by Amber Lin
Clapping a hand over her mouth, she only just made it to the bathroom before retching. The toilet in this random motel was only marginally clean, but she hugged it like it was a life raft in a storm.
Lock’s low voice came from the motel room. He sounded pissed. “Find out who the fuck leaked the video. Fire them. Sue them. Make it fucking rain.”
That made her feel better. Like one percent better compared to ninety-nine percentage points of total suck.
The crazy thing was how he’d demanded to see her phone. And your sister knows. She seems excited. Did he think Chloe had something to do with this? Like some sort of groupie thing? But she couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to be exposed like that, fan girl or not. Her stomach twisted again, but when she leaned over the bowl, nothing came out.
With a groan she pushed herself up. There wasn’t any toothpaste or a brush, but her mouth felt too disgusting to wait. She unwrapped the little bar of hand soap and licked it before rinsing with the provided Dixie cup. She was washing her own mouth out with soap, but it couldn’t clean her, not really. The dirtiness went skin-deep, all the way inside her to the desires she’d never told anyone before. No, she’d kept all those secret wishes to herself, until Lock came along, her personal sex genie.
She stared at herself in the mirror. Dark circles were under her eyes, standing out like bruises. When had that happened, in the last ten minutes? Or earlier, in the sex-crazed two days with Lock? Which one of those things was making her look so defeated?
Maybe both.
Clean. She needed to get clean. She turned on the shower. Cold spray rained down on her outstretched hand. No matter which way she turned the knob, the water stayed chilly. That didn’t matter either. She stepped inside and pressed her face right under the nozzle, letting it fill her eyes and her nose, so she didn’t have to cry or breathe or hurt.
How much time passed? She was shivering.
The shower curtain was yanked back with a startling screech of rusted metal rings. Lock stood there, looking furious. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“Showering,” she said, though the word didn’t come out clear, not with her teeth chattering.
He narrowed his eyes, incredulous. “You have your clothes on.”
She glanced down. Her black T-shirt and miniskirt were drenched. Her toes sloshed when she wiggled them in the three-inch heeled boots. “Oh.”
A beat passed as she swayed on her feet. Would he leave her now? She imagined him walking out of the motel room, getting into his limo, and leaving her here. Of course he should do that. You’re having a mental breakdown.
His expression was…stricken. “God, baby. Come here.”
“No, I’ll get you wet.” But her words came out muffled against his chest. He pulled her out of the shower and flush against his body. Warm. So warm. It almost hurt where his body touched hers, but she couldn’t push him away. She couldn’t make her arms and legs move at all, so he had to undress her all on his own, as if she were a doll.
He pulled back the thin bedcovers and tucked her in. She was cold again, inside the scratchy sheets with the vent blowing on her. She wanted Lock’s furry legs to slide between hers. She wanted his chest against her back.
“Lie with me?” she asked.
The regret on his face answered first. “I have to figure this out. And besides, you need to sleep.”
Sex. He thought she was offering him sex. Well, why wouldn’t he think that? She’d done it again and again.
His expression softened, turned faintly pleading. “Just rest, okay? It will seem better when you wake up.”
It would seem better, maybe, but it wouldn’t be better. He was right when he said they couldn’t put the genie back in the bottle. There was no way to take back all the videos currently streaming on TVs and YouTube channels. There was no way to unsign the contract.
There was no way to stop falling for a man she’d have to give up by tomorrow.
Chapter Nineteen
Monday morning
It was day when she woke up. Only a sliver of light shone, beaming bright between two heavy drapes, but it was enough to drag her from heavy sleep.
Her head spun. Blindly she groped around for the warm limbs that would be tangled with hers, but the sheets were cool to the touch. Lock. How had she gotten hooked on him so fast? He was like the drugs her mom didn’t do and the men she didn’t sleep with outside their marriages. He was a poison that seeped into her bloodstream and made her want more.
The clock read eight a.m. She’d slept through the night, all without him touching her. He’d whispered a million dirty things last night and delivered none of them. He’d told her it would seem better in the morning, but it didn’t. Broken promises.
So much for getting things in writing.
A dark form lay on the other double-size bed. He was on top of the covers. She crept closer—quiet, quiet. One arm was slung over his head. His mouth wasn’t open like it usually was during sleep. Now he looked tense, angry, teeth clenched against some unseen hurts.
It made her want to climb in beside him. She wanted to be the big spoon and cuddle away his pain, exactly like he hadn’t done for her last night. He’d slept on the opposite bed, and even though she knew it was probably kindness, or even chivalry, that hurt even worse. She was no longer the sexy groupie he wanted to exploit. She was the innocent girl again, the one he needed to protect.
Stretching raised a hundred sore spots on her skin. Bruises and abrasions. As if she’d been in the fight of her life instead of just a sex-crazed couple of days.
Her bag and purse were neatly stacked near the door, along with some black luggage that must belong to Lock. She found her toiletries and clothes and made herself presentable in the bathroom, trying not to glance at the toilet so her stomach wouldn’t turn over.
God.
A blinking light caught her eye from the floor, underneath the sink. Her phone. It must have landed there when she was busy puking her guts out, but before the awkward clothed shower.
Ten messages, all from Chloe.
Seriously, where are you? Are you okay?
You looked great, if it’s any consolation. Really hot.
That was probably the wrong thing to say. Forgive me?? This is crazy.
A pang of guilt hit her, because she should have definitely called her sister by now. Hailey would have been freaking the hell out if this had happened to Chloe, so the least she could do was call. Still, she didn’t press the button to dial. It still felt too…raw. A knife pressed into the flesh of her throat, teetering on the edge of her windpipe. If she moved fast or in the wrong direction, it would be over.
Hailey scrolled down to the last message from her sister. It read: Please let me know you’re okay. I’m scared.
And then she had no choice. She had to call then, because she’d sworn never to let her sister be alone and afraid. Their mother might have left and Hailey might have thrown up every night the first two weeks in grief and fear, but it didn’t have to be like that for Chloe. That was a promise, the kind she would keep regardless of any sex contracts.
The phone rang, tinny from the small speaker, echoing off the dingy tile walls.
“Hailey?” Chloe’s voice was panicked, and another wave of remorse hit Hailey, threatening to send her doubled over to the toilet again.
Her voice was still hoarse from last night’s episode when she spoke. “I’m fine, Sis. I’m sorry I didn’t call sooner.”
“Tell me where you are right now. Wherever it is, I’ll come to you.”
“No, you can’t…you can’t fly like that.”
“Yes, I can. I’ll drive. Or I’ll ride a dragon. I don’t even care. Just let me come get you.”
Tears sprang to her eyes. God, when she had nothing else, she had her sister. It was a gift she hadn’t even acknowledged. Hadn’t even wanted to acknowledge. As long as she was the big sister, the caretaker, then she’d never had to worry about being abandoned. But they were both adults
now—even Chloe’s nineteen counted as such—and either one of them could leave. Either one of them could walk out the door, leaving only a disconnected number to be reached at. Either one of them could end up like their mother…and they each had been like her, in their own way, but they were still their own women. They could still choose to come back.
That firmed her resolve. “I don’t need you to come get me. I’d feel better knowing you’re safe anyway. Don’t worry about me. I’ll figure it out.”
Starting by going home. She ended the call and ignored the little twinge that said home was no longer a six–hundred-square-foot apartment in the middle of nowhere. The man sleeping on the bed—still tense, still somber—wasn’t home. He was a wrong turn. He would take her for a ride and then spit her back out again, worse for the wear.
In the bottom of her bag was a rumpled copy of the contract, signed by both her and him. She snagged a pen from the nightstand and circled the subsection marked Confidentiality.
In the event that the contents of this contract or its resultant acts are made public, this contract may be terminated immediately.
That was for his benefit, but she used it for herself. She draped the VIP lanyard Lock had given her over the folded pages. Had it really only been two days ago? It felt like a lifetime, as if she’d always been the girl sitting in the wings flashing rock stars, a backstage pass nestled in her cleavage. But the truth was, she was not that girl. She never would be that girl again. It had been a whirlwind vacation and identity crisis all rolled into one—and it was over now. She walked out the door of the motel without even looking back. And kept on walking, down the sidewalk until she found a cab.
Hailey was going home.
Lock would never really hurt her, not with his fists or even cruel words. But he’d hurt her anyway, just by not trusting her, when he made her sign the contract. And their time together hadn’t changed that, because he still hadn’t trusted her when the video broke—which was why he’d checked her phone.
He hurt her just by being him: a sex god, a famous musician, a man of excess and depravity. Someone she could never have a future with. That part hurt worst of all.
*
He woke angry and disoriented, slick with cold sweat. Another dark hotel room, lit only by the glow of a muted television. Another time zone. His nostrils flared against the scent of stale cigarette smoke, and he bolted upright. Who booked us this shit hole? As soon as his feet hit the scratchy carpet, he remembered. The flight and the video and devastated Hailey.
He’d spent the night trying to soothe her. When he’d run out of platitudes, he’d murmured song lyrics, nonsense, anything to keep her from panicking more. When she’d finally fallen asleep, he’d called everyone. He wanted a plan, but no one answered except Moe, who told him to clean up his fucking mess.
He could take his lumps, but Hailey shouldn’t have to take them too. They could deny it was her. They could trot out a decoy, some starlet who wanted the attention. He’d seen it done. If his agent would just answer his messages. The clock on the nightstand flashed nine o’clock. So, eight in Chicago and six in LA. The phone would start ringing soon. Keep her out of the public eye for a few more hours, that’s all he had to do.
Bang. Bang. Bang. The whole wall rattled with every thump on the door. “Room service.”
The fuck? He peered through the peep hole to see the oversized forehead of the sleazy desk clerk from last night. A crumpled paper bag clutched in his hands.
“Go away,” Lock said.
“Hey, Mr. Big Shot. I’m just trying to help you out. I could go back to my desk and start tweeting about asshole customers.”
He knew that jerk had figured out something was up last night. Throwing extra cash at him to avoid using a credit card had been a mistake. It wasn’t like his stage name was on his cards. But he definitely hadn’t wanted Hailey’s name tied up in all this. Stupid. And now this weasel was going to black mail him.
He cautiously opened the door and growled. “What do you want?”
“Thought you might be used to better accommodations. A few creature comforts.” He thrust the bag at Lock. He hesitated to open the surprisingly heavy bag, not wanting to find a horrible surprise inside. Used condoms. Worn panties. Fans could get weird.
“Just some breakfast sandwiches and a little hair of the dog.”
Shit.
Slowly, like something might pop out and bite him, he opened the offering. There, nestled in with hash browns and sausage biscuits, was a bottle of Jim Beam. He pulled it out, watching the amber liquid slosh. The asshole knew what he drank. Used to drink. “I didn’t ask for this.”
“My privilege.” The dude wiped his nose on the sleeve of his filthy flannel and held out his hand. For a tip.
“Hang on.” Lock tossed the bag in the trash and set the bottle on the dresser so he could fish out his wallet. He plucked two crisp fifties from the billfold and dropped them into the grubby outstretched palm. It was easier than arguing. He couldn’t afford a scene.
“Pleasure doing business with you.” Lock watched him slink down the hallway and closed the door.
“Hailey? Babe?” He called into the silence. No answer from the bathroom.
The room was too quiet, the rattle and hum of the air conditioner the only sound. A hacking cough pierced the stillness, someone choking to life in an adjacent room. If he could hear that, he’d hear Hailey padding around. He unmuted the television and let the drone fill up the empty space in his head. Maybe she’d gone looking for food. Not a bad idea, he surely wasn’t going eat the paper bag brunch from hell, but she should have woken him. What if someone recognized her? He paced in the small space between the two beds, step, step, turn. They’d be screwed. Did she have a room key? Money? Any idea where they were at all?
And then he heard his name. Not from Hailey’s lips, from the overly glossed mouth on the screen to his right.
The Elevator Tape isn’t as polished as Lock’s previous work.
We don’t know if they’re going up, but bassist Krist Mellas and that mystery girl are sure going down.
This was bad. They’d identified Krist, his damn tats giving him away. And soon they’d have Hailey’s name. Fuck. He grabbed his shirt, yanked it over his head, and checked the clock again. Only five minutes had passed. Folded white pages caught his attention, pinned to the dresser with that fucking bottle of Jim Beam. When his hand made contact with the neck, his skin crawled. It shouldn’t. It hadn’t before. He should be able to touch a bottle to move it out of his way without it affecting him. Was it even the bottle? Or was it the papers underneath? Because he knew what they were before he picked them up. The contract. Blue ink circled a particular passage. Terminated.
She wasn’t off to find breakfast. She was gone.
He’d failed on every level. His vision blurred. A tightness seized in his chest. And he was so thirsty. So thirsty he could drain the Great Lakes and still feel dry. Raw. Thirsty like sandpaper lined his throat and only a burning flood could clear it.
No. He was angry and weak, but he would not do this thing. He could touch a stupid glass bottle and not open it. Not drink it. He reached for it again, and his hand trembled. He pounded his fist into the dresser top to make the trembling stop. The cheap laminate cracked, reverb vibrating up his arm. It felt good, this pain he could tie to a specific action, this destruction he’d wrought on purpose. A power chord.
He kicked the bed he’d slept in alone. The skanky bedspread pissed him off. He’d lain on that all night. He’d tucked Hailey underneath one just like it. He’d checked them into this nasty pit because he’d failed. Because he was fucking weak. Because he couldn’t keep his hands to himself and his dick in his pants. Because he was a piece-of-shit alcoholic addict who destroyed everything he touched.
He deserved this room. He deserved worse.
And then he was slamming everything. Punching and clawing. Kicking and stomping. His body wild and beyond reason. Nothing was safe. Not the remo
te or the lamp or the stupid drinking glasses with their sanitary wrap. Not the painting of a buck bolted to the wall. Not the darkness. He yanked the dank curtains from their track and lost his balance, falling to the floor in a tangled heap, surrounded by musty fabric and debris, releasing a cloud of dust and filling the room with light.
Oh God. He’d done this. Destroyed a hotel room like a rock-and-roll cliché. If only Colt could see him now, that would be the end of his hero worship. Nobody knew how hard he worked just to maintain some semblance of normal, how often he failed. The kid was better off without the spotlight, the celebrity, the fucking pressure. He shook, the adrenaline leaching out of his bloodstream, leaving him cold. The loss of control was as frightening as a blackout drunk.
He yanked himself free, sweat and grime a sticky film on his clammy skin, and stood to survey the wreckage. The bottle, unbroken, spun on its side in the corner of the room. Four steps and he was on it. The glass was smooth and cool in his hand. One long step and he was in the bathroom. He broke the seal and poured it down the drain. Steady.
He hadn’t failed Hailey. He’d failed himself, by thinking he still couldn’t face his own demons. He stared himself down in the mirror, the scent of the whiskey turning his stomach. He had and he could.
His phone beeped. He had to dig through a pile of torn pillows to find it. One missed call from Krist. The only call he wanted, other than Hailey’s. God, did she even have his number? No, she didn’t.
“I fucked up, bro.” In so many ways, in all the ways—
“Are you still sober?”
—except for the way that counted most. “Yeah.”
Krist’s sigh of relief crackled their connection. “Then we can fix this.”
“How? They’ve got your name attached to this thing too. Soon they’ll have Hailey’s. They’ll eat her alive. It’s snowballing. I don’t know what to do. You said you wouldn’t forgive me for destroying the band…” He dropped to the pile of bedding on the floor, the weight of this conversation too much to bear standing.
