Beyond the Stars

by Stacy Wise

  “I don’t deny. I just limit, thank you very much. And I have coffee already.”

  He tucks into the cake, a look of satisfaction on his face. I’m not going to lie; I take it as a compliment. Seeing people enjoy my baking warms my heart. As he eats, he tears open the FedEx envelope that Shawn delivered and removes a stack of magazines. It looks like there’s a note on top. I watch his face as he scans it.

  “Fuck!” He slams the magazines face down on the island and runs a hand through his hair before resting it on the back of his neck.

  I sit perfectly still, bracing myself for a full-on meltdown. The highs and lows of this job are going to kill me.

  “Goddamn this shit!”

  “You okay?” I ask quietly.

  “No.” He meets my eyes with a glazed look. “I’m so fucking sick of this. I need to make a call. In private. Can you walk Leo for me?”

  “Yeah.” His frustration crashes around the room, making me want to rush after it with a broom and dustpan, so I can collect it and throw it away.

  Jack hands me a box of raisins. “Take these with you in case he gets feisty.” He finishes snapping Leo into a harness and hands me the leash. “Stay away from Sunset, and don’t let him linger near the neighbor’s house to the south. She’s already on me for having a pet pig.”

  “Got it.” I’m about to walk out, but I pause and say, “I don’t know what that was all about, but if there’s anything I can do, just let me know, okay?”

  He nods and turns back into the house.

  Chapter Nine

  The fresh fall air greets us as we step outside. The sun is shining, and I’m taking a nice morning walk in the beautiful Hollywood Hills. We reach the end of the long driveway and turn onto the street. There are no sidewalks, so I stick close to the edge of the road. The heady smell of jasmine surrounds me as Leo scampers at my feet. He seems just as happy to be out of the house as I am. Maybe he could sense that Jack was upset. A car whizzes by, and I gather the slack in the leash, not wanting Leo to dart out.

  We head up the street, passing a beautiful modern home. It’s huge—bigger than Jack’s—with cool angular windows. I wonder what it looks like on the inside. I bet it’s a work of art. Leo’s wail startles me out of my house viewing. He’s turning in frantic circles, making all kinds of noise. “What’s wrong, buddy? Did something scare you?”

  I inspect the ground, trying to see if he stepped on something sharp, but all I see is dirt and gravel. As I try to pick up a hoof, he lets out one of his blood-curdling screams. “Jesus, Leo. You’re freaking me out.” I remember the raisins and hand him a few. He perks right up. Okay. I’ve got this. We resume our walk, and I try to focus more on where Leo is stepping and less on the pretty houses.

  As we walk up the street, I rattle off the names of the trees we pass. If I don’t know what they are, I describe them to him. He’s a great listener. We turn a corner, and a girl wearing bright pink running shorts walks toward us with six dogs of all shapes and sizes. “Look at the cute pups, Leo!” I’ve never seen someone handle so many dogs at one time. There’s a beautiful golden retriever, two white fluffy things that look like barking bedroom slippers, a Labrador, a basset hound, and a Chihuahua. “We should say hi.” I stride toward the dogs, but Leo bolts in the opposite direction, taking me by complete surprise. Before my mind can process what’s happening, I’m dragged forward, with no time to brace myself. I pitch toward the ground, landing hard, the rough gravel tearing the bare skin on my elbow and ripping through the knee of my pants. Somehow, I have the wherewithal to hold onto Leo’s leash. There’s no way I’m letting him escape. Tears spring to my eyes. Leo wails and screams in an absolute panic. I try to reel him in, but it’s impossible. He’s running in circles, making so much noise that I’m afraid the neighbors are going to come rushing from their houses. Poor thing. He’s terrified. I want to help him, but my arm is on fire and my left knee is pulsing with pain.

  The girl and her dogs jostle toward me. “Are you okay?” she yells. As they approach, the dogs bark and yank at their leashes. Leo looks like he’s jumping on red-hot coals. Wree! Wree! Wree!

  The girl realizes what’s going on as soon as I do. She yanks her brood to the opposite side of the road with impressive authority and yells, “Do you need me to get someone for you? Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. Thanks.” I try to keep my voice steady. There’s really nothing she can do.

  “I’m sorry about that,” she shouts from across the street. “I didn’t know.”

  “Me, neither.”

  She continues down the street, a confident spring in her step. I look at my crumpled self on the dirty ground and feel fresh tears forming. “Come on, Leo. It’s okay. I have raisins. Come on, buddy.” I don’t know if I want him over here so I can comfort him, or so he can comfort me. He finally zigzags over and gobbles the raisins I offer. I rub his back and lumber to my feet, brushing away the gravel and dirt as best as I can. My arm is skinned raw and bleeding. A lump rises in my throat again. “Shit. This hurts.” Leo nudges me, wanting more raisins. He seems to have forgotten about the dogs already.

  “Come on. Let’s get you home.” I pull his leash close to me and hobble toward the house. Oh my God. How am I going to explain this one? This will send Jack over the edge. Maybe I can sneak into the bathroom and clean myself up before he sees us. I wipe the tears from my face. My left leg burns where it’s scraped. As much as I hate to admit it, I’m a big baby. Flesh wounds completely freak me out, especially when it’s my flesh that is wounded. We reach Jack’s house, and I punch in the code to open the gate. Leo prances through it like a little show piglet, as if nothing bad occurred.

  At the top of the driveway, I stop short. Jack is right there. One of his motorcycles sits on a faded blue tarp in front of him. I try to sneak past him, but it’s almost like he senses something is amiss. Just as I’m about to walk through the door, he jogs over. “How’d it go?” He looks from Leo to me, and I adjust my body so he can’t see my left side.

  “Hi.” I avoid his eyes. “It went great.”

  He looks at my face, and then his gaze rests on my arm. “Wait a sec. What happened to you?”

  I’m surprised by his concerned tone. I was certain he’d snap. “It’s nothing. I’m okay.”

  He takes my arm in his hand, his movements gentle. I squeeze my eyes shut, desperate not to cry in front of him. If only the ground would open up and swallow me right now.

  “Jessica, really. What happened? This looks bad.”

  The kindness in his voice wraps around me like a blanket. I try to take a deep breath, but it comes out in a sob. “I fell.”

  “Well, yeah, I can see that,” he says with a half grin. “But how? It looks like you were dragged behind a car.”

  That makes me laugh. It’s probably my shattered nerves. “I was actually dragged behind a pig. Your little piglet packs some serious power.”

  “Leo did this? How?” He takes the leash from my hand.

  “There were these dogs, and I—”

  “Oh, shit. I forgot to warn you about dogs.” He places his hand on my good arm. “I’m sorry. Let’s get you fixed up,” he says, helping me to the house.

  We reach the kitchen, and he pulls out a barstool for me then scoots Leo through the sliding door to the backyard. I look around, trying to find something to focus on to distract me from the pain. My eyes land on the stack of magazines that arrived this morning.

  Jack is busy scrubbing his hands at the kitchen sink, and my gaze drifts to the note that sits next to the magazines. I shouldn’t read it. But I don’t stop myself.

  Jack, Straight up, I don’t know how to reconcile the person I know and the asshole in these articles. That person isn’t you, but I’m beginning to wonder what’s going on out there. I love you no matter what, but I think you need to manage this. Xo, J

  Thoughts blast through my mind. He’s not the person in the articles? And who’s “J”? Maybe it’s a girlfriend. I let out
a breath. As strange as it is, I feel jealous that she knows a private side of Jack—the one who isn’t an asshole.

  He flicks off the water and pulls a first-aid kit out from under the sink.

  I scramble for something to say. Guilt pings through me, making me jumpy. I point to the first-aid kit. “That’s quite a professional-looking setup you’ve got there. Did you play a doctor in a movie?”

  He looks at me. “No. I wanted to be an EMT. I was all signed up to do the training, but one thing led to another, and I ended up here.”

  I’m kind of shocked. I would never have pegged him as a community helper. I assumed he was more like the school bully. As much as I want to ask what was the one thing that led to the other, I decide to repress my curiosity. I’ve been a big enough snoop already. My dad calls me nosy, while my mom always defends me—No, she’s not nosy, Carl. She’s a people person. She is naturally curious about others. They’re probably both right.

  He hops up onto the barstool next to me. “Can you rest your arm on the counter for me?”

  He’s going to doctor me up? Oh, no. No, no, no. “I can put Bactine on it. You really don’t need to bother with this. I’m fine.”

  He ignores me and takes my arm, positioning it on the countertop. The cold tile feels good against my skin. He turns the cut side toward him, inspecting it closely.

  “I was thinking of using peroxide, but now I think we should rinse it with water first. I’m sure you don’t want a nasty scar. Stay there.” I consider making a run for it to the bathroom so I can clean it myself, but before I attempt my getaway, he’s back with a turkey baster in his hand. He gently lifts my arm and places a towel under it, then lays it back down. I expected him to move in the way that I imagine an army doctor would—quick, efficient, and not concerned if I’m in pain. Surprisingly, he’s the complete opposite. His touch is tender as he begins saturating my cut with water. I clench my teeth, waiting for the pain to intensify, but it never does. He dabs at the wound between squirts, and I start to relax since he really does seem to know what he’s doing.

  “I think we’re okay without using peroxide, but if you start to feel throbbing or severe pain, you should put some on. You don’t want this to get infected.”

  He dots on antibiotic ointment and wraps my arm with gauze. “If I were you, I’d put vitamin E oil on it twice a day. I have some you can take with you.”

  “Okay. Thanks.” I look at my bandaged arm. He did a good job. I don’t know if he noticed my leg or not, but I almost want him to take care of that, too. It’s oddly nice to have his help, but I can’t ask. When he leaves to finish doing whatever he was doing to his motorcycle, I can fix it up myself.

  “If you want to wash your face, there are towels in the bathroom.”

  I touch my face, trying to feel for a scrape. “I didn’t cut it, did I?”

  “No. You, um…you have a little mascara below your eyes. Just there.” He brushes a finger below my right eye.

  I move my hand to where his just was. His eyes meet mine, but I look away. “Um, thanks. Apparently, smeared mascara is my new look. I’ll go find that towel.” I scoot off the barstool and cringe as I land. My leg feels like hundreds of fiery needles are poking it. Determined to ignore the pain, I head toward the bathroom.

  When I reach the living room, Jack’s footsteps sound behind me. “Were you going to tell me about your leg?”

  “Actually, no.” I continue walking.

  And then I’m not. He’s scooped me off the ground. “What the hell are you doing?” I ask, wriggling.

  “I feel bad that something I asked you to do caused this, okay? I’m going to help you. Humor me.”

  “I can walk, you know. You don’t have to carry me like I’m an invalid.” I look around and realize we’re going down the forbidden hallway.

  “Okay. In a second.”

  “I won’t sue you for workman’s comp. And I don’t blame you for this. We’re good. You can go ahead and set me down now.”

  He chuckles and continues down the hall without saying a word. Maybe his back will give out and he’ll drop me. We pass room after room until we reach the door at the end of the corridor. He finally sets me down and places his hand on my lower back as he gently guides me inside. Oh my God. It’s his room. It has to be. I’m in Jack McAlister’s bedroom. Wow. I bet a million girls would kill to trade places with me right now. Or maybe a million girls have already been here.

  He pats the bed. “Have a seat. I need to grab a few things from the bathroom.”

  I sit on the very edge of his gorgeous iron-framed bed and steal a look around the room. Framed photographs sit atop his dresser, and I squint, trying to make out the people in the photos, but I’m too far away. A guitar stands in the corner next to a pretty tiled fireplace.

  Jack returns, his arms full of thick white hand towels and a variety of tubes and bottles. He lines everything on the bed. “All right. Let’s take a look.” He kneels in front of me and peers at the cut through the tear in my pants. “I’m not going to be able to fix this with your pants on. Do you want to go ahead and take them off for me?”

  I don’t know what comes over me, but I start to laugh. Like an embarrassing I-can’t-stop-laughing laugh.

  “What’s so funny?” he asks, a grin tugging at his face.

  “You just asked me to take off my pants.” I pause, trying to swallow my laughter. Don’t make a fool of yourself, Jessica. Think of the pain. Think of your aching leg. “I just… I’m sure that’s a normal thing you’d ask women in this setting,” I say, waving my hand around his room, “but I think it’s funny.”

  His face transforms from amused to something I don’t quite understand.

  “You have no idea what does or does not go on in here, so I don’t appreciate your comments.”

  His words sting. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  He nods. “Apology accepted. Would you rather I cut off your pants at the knee? They’re already torn, so I guess it won’t matter. It’s up to you. I’ll pay for your clothes, by the way.”

  I start to tell him he doesn’t have to, but stop. These are my favorite black pants. And it’s not like it’ll kill him to pay for them. Forever 21 isn’t exactly Armani or Chanel. “I’d rather not walk around in one-legged pants today. It’s fine. I’ll take them off,” I say, attempting to adopt his all-business attitude. “Just…turn around. Don’t move until I say it’s okay.”

  “Yep.” He turns his back to me.

  I keep my eyes on him, as though my stare will force him to stay put. My gaze travels to the contours of his back muscles, which show through his shirt. There’s no denying he has a hot body. I start to peel down my pants and have to stop at the tear in the knee. It didn’t cross my mind that I’d have to get the top part of my pants over the cut. Some fibers from the rip are stuck in my torn flesh. My body grows hot. I puff shallow breaths and focus on removing the tiny threads from my cut, but I can’t do it. Tears pool in my eyes. “Shit.”

  “Everything okay there?” Jack asks. He turns his head slightly, but not enough to look at me.

  “No. I need your help,” I say, trying my best to sound casual. He starts to turn around and I panic. “Wait! Just wait a second,” I shout as I fumble to grab the lush white blanket that sits at the end of his bed. Careful not to let any of it touch my knee, I drape it across my lap. “Okay. Now it’s fine.”

  “You sure?” he asks, his back still to me.

  “Yes. Fine.”

  He turns slowly. “You’re not going to yell again, are you?”

  “No.” I wish I could throw one of the pretty taupe pillows that sit on his bed at him.

  He faces me, and his gaze lands on the blanket covering my lap before it drops to my knee. “What do you need help with?”

  I glance at my knee and start to feel queasy again. “My pants are stuck to my leg, and I can’t take them off.”

  He kneels closer. “Damn. You’re really torn up here.”

 
; “Can you not give me the details, please? I’m not feeling so good right now.”

  He must see the anguish on my face. “Here,” he says, grabbing one of the fluffy pillows that I’d wanted to chuck at him. He places it on the bed behind me.

  I have no fight left in me. I don’t protest when he places one hand on my back, and the other on my neck as he guides my body so my head lands softly on the pillow. His eyes are on mine, but I can’t tell what he’s thinking. His hand gently brushes the hair from my face. The soft touch startles me. It feels better than I care to admit. I exhale a shaky breath.

  He must think I’m going to cry again, because he says in a soothing voice, “It’ll be okay. I’ll take care of you.” He pulls away and moves back down to my knee, where he begins the task of getting the threads out of my cut.

  My hands ball into fists. I squeeze my eyes shut and attempt to think neutral thoughts, like whether or not I need to buy more laundry detergent, but I can only focus on how sexy his voice sounded and how good his hands felt on my face. He slides his hand up my thigh, and my eyes pop open. Shit.

  “I’m just putting my hand above the tear. That way I can lift the fabric and prevent it from touching your cut, okay?”

  “Yes,” I mutter, trying to ignore that his hand is dangerously close to a very off-limits area.

  He skims his hand further along my thigh. I bite my bottom lip as his fingertips brush the lace of my undies. They freeze for a fraction of a second, before he shifts them to the side. His eyes are on my leg. He looks like he’s concentrating really hard. I wonder if he’s worried about how he’ll manage this. Just as I’m about to tell him to hack my pants off with a good pair of scissors, he lifts his hand from my skin and slips my pants off. A traitorous voice in my head screams for him to run his fingers along my thigh again. I gasp and sit up.

  He turns, folding my pants into a neat square before setting them on the bed next to me. “There. The tough part’s done.” His voice sounds hoarse. Maybe he didn’t become an EMT because this stuff freaks him out as much as it does me.