by S. L. Scott
“Alcohol and cigarettes?”
“Bah da bum!” I chime in. “Actually no. It’s a cleanse. A water diet.”
“Why do I already not like the sound of this?”
“It’s just one more day since the shoot got pushed until Tuesday—”
“Holliday, what are you doing?”
Confused, I ask, “What do you mean?”
“I mean, what are you doing? This isn’t you. You don’t do Hollywood diets. You don’t do half-naked photoshoots. You work out. You live life. You don’t care what others think. You’re the most you person I know.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that you’ve always been exactly who you are. You’ve always known who you are, but right now.” He sighs, frustration clearly heard. “I’m not sure I do.”
My own frustration sets in from trying to explain my side. “The camera adds weight. The tabloids are watching for your baby to start showing anytime, even though I’m not even pregnant. I deal with shit all the time regarding my weight. I just want to feel and look good, and most of all to feel like I look good.”
“That’s very LA of you.” His disdain is obvious.
“Fu—” I stop myself and take a deep breath. “Are you calling me shallow?”
He starts raising his voice. “I don’t want you to change for them. Fuck, you can gain weight if you want, but you sure as hell don’t need to lose any. I’m telling you this as someone who loves you. Don’t let them win.”
Furious, my hands start to shake. “This has gotten blown way out of proportion. I’m gonna let you go before it gets worse. I’ll talk to you later. If I don’t, have a great show tonight.”
“Don’t be mad.”
“I’m tired, Dalton,” I snap. “I don’t want to be lectured. The world is not our enemy.”
“But the paps are. You’re beautiful the way you are.”
“I’m not changing. I just did this for a few days to be in top shape. That’s all.”
His exhale is heavy into the receiver and I can tell he wants to say so much more than he does. But he doesn’t for some reason. “I should go. I love you.”
I don’t want to hang up mad, but I’m still a little irritated. “I love you, too,” I reply before hanging up because even though I don’t like the conversation we just had, I do love him. Grabbing my suitcase, I yell goodnight to Tracy who’s in her room already and go into the large bedroom.
I’m tired from traveling and emotionally exhausted after having to defend myself. But to get to sleep, I still have to unpack a few things. The rest can wait until tomorrow. After closing the door, I get ready for bed and climb under the covers. My body sinks into the pillow-top mattress and I lie there with my arms spread wide. There’s a wall of windows in here as well, giving me a killer view of the city at night. But it’s beyond this city and across the border where my heart hovers.
Taking the remote from the bedside table, I click the button for the curtains and they start to close, shutting off the rest of the world in the process. Once it’s pitch black, I close my eyes and fall asleep.
Knocking wakes me. I roll over and look toward the bedroom door. I sigh and flop back down. “Come in.”
The light is bright as if day has stolen the dark away. Tracy whispers, “You gonna sleep all day?”
“Yes,” I reply, grumpy with my eyes closed hoping to find sleep again.
The bed dips and she rubs my shoulder. “Hey, what’s wrong?”
“I’m hungry and tired.”
“This isn’t like you. You’ve slept over ten hours. How much more sleep do you need?”
“I want to sleep until my husband comes home.”
“But we’re in New York.”
I open my eyes. “Oh yeah, that’s right.” Rolling to my back, I rub my eyes. “Wanna go shopping?”
“Thought you’d never ask,” she says, standing and going to the door. “Get up and let’s go.”
An hour and a half later, we arrive at a street filled with high-end fashion. We blow through some money and the afternoon—filling our time with laughter and great clothes. By seven, the granola bar I had a few hours ago has burned off and I’m starved. “I can’t buy another thing unless I eat.”
“Then eat we shall.”
We head back toward our apartment and right into a trendy restaurant in SoHo. We’re seated right away in an area that’s open to the exposed kitchen. It’s fascinating to watch the behind the scenes play out for entertainment purposes.
“I like the wine,” I say, and take another sip.
“I like the view,” Tracy says.
“Yeah, it’s a really cool setup.”
“I’m not talking about the setup or scenery.” She nods toward one of the chefs that happens to be looking in our direction.
With my eyes wide, I whisper, “Stop. He can see you.” She laughs loudly, so I ask, “Are you drunk off half a glass of wine?”
“No silly. I just don’t go out much these days. It’s nice to get the attention.”
Leaning forward I rest my chin on my hand. “What’s going on with you and Adam?”
She starts waving her hand around. “Oh nothing. He’s great. We’ve been talking about having kids. It’s just been too long since I’ve had a girl’s night.”
“We have the next few days too.”
A spark of excitement sets in her eyes. “I know. It also feels good to get out of LA. Manhattan is always so different. It’s a nice change of pace.”
The waiter brings a plate of poutine to our table and says, “Compliments of the Chef.”
We both look in his direction and he sends us a small smile and a wave. I say, “Tell him thank you.”
As soon as we’re alone again, I drop my head into my hands. “I can’t resist French fries. You know this. I’m weak. Don’t they smell amazing?”
“They do,” she replies, stabbing her fork into them. With her mouth full, she says, “And taste heavenly.”
I roll my eyes and laugh. “You’re really terrible, you know that? Mean and terrible.”
“Eat one. Just one.”
They do look so damn good. I pick up my fork and stab a small bite. I inhale the deliciousness first then savor the bite as I chew. “Heaven. This is Heaven.”
The plate is empty, just a sad reminder that something amazing was once there and now is in my belly. I set my fork down and rub my stomach. “So good.”
She takes another drink of her wine, and asks, “So good. So earlier, PP—pre-poutine—I was going to ask about you and Johnny.”
“What about us?”
“How are you guys doing?”
Looking around the restaurant, I hesitate. “He’s touring. End of story really.” I suspect she can pick up on the change in my tone and body language.
“How much longer?”
“Two more months.”
“You can visit him. I’ll arrange your schedule so you can.”
“Thanks. I think that will help my blues.” I smile just as our food is served… or should I say my water with mint and lime squeezed in. I already cheated with the wine. I’ll try to balance the bad with the water. Her salad sure does look divine though. “You gonna eat that tomato?”
She bursts out laughing and shakes her head. “Nope. Go right ahead.”
Two women in their early twenties are drinking next to us and getting louder and more raucous as the night rolls on. I hear one saying, “See? Told you it wouldn’t last.”
I peek over and see her holding her phone in front of the other girl’s face. Her friend replies, “But I liked them together. She made me feel like we had a real chance with Johnny Outlaw.”
“Apparently, we do now,” the first girl laughs.
My heart sinks to the pit of my stomach. I want to run away from this conversation and forget I ever heard that, but like a train wreck, I’m glued to it, waiting to hear the gossip.
His name being spoken draws Tracy’s attention to the girls an
d she points to the phone. “Is that a picture of him?”
“Yes, he was seen out on a date tonight…” She smiles and her hot pink lip-glossed lips sneer. “And not with his wife.”
Leaning forward, I ask, “Where were they?”
The second girls answers, “Toronto. They played a show. He was at an after party with some other woman.” She eyes me and maybe it’s the booze speaking or maybe she’s just always that rude, but she adds, “I think you might be a little old for him.” Flashing the phone at me with the photo on display, her condescending tone makes me want to punch her in the silicone-injected lips. “As you can clearly see, he prefers younger women.”
“Like you?” I ask, sardonically.
“Yes, exactly like us.”
“Since I’m so old, how about I take my walker and shove it right up your a—”
“Check!” Tracy announces, cutting me off. Her eyes lock on mine. “Time to go.”
I stand, tossing my napkin. Needing to say one last thing to these plastic Barbies, I add, “I’m apparently not that hideously old since the chef sent over a dish just—”
A waiter arrives at their side with the same dish and says, “Compliments of the Chef.”
Totally defeated, I grumble, “For fuck’s sake.” I grab my purse and go. “I’ll meet you outside.”
When she joins me outside, she says, “How are you?”
“Shitty.”
She nods. “Hey, don’t jump to conclusions. Okay?”
“Sure. Right. Okay,” I say, my mind reeling in a haze of messed up emotions. “But I don’t understand.” My head is pounding, so I rub my temples.
“Who’s the woman?” Tracy asks.
One word. “Ashley.”
She sighs, “Did you know the most common name for crazy girls is Ashley. Go figure. I thought they were always so innocent years ago when I was into Laura Ashley dresses.” Throwing her arm up, she hails a cab.
Feeling sick to my stomach, I say, “They’re not.”
“Clearly.”
Three glasses of wine is not good when you’ve only had a few fries and a tomato to eat. With my head against the car window on our way back to the apartment, I close my eyes, but my mind whirls making the world spin. I reopen them quickly while spreading my arms out to anchor me to the car.
“We’re almost there. Can you make it, Holli?” Tracy asks.
The driver says, “She better not throw up in my car.”
“She won’t,” Tracy barks back. When she turns to me, she looks at me like she doesn’t believe her own response.
“I won’t,” I reassure her and the driver. “I just need to get back.”
“We’re not far, thank goodness.”
I nod, focusing my energy on feeling better. The car pulls over and Tracy drops some bills to him as I climb out. Once we’re on the sidewalk, she takes my arm and leads me into the lobby.
Before we even make it onto the elevator, my eyes are filled with tears. She says, “Aww, don’t. Please, Holli. It’s okay. I promise you. This is just a misunderstanding. He would never hurt you like that.”
One tear, then another slips out and down my cheek. She pulls me into a hug as the elevator dings each passing floor. “Hols, honey. It looked bad, but it’s a tabloid. It’s their job to make their photos more scandalous.”
My body is numb as my insides hurricane out of control. A sob breaks free just as the door opens. “Come on,” she says, taking my hand. Once we’re in the apartment again, I try to say goodnight and make for a quick getaway, but she’s not having it. “Call him. Talk to him.” She sets the stuff down and digs into my purse. She hands me my phone and sits on the couch. “Call him.”
With it in my hand, I stare down at the phone. “What if it’s true?”
“It’s not. You know in your gut it’s not.”
I nod automatically, then take the plunge and dial without any debate. Each ring makes me more anxious while I stand there. My foot starts tapping and I find myself muttering, “Answer. Answer. Come on, Dalton. Answer.” When my call is directed to voicemail, I turn my back to Tracy and leave a message to call me right away.
When I turn back, I whisper, “I’m going to bed.”
She stands suddenly. “Are you sure?”
“I am. I need some rest before tomorrow and I can’t just stand here waiting for who knows how long for him to call me back.”
“I think sleep is good.” She comes over and hugs me. “It will all be explained when you talk to him. I promise you. I know he loves you more than anything.”
“Thanks.” I give her a big hug, release, and go into the bedroom.
Immediately, I open my laptop and search for the photo to see what the story says. When I find it, I read:
Johnny Outlaw was spotted out with a mysterious woman after playing a live show in Toronto. His wife, Holliday Hughes, was spotted out with friends in New York City. Could this mean it’s over already? We’ll be updating this story as it unfolds.
I stare at the photo, analyzing every possible reason she would be with him, leaving anywhere, with him, and why he would be reaching for her hand and be that close. None of this makes sense. He wouldn’t cheat on me. I know he wouldn’t, I repeat silently closing my eyes and praying on every star in the sky.
Tracy knocks lightly, then peeks in. “Hey, I wanted to check on you one more time. You okay?”
“I’m fine,” I say, looking up from the computer and flat-out lying to her.
“That’s good. You know how the tabs blow the most innocent thing out of proportion, twisting it to fit their storyline.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“I’m gonna go to bed. You should get some sleep, but if you need me, just come in.”
“Thank you, Trace,” I say, trying to keep my voice from trembling. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight.” She leaves me with a sympathetic smile before closing the door.
Picking up my phone, I call, again. My call goes to voicemail, again. This time, I say, “I’m going to bed. I’ll call you in the morning.”
Trying to keep my better sensibilities intact, I take two deep breaths and exhale slowly before going into the bathroom to brush my teeth. I set the phone down on a towel and stare at it, willing it to light up with Dalton’s name. But it doesn’t.
I spit and rinse my mouth, exhaustion getting the best of me. I turn out the light and climb back into bed. I’ve developed a terrible headache and my head is spinning. I close my eyes needing to deal with this mess in the morning. I hope to have a better perspective on the situation by then.
“Fame is what happens when you lose sight of your priorities.” ~ Holliday Hughes
I stare at my phone as I listen to the message play out over the speaker. “Call me, Dalton.” Holliday sounds pissed, but I have no idea why. I thought she was okay when we hung up the last time. I listen to the second message—“I’m going to bed. Call me in the morning when you get up.”
Fuck that! I call her, but my call goes to voicemail.
Fuck! Fuck. Fuck. She doesn’t answer. Why the fuck is she not answering? Shit! What day was her shoot—today or tomorrow? Is she with that douchebag model?
Tommy opens the door and asks, “You ready to go?”
“Yes,” I say, standing up. I walk past him, our shoulders colliding. “Get me out of here.”
“What’s up?” He catches up, then passes me and opens the door to the outside where a white limo is waiting.
I stop and glare at him. “Nothing shouts douche more than a white limo.”
“If the shoe fits…”
“Whatever.” I get into the car and he slides in after. “Can you pack my shit? I want to take the jet to New York.”
Tommy leans back as the car takes off. “What are you talking about? We’re flying out in the morning. You can’t wait eight hours?”
“No, I can’t.”
“Tough shit.”
“I can get a plane or a flight on my own.”
/>
“Yes, you can and you’re welcome to do that, but the band’s not picking up the tab for you to go tonight. Why are you in such a hurry to get to New York anyway?”
“Holliday.”
“Figures.” Tommy sits up and looks at me—annoyed and thoughtful—an interesting expression. “What’s going on?”
“I can’t get a hold of her.”
“She’s probably sleeping.”
Scratching the back of my neck, I say, “Maybe, but it’s not like her to not answer. She left a message and sounded upset.”
“Can’t you call the hotel and have them ring her room.”
“She’s staying at some apartment in the city. I don’t have an address or number for it.”
Sitting up, he says, “Let me get this straight. She has email after email with all your shit and schedule right there handy and you never bothered to find out where she’s staying? Yikes, man. Not the best way to show you care.”
“Shut the fuck up.” I go through all the other options to reach her and get an idea. Grabbing my phone from my pocket, I call Tracy. “I’ll call her friend.” Scrolling through my numbers, I realize I don’t have any Tracy’s. “Fuck!” I shake my head and lean my elbow on the door, totally fucking annoyed at myself.
“Look, Johnny, I don’t know what’s going on, but I’m sure she’ll call you. In the meantime, sit back and relax.”
The stress of not knowing what’s wrong is eating me up, but Tommy’s right and I have no other choice anyway. I fist my hands on the seat beside me, pounding it lightly. “Fine.”
Once I’m back in my suite, I call Holliday again, but go to voicemail again. I’ve lost all patience. “Call me back.”
Why the fuck is she not answering?
Glancing at the clock, it’s past midnight. I’m still too wired to sleep, so I take a shower and slip on a pair of boxer briefs when I get out. Turning on my laptop in bed, I decide to check emails. Scrolling down the list, it’s all the usual crap, including an email from Rory, our Publicist. I click on it.
Shit!
Seeing the photo of me with that new equipment manager—Shit, this looks bad. Paparazzi have a talent for making something look like something it’s not. I’d get in a car and drive right now if it wouldn’t take all night and half the morning. I shut my laptop and lie back, exhaustion from the show finally setting in. Holliday’s not one to hide her emotions. She’s straight-forward with me as I am with her, but the fact that I can’t reach her makes me feel this time things are different. That something is seriously wrong.
