by Stacey Kade
I pull out of Elise’s grasp. “She doesn’t like being touched.” I could still feel Amanda flinching away from me.
Elise waves her hand dismissively. “By creepy old guys against her will, yeah. But that’s not you.”
I rub my forehead. “Jesus, Elise, no.” Pretending to be in a relationship for attention is bad enough, but to do that to Amanda after everything she’s been through? That feels wrong. It takes away her choice. Maybe she doesn’t want to be “romantically linked” with me or anyone else. I imagine that kind of thing might be an issue for her in real life, let alone adding a layer of fake.
Elise’s expression shifts, hardening around the edges. “I thought we were in this together. I thought you had my back.”
“I do,” I snap. “But this is not what we agreed on. You’re taking it too far and—”
“Even if it’s working?” she asks.
“What?”
She stalks to the desk and snatches up her phone.
“Look,” she says, unlocking the main screen and handing the phone over to me.
“I don’t know what I’m—”
“The call log, Chase.” She sounds impatient and bored, which is a bad combination when it comes to Elise.
I click to her recent calls and find a very familiar number at the top. George, her boss, my former publicist, has called twice in the last two hours.
“Some of the photos from today already hit gossip sites,” she says, folding her arms across her chest. “It’s generating buzz, negative for now because they got a shot of Amanda freaking out.”
I wince.
“But that’ll change,” she says. “If we move on to phase two, which I already told George about.”
Of course she had. I hand her the phone.
Elise takes it with a frustrated noise. “You know why George called? Because Rick called him, wanting to know if he was involved. They were curious.”
Rick, my agent? It’s been months since either of them asked anything about me. I’d ceased to exist for them.
“It’s working, Chase,” Elise says fiercely. “You just have to trust me. Don’t quit now, don’t turn it all into nothing, not when we’re so close. Please?” She gives me a pleading gaze that might be just as calculated as her seductress routine earlier but feels far more real.
I sigh. She has a point. If we quit now, there was no purpose behind any of it, including any pain I might have caused Amanda just by showing up in her life. And, honestly, on a practical level, there’s not that much difference between what Amanda and I have already discussed and Elise’s new plan. We would just be deliberately cultivating the media’s instinct to blow everything up into a bigger story than it actually is. Without Amanda’s knowledge.
I can feel my resistance and initial outrage waning, and it makes me hate myself more than I already do.
“No one’s going to get hurt,” Elise says quickly, sensing my capitulation. “Not even Amanda. As soon as the rumors start, we’ll issue denials to the press, and we’ll even include her, if she wants.”
Denials will only fuel the fire of speculation, which is exactly what Elise is counting on. And I’m not quite sure how “we” are going to do this when I “fired” my publicist, but … whatever.
“All right,” I say.
A slow smile spreads across Elise’s face. “Admit it—I’m a genius,” she says, as she sways toward me.
“An evil genius,” I say. But there’s no fire behind the words, and she knows it.
She tosses her phone on the bed and hooks her fingers into the collar of my shirt. “Evil genius. I like that. Want to visit my lair?” She raises herself up on her tiptoes and presses her warm mouth against mine. Her tongue is very persuasive, and the taste of her lipstick, familiar from our past encounters, has me hard in an instant.
She tugs at my coat, pushing it off my shoulders, then steps back, pulling me with her to the bed.
But I can’t shake the nagging feeling that’s eating at me, making it hard to lose myself in the moment. It takes me a second to isolate the source: Amanda is upstairs by herself.
Why that should bother me, I’m not entirely certain. She said she’d be okay. But something tells me she says that a lot, while maybe not being sure that it’s true. It’s obvious she doesn’t want to be a burden to her family or anyone else, including me.
Elise’s hand slides smoothly to my fly while I continue to argue with myself.
If there was trouble, Amanda would have called. But my phone, which is in my pocket, has been silent, no texts or calls, this whole time.
I focus on trailing kisses down the side of Elise’s neck, using just a hint of teeth, the way she likes it. The breathy noises she makes in response go straight to my head. It’s the only time she ever sounds out of control, and I love it.
Normally. This time, though, I can’t get my brain to fucking shut off.
How do you know everything’s fine? Maybe Amanda would have called. Except you didn’t give her your number, stupid.
Shit.
With a sigh, I admit defeat and pull away from Elise. “I have to go back upstairs.”
Elise sits up, her mouth open in shock. “Are you serious?”
“Your idea,” I remind her, pushing myself off the bed. “I don’t feel right about leaving Amanda up there by herself.”
“She’s not an unattended infant, Chase,” Elise says with a forced laugh.
“No, but she is my responsibility.” I shrug my coat onto my shoulders and adjust my jeans. “Unless you want to change the plan?” That’s the only compromise I’m willing to make. If we’re doing this, I’m not going to let Amanda suffer through it.
“This is ridiculous.” Elise straightens up, swinging her legs to the floor and then touching the corners of her mouth to correct her smudged lipstick.
Maybe, but I have to be able to sleep at night.
I start to head for the door.
“You’re lucky I’m so understanding, Chase Henry,” she calls after me in a teasing voice, but when I glance back, her smile is full of sharp edges.
The warning comes through loud and clear: Don’t cross me.
Be careful who you get into bed with. That’s what my grandpa used to tell my dad all the time when they were dealing with the local ranching political bullshit. It was one of his favorite sayings, right up there with “Good fences make good neighbors.”
My grandfather meant it in terms of alliances and taking sides in land disputes, town council votes, and local ordinance changes.
I never thought he might have meant it literally as well, until this exact second.
But it’s too late to do anything about it now, so I nod. “Agreed.”
* * *
It’s quiet upstairs on the fifth floor when I arrive via the stairs, too uneasy to wait for the slow elevators. I’m not sure what I was expecting. Half the Wescott Police Department pouring down the halls with guns drawn? Amanda’s family pounding on her room door, demanding that she come home?
Unless all of that happened while I was gone.
I quicken my pace.
The doors to our rooms are shut and look exactly the same as when I left—no angry family members, no police, no noticeable scuff marks on the door from someone trying to break in.
Jesus, maybe Amanda’s paranoia is catching.
The only difference is a room service tray at the foot of Amanda’s door.
I let out a breath of relief. She’s fine. She did exactly what I suggested and ordered some food. In other words, exactly what any normal person would do.
I’ll check on her after I’ve had a shower and a second to myself to wrap my head around everything that’s happened since I left the hotel this morning. At this moment, it’s hard to believe that was only twelve hours ago. Hell, for that matter, I was in California less than a day ago. I’m exhausted, and I just got here. I haven’t even memorized my lines yet.
But as I’m reaching in my back pocket for my room k
ey, I get another look at Amanda’s room service tray.
The metal cover is still on the plate, and the silverware is still wrapped in the black cloth napkin. A piece of plastic wrap across the top of her water glass kept the water from spilling out in transit, but there’s a wide circle of condensation around the base.
With a frown, I kneel and touch the top of the cover. Warm, but not hot. I lift the lid and find a hamburger and french fries completely untouched.
The receipt is stuffed under the edge of the plate, and I’d bet just about anything—if I had anything left—that the black, hasty scrawl across it is not Amanda’s, especially considering that her fake name is spelled wrong (Miranda Deen).
Neither, most likely, was it Amanda who left a—holy shit—twenty-five-dollar tip on a ten-dollar meal. I’m calling someone tomorrow to reverse that. If I can figure out who. There are times when I really miss having a personal assistant. Evan always just seemed to know that kind of stuff without having to talk to twenty people. He’s a screenwriter now.
Without any other recourse, I stand and knock on Amanda’s door. “Amanda? Is everything okay? It’s me, Chase.”
A quiet rustling noise, barely audible, comes through the door.
“Um … yeah, I’m fine. Thanks.” She sounds distant.
I frown. Maybe she fell asleep waiting for the tray to come?
“There’s food out here,” I try again.
“I’m sorry about that,” she says. “I tried to cancel it. I found some protein bars in my bag.”
Who turns down a burger for protein bars? I lived on those for a few weeks during training sessions—no carbs allowed before shirtless scenes—and they got disgusting pretty fast.
Not to mention, I saw the time it took Amanda to pack: less than five minutes. If she remembered to chuck protein bars in there as well as her clothes and makeup and whatever other girl stuff, I’d be impressed.
“So, really, I’m all set.” Her voice holds a determined cheerful note in it, but it’s hollow, like she’s trying not to cry.
It takes me a second to put the pieces together.
Room service delivers to the room, obviously. Amanda is not great with strangers. I’m betting she’s even less great with strange guys showing up at her room, even when she’s expecting them.
I lean my forehead against the small expanse of wall between our rooms, trying to absorb the coolness. My eyes are gritty with lack of sleep, and I really want that shower. “Did the room service guy scare you?”
Silence.
“It wasn’t his fault,” she says eventually.
Okay. I let out a slow breath. “Well, it’s just me out here now. You want to open the door and I’ll hand you the tray?” I ask. She needs to eat. It would be bad if she fainted tomorrow morning in front of the cameras. (Though, Elise would probably find a way to spin it into a pregnancy rumor, God help me.) Plus, Amanda’s too skinny. The bones in her face are frighteningly prominent and not in the way of someone on the third week of a cleanse.
I realize then it’s been quiet on the other side of the door for too long.
I knock again, feeling the start of panic. “Amanda, are you all right? You’re not, like…” How do I ask this? I have no fucking clue. “You’re not hurting yourself or anything, right?”
“No, I said I’m fine,” she snaps, her voice louder and stronger than before. I pissed her off. Good. “Why does everyone make that assumption?”
“I don’t know—maybe because you’re not letting me in to see for myself,” I snap right back at her.
There’s another long silence, and shadows flicker in the gap beneath the door. She’s moving in the room.
“I pushed the table to block the door,” she says quietly. “When he was banging on the door.”
I feel a flicker of temper rising. There was no need for him to bang on the door. So he had scared her. And then tipped himself 150 percent.
Asshole. I’m definitely going to make some calls tomorrow.
“I don’t think I’m ready to pull it away yet,” she says with a hint of defiance, as if she’s expecting me to try to talk her into it.
But nope, I’m moving on to Plan B. “All right. Hang on a second.” I bend down and scoop the tray from the floor, juggling it with one hand while I fumble for my room key. I manage to get my door unlocked and shove it open with my foot, all somehow without spilling anything.
My room feels like a foreign land with a few familiar objects scattered around. The “suite” is really more of a slightly-larger-than-standard hotel room, with a half-wall dividing a small sitting area—couch, TV, mini-fridge—from the bedroom. My tablet is charging on the coffee table and my suitcase is on the floor of the bedroom, the top flap hanging open. I was only here a few minutes before Elise called to tell me the car was picking us up.
Thinking of Elise prompts me to check my reflection in the mirror above the couch to make sure she hasn’t smeared lipstick all over my mouth—that would be tough to explain—and then I pop the deadbolt on the adjoining room door and knock on the door to Amanda’s room. She has to flip the deadbolt on her side to let me in. And I’m hoping convincing her to do that will be an easier task than talking my way in from the hall.
“It’s me,” I say. “I’m in here alone. The door to the hall is shut, and no one else has a key.”
After a long pause, I hear the sounds of the deadbolt scraping back on her side and she cracks open the door to look up at me. Her hair is pulled into a sloppy ponytail now, with loose strands damp and curling around the edges of her face, as if she just splashed water on her cheeks. Her eyes are swollen and red, leaving no doubt as to her earlier tears.
“Except for a select number of groupies, but I assure you they’re carefully screened,” I add, to make her laugh. Though it wasn’t exactly untrue in the past.
She gives me a wary smile, opening the door a little wider. “I can’t tell if you’re joking.”
“Always,” I say. I hold out the tray with a dramatic flourish. “Dinner is served.”
She looks at the tray with both longing and reluctance.
“I wanted to open the door, you know,” she says fiercely, but makes no move to take the food. “For room service, I mean.”
It clicks then: she wants the burger, but she’s holding off, some part of her punishing herself for not being able to do more.
My stomach, detecting the scent of freshly cooked meat nearby, is not so indecisive and gives an embarrassingly loud growl. “Well, it’s here now, so eat up,” I say firmly, pushing the tray toward her.
Amanda steps back, making space for me to enter her room.
I hesitate on the threshold.
“Come on.” She waves me forward. “Sounds like you need to eat too.”
“I can live without eating protein bars, thanks.”
She smiles wryly. “Good thing. I don’t actually have any.”
I point at her with my free hand. “I knew it.”
She shrugs, dismissing the accusation. “I’ll share. You can have most of the fries, but half the burger is mine.”
I move past her and stop just inside the room, which is pretty similar to the bedroom part of my suite, only with two double beds instead of one king. A leather chair on wheels sits abandoned in the corner, the accompanying round table wedged firmly against the door on the opposite side of the room.
It must have taken some serious effort to drag that table into place. Serious effort or serious panic.
It also presents a problem because now I have no idea what to do with the tray. Her bag is on top of the dresser, and the only other flat surfaces in the room are beds.
She takes the tray from me, puts it down on the edge of the farther bed, and sits without hesitation. After lifting the lid on the plate, she promptly divides the hamburger into two ragged but mostly equal halves.
After a moment, she glances up at me with an expectant expression, so I sit across from her, which puts the tray and plenty of spac
e between us.
She peels back the bun on her half of the burger and lays out a tidy row of french fries in the layer of ketchup on the patty.
“What are you doing?” I ask, half intrigued and half revolted.
She raises her eyebrows. “Eating?”
“No, I mean with the fry … construction.”
“I like the taste,” she says with a shrug. “It all goes to the same place anyway.”
I make an exaggerated face. “Yeah, if you can get it there.”
She rolls her eyes, her mouth quirked in a small smile.
Taking my half of the burger, I make a point of eating a bite of it alone and then returning for a french fry.
Shaking her head, she puts the bun on her burger and digs in.
It’s quiet for a few moments, and it’s probably the most relaxed either of us has been all day.
But I have to ask: “Why did you lie?”
She goes still. “What?”
“Why not just tell me what happened with room service?”
Amanda puts her burger down and fidgets with the edge of the plastic wrap covering her water glass before answering. “I don’t want this to be my whole life, you know?” She looks up at me. “The more people who have to coddle me, the more it feels like this is going to be forever. I’m going to be ninety and still messed up.” She lets out a frustrated breath. “And I’m doing everything I can, even some off-the-wall stuff,” she adds pointedly, gesturing to the room around us. “But it never feels like enough. And talking about it, telling people what’s wrong, I’ve been doing that for literally years. It doesn’t help. They’re just words.”
The angry desperation in her voice strikes a chord in me.
Sometimes the hardest thing to live with is knowing that you can’t do anything. You can only push the wheels so far, make so many changes, but control is ultimately out of your hands.
At that point, really, all you can do is whatever you can to keep yourself from going crazy. I understand that, maybe too well.
I swallow a bite of hamburger and clear my throat. “You know how to throw a punch?”
