The Inside Track: A License to Love Novel

by Tamsen Parker

  Bending my knees and getting ready to lunge, I grip my bat, the wood solid and balanced in my hands, and I prepare. Next time this fucker turns, he’s getting a bat to the back.

  He doesn’t disappoint, keeping up his pattern of six strides one way and then a turn to retrace his steps. He won’t get his six steps in this time. No. Because on two I take a bold step—no fear, only adrenaline racing through my veins, my brain laser-focused on taking out the threat. He’s not expecting me, and I’m prepared so I’ve got the advantage. Part of me wants to reassure Nick that I’ve got this, but I don’t have time for that. All I have time to do is plant my foot, brace myself, and swing, aiming for the intruder’s shoulders.

  I should’ve maybe gone higher, aimed for his head, but I don’t actually want to kill the guy, though there’s no way I’d get convicted for murder. He’s in my home, and I legit fear for my life. Also, I’ll lose some of my leverage if I aim high. Better to keep the weight and the force behind my swing.

  The connection between bat and bone rattles me. It’s not like the follow-through you get when you’re hitting a ball, that satisfying sensation of sending something into flight. It’s an abrupt stop with even a bit of kickback that’s hard to manage. My teeth clatter against each other, and my hands hurt from the impact.

  I’ve been under control, crafting my plan and keeping calm to execute it. Wash would be so proud. Now that I have, though, all I want to do is keep hitting him.

  The rage overcomes me, and even though he’s fallen to the ground and all I should do is put a knee in his back and wrench his arm up between his shoulder blades to keep him there, I want to bash his skull in. Beat him until he’s a bloody pulp, until his teeth are scattered all over my floor and his hands are so mangled he’ll never be able to hold anything again, never mind credibly threaten anyone with a knife. A knife. That fucker brought a knife into my house.

  I raise the bat again, high over my head to wield like a club, and I’m about to strike when a body gets between me and my target.

  Nick. It’s Nick.

  He wraps his hands around mine and lowers the bat between us.

  “Hey, babe. Don’t. You got him. He’s out cold. He can’t hurt you, okay? I want to kill him, too, but you’ll regret it. Give me the bat, Demps. Lemme have it.”

  I must look like a wild animal as my gaze rakes over the man sprawled on my floor, the knife he was holding out of reach of his limp hand. I did it. Neutralized the threat.

  “Come on, babe. Take a breath. A big one. Take a breath, give me the bat, and if you still want his brains splattered on your floor, I’ll do it. You know I will.”

  It takes a second for me to drag my gaze away from the monster and to Nick’s face, but I do. He doesn’t ask me for a lot, hardly anything at all, and the thing is I know he’s right. And I know he’d keep his word. I could never let him because it would haunt him for the rest of his life and it’s honestly not the right thing to do. It’s mostly the former that lets me peel my fingers one by one from the neck of the bat, release the chokehold I’ve got on it, and let Nick hold it with one hand while he grabs me and pulls me to him with the other arm.

  He kisses my cheek, kind of violently. Mashes his lips against the crest of bone there so hard I can feel the ridge of his teeth against my skin. I clutch at him just as hard, my fingers scrambling at his shirt, nails digging into his ribcage.

  This is stupid, though. I might’ve knocked the guy out, but he’s not going to stay that way forever. We should immobilize him until the police show up. With all the reluctance in the world, I pull back and look up into Nick’s hazel eyes.

  “I’m okay. Thank you. You don’t need to bludgeon him to death. Just, uh, keep an eye on him while I grab the duct tape?”

  He cups my jaw in his big hand, draws a thumb over my cheek that makes me want to weep, but I can’t right now. I’ve got to keep my shit together for a little while longer.

  “You got it, babe.”

  Nick’s fingers sculpt around the back of my skull, and he urges me in for a quick kiss before letting me go. I’d like to kiss him again, but there’s a twitch of a finger that sends me back into high alert and heading for the hall closet.

  20

  Dempsey

  * * *

  It’s a week after Dan Mitchell tried to kill Nick. There has been press outside of my house nonstop. I can’t go outside, not even in the yard, and anyone who comes to visit has been harassed. Not that the flashes of cameras and getting microphones shoved in their faces have stopped Oona and Wash and Vivian and Nina and Jake and, hell, the rest of LtG from coming by.

  While having that many people coming and going can sometimes make me raw and anxious and twitchy, it’s nice not to feel alone and isolated, especially when I need to talk to people like the police. Nicky’s been here as much as he can be, which of course isn’t helping with crowd control. And while it’s been a comfort to have his arms wrapped around me at night in my bed, I can’t help waking up in a cold sweat sometimes thinking about some other asshole coming after him.

  And I…

  I scrape the remains of my meal into the trash, which would be most of my dinner since I’ve been picking at my food for the past week. Nick stands behind me, rests his hands on my hips, nuzzles and kisses the side of my neck.

  “Hey, babe. What’s going on? You’ve been real quiet all night.”

  His lips and breath are warm against my skin, and it makes me want to break down. I’ve been thinking about this a whole lot. Maybe more than is good for me, but maybe that’s as much as I’ve needed to. This is serious business. Like, literally life-threatening business. Even if I’d been a picture of mental health beforehand, this would be hard for anyone to deal with. And let’s face it, I was pretty damn far from that.

  The worst part is that I think I know how to fix this, and I really don’t want to. I don’t want to, but I’m not sure I see another way out.

  I slide the trash closed and turn around to face Nick. His battered face is a constant reminder of what happened, and worse, what could’ve happened. Makes me wince every time I look at him, even though he’s been acting like he’s totally fine. He’s not. But he’s acting that way because he doesn’t want me to worry. And he’s trying to play the role everyone expects him to.

  He bends down to kiss me, and I turn my cheek. I just can’t take him loving on me right now because I know what I have to do, and I know how fucking awful it’s going to be to have to do it. I can’t have him reminding me how sweet he is, how he makes me feel when he kisses me.

  “Seriously, what’s up?”

  I hate this. I hate the way he’s looking at me, serious and concerned. Don’t be, because I’m about to stomp all over your heart. Mine, too, but I should’ve known better than to think this would go well. And Nick’s the first in line to tell you he’s not one to think ahead.

  “Nicky, I love you, but being with you is…dangerous. This is the one place in the world where I feel safe, and because of you, some murderous stalker came here and tried to kill us both.”

  “Yeah, I know. And I’m so, so sorry. But you handled him. Took him out like a bullet. You were amazing.”

  He chafes my arms, and it would be so easy to give into the tears. So simple to take a few steps forward, tuck my head under his chin, cling to his shirt, and let him hold me. So easy. But what about the next time this happens? And the next? Because Nick’s not giving up show business. If all goes according to his plan, he’s going to be just as big as a solo act with his variety show as LtG has ever been. That’s going to inspire more stalkers, not fewer. And he’s going to keep screwing up and putting me in harm’s way, no matter how much that’s not what he means to do.

  “That may be true.” I had dispatched that guy quite handily if I do say so myself. “But what about next time?”

  Nick opens his mouth to protest, but I cut him off. “You can say there’s not going to be a next time, but I know you, Nick. You’re not a detail-orie
nted person. You’re constantly forgetting things, going on to the next shiny thing. Which makes you a great musician and so much fun to be around. I thought it would make me crazy that we’re such opposites, but it’s turned out to be something I love about you. But it’s a lot of work to be as secretive and private as I am. It’s not fun for me, but it’s worth it for me to feel safe.”

  “You’re saying I make you feel unsafe?”

  The hurt on his face is palpable. Nick doesn’t hide anything; he doesn’t keep anything inside. No one expects that of him. I don’t know if he’d be capable of being circumspect if he tried. And I’m about to hurt him more. Twist that knife I just shoved in his chest.

  “Do I worry that you personally are going to do physical damage to my body? No, I don’t. You might be willing to take your own life in your hands to win a stupid bet or just because something looks like fun and the part of your brain that should know better never really got hooked up to the rest, but you’re not violent. You’re gentle. You’re always so careful with me, and you wouldn’t knowingly hurt a fly.”

  “But?”

  Yeah, there’s a but. “But there are just some things naked cartwheels can’t fix. You’re a famous person. You want to continue to be famous. That attracts trouble.”

  “And you don’t want trouble.”

  From the heaviness of his words, he may as well be saying, “And you don’t want me.”

  “It’s not so much a matter of don’t want. It’s a matter of I don’t think I can survive trouble. You treat me like I’m so tough and capable, and it makes me feel invincible just like you, but the truth is I’m really fucking fragile and you wreak havoc whether you mean to or not.”

  I take a deep breath because I’ve been avoiding talking to him about this. I still don’t want to, but I need him to understand. “This thing with a guy with a knife showing up at my house isn’t the first time you’ve put me in harm’s way. And hell, the worst part of that might’ve been avoided if you hadn’t opened the goddamn door. You put me on a screen in front of tens of thousands of people at a concert, and I had reporters camped out at my house for a week. I couldn’t go into my yard, I couldn’t work, all I could do was lose my shit. You brought your friends to my house without telling me, and I had a panic attack. Those things… I know you meant well, and maybe if I were a normal person, it would be okay. I’m not mad at you. I don’t want you to change. I love you just the way you are.”

  “But?”

  Yeah, another goddamn but.

  “But I don’t know how many times you can fuck up and say you’re sorry and then keep barreling on and not changing, not thinking ahead. Because that’s what you do and it’s rendered me vulnerable and a mess more than once. I work really hard to be a semi-functional person and to have a job that I love and that I’m good at, and every time this happens, I have to dig myself out of a hole and it’s exhausting in a way that just being myself isn’t. I thought I could deal or that all the wonderful things about you would outweigh the less-than-great stuff, but as far as I can tell, there’s no end in sight for the ways that you can make me unsafe. And I can’t…I can’t keep doing that.”

  Nick

  * * *

  Me being the way I am has always been a much bigger problem for other people than it has been for me. It hasn’t kept me from the work I love, hasn’t kept me from having friends, and it sure as hell hasn’t kept me from getting laid. Not that it’s never frustrating, and I’m well aware that I’m really goddamn lucky that I have people looking out for me and making me appear like a functional human being, when if I were left to my own devices, I’d have an empty fridge, laundry growing mold in my washer, a barren bank account, and a half-restored car up on blocks in front of a house that’s being foreclosed on if I could even manage to buy a house in the first place.

  But all those mumblings I’ve heard for my whole life that I’ve tried not to let bother me are sinking in. I’m a fuck-up and I’m dangerous and I can’t be good for anyone. I’m a good-time guy, but not someone you can count on. Not someone you could build a life with.

  I’d honest to god thought I’d found that with Dempsey, but apparently I’m more hazardous to her than I’ve ever been to anyone else. And I hate myself for it. Hate myself for hurting her, hate myself for putting her in danger, hate myself for not being able to be a different guy. I’ve tried. Tried to be more responsible, tried to keep my mouth shut, tried, tried, tried. But it doesn’t last. So I stopped trying and got really comfortable with apologizing. I’m a challenge to be with, god do I know it, but I thought…

  It doesn’t fucking matter what I’d thought. It doesn’t matter what I want. I would do anything to keep Dempsey safe and happy, and if that means not being with her anymore, then that’s what I’ll have to do. Because I won’t be a selfish fuckwad, not about this. This is something I can control, that I can do for her even if it kills me to walk away.

  “Demps, I—”

  “Don’t argue with me please. Please, Nick. I can’t…”

  Her chin is trembling, her eyes brimming with tears, and she’s shaking, gripping the counter behind her so hard that her knuckles are white.

  I shake my head and take a step back because if I don’t, there’s no way I’m not going to take her in my arms and kiss her until neither of us can breathe. I can’t believe I’m going to do this when I’ve never wanted anything in my life more than I’ve wanted her, but sometimes loving someone means throwing yourself on a sword. I won’t pretend I’m not a selfish person. I have been, my whole fucking life. And part of it was that I knew if I didn’t make people give me attention, I wouldn’t get it. But I’m not going to be selfish with the woman I love, no matter how much it feels like I’m dragging my heart across a bed of rusty razor blades.

  “I’m not gonna argue. I don’t like it but I don’t think you’re wrong, and I hate the idea that being with me is bad for you. I never want to hurt you, ever, and I’d do anything at all in the whole world to keep you from getting hurt any more than you already have been by people who were supposed to protect you. So if that means saying goodbye, then that’s what I’ll do. Before I go, I just want to tell you that if there’s anything ever I can do for you—ever—you ask me. I don’t care if you’re with some other guy or it costs a million dollars or whatever. Anything I have is yours forever because even if I can’t be with you, I want to be there for you. Fucking…”

  Fuck. My throat is getting thick and I’m getting choked up, and there’s, like, tears gathering in my eyes, and I can’t believe I’m gonna cry. Can’t cry. Can’t make her feel worse than she already does, so I clear my throat and scrub a hand through my hair.

  “I, uh, I’m gonna go. But I don’t feel good about leaving you alone, so I’ll sit by your door and you can call someone. I’d go outside, but…”

  She wraps her arms around her ribcage and nods, looking about as miserable as I feel. “I’m really, really sorry.”

  “Yeah, me too.”

  So I sit by the door, trying not to lose my fucking shit, while Dempsey turns on music to hide the fact that she’s crying in the kitchen. God, I’m a shit. If I’d only looked out the door before I’d opened it… But nah. Dempsey’s right. If it hadn’t been this asshole, it woulda been some other asshole. I should be thankful that it was someone with a knife instead of a gun, someone who was after me instead of after her. But I fucking hate it. I’d give up being in the band for her, I’d tear up the contracts for the variety show, but then what would I have to offer? Some guy who wanders around her house with nothing to do, who can’t help her, who messes up everything in her carefully constructed life.

  When the doorbell goes off, I get up and very carefully check the door. It’s Jake. I met him for the first time this week, even though Dempsey’s told me about him before. Jake’s never hurt her; Jake understands discretion. He seems like an honest-to-god nice guy, smart and responsible and not goofy-looking. Maybe he’s the kind of guy Dempsey will end up wit
h. Maybe someday she’ll end up with Jake and I’ll be happy for them, but right now I hate him because he can make her feel safe when I can’t.

  I let him in with a brief handshake and a “hey, man,” and then I gotta get out of here. He closes and locks the door behind me, and I shove my hands in my pockets and do my best to keep a straight face as I walk by all the assholes with their cameras and their microphones and their cell phones and their notepads. Not going to give them any more reason to haunt Dempsey than I have already.

  21

  It’s been two weeks since I broke up with Nick. Two interminably long, shitty-ass weeks. I’ve done all my client calls and kept up with all my work, which is damn impressive considering the tent city that had popped up on my street. Now, though, the press has vacated the premises, probably realizing Nick hasn’t been here for weeks and he’s not coming back.

  Oona comes by and Vivian. And even though I tell him not to, Wash shows up and makes me work out. Which I both hate and love him for because the effort and the ache and the sweat and the feeling-like-I’m-going-to-keel-over are preferable to thinking about Nick and how I’ll never see him again except over Wi-Fi or on TV, and how shitty that is. And I can sleep the nights Wash has been here, which is more than I can say for the others when I lie awake, staring at my ceiling and cursing myself.

  But when I break down and google Nick because I miss him so fucking much, I’m reminded of why I needed to break up with him. He’s constantly surrounded by people. People who want him, who want things from him, who worship him, who are madly jealous of him. And between all that stuff, there’s no way we’d survive. Correction: no way I’d survive. He seems to do just fine with fame; revels in it, actually. Loves the attention. He might as well be screaming, Look at me!