Sometime After Midnight

by L. Philips

  “I know that the song you wrote for your father wasn’t meant to be anything but a tribute to him. Perhaps a little bit of therapy for you, as well, right?”

  He nods. “Yeah. That’s a good way to describe it.”

  “Nate, it’s one of our best. Your best. It’s your best.”

  “And you want it on the demo.”

  I set my cup down. “I do, and I hate that I do, because I know how hard it will be for you. And I know I must seem heartless for asking.”

  “Why on earth would you seem heartless for that?” he asks, and I detect a hint of anger in his voice.

  “To use something so personal so that I can get a record deal? So that I can be the famous singer I want to be?”

  Nate looks as though I’ve punched him in the gut. “Are you kidding me with this?”

  I squeeze my eyes shut: one long flinch. Oh god. What did I do wrong? Think, Pierce, think. “. . . No?”

  “Cameron.” Nate’s voice is stern and I feel a scolding coming on. I also feel him fold my hands into his. “First of all, if I remember right, we’re partners. Music and otherwise. It’s not just your record deal. You’ve been very careful to make that clear over the past few days, so I have no idea why you’ve changed pronouns on me now. And it’s our song, not just mine. It might be about my dad, but I told you: you’re my voice. I can’t do it without you. And, Cameron, for the love of . . .” He gestures in frustration. “I have never once heard you mention fame in this whole equation. Recognition? Sure. Making your dreams come true? Absolutely. But fame? If that’s what you want, yeah. Go find yourself another guitarist. But that’s not what you want. I know that now. I know you. Singing is your passion. The rest of it can go to hell. So what’s up? Why are you saying these things?”

  The question rattles around in my head, and I don’t know what to say in answer. I don’t know how to explain how exploitive it feels to use the song about his father. From where I stand especially, the history between our families, it feels sickening and dirty.

  “Cameron,” Nate says, squeezing my hands hard. That gets my attention, and I look back into his dark eyes. “I swear to you, even if I’m angry, I’m not angry at you. I’m not angry at you for something you had nothing to do with. I did that for a while, and all it did was keep us from creating together. From being able to kiss you. And if I’m not angry at you, you’re not allowed to feel guilty about it either.”

  I shake my head. “It feels so selfish of me to ask.”

  At that, Nate gets up and pulls me up too, into his arms and a crushing hug. Then he presses his lips to mine, and all the sincerity and hope and passion he’s feeling inside come crashing into me as well, and the impact makes my fried nerves go still. He kisses me until I’m totally relaxed in his arms. Relaxed and happy.

  “You are anything but selfish, Cameron. You might be the least selfish person I know. How that’s a thing is beyond me, what with your fifty cars and ten houses and an entire staff at your disposal and all. But it’s a thing.” He kisses me again. This time just long and tantalizing enough to make me want to buck work and spend the rest of our day upstairs. But he pulls away far too soon. “And here’s the thing about art, Cameron. It hurts sometimes. And sometimes it’s best when it hurts. I think the song about my dad is one of those times. If we’re going to do this for real, we can’t be afraid to dig in and cry and rage.”

  “You’re right,” I say. “Even with the hardest stuff. Nate, thank you for—”

  I freeze.

  Nate’s brows scrunch together. “What? What’s wrong?”

  I nod down toward the beach, and slightly north. Nate follows my gaze and sucks in a breath. There, in the dunes, is a man with a camera. The lens is so big, pointed right at us, there’s no question what he’s trying to photograph.

  “Get inside,” I say, voice low so it won’t carry. With a nod, Nate slides open the glass door and steps inside. I glance once more down to the photographer and narrowly resist giving him the middle finger before I step inside with Nate. Instinctually, I dial Theo’s number, my phone pressed hard to my ear. In seconds, Theo and I come up with a plan and I end the call.

  “Theo is calling the police and checking security footage, but he thinks we should probably leave as soon as we can. I couldn’t tell if he was on our property or not, so it will be a toss-up as to whether we can pursue any action here, but . . . Nate, are you all right?”

  Nate is on the couch, doubled over, his head between his knees. He speaks, voice muffled. “What do you think he got? Us kissing? Will it look like we were fighting? What will they print?”

  I shake my head. “It doesn’t matter. It’s just the stupid tabloids.”

  “It matters to me,” Nate says, sitting up. “I don’t want people talking about my dad again, or thinking this is all some sort of weird revenge for my father, or reconciliation, even. I don’t want people to think that we’re anything but what we really are.”

  “Want me to go out there and give the photographer an interview? Because I can promise you, even if I tell him nothing but the truth, that’s not what the tabloids will print. That doesn’t sell.”

  “I know,” Nate says, resigned, and I can tell he’s on the verge of tears.

  I’m at a loss, and as sorry as I am that this is hurting him, I’m frustrated with how little I can do about it. “I mean, it’s already happened to you. Just from meeting me once. You knew this was a possibility, right? Now that we’re together? And working together?”

  “I know,” Nate says quietly. “It’s just . . . I thought we were safe here.”

  At that, my heart breaks in a hundred different ways. I sink to the floor next to him, kneeling, and fold his hands into mine. “Nate, I’m never safe. Anywhere. This is my life, no matter how much I try to avoid it, no matter how well Theo does his job. Because of who I am, people want to know things about me, and they don’t care about my privacy. And they don’t care about the privacy of anyone around me.”

  Nate swallows. “So you’re saying I can’t avoid it either.”

  “I wish I could tell you otherwise, but I can’t. That’s not how my life works, and if you want to be with me, not how yours will work either.” I swallow. Everything feels shaky. “Can you do this, Nate? Can you be with me?”

  Nate looks away from me, out to the beach, in the general direction of the photographer, if he’s still there. A long moment passes in complete silence, me hoping for some kind of assurance that Nate is up for the task of dating me, his eyes distant and sad. Maybe the silence is the answer.

  I nod to him, resigned, and say, “I’ll get us packed.”

  The silence that follows me upstairs is deafening.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Nate

  As we pull away from the beach house in Cameron’s Land Rover, I glance back one last time. The gorgeous house gets smaller and smaller, and from my vantage point, I can’t tell if there’s anyone down on the beach. Cameron circled the house once before telling me it was okay to get into the car, but I still didn’t feel like it was okay. I still felt like I was being watched.

  Cameron drives in silence. We don’t listen to music. Not the Jacket Zippers, not even our own recordings. Cameron’s hands remain at ten and two on the steering wheel, knuckles white, and I stare straight ahead. I don’t have any idea what to say to him. I can’t comfort him; I’m too unnerved to offer comfort to anyone. I’m too confused.

  A bright ringing makes me jump, and Cameron looks over at me apologetically. “It’s Parker. I should take that.”

  “Of course,” I say. My voice is gruff. It feels like I haven’t used it in days.

  Cameron hits a button on his steering wheel and his assistant’s voice is piped into the car. “Mr. Pierce, I’m afraid I have some bad news.”

  “If Nate and I are on TMZ, well, I’m sorry to disappoint, Parker, but we a
lready know. We saw the guy hiding in the freaking sand.”

  “No, sir. It’s about the masters.”

  Cameron pauses, looks over at me again, his face stoic. “Did you find them?”

  “I’m afraid not,” Parker answers. “There’s no record of them anywhere. Do you think it’s possible that your father had them destroyed?”

  I watch Cameron’s back straighten, his shoulders tightening with stress, and long to run my hands over his skin and calm him. “I would hope not, but I am not sure what my father is capable of. But I think a conversation with him about this is past due. About this and”—Cameron glances at me again—“a lot of other things.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. And you are on TMZ. I didn’t want to pile on, but if you knew already . . .”

  “Thanks,” Cameron says. “We’ll talk when I’m back at the office tomorrow.”

  Cameron hits a button on his steering wheel again and ends the call. He is chewing his bottom lip, which is a decidedly un-Cameron move.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before, Nate, but I wanted to have better news for you. I’ve been trying to track down your father’s master recordings for you, but they’ve disappeared.”

  Hearing this, two huge, conflicting emotions sweep over me. I’m at once elated that my father had recordings, and that Cameron was thoughtful and sweet enough to try to find them for me, and then wildly disappointed and bereft that they are missing.

  “Do you really think your father destroyed them?”

  Cameron keeps his eyes on the road. “I would like to think he wouldn’t do that, but I don’t know. If it’s okay with you, I want to talk to him today. I need to know what happened between my father and yours. Even if you don’t want to be with me or play for me anymore, I just have to know now.”

  I look at him, waiting for him to look back at me before I answer. “No, I think talking to your father is exactly what I need.”

  Cameron glances at the road before looking back at me, confused. “What do you mean?”

  “He was there, the night my father died. Maybe he can explain it. Maybe he can say something that will make me think this is okay.”

  “This?”

  I gesture back and forth between us. “This. You and me.”

  “And that’s what you need? Something that tells you your dad would be okay with you and me seeing each other? And playing together?”

  I nod. “The photographer . . . it wasn’t about being scared or an invasion of privacy. It reminded me who you are. I’d forgotten because we were in this amazing little bubble, just us, but the photographer reminded me.”

  “Someone famous.”

  “No,” I say. “Someone whose father may have driven mine to jump off a building.”

  Cameron’s face twists. “And what if my father admits he drove him to it?”

  “I don’t know. But it’s just as likely your dad could say that he didn’t, and I could know what really happened, and I have to risk knowing it’s bad if I’m going to know at all.”

  “Then we’ll go back to my house and call. He won’t even know you’re there. I’ll put him on speaker. Sound good?”

  It sounds great, because Cameron dropping me off at my house will make for a thousand questions from Tonya I’m not ready to deal with, so I nod and text Victor to be ready to pick me up in a few hours.

  “Cameron?” He tears his eyes from the road again and looks at me. “I know this isn’t going to be easy for you. So thank you.”

  “Sometimes the only thing is the hard thing,” Cameron says. “I have another hard thing. Can you promise me something?”

  “What’s that?” I ask. My heart thumps hard in my chest.

  “Whatever you decide about us, working together and . . . otherwise . . . please don’t let my father be the deciding factor. He’s not a kind man, Nate. He won’t take kindly to me even asking about your dad, no matter what he has to say. But I can promise you I’m trying very hard not to be like him. So please, give me the chance to prove to you that I’m not like him.”

  “I know. And I promise,” I say, because I can try my hardest to keep an open mind, but I don’t know how to tell him that even though I know he’s different, I can’t separate him from his father either.

  “Thank you,” Cameron says, and we are silent all the way to Beverly Hills.

  Cameron

  Tess is outside waiting when we pull up to the house. I’m only halfway out of the vehicle when she flings herself at me.

  “Please tell me it went well,” she whispers in my ear.

  “It did. Until today.”

  She pulls away from me, frowning, but when Nate comes around to our side of the car she forces her face into a smile. False smiles look even more false on Tess’s pretty face. “I’m sorry. I was hoping the seclusion of the beach house would be enough. I didn’t get back until today myself; otherwise I would have tried something else.”

  “What could you have done?” I ask, then narrow my eyes at her. “Where have you been? Don’t tell me New York with Taylor . . .”

  “Not with Taylor, but I did go to New York. Scouting out a few places for my foundation’s headquarters is all.” As nervous as she is for my situation right now, she’s all smiles about her work, and my heart is warm for her. She turns to Nate. “I’m really sorry, Nate. I’m sure the photographer being there was upsetting for you. Comes with the territory, I guess.”

  “I guess,” Nate says. The distant look is back in his eyes.

  I try to smile at Tess. “I need to call Father. We’re going to use the office for a while.”

  “Are you sure you want to do that?” Tess asks. “He’s probably seen the pictures by now.”

  “I know. And I’m sure I’ll get ripped a new one for being indiscreet.”

  “It’s more than that.” Tess looks between me and Nate, absolutely forlorn. “Haven’t you seen it yet? The headline is ‘Mick Grisheimer’s son in love with father’s enemy.’”

  I rub my temples, trying in vain to ward off an inevitable headache. “Well, that’s a little on the nose.”

  Nate, for what it’s worth, doesn’t look any more upset at this than before. I guess at this point, he’d probably assumed the worst. I try to give him a reassuring smile, then say to Tess, “Well, Father and I have a lot to talk about, and the least of it is what the tabloids publish. I suppose we should get this over with?”

  Nate doesn’t look at all sure, but he nods. Then he turns to Tess. “I should warn you. I have a friend coming to pick me up. Victor. He’ll be here any minute now, and let’s just say he’s a little obsessed with you and you may want to be far away when he comes. Like Canada.”

  Tess laughs, touches Nate on the shoulder, and says, “Oh, I love my fans! I’ll take care of him, don’t worry.”

  “Go easy on him, that’s all I ask,” Nate says. “He eats nothing but carbs and junk food. You’re liable to give him a heart attack.”

  As Tess goes back into the house, excited to meet an adoring fan, I turn to Nate. “Ready?”

  Nate looks pale and sickly. “I’m not sure. No. Yes. Yes, I’m ready.”

  “Okay,” I say, but I don’t feel ready either. Because despite Nate’s promise, I feel like he’s already decided, and all my father’s words will do is seal the deal.

  * * *

  ***

  My father has been on the line for almost fifteen minutes and hasn’t yet mentioned Nate, or Mick, or the photos spreading through the internet gossip sites like an STD. He’s grilling me about Paradise, instead. About Luke’s career, the Jacket Zippers, and everything else I’ve done. I feel like I’m being interviewed for a job or, rather, being reviewed, but at least he seems clueless about the tabloids.

  “It’s going to take a while in London because there was a merger last year. It’s got everything tied up in red tape an
d I think it’s testing even Rosenbaum’s skills,” Father says, moving on to his own business, mentioning Paradise’s top international law attorney in passing. “I’ll be joining him there tomorrow, of course, but if he can’t fix it, I’m not sure there’s much hope.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say lamely. Listening to this, it’s hitting me more than ever that Father’s life isn’t the life for me. I roll my eyes and Nate covers his mouth to muffle a laugh.

  “Never mind that. For what it’s worth, your mother is enjoying this trip. I don’t believe I’ve ever spent so much money on mud treatments.” He draws in a breath. Distantly I can hear some kind of music. Perhaps a sitar or something. On these types of trips, my father often gets wooed grandly, so I’m sure he’s indulging in Dubai’s finest whatever at the moment. “Now, the more pressing issue . . .”

  Here it comes. He’s seen the pictures and I’m about to get a verbal beating.

  “How is Tess doing with her accounts?”

  I slump over with relief, and so does Nate.

  “Great,” I answer. “Better than me, really.”

  “How so?”

  I try to think like my father so that I can give him the kind of answer he wants. “She’s very organized. Very detail-oriented. She anticipates the needs of our artists long before anyone else does. And she’s like you with marketing. Tess is ten steps ahead with that, asking how we can sell an artist, where can they tour, should we have them on SNL or Ellen.”

  “And you don’t think that way?”

  Well, shit. That’s a fine corner I’ve put myself into. I look to Nate and he shrugs as if to say, “I can’t help you here; you’re on your own.”

  “Not like she does. Not as fast and not as far ahead.”

  “But do you think she wants this?”

  I hesitate, but then tell him the truth. “No. I think she has big plans for herself. And I think those plans are perfect for her talents.” My father makes a humming sound, and I can’t tell if he’s agreeing or extremely disappointed. “May I ask why you want to know?”