The Experiment

by Holly Hart

  And again. My heart’s jackhammering in my chest, lungs fighting to fill. The instinct’s so strong my chest’s heaving with it. Only closing my throat up tight keeps me from inhaling half the pool. My feet scrabble on the floor, trying to find purchase to push myself up, out, away.

  I’m changing that goddamn song, if I survive this. Not the stricken face of a friend, on the other side of that ice—the smug grin of a murderer. It’s you on the starry side!—an accusation, instead of a farewell. I’ll call it Wayne. Dedicate the album to him—in memoriam, as I’m going to rip his throat out.

  I’m vaguely aware of my struggles losing steam. My legs aren’t responding much; my mouth’s opening, and—

  —and Wayne fishes me up one more time, limp and barely resisting. “Wh—wha—” I heave in a deep breath, and another. “What do you want?”

  He smirks, showing me that gap in his teeth. “Nothing, sweetheart. Not a goddamn thing.” He lets go of me at last, and I paddle away, floating on my back. “Remember that.”

  “You’re a psychopath.”

  “And you’re mine.”

  I bite the inside of my cheek to stifle a furious retort. Tears are streaming down my cheeks, getting lost in the water. This can’t be my life. My contract—there has to be a way out, one that doesn’t end my dream. Surely, if I can prove he’s violent—Brandon said he’d testify. And they’ve all seen him scream at me. Interrupt me. Humiliate me.

  “Mine,” he crows, as if I hadn’t heard.

  A flash of fire burns within me: rage as I’ve never felt it before. We’ll see about that.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Brandon

  I’m just coming off the Congress Avenue Bridge when I spot him heading toward the Four Seasons: that scraggly hacker bastard. Coming for my new phone, no doubt. Neil’s visit must’ve caught his attention. I pull over with a screech of tires, and he takes off running.

  “Stop! I just want to talk!”

  He bulls his way through a knot of tourists, not even looking back. Fucker’s getting away.

  “You see that? Did you see—” A woman in a floral jumpsuit blocks my path, arms spread wide as she catches her balance.

  “Just ran right through us! Rude!”

  “Hey! Asshole! Watch where you’re going!”

  They’re spreading out all over the sidewalk. I skirt around, narrowly avoiding a wandering toddler. Already, the hacker’s well on his way to safety: there’s a bus pulling up just ahead. He’s waving his arms at it—“Wait—wait!”

  I sprint after him. Like hell he’s getting on that bus.

  “Mom! He’s chasing that man!”

  Damn right I am.

  I catch him by the collar as he goes to board. He grabs for the railing, but I give him a good yank. “Now, listen here, you stalker-ass—”

  The words die in my throat as he twists in my grip. “Who the hell are you?”

  “Iain Clarke. Who are you?”

  I drop his collar. “I’m, uh— Really sorry. I thought you were... Why’d you run?”

  “You were chasing me!” He tugs at his shirt, where I’ve stretched it out of shape. “Some huge guy jumps out of a car, barreling right at you, wouldn’t you run?”

  “Suppose I would.” This guy doesn’t look anything like the hacker: his hair’s far less orange. And he’s clean-shaven. Pudgy. I back away, red-faced. “Again, really—so sorry.”

  “Sure. Jackass.”

  Jackass. Sounds about right. I head back to my car, chastened. The driver’s side door’s open, swinging into traffic. It’s a miracle no one hit it. Or snatched my phone off the seat. I slump behind the wheel, tamping down that low, thrumming panic that’s been threatening since last night. It’s almost a physical sensation, a buzzing in my head, like—

  My phone. It’s my phone. Someone’s texting me.

  plse pick up

  *please

  Two missed calls, both from Lily. Three more text notifications:

  Are you busy?

  Pick me up at Mitchell Studios on E. 7th?

  Wouldn’t ask, but it’s an emergency.

  I call her back, and she answers on the first ring, voice low and shaky. “Hello?”

  “Lily? It’s Brandon—what happened?”

  “Can’t really talk. I’m....” I hear shuffling, the sound of a door closing quietly. “I’m kind of trapped. In my dressing room, at this....” There’s a sharp intake of breath, and the sound of shouting in the background. Lily shouts back, muffled—Takes time to get...all this! Keep your fucking pants on!

  “You hear that?”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Wayne. He’s trying to drag me back to the hotel, but...but I don’t think it’s safe. I need... Where are you?”

  “Five, ten minutes away. By the Four Seasons. Hold on—I’m putting you on speaker. Keep talking, so I know you’re okay.”

  I roar out into traffic, tires squealing. Lily manages a shaky laugh when I immediately get stuck at a red light, but I can tell she’s counting the seconds. She’s whispering, like she’s expecting Wayne to burst in any second, maybe smash her phone. Or her face.

  “Which way on Seventh?”

  “Left. No—right. Sorry—I was thinking... I came from the other direction.”

  I hang a right and slow down, scanning the storefronts till I spot it: Mitchell Studios. It’s a low, flat building, windows blacked out. Photography studio, I guess. I leave the car running and dive for the door, pounding on the glass when I find it locked.

  “Hello?”

  There’s a little placard to the side of the door: Ring for service. I’m just reaching for the bell when the door swings open with a tinkling of chimes.

  “Can I help you?”

  The woman peering out’s even slighter than Lily. I back off a few steps, not wanting to frighten her. “Sorry—I’m here for Lily. She inside?”

  “And you are?”

  “Brandon, uh...Lee. Brandon Lee.”

  “One minute.” She slams the door in my face, and I hear one bolt shoot home, then another. I pace, searching in vain for a patch of clear window, somewhere to peek inside. That woman looked stressed. Angry, maybe—or scared. Whatever’s going on in there—

  The locks rattle again. “All right. Come in.” She pulls me inside, propping the door open with a brick. “You need to get her to call the cops. Don’t know what’s going on with those two—frankly, I don’t want to—but one thing I do know: nothing’s going to change till these artists start standing up for themselves.”

  Artists?

  She’s already walking away. I follow her past a huge, empty fishtank; a flotilla of cameras and reflectors; a series of empty sets. Wayne’s lurking in back, hunched over a long red couch. He rolls his eyes when he sees me. “Oh, you gotta be kidding me.”

  I resist a sudden, powerful compulsion to lunge at him, see if I can get him to piss his pants. Now’s not the time.

  A door I hadn’t noticed flies open and Lily rushes out, hair wet and clinging to her shoulders, remnants of some kind of blue paint dripping down her neck. She’s clutching her jacket tight around herself. I hurry to throw my arm around her, getting my body between her and Wayne.

  “Seriously? Him?”

  “Settle down, man.” There’s another guy on the couch, half-hidden in the shadows, with a folded-up tripod across his knees. He’s gripping it like a weapon.

  Wayne leans over the couch, yelling at our backs. “You better make that Rolling Stone interview! You’re even five minutes late, there’ll be hell to pay.”

  Lily doesn’t respond to his needling. She’s moving fast, eyes forward. I keep an eye on Wayne till the door slams behind us.

  “What—?”

  “Not here.” Lily’s already piling into my car, frowning as she touches her face and pulls her fingers away blue. There’s something clinging to her cheek. I reach out and pluck it off: a shiny crystal star. I stick it to the dashboard.

  “Where t
o?”

  “Back to the hotel. The Holiday Inn, not the Four Seasons.” She’s shivering. I shut off the AC, pulling away from the curb. Was she...in that fishtank?

  “Sorry. I’m dripping all over your car.”

  Easily the last thing on my mind. “It’s a rental.”

  “Even worse.”

  I shrug out of my jacket at the first red light, offering it to Lily instead. She drapes it over herself like a blanket.

  At least we’re not far from the hotel.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Lily

  “Christ, that’s blood!” Brandon catches my wrist as I hand back his coat. I look down at myself. Wayne’s gory handprints have faded to a dirty, smeared maroon, running at the edges. Got to admit, it looks pretty bad.

  “It’s not mine.”

  “What...what did you do? What did he do?” He’s peeling my jacket off, taking in the mess.

  “He—” I choke on the scratchiness of my throat, coughing till my eyes water. Brandon takes me by the arm and guides me to the bed.

  “Sit down. Let me get you a drink.” He hurries to the minifridge and comes back with a coconut water. I sip it slowly, till the rawness starts to fade. Feels like I’ve been screaming for hours—not like on stage, but real, tearing shrieks. The kind that leave you hoarse.

  “I scratched him up—his hands. His wrists. And he snuck into my dressing room. Did this.” I pull my shirt away from my chest. “Ugh. I’m—I need it off me.” When the buttons won’t yield to my fumbling, I tear them free. Can’t breathe with that on me—with the memory of his blood filtering through the water, settling on my face. I claw my bra off as well, and toss the whole bundle into the corner, as far from me as it’ll go.

  Brandon sits down next to me. He’s got a towel, damp and steaming. Didn’t even notice him get up.

  “Do you mind?” He holds up the towel.

  I shake my head. He dabs at my neck, my chest, my belly—everywhere the stains touched my skin. It’s helping. I’m breathing easier. No more coughing. Brandon hands me a fresh shirt—a soft cotton tee—and I pull it over my head.

  “Come here.”

  I let him pull me into his arms. It feels good to be held: too good. The sobs I’ve been holding back spill out—even worse when I realize I’m streaking his shirt with sky-blue greasepaint: waterproof, but not frictionproof.

  “It’s all right.” He’s rubbing my back, stroking my wet hair. Rocking me back and forth. I hold on tight, even when the storm’s passed, leaving exhaustion in its wake. If I go to sleep, just drift off on his chest, I won’t have to explain. Won’t have to relive it, or try to answer the questions he’s bound to have.

  “When you scratched him....”

  I stiffen. No....

  “He wasn’t holding you under that water, was he?”

  I sniffle, blinking back fresh tears. “We were doing a photoshoot in there. Or, I mean—I was. Wayne was watching. Everyone went on a break. Thought he did, too.”

  “Hope you tore him to ribbons.”

  I swallow, remembering the great, pinkish clumps of skin I picked out of my nails, after. “He bled on my face—I couldn’t get out of the way. And then, when the photographer came back.... He did that to my shirt, while we were finishing the shoot. And my...my underwear, too. Had to throw them away. It—I hate him!”

  “You finished the shoot? After that? They let you?”

  “They didn’t know. Carmen—the photographer—she knew something happened. Offered to call the cops, but....”

  “You should.”

  “I need to call a lawyer first.” I pull back, wiping at my face. “There’s... I have a contract. I’m not sure I can get out of it without.... It wouldn’t just mean losing my job. I’d be kissing my whole career goodbye.”

  “You’re not really with the rodeo, are you?”

  I look away. I was going to come clean—almost did, in the shower this morning. And now I’m caught, and I’m not sure I can take his rejection, on top of everything else.

  “Hey—don’t look over there. I’m not mad. Whoever you are, I—” He drops to one knee to catch my eye. “Listen, it’s all right. I’m not an engineer, either. I’m in advertising. And my name’s Shaw. Not Lee.”

  Brandon Shaw? Why does that sound familiar?

  I force myself to look at him. “Remember that song you were talking about? That day on the boat?”

  “Brightsky, yeah.” He smiles. “Looked it up again, that night. Great as ever.”

  “That’s my song. I wrote it. Sang it. Played lead guitar on it. Performed it here in Austin, the night we met.”

  His eyes widen. “Wait, you’re...Maidenfang?” He rocks back on his heels, laughing. Not just laughing, but howling with it, thumping his fists on his knees. “Sorry—it’s not funny. Just, this whole time, I’ve been keeping the lie going, thinking you might be starstruck. Dazzled by my wealth and power. And you—you’re an actual, literal rock star. And I’m some boring CEO....”

  “You’re not boring.”

  “No—no, I am.” Brandon wipes at his eyes, laughter finally dying down. “You have no idea. This isn’t me. I don’t get in fights. I don’t rent boats. I don’t—I don’t even eat bacon and eggs.”

  He did, this morning. I get down on the floor with him—there’s something not right here. Something desperate in the way he’s shaking his head and plucking at the fabric of his pants.

  “Everyone’s different on vacation.”

  “I’m not, though. On vacation. I’m more...stuck here.”

  “Because of the carjacking?”

  “I made that up, too.” He’s the one hanging his head, now, refusing to look at me. “My plane went down. I didn’t want to talk about it. Didn’t want to think about it, or believe it, at all. Seemed easier to...to be someone else. And then we were having so much fun....”

  “Wait—that Cessna on the news? With the cows sniffing around it? That was you?” It makes sense: that painful-looking ring of bruises around his middle, entirely the wrong shape for the seat belt of a car; his almost frantic exuberance, these last few days—he almost died. And it’s sinking in, at last.

  “It doesn’t fit,” he mutters. “Doesn’t fit at all. In my life, I mean. A plane crash. Don’t know what to do with it.”

  “So...what is your life like? Normally, I mean?”

  Brandon turns around to lean on the bed. A plane flies by in the distance, leaving a sharp contrail in its wake. I watch Brandon track it across the sky.

  “Predictable,” he says, at last. “Never had to wonder about anything: what school I’d go to, what grades I’d get, what I’d be when I grew up. It was all planned out, and I was fine with that. When something happens—something I’m not expecting—I get...like this.” He gestures vaguely at himself, at the room.

  “You know that’s normal, right?”

  “I didn’t watch the news all last week. Didn’t call anyone, besides my best friend. I just...got up the next morning and pushed it down deep. Like it never happened at all.”

  “Still perfectly normal.”

  The plane continues its slow voyage across the window. Brandon lets his head droop, resting his cheek on his fist.

  “I’ve been doing a lot of that myself, lately. Not dealing with things. Work hasn’t been good for a while. With Wayne, I mean. But I’ve known what I wanted all my life, too. The thought of losing it all....”

  Brandon blows air through his teeth, a weird little puff of a laugh. “My father would say the same thing to both of us.”

  “Yeah? What’s that?”

  His voice drops to a flat, nasal pitch. “You think that’s a problem? Come to me when you’re dead.” A flap of his hand, and he turns his back on me. “What are you talking to me for?—honestly! When I was your age....”

  It shouldn’t be funny, but it is. “You should call him.”

  “That’d be a hell of a long-distance call.” Brandon sighs. “Sadly, he is dead. Wish I could,
though—talk to him one more time. Last thing I said to him was yeah, yeah, yeah.”

  “Last thing I said to mine was thanks for nothing. He’s not dead, though. Just...gone.”

  At some point, Brandon’s edged closer to me, or I’ve crept into his space. We huddle in silence, watching the plane’s trail blur and dissipate. Late afternoon’s giving way to early evening, a few stars pricking through the blue.

  Brandon’s pinky nudges up against mine, but he doesn’t quite take my hand. “So, at the risk of sounding flippant—is either of us actually angry? About all the lying?”

  The thought of anger hadn’t crossed my mind—not my own, anyway. I pictured him being mad, indignant, horrified—any number of unpleasant reactions—but.... “I’m not even surprised. You’re, uh...probably the worst liar I’ve ever met.”

  He snorts at that. “Fair enough.”

  “What about you?”

  “Hm? Oh—no. No.” An odd expression flits across his face. “Should’ve figured it out, though. You sang me to sleep so many nights.”

  I push my hand under his. “What do we do now?”

  “Order dinner. Stick something nostalgic on Netflix. Get a good night’s sleep.”

  That I can get behind. “And...tomorrow?”

  “You’ll call that lawyer. I’ll...I’m going back to the crash site. If I can find it again—if there’s anything left. Think I need to see.”

  “Not alone, you don’t.”

  “You’d come with me?”

  “’Course I would.”

  A stray strand of hair’s hanging in his eyes. I brush it out of the way, and it tumbles back down. He blows at it, reminding me achingly of Mark, when we were kids. Simpler times....

  “Hey, you want to go see my home town?—when we’re done with the lawyer and the crash? Maybe for a couple of days? Get away from all this?”

  “Far from here—yeah. I’d like that.”

  I watch him watch the sunset till the shadows hide his face.

  Chapter Twenty-Six