by Holly Hart
“No. And, hey—” I tug my belt into place. “—don’t feel bad about this. I fell asleep. And you know what? I’m glad I did. Wanted to sleep in your arms from the first time I saw you. No—the second time. First time, you were kind of....”
“Wilding?”
“People still say that?” I jam my feet into my shoes, wincing as the leather scrapes my heel.
Brandon’s scribbling something on a scrap of hotel stationery. “Here. My number. Text me when you get back. Need to know you’re safe.” He points at my choker. “And you better hide that.”
I snatch his number, already fumbling with the clasps of the choker. “For the record: best third date ever. Don’t you dare worry about me.” One more second won’t hurt. I lean in for for a quick, rough kiss, all dry lips and teeth. “Thank you. For everything.”
Thirty seconds later, I’m sprinting for the elevator.
Chapter Fourteen
Brandon
The door slams. I don’t even remember going to sleep. One minute, I was teasing Lily about her sex hair; the next, she was rushing off like Cinderella after the ball. At least she remembered both shoes.
I grab my phone, thumbing through the news while I wait for her text. It’s time I quit avoiding all mention of—yeah. That. Right there. Looks like my plane’s still making headlines. Profiles of the victims. Speculation on the pilot’s reputation. Editorials on safety regulations for private aircraft.
I scroll through the feed, distracted. Something feels off. Unreal—like my first week of college. I didn’t go to a single class. Didn’t pay my fees. Didn’t unpack my bags, explore the campus, do my grocery shopping. I sleepwalked around Toronto. Got drunk. Drove to Niagara Falls to ride the Maid of the Mist. Took Dad flying in to snap me out of it. The look on his face....
It’s not me. It’s the headlines. Something’s weird; something’s—
—NO SURVIVORS RECOVERED FROM CESSNA WRECKAGE—
—missing. I’m missing. I scroll faster. Nothing. Type in my name. Nothing new. An interview from last month—CEO Brandon Shaw on philanthropy, advertising, and the digital age.
“What the—?”
A sole survivor walks away from a fatal wreck. That’s huge news—except it isn’t.
I click on the NO SURVIVORS article and start to read.
The NTSB confirms no survivors have been recovered from the wreckage of the Cessna Citation X+ that attempted an emergency landing on the Red Acres Ranch, forty miles north of Austin, last—
I thumb past the details of the crash, past the investigation. Past that goddamn video. My heart stutters as I reach the last line: The fatal crash claimed the lives of Adam Ziegler, Sharon Cresswell, and pilot Russell Schmidt.
I’m...not even presumed dead? Or—no. No. Why would I be? I called Neil. I’ve been using my credit card. And I bled all over that crash site. Puked on it. Left footprints. If I’m being kept out of the press, it’s because...because....
Why?
Because I’m being held responsible?
Not possible.
I blink at my phone, willing the words to arrange themselves into some semblance of sense.
A text pops up: Home safe. Go back to sleep! <3
I blink again. Lily. Home safe. Good news. But—
—NO SURVIVORS RECOVERED FROM CESSNA WRECKAGE
Maybe I am a ghost. Maybe she is too. Adam did swear to haunt me, if—how’d he put it?—if my shitty plane killed us all? Maybe I’m living out some kind of curse. Marooned in a world that’s forgotten me.
Nonsense.
I need to talk to Neil. No—I need to see him. Get on top of this situation, like I should’ve done days ago. Whatever’s going on, I need to be part of it.
Chapter Fifteen
Lily
The atmosphere in the limo’s heavy as Jupiter. No one’s said a word since we picked up Aidan. Mark slammed the door far too hard, Wayne shut his mouth with a snap, and that was that.
I’m watching the mile markers go by, headed back into Austin. They’re kind of pretty, in the failing light, ghostly numbers floating in the air. Adina’s twisting her ring around her finger, turning the stones in and out and in again. Aidan’s reading my new lyrics, forced on him by Wayne, and Mark’s fixated on his own fists, clenched tight in his lap. Jed’s pretending to sleep, and then there’s Wayne.
Wayne’s staring me down. Waiting for me to look. I can feel him doing it—see him, too, out of the corner of my eye.
Aidan turns the page. His elbow jostles mine. “Sorry.”
“That’s all right.”
We exchange awkward smiles. Fucking Aidan. None of this is his fault. He looks about as thrilled to be here as I am to have him, but still. Fucking Aidan.
“It’s, uh—this is good stuff.” He taps the page. “Especially this part. Where you’re trapped under the ice, looking up at your best friend’s face.”
A strand of bubbles froze till spring,
To drift between your parted lips,
As I gave up my dying breath,
And thought it yours, and thought it yours;
That old-glass wave, your rippling grave....
I dredge up a smile that’s not even totally fake. “That’s my favorite part, too. This frozen tide, the starry side....”
“It’s almost optimistic, for—”
“Oh, come on!” Wayne snatches my notebook back. “Quit suckin’ her dick. No-one’s gonna—”
“Shut up!” Mark pounds both fists on his knees, head snapping up. Shocked silence reigns for all of a second—then everyone’s talking at once.
“Jesus fuck, you’re like a toddler, with the tantrums! Why don’t you write the lyrics, if you’re so—”
“—ain’t even got a point; what’s the—”
“One goddamn night! Is that too much? Can’t I get—”
“You guys serious? Hey! Hey!”
“—have to turn into a—”
“Enough!” The cacophony’s spiraling out of control, voices rising and cracking as everyone fights to be heard. Wayne’s pounding the seat. Mark’s leaning over like he’s about to pound him, and if I don’t put a stop to this—
I whip off my shoe and bang it on the window, hard enough to chip the glass.
“Shit! Lily!” Mark reaches over Aidan to grab my knee. “Hey, c’mon!—you all right? Everyone! Settle down!”
Wayne mutters something, and Jed hisses a reply, but the storm’s passed. I slip my shoe back on, feeling stupid.
We’re rolling into Austin now, city lights rising up to meet us. The sun’s hovering just above the horizon. I squint at the golden-edged clouds reflected in the skyscrapers till my eyes start to water. Maybe I can sneak out early. Slip back to the hotel in time to catch Brandon, and—
“Lily.” Wayne’s snapping his fingers for my attention. Whatever he’s going to say, I’m positive I don’t want to hear it. “Aidan—you too. You kids ready to put on a show?”
Ready to...? Oh, no. No, he didn’t. I turn to Aidan, horrified. He’s red as a beet, avoiding my eye.
“He sent a text. With a winky face. I thought he was joking. I wouldn’t—you can’t think—”
I plaster on my best shiteating grin, entirely for Wayne’s benefit. “What I think is we’re going to walk that red carpet, smile nice and sweet, tell America who we’re wearing, and split up at the door.”
Mark throws back his head and guffaws. Aidan glances his way, hand twitching toward his. Oh—so they’re an item. No wonder Mark’s been a ball of rage all afternoon.
“You’re throwing away a golden opportunity. Both of you.”
Aidan pats both of our hands—mine and Mark’s—ignoring Wayne completely. “I, uh.... Can’t wait to hear the album.”
Wayne scoffs. Mark lurches forward, fist cocked. The limo rolls to a stop.
Fantastic start to the night.
Chapter Sixteen
Brandon
It’s good to see Neil, in all his larger-than-life
glory. Better than good. The relief’s like a drug: I’m flying with it. Feeling lighter already. He grabs me by the shoulders, shaking me with the force of his good cheer.
“You’re really alive!” A delighted grin cracks his lips. “Hell, you won’t even scar, up here.” He’s probing my bruise with his thumb, tilting my face to the light. “Incredible.”
I squirm free of his groping and straighten my jacket. “Told you I was fine.”
“Sure, but you picture a plane crash survivor—let’s be honest. You’re thinking broken legs, missing limbs—all-over burns. Gruesome shit. I mean, there’s walking away and then there’s literally, physically...walking away. You’re that drunk who starts a ten-car pileup and doesn’t get a scratch.”
“You saying I brought down the plane?” I punch his arm and he punches mine back.
“Let’s get a drink. Got a ton to tell you.”
“And I’ve got a ton to ask.”
He claps me on the shoulder one more time as we head for the bar. In his shadow, I’m sliding back into my old, boring skin. He’s always been the fun one, the spontaneous one. The one who would have the week I’m having, no plane crash necessary.
“Hey! Two Jack and Cokes over here!” He leans on the bar, taking me in as I pull up a stool. “Sorry. I’m not staring. I mean, I am, but... You’re all there. And in one piece. The luck on you... What’d you do, stick a horseshoe up your ass?”
“I did. Wanna see?”
That gets me another punch. At least he’s staying off my sore arm.
“Listen, before we get into the situation back home....”
My gaze drifts over his shoulder. The TV’s turned up a shade too loud: some entertainment show. I stare for a moment, trying to place the guy being interviewed. He looks kind of like Neil. Also, George Clooney.
“Earth to Brandon?”
“Sorry. Sleep-deprived.” I reel in my wandering attention. “The news. Couldn’t help noticing, uh...a certain detail missing from the coverage?”
“Your miraculous escape.” He drains half his drink at a draught. “I swear, I thought you knew: the NTSB doesn’t release victims’ names.”
“They don’t? I thought—”
“Nope. Airlines do, but with a private plane, it’s up to the families. Or in your case, up to you.” He polishes off his drink and taps his glass for a refill. “You did say no press release, right?”
“Right....” Though, even without a press release, shouldn’t people...know? Shouldn’t there have been reporters, gossip...?
“Brandon?”
“Mm?” Damn TV’s driving me nuts. A woman with teased-out hair’s droning on about...clothes, I think. Every second word out of her mouth’s a name I don’t recognize. She has one of those voices, nasal and flat, perfectly monotonous—
“You all right?”
“Yeah.” I rub my eyes. Instead of relief, I’m left with a raw, gritty feeling. “That’s another thing—the NTSB. It’s been a week. Why’s no one reached out to me?”
“They haven’t?”
I shake my head. “I mean...Don’t they want to talk to the one surviving witness? Catalog my injuries? Figure out how I pulled through, while everyone else...everyone else....” I gulp my drink. I’m sweating under my jacket. That feeling from the hotel is back, that first-week-of-college wrongness.
Neil thumps his forehead with his palm. “Oh—oh, shit! This one’s on my head. In all the chaos, with everything on my mind, you know what? I gave them your old number. You’ve probably got a billion messages. Here—” He reaches for his phone. “Let me text you his number—the guy I’ve been talking to. You can get in touch yourself.”
Cameras flash on TV. A woman in red steps out of a limo. I stare at her, feeling numb. Like I’m wrapped in gauze. Some kind of delayed shock, maybe. Checking out the news last night must’ve jarred something loose.
“Okay.” Neil finishes his text and tucks his phone away. “Here. Drink up. You look pale.”
I toss off my shot with a grin, trying to recapture that giddy relief from earlier. My head spins.
“What was it like, anyway?”
“Huh?”
“The crash.” Neil squeezes my arm. “Hey—you don’t have to answer. It’s just... It’s incredible. Can’t wrap my head around it, how you’re here, talking, drinking, and you’d barely know....”
I pluck a cashew from the bowl, to have something to do with my hands. “It was.... There was a smell. Burning rubber and, uh.... Meat on the grill.”
“Ugh....”
“That’s the worst part. I can still smell it, sometimes. Walking by certain restaurants, busy roads, hot parking lots—you get that melted rubber smell, off the tires....”
“Don’t think about that.” Neil signals for more drinks. “You don’t remember the crash, itself? Going down?”
That makes me laugh, for some reason. I push my glass away: feels like I’ve had enough. “It’s fuzzy. Adam was yelling at me. I had... I spilled my tomato juice. Hit my head.”
“You must’ve—”
“And the pilot—the last thing he said, it was...something about leveling us off for landing. That was maybe twenty, thirty seconds before we flew apart.”
“Did he say anything else? Like what the problem was?”
“The hydraulics.” I reach for my drink, after all. “But it wasn’t just that. Couldn’t have been. A Cessna...it’s not a DC-10. It should still fly, still land, even with both systems out. Must’ve damaged the rudder, or... Hell, I don’t know. You probably know more than I do by now.”
“Not sure there’s much to know yet. Took ‘em a while to get to the wreck—that fire went through everything.”
A glum silence settles over us. The TV’s distracting me again. All those bright colors—it’s too much. I stare into my empty glass instead, till the bartender tops me up.
Chapter Seventeen
Lily
I’m first out of the limo. The cameras are already popping. Yet another reason these things suck: either you’re in a short skirt, inchworming out with your knees pressed together, or you’re in a floor-length gown, humping your whole lower half over the seat like a mermaid’s tail. Undignified either way.
Wayne prods my shoulder to get me going. I take Aidan’s arm, plastering on my best gracious smile.
“Aidan Macdonald, escorting Lily Walker—oh! And the rest of Maidenfang! That’d be—wait, hold on, you two!” Microphones bristle, fencing us in. “Aidan—over here! You two an item, now?”
“I’m a great admirer of Lily’s.” He flashes those pearly whites, showing everyone why he’s famous. “And of Maidenfang’s, of course. What a sound!”
“Put your arm around her!”
“Perfect! If you could—”
“Hey! One with just the band?”
“Oh, rude!”
“That’s okay.” Aidan lets me go, and is immediately thronged by his own admirers. Jed and Adina are already snuggling in on either side of me, Mark towering behind, like we always do. Wish I still had those sharp metal fangs from the BITE album. Those were great for freaking out the press.
“Perfect! One with the Gene Simmons tongue thing?” Mark sticks out his tongue, with a noisy blah. Jed and Adina flip the bird. I laugh and fork the victory sign.
“And you’ll be performing in the showcase?”
“Friday night.” I lean into the mic. “There’ll be a little surprise from our new album on the program, so if you want to be first to hear it... You know where to find us!”
Mark pushes into the shot, jamming his scarred face in the camera. “Maaaaidenfaaaang!”
I shove him off, laughing. Always with the theatrics.
“And that was Lily Walker and Maidenfang, cutting quite the gothic figure in all that black and red. You heard it here first: they’ll be debuting an exclusive from their new album, Satan’s Hosepipe, during—”
“Lily! Lily—what’s the new album about?”
This one, I’m
happy to answer. “I’d say it’s about perspective. About wading through the worst life has to offer, and finding a way to—”
“It’s a grittier, blood-and guts take on old-school Maidenfang.”
Mark swears under his breath as Wayne interrupts me. I glance his way. He’s rolling his shoulders, loosening up for a fight. One meaty fist meets the opposite palm with a resounding smack. He steps forward, reaching for Wayne, and tempting as it is, I can’t let this happen. I hook my arm through his, smiling like we’re posing.
“Go on. Get inside. He’s not worth it.”
“But—”
“Go.”
“—which, don’t get me wrong: her old stuff, that’s classic.” Wayne’s still going. “But the new Lily, she’s all grown up, and she’s mad, and she’s pullin’ in a lot of, uh, Norwegian black metal influences, and—”
If he mentions Burzum, I’m going to punch him myself. Not that it’ll matter. He’s already blown our one interesting soundbite. The ramblings of a middle-aged exec. Riveting.
“—a lot more raw. More real. Like she’s strippin’, only instead of her tits, she’s showin’ her soul.”
My jaw drops. Mark whirls.
Oh, hell no.
Chapter Eighteen
Brandon
“All I’m saying is, you’ve got this plane, built to stay in the air—dual hydraulic systems, split rudder, uh—all kinds of redundancies. Backups of backups of backups. Why wouldn’t it fly?” Should’ve stopped drinking a while ago.
“Maybe the rudder fell off.”
“Fell...off.” I bellow laughter. My face feels hot. I’m definitely tipsy. “You know how planes work, right?”
“Flap their wings and fly away?”
Hopeless.
“I mean—have they said anything? The NTSB? Besides what’s in the news?”
“Nothing that makes sense to me.” He frowns, sucking his teeth. “Wouldn’t understand it if they did. You’re the one who’s all... You’re the aviation nerd.”
