I stared at him, trying to get my head around this.
He pushed down on my shoulders. "Fine, forty, but that's it."
I felt sick and embarrassed and humiliated that he'd thought I was holding out for more money not shocked by what he'd asked, and I still let him drive me to my knees, because I also felt like I deserved it. I'd let my best friend die. This would be nothing. Not even close to enough penance.
He unzipped his jeans and pushed down his underwear, and it fell against my cheek. "Get to it," he said, his voice suddenly furious.
Terror and revulsion filled me, but I took him into my mouth and did what little I knew how to do. Instead of getting harder, though, he lost his half-erection. The soft feel of him in my mouth revolted me even more but I didn't know what to do so I kept going, tears pouring down my face with the rain.
What if someone from school walked by and saw us? There'd been talk after Giselle's prom-night pregnancy, but this would blow that out of the water. Amy down on her knees in the drug alley for some random man.
I gagged at the thought and he dug his hand hard into my hair. "Don't puke on it, damn you. Get going."
I tried, but if possible he got even softer, and after another few moments of blinding regret and self-hatred on my part he pushed me away. I fell against the wall and he stuffed himself back into his jeans and re-zipped. "Useless," he said, looking down at me with a sneering smile and cold brown eyes. "I thought you high school girls were all sluts. You obviously are, you're just no good at it."
Before I could speak, although I didn't have a clue what to say, he pulled two bills from his pocket and deliberately dropped them into a puddle. "Not that you deserve it. But there."
And he walked away, leaving me on my knees on the rain-soaked ground.
When I'd finished typing the bare bones of it to Tim, I stared down at my lap, my throat tight with tears. I'd never told a soul. I'd left the money there, since the only thing worse than what I'd already done would be actually taking the cash, and walked home so I'd be drenched through and my wet knees wouldn't be noticeable, then threw out all of my clothes and took the hottest shower I could manage, washing out my mouth again and again. I'd been determined to put it behind me, and I had. Except that I hadn't let any man deep-kiss me, or put anything in my mouth, since.
Tim laid his hands on the keyboard but didn't type.
Eventually, though I was terrified of what I'd see, I turned to him.
The compassion on his face made me lose control, and I pressed my fingertips to my mouth as tears began to fall.
He murmured, "Can I hug you?"
I nodded, desperate for comfort and contact, and he pushed the armrest between our seats up out of the way then slipped an arm around my shoulders and drew me closer so he could hold me with both arms. I clung to him, burying my face in his shoulder, biting my lip so I wouldn't sob out loud as I cried, and he rubbed my back gently and whispered, "I'm so sorry. For all of it."
I stayed in the circle of his arms for what must have been several minutes, letting his support and strength sink into me, until I'd recovered enough to stop crying. I drew back a little and whispered, "Thank you."
He kept one arm around me and reached for the computer with the other. "No need to thank me," he typed with one hand. "I thought you were brave and tough before. Now I know you're brave beyond belief."
His eyes held mine and I knew he hadn't chosen those last words, words I'd written, by accident. "You heard that song? From my CD?"
He nodded. "Bought it after we started working together. Maybe you should go back to that style. It's great, Amy. You're great."
My heart clenched, and my lips shaped the words, "I'm a whore."
He shook his head, his eyes suddenly blazing, and pulled his arm from around me so he could type faster. The computer's keys had never been hit so hard. "The hell you are. That guy is a pervert and an asshole and if I ever meet him I'll be delighted to kick his ass. You were a mixed-up teenager and he took advantage of you. You are so not that. I can't type it. Don't even think it."
His passion touched me, and I thought he was sincere, but I had to know for sure. I had to type, though I could barely find the nerve, "You don't think I'm disgusting?"
He said softly, "Look at me."
I did, and his eyes answered my question. I was already crying again before he said, "Never," and he wrapped his arms around me as I burrowed into him.
I rested my head on his shoulder, feeling safe and warm in his arms, and he squeezed me close and held me until my tears stopped before saying, "Want to get some sleep?"
I'd never thought telling would make such a difference, but it did. I didn't feel alone any more, and his outrage with Shawn made it easier to feel less outrage at myself. "I think so."
He released me so he could close the computer and put it away, then shut off the overhead light.
Without his embrace, I felt cold and miserable, and I hoped he'd offer to hold me again.
He gave me a small sad smile in the dim light of the plane. "Want to use my shoulder as a pillow rest?"
Our eyes met and held. I searched his as best I could but truly saw nothing but sympathy. He really didn't think less of me.
I nodded, relieved in so many ways, and he slid his arm around me. I put my pillow against him and snuggled into it, and him, as he drew me closer.
"I'm glad I told you," I said softly.
He squeezed me tighter. "Good night, Amy."
I shut my eyes and relaxed against him. If he didn't think less of me, maybe I didn't have to think less of myself.
Chapter Twenty-One
Oh, the beauty of the first concert after that flight. I'd enjoyed my other shows, but compared to this one I'd been wearing a blindfold and earplugs for all of them. Now I could really see and hear what was happening. And feel it too. The buzzing energy backstage beforehand, the thrill of leading my dancers and musicians through the songs, the sheer power of so many people cheering and shouting my name... I'd felt it before but now it ran so much deeper.
Telling Tim had helped, of course. Not carrying the truth alone any more made me feel less numb and sad and more able to feel the excitement of the concert. I couldn't shake my sense of shame at what I'd done with Shawn all those years ago but the support in Tim's eyes meant it didn't sicken me quite as much. We spent the last hour of the flight working on a song, my words flowing like there had never been anything holding them back, and we were delighted with what we wrote. Yes, telling Tim had made a huge difference.
But so had deciding that I wanted the career after all. I'd worked hard at everything that had been thrown at me so far, but I hadn't been taking it seriously. Now I was, and that made being on stage feel different. Deeper, more real.
I didn't think much about the center during the three weeks we spent in Europe. I thought about my music, and about ways to improve my performances. Steven came over to join us after first taking care of some other singers at home and he and I spent hours together watching videos of my shows and working to make them even better. When I wasn't with Steven, or doing interviews or meeting and signing autographs for my ecstatic fans, I was with Tim creating new songs. I lived and breathed music the entire time and I truly loved every moment.
In fact, I made a special effort not to think about the center, because when I did everything began to feel wrong. My music seemed fluffy and irrelevant in the face of the dream Giselle and I had shared, and I hated feeling that way about it so I kept pushing the center from my mind.
I knew I'd have to think about it eventually, though, and I had no idea how I'd set the music aside, set aside the glow and happiness it gave me and my fans, and make the center a reality.
Chapter Twenty-Two
"Whatcha typing?"
Tim turned the computer so I couldn't see. "Nothing."
I blinked. "Sorry. Thought it might be a new song."
He shook his head. "It's nothing."
Trying not to feel hurt
that he was shutting me out, I said, "Okay. Sorry. Want a bottle of water for the flight?"
"That'd be great." He dug for his wallet but I shook my head and took off to the first-class lounge's convenience store before he could give me money. He'd been so wonderful to me as we toured Europe, the least I could do was get him some water.
He had worked with me whenever I could spare a few minutes then spent the rest of his time alone writing songs for other singers, and even Angel had grudgingly told him he'd created a great song for her. He had, but he wrote better ones with me. Still Misty-appropriate, but with depth and subtleties that most of my fans might not pick up but a few definitely would. We'd had a great time together in Europe, pushing each other to greater heights as we worked, and I'd never forget it.
But the last few days of the tour, which coincided with the last few days of July, had found Tim getting steadily more distant and distracted. I didn't know why, and my gentle questioning hadn't yielded any information, but I knew I was right and something was wrong. I could feel it, just like he'd been able to tell I was still upset about Shawn.
I bought the water then sat near Tim as he typed and frowned and backspaced and retyped, keeping myself busy by reading my email. Cindy had sent me the results of an interview I'd done the previous week. The article had been written in German and she'd used some web site to translate it to English, and while the writing was awkward as a result the sense of what I'd said came through.
No, I don't over my songs have full control. I have a saying, of course, but I have to do what wants the label. Fortunately we nearly always in agreement are.
I'd left out, and the interviewer hadn't asked, what happened when we in agreement weren't. Of course Jo got her way. But when I set up the center I wouldn't have to answer to anyone but myself.
That reminded me of the correspondence course lurking in my laptop. We had forty-five minutes before boarding, so I opened the introductory file and began reading. I couldn't concentrate, though, with all the people moving around me, and gave up after two pages. I'd have to get back to it when I could have peace and quiet. Instead I set to work on a song I'd been putting together.
"Hey!" I looked up, startled, to see Tim smiling at me. "Planning to stay in Europe?"
A quick glance around showed me Jo and Angel and the others about to give the airline worker their tickets and passports. "Sorry, I didn't realize it was time."
I quickly packed up my stuff, pleased with what I'd written, and we were soon settled in our comfy plane seats. I was fast getting used to flying first class. Angel was across the aisle from us, but once the plane took off she put on headphones and began watching a rival actress's latest movie with a frown.
Tim pulled out his laptop and I said, "I have a song to show you. Well, part of one."
"Can I see it later? Got stuff to do."
He'd never refused to see my work, and I had a brief flash of wondering whether he had come to disapprove of me after all before realizing he never would. I couldn't put into words, or even into thought, how I knew this, but I did. He'd meant every word he said to me, and every word he'd typed, about my encounter with Shawn, and I just knew he'd never turn on me. So I pushed aside my disappointment and said, "Of course."
I tackled the song's last verse while Tim typed and backspaced and typed again, then jumped when he snapped his laptop shut with unnecessary force.
"Sorry." He glanced around at the rest of our group, who were all engrossed in movies or books or their laptops, then leaned closer and said again, "Sorry. I've been a bit of a jerk today."
I shook my head. "I shouldn't assume everything you're doing is about me."
He gave me a sad smile. "Wish it was. Look, don't tell anyone, but I'm writing a novel."
All those words, hopefully coming to some sort of point at the end? "That's a huge project. Good for you!"
He didn't seem to think it was, though, and my enthusiasm faded as he leaned back in his seat and said, "I hate it."
"Writing or just how this book is going?"
"I like to write songs," he said, quietly but with force. "Not books. I've loved the last few weeks, doing nothing but songs. It's been incredible."
I waited for him to answer the obvious question. When he didn't, I said, "Then, um, why are you writing a novel?"
He studied me a moment then said, "You don't know who my parents are, do you?"
I shook my head. Why would I?
"Carl Frost and Diana Tarcher."
Separately and together, the authors of a huge number of recent bestsellers, powerfully literary but still fun to read. I'd read most of their books and loved them. "Ah."
"Yeah. They think I'm writing a novel. They expect me to."
I was missing something here. "But you are writing one. So that's good, right?"
He gave a grunt that was almost but not quite a laugh. "Should be." He looked at me. "Can I tell you something nobody else knows?"
"After what I told you? Of course."
He sighed. "Today's the end of the month."
I nodded slowly, not sure where he was going.
"I have lunch with my parents once a month, usually at the beginning, and they always want to know how my novel's coming along. If I can't tell them anything that's changed in the last month, they're disappointed and they tell me to get to work. They think I'm brilliant."
He paused to take a breath and I said, "Honestly, I agree with them. You've seriously got a way with words."
He shook his head. "With songs, maybe. With stories, not at all. But they so want me to follow in their footsteps, quit 'this goofy song-writing thing' and be a 'real author'." His emphasis on the words his parents had obviously said hurt me to hear. "And I can't disappoint them."
The pieces fell into place. "So you put time into the book once a month so you'll have something to tell them."
He nodded. "We're having lunch tomorrow. I've been planning to work on the book for the last three days but I just couldn't make myself. So I had to do it today." He gave me a twisted smile. "I've spent about three hours on it today and I have just under two hundred words."
Not even a page. I'd seen him write an entire song's first draft in ten minutes. "Is that enough for them?"
"Oh, yeah. I tell them how hard I worked on it and they commiserate with me and they figure we're all on the same page." He grimaced. "So to speak."
"Do they read it?"
He shook his head. "I told them I wanted to keep it to myself until it was done and they were fine with that. So I just tell them how it's going."
"And then you're okay for another month."
He nodded. "Free to write songs without feeling like I'm disappointing my parents."
I gave his shoulder a squeeze, and he said, "Kind of lame compared to... what you told me. Right?"
I shook my head. "Not at all. Not as shameful as my thing, but—"
"You shouldn't feel ashamed," he said at once. "We talked about that. Remember?"
I remembered every detail of that plane trip. I'd remember them forever. I did still feel shame, but thanks to Tim I had hope that maybe someday I wouldn't. "Yes, sir, I do."
He smiled and snapped me a salute.
His saluting usually seemed weird but today it seemed adorable. I returned it, the first time I'd done that, then said, "Anyhow, not lame. You've got something you want to do and people expect you to do something else. It's tough." I sighed. "Believe me, I get it."
He raised his eyebrows and I explained about the center and how my dreams of it were conflicting with the reality of how much I loved singing, ending with, "And I need to get a social work degree to get it going and I've done nothing even though I have an intro course on my computer."
He frowned. "Wouldn't you need a business degree more?"
A sudden rage ripped through me. "No, I wouldn't. It's a social work kind of thing so that's the degree I'd need. Don't you think I've thought it through?"
His eyes widened and I shut m
ine as regret and confusion wiped out my anger. "Sorry, Tim. Sorry. I don't know what that was." I opened my eyes. "I'm just frustrated, I guess. Things always seem to be getting in my way and I can't figure out what I should be doing."
"Yeah, I hear you," he said. "We really need to live our lives on our own terms, don't we?"
"Definitely."
He held out a hand. "Let's shake on it. We'll work together to figure out how to make it happen."
I took his hand, noticing as I did how warm and strong it felt in mine, and we shook. "Absolutely."
We set to work on a song, neither of us pointing out the obvious: we had no idea how to live on our own terms.
Chapter Twenty-Three
"Well, it has to be moved now, so grab her keys. Or I'll do it."
I didn't want to, but I'd heard enough tales from Jez of Jo's dreadful driving to know Cindy might prefer me in the driver's seat.
Cindy must have been somewhere in the building since her purse was still there, but I couldn't find her, and she'd apparently forgotten that the parking lot beneath Sapphire Angel's building was being washed in the afternoon. Her car, which should have been parked on the street, was holding up the cleaners and they were giving Jo a hard time.
I sighed and found Cindy's keys in her purse, hoping she wouldn't mind, then headed down to move the car. The cleaners glared at me but I smiled and said, "Moving my friend's car," and hopped into the rusty sedan before they could say anything.
When I started the car, the CD player kicked in, surprising me in more than one way. The music filling the car was "Out Loud". Not Misty's version. The one from my CD.
The song had started at the beginning, and I drove carefully out into the street-level visitor parking area and then waited until it finished, enjoying listening to my song for the first time in ages. It wasn't as glossy as Misty's recording but I still loved it. I was about to go back to the start of the song so it would be the way Cindy had left it when the next song started. Again "Out Loud". I flicked through the tracks of her CD. Every last one, the same song.
Toronto Collection Volume 2 (Toronto Series #6-9) Page 11
