parked outside the church, blocking all the parking spaces. She imagined the curious stares of the parishioners. Part of her wanted to stick her head in the sand, but morbid curiosity got the better of her. After dressing in loose sweats—a far cry from fishnets and high heels—she flipped the TV on, expecting to see herself invading the local news. Instead there was someone else’s mostly naked body twisting and writhing on the screen. Dancing.

  Pop star Madeline Fox was arrested late last night, but that’s not the surprising news. The surprising part was who did the arresting—namely, the Secret Service, after the performer started a flash mob, complete with a mobile sound system and backup dancers, on the steps of the Washington Monument.

  Well, that was the end of Hailey’s fifteen minutes of dubious fame—and she was damn glad about that. Even if it was at the expense of this other girl. At least Madeline Fox might be able to sell some records out of it.

  Tomorrow she might very well g
et fired from her job.

  It was a good job. She loved the kids. And most important, the job had been the only thing available for an eighteen-year-old with no work experience or special skill set. Hailey had desperately needed a dependable job in order to keep custody of her teenaged kid sister. Well, Hailey had been taking care of Chloe for a long time, since well before her mother left for good, so at least she knew how to deal with kids. Pastor John had been kind enough to give her the job, but it was never supposed to be her entire life.

  So maybe this was a blessing in disguise as well. If she got fired, she could take a chance on something she really loved to do. Which was…

  Have sex with tattooed rock stars?

  Hah. So maybe she didn’t know what she wanted for a career. Figuring that out would be part of the plan. Besides, she didn’t want to have sex with other tattooed rock stars. Just one.

  Nope, wasn’t happening. Stop thinking about him.

  She searched the apartment for some clue as to Chloe’s whereabouts. Her sister’s room was surprisingly tidy. The haphazard posters and tickets and photographs stuck to the wall made it seem perpetually off-kilter, but there were no clothes on the floor or in the bathroom.

  She would have worried her sister had also pulled a disappearing act, except there was a coffee mug in the sink. No, two coffee mugs. Her eyebrows shot up. Not that she could judge her sister, not that she would judge her sister, but damn. Chloe had never brought a guy home. Neither had Hailey. Their apartment had been inviolate from the less fair sex.

  Until now.

  Rummaging through her bag, she found her cell and texted her sister. I’m home. Where are you?

  A minute later a call came in. “What do you mean, you’re home?”

  Even hearing her sister’s voice sent relief through her. “Home. The resting place. The soft spot. You must remember it.”

  “The news reports said you were in Vegas.”