Sweat drips down my nose and falls, the air heavy with smog. My phone buzzes in the bag crossed over my shoulder, resting on the opposite hip, but I ignore it.
I need to cough, but I can’t. Just run. Tune it all out. I feel the perspiration falling down my back like salve over a burn. My phone buzzes again as I run past some industrial warehouses, through a neighborhood, and into a strip mall. My body hurts, but it’s numb at the same time. My anger and fear becomes a burn in my calves. My mouth feels like cotton and so I slow down, hobble into the parking lot, and go into a Subway restaurant.
I’m breathing in frantic, heated gasps.
“Water,” I demand, paying over three dollars for a bottle. I down it, letting water drizzle down my chin and onto my steaming chest. The families inside, eating their foot-long bread, stuffed with meats and cheeses, are watching me like I’m a wild animal that might suddenly turn on them.
“Another water, please,” I say, tapping my fingers on the counter and watch as the cold bottle is pulled out of the dewy fridge. I hand over my money and walk out of the double glass door with the cherished bottle. My phone buzzes again, but I’m not ready to check-in with my life just yet. I can’t.
I walk down a street past houses, apartments, stores, and into the covered walkway past a thrift store, a Trader Joe’s, and then a Sprint store. As I reach the end of the stores, I see a green, grass laden, square park with a swing set and teeter totter. I hobble on blistered feet across the street and over to the climbing wall resting in some sand that leads to a bumpy slide. I peek around and decide to rest on the other side of it. It’s kind of raw on this side, the fiberglass particles sticking out like fuzzy skin. I rest my soaked back against it and sip my water. My phone buzzes again. I’m still not ready. I’m just not sure if I can handle this anymore.
It’s not too late to pull out of the show completely and go back to normal. But then I’ll be right where I was before, running out of money, unsure about not only my future, but Riley’s, too. I swipe my phone on and ignore the missed calls and voicemails. I head straight to the messages, but don’t check to see if I have new ones. I just go to contacts, Deloris, and type:
Deloris Taylor
1:18 PM
Deloris. Please tell Riley I’m ok. No worries. I just need a little break. If the studio calls tell them I’m sick. Tell Riley I love her.
After I click, “send,” I see the flicker of the volume control. That’s the precursor for when a call is coming in. I don’t recognize the number, but it’s local. I swipe the red ignore button, making it go away. I turn on some soothing music and rest my head against the climbing wall’s insides.
My eyes feel heavy, and then heavier. I’m running through a dream in my mind. It’s a maze where I keep finding little memories of my mom and dad to hold up to my chest. Then I smell fire. I know I have to run. There’s screams, my mother is screaming; the sound embeds itself into my brain. Deep in there where bad memories go and hold on. Where’s Riley? I think, panicked.
I’m yelling her name when I find her huddled in the corner. I pick her up. Run! Just run! Running saved our lives. I hear the crackle of lives being lost as it chases me. My body jolts, and I jerk my eyes open.
I take a deep breath. It’s so cold, cold and dark.
I fell asleep? And now it’s night time? My neck is cricked. I rub it so I can straighten, my leg muscles, now knotted feel the sting of my knees hurting; I’m a mess.
I pull out the water bottle, gulp until it’s empty, and check my phone.
Shit! It’s dead. What the hell am I going to do now? This is a different kind of scared. I know I’ve really messed up. It’s dark and I’m in an unknown park somewhere in LA near the studio. I’m hurt, so I can’t walk very far. I’m in trouble with the show, I’m sure, for missing wardrobe and whatever else was on my schedule for today.
I wonder if there’s a phone that I can use over at that strip mall. I crawl on the sand on my hands and knees, checking around the wall to make sure I’m alone. Usually, in Sacramento homeless people use the parks to sleep in, but I don’t see anyone here, thank goodness.
When I straighten up and stand, my muscles pull apart like undoing knots. It hurts, everywhere. As I take my first step, the back of my shoe rubs against my heel and burns. I wince, but decide I’m going to have to walk anyway and tough it out. The right foot hurts the worst, so I’m limping. When I make it across the street to the Sprint store, I notice a guy inside. I know I look rough, but I walk in anyway.
“Hello,” he says. “Can I help you?”
“My phone died,” I say, holding it like emptiness in the palm of my hand. “I got lost. Now I can’t call for a ride.”
“Oh!” he says as his eyes grow wide, and it looks like he’s trying not to freak out because of my weirdness. “You can just charge your phone here. Unless, do you wanna buy a charger?”
“Yeah.” I take my wallet out and follow him over to the wall of accessories. “This one will work. It’s not name brand, but it’s kinda cool ‘cause it can plug into the wall, a car, or a USB.”
“I’ll take it. But, can I use your wall to plug it in?”
“Yeah,” he says as he rings me up and swipes my debit card.
“Do you have any scissors to cut the packaging?”
“Sure,” he nods, producing a pair of orange handled scissors from a drawer. Once I’m plugged in and my phone is singing its little happy “I’m on” tune, I see that I missed 48 calls. Some from numbers I don’t know—maybe the studio? Five are from Deloris. I touch the ‘call back’ and when she answers, her voice sounds high-pitched.
“Mia! Where are you?”
“I—I’m at a Sprint store at—uh, what’s this street called?” I ask the Sprint store guy.
“West Verdugo Avenue,” he says.
“I’m at the Sprint store on West Verdugo Avenue,” I say, rubbing my sore neck. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror behind him. My dark hair’s knotty, and there’s black make up smeared under my eyes. My skin is pale and my eyes look spooky as I peer into them through my reflection.
“Okay, I’m going to come and get you. Just sit tight, Mia. You’ve scared us to death—disappearing like that. Kolton is—”
“He’s what?”
“Frantic.” How does he even know, I wonder?
“Did you call and tell him?”
“No. He called me. The studio called him when you missed your wardrobe fitting.”
“Oh, well-uh, I’ll be here, waiting.” I stare at my phone. Of the numbers that have been calling me, is one of them Kolton’s real phone number? I have some messages, but I can’t take listening to them now. I just sit down on the carpet. The Sprint guy doesn’t say anything to me; he just lets me sit as I wait.
I don’t feel like myself. I feel numb, blank. I stare at the curve of the beige display cases along the wall near the door and count the display phones to pass the time. I don’t look too long at the wall of windows. They seem too black, angry, ominous.
Then I hear brakes and the black window wall opens. My jaw drops.
Kolton is standing in the open door. His jaw is tight, his arms stiff, his hair, wild like he’s been pulling on it.
I shake my head ‘no.’ My eyes are wide, and he tilts his head to the side like, “Come on.”
Don’t make a scene, I tell myself. That Sprint guy could say something to the press—and then it would be over, everyone would know. That very thought was the reason I ran in the first place. I’m not about to make it worse.
“Kolton Royce?” Sprint guy asks.
“Naaa,” Kolton fake laughs. “I get that a lot,” brushing him off.
I unplug my phone and follow Kolton out toward a midnight blue, rock-god type sports car parked precariously outside the doors. He looks stiff and clenches his jaw as he opens the passenger side for me, his hand grazing my arm as I get in. Instinctively, I move my fingers to the tingling spot he’d just touched. I watch him as he trots around the b
ack side of the car and folds himself in next to me.
“Put your seatbelt on.” His voice is strained as he puts his hand on the gear shift. I put my head down, buckle my seat belt, and look out the window. “We don’t have long ‘til they find out.”
My head snaps toward him and we peel out, my back pressed against the back of his fancy beige seat. Until who finds out what? I think as we head of toward who knows where.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
You Have the Controls
He’s speeding but I don’t say anything because I know I’m in trouble. We’ve argued a lot since meeting each other, but I’ve never seen him this mad. I think I need to distract him with telling him how awesome his material goods are. “What kind of car is this?”
“A Fisker Karma.” His voice cold as his eyes stay on the road.
“It’s nice,” I say, knowing that talking to him might calm him down.
“It’s an electric car. Where’s the phone I gave you?”
“In the drawer at home.”
“I told you, I have to be able to get a hold of you.”
“Well, I didn’t want to talk to you!”
“Fuck!” he says, looking in the rear view mirror. “Duck down, Mia!” He pushes my head down. As I fold myself at the waist, he makes a sharp right, the tires skidding before he speeds up. “Mother fuckin’ shit!” he mutters to himself, or to me. “Where the fuck have you been, Mia?”
“What’s going on?” I yell. He takes a sharp left.
“I’m trying to keep you a secret.” His response is quick, his voice tight. “You scared the shit out of me,” he admits taking another right. “I lost ‘em. You can sit up.”
“Who are you running from?”
“Someone’s talking on the set. Hard to know who it is. With the promos starting last week—” I put my hand up to cover my mouth. My head is shaking involuntarily. Outside, I can see that we’re on an LA street somewhere, not the freeway.
“I didn’t know the promos started.”
“Yes. And your story is in several of them. I’m trying to hide it, Mia. It’s fucking impossible.”
“Hide what?” I squeak.
“This. Us.” His hand pointing to himself and then me.
“There’s no us, Kolton.” I say, knowing it will hurt him. Why do I want to hurt him? Because he hurts me, because he thinks he can do anything he wants? The car slows down evenly and he pulls over to the side of the road. My heart is pounding inside the cage of my ribs. He turns his upper body toward me and moves his right arm to rest on the back of my seat. I press my back into the car door and glare at him.
“You make me crazy. I want to grab you right now and fucking prove to you how much of an us there is.” I can feel the warmth of his breath on my face. The heat of his body radiates out and touches me. Everywhere.
“I don’t want you, or this—any of this crap!” I yell, looking him in the eye.
“The difference then, between you and me,” he says, his voice making me ache as he takes my chin, owning it, and lifting it up to claim my eyes with his, “is I know exactly what I want.”
“But you said—”
“You deserve better. But this is the truth, Mia. I’m telling you the truth. Finally. Give me some fucking credit, please.”
He makes no move toward me. Neither do I toward him. He just holds my chin and stares right through me, until I can see him, really see him—his fear, his vulnerability, his doubt in himself, all of it. I understand why he keeps pushing me away. He’s scared.
Then, a flash bursts through our moment in the dimness of an LA night. He grabs me, hiding my face in his chest as another blast of light invades us. Another and then more than I can count until we are all lit up. His hand moves to the gear shift as I duck my head into the center console. It’s eerily calm and quiet as he speeds away.
I hear the wheels humming on the pavement, the purr of the engine, the shifting of the gears, and, all the while, Kolton’s hand remains light and soothing on my back. His fingers move back and forth through my long hair, soothing me like my mother used to do when I was scared, or when I just needed her touch to move on from a bad experience.
“We’re on the freeway now,” he says, and I try to raise my head. “No,” he says. “They’re right behind us.” We remain quiet until he makes a few turns, and I can tell by the sudden light and hollow sounds that we’re inside the garage at the Wilshire Thayer. “Mia. They’re not allowed inside the garage. But they will have their lenses pointed at us when you get out and walk to the elevator. We need to cover you up.” He hands me a light jacket from somewhere, probably the back seat.
“Is this the best thing to do? Bring me here while they’re all watching?”
“I have a plan,” he says, taking the jacket and covering my head with it. Under the covering, I feel sort of safe—like when you’re little and hide under the blanket, knowing you’re invisible. I take my hair and stuff it in my shirt. I don’t want them to know my hair color. What’s he doing out there? Maybe calling Devon for help? Then I pull my bag up and hide it under the jacket, too. I’ve always been carrying it with me; someone might recognize it and rat me out.
He opens my door and when I look out to the concrete, I see his phone in his hand, his feet along with Devon’s and Manny’s, too. He squats down so I can see just his mouth from under the coat. “I’m going to hold the elevator for you. But I don’t want any pics of you and me walking in together. They won’t have much with just you walking out of the car alone.”
I nod, but know there are all those other pictures of us inside the car. He stands and walks away. Devon reaches his hand inside the car. I take it, and see that Manny is holding a big blue blanket up to keep me hidden even more. He walks beside me, and Devon keeps the jacket in place. The first steps I take hurt because of all the blisters and I have to limp all the way to the elevator door. Manny keeps the blanket up until the elevator doors hide us from pictures.
As the elevator starts to climb, Kolton takes the jacket from my head, and pulls me into his chest. “You’re limping. You’re hurt. God, Mia Why did you run?”
“I read the article. I—got scared—I,” I sink into his embrace. Part of me wants to escape, the other wants to never let go. He warned me, didn’t he? He told me about the privacy. I just thought it would happen to someone else, or way later. That’s how humans are; we’re deniers.
When the doors open, a burst of cool air slaps me in the face. “What—what’s going on?”
“We’re on the roof,” he says, walking me toward the stairs. I wince in pain and he picks me up, no hesitation, and climbs some stairs that lead to a landing pad with a blue and silver painted helicopter sitting on top of it. The paint is unique, like the blue got ripped off in spots showing the more plain silver underneath.
“Who’s going to fly that?” I ask. He doesn’t respond. Manny opens the passenger door and Kolton helps me into the seat.
“Put the cyclic between your legs,” he says, before shutting the door and walking around to the other door. I’m guessing he means the thing that looks like a joy stick and I shift my leg over it, realizing when he opens the door that he’s actually going to fly the helicopter.
“Kolton?” When he opens the door. “You can’t fly this.”
“I have my private pilot’s license. Okay. Don’t worry.”
“Shit!” I panic. “Where are we going?”
“To my house in the hills. Remember me telling you about it?” I nod, stunned. “It’s my parents’ house. No one knows I own it. It’s in the desert—completely private.” He hands me a weird green headset that looks like it’s from World War Two. “Put your seatbelt on,” he orders as he puts on some fancy streamlined headset that says ‘Bose’ on it.
I take my bag off and put the green headset on. I’m all squished in here with my bag on my lap. I look behind me and see there’s a tiny hole behind my head to the back seat. I shove my bag through it and find the seatbelt to my left.
It looks like a regular car seatbelt. I’d always thought helicopters had those five-point harnesses. I click it in place as he’s pushing buttons on the console.
The inside instrument panel isn’t huge like on an airplane. It’s more like a box in the center between us with circular gauges full of numbers. It lights up in a dim amber hue. The scent inside smells musky, like foam rubber, fuel, electronics coming to life. He opens a vent window and yells, “Clear,” just before the black rotor above us starts to twist and beat itself against the air.
In my ear, I hear the air traffic controller say some weird code stuff to Kolton. He responds but they’re talking too fast for me to even try to understand. My mind is spinning like the rotor.
I’m in a helicopter.
Kolton’s going to fly the helicopter.
I try to get it to sink in.
He’s messing with something on the left side near his seat. It makes the rotor turn faster as he pulls the center joystick around and around. It looks like he’s checking it before we take off. He turns toward me. “I—I’m scared of heights!” I try.
“Mia, I completely understand your fear. I learned to fly because I have anxiety when I’m not flying, myself. I have a lot of experience. I’ve been flying for years. Plus, I’ve been taking her back and forth almost every day since you’ve been at my apartment. You’re completely safe.”
“Her?”
“The helicopter.”
Oh, of course. He would learn to fly so he’d have control since he didn’t when the airliner went down when he was little, killing everyone on board except him.
“Do you trust me?” he asks. I know immediately the answer is yes, and I nod.
He smiles, looking relieved I said yes so quickly. I grab the cloth hanging near the door to hold on. His legs move on some pedals and I realize I have them near my feet, too. His hands are on two different controls, the one to his left and the one between his legs, like the one I have.
I concentrate on the wrap around bubble window in front of me; it even goes under our feet. I feel the pressure of the lift as we climb upward. It’s so loud, the sounds of air being swept by the rotor. The heliport starts to get farther below us. It feels like we’re climbing sideways, like a crab walks. We go higher and follow the road below.
The Stage (Phoenix Rising #1) Page 11
