by Zoey Oliver
“Third’s good enough for state! That’s awesome.”
“I guess. I just thought we’d do better.”
“It was your first time performing in front of a big crowd like that. You’ll get better. Trust me. I was no good my first time, and you’ve already gotten over that hurdle and beaten me.”
“Maybe,” she says.
“Definitely,” I say, nodding.
“Tori,” Serge says from behind me, and I stiffen, making a face at Kamala. She grimaces back and disappears into one of the rooms.
Slowly, I turn to face Serge. I don’t know why I feel like I’m in trouble. I don’t know why I feel like I did something wrong or that he should be mad at me. I didn’t, but I still feel like hiding.
He jerks his head to the side, and I reluctantly follow him into his room where he closes the door, putting the latch on first so that it’s not fully closed.
“I heard you got third, congrats,” I say, resisting the urge to hug myself. The room feels so cold. The space between us feels cold and I don’t know what’s going on.
“Thanks,” he says, his voice hard.
“Is it true?” he asks, after a drawn-out silence, his voice soft, but sharp with a deadly edge.
“Is what true?” I ask.
“Is it true you’re just using us? Them. For your image?”
“No! I mean… You know I’m doing community service—”
“Yeah, but that’s not… Fuck, Tori. I knew you were a mess, but I didn’t think you’d stoop that low. This was their day and you just had to make it about you, didn’t you? These kids don’t get much, but it’s fine, because the famous Tori Winters deserves the little bit of spotlight they might get.”
“Serge, I—”
He shakes his head, holding up his hand. “I thought there was some hope for you. But looks like I was just seeing what I wanted to. When we get back, you should talk to Joey about finishing up your hours in another department.”
“Are you done then?” I ask, my voice shrill and shrieking, my whole body vibrating with anger. How dare he! Clearly he’s been thinking these things about me all along. That I’m a mess, that I’m fucking hopeless. Well, fuck him. “Maybe if you’d let me get a word in, I could have explained, but you clearly don’t want to hear what I have to say.”
“Not really, no.”
“I guess that’s that then,” I say, my voice hard even though my throat’s tightening.
“I guess it is,” he says, his voice just as hard.
“Have a nice fucking life,” I say, storming out of his room, the bang of the door hitting the latch echoing down the hall. By the time I get to the stairs, I’m sniffling, trying really hard not to cry. I need to get out of here, I need fresh air, I need to not be so close to him and the place where he just ripped my fucking heart out over nothing.
But then I’m on the first floor, and before I get to the door, I walk past the bar and my feet do the thinking. The first shot of tequila’s burning down my throat before I even get my ass on a barstool, and from there it’s all downhill.
I lose count of how many drinks make their way down my gullet. But whatever the number is, it’s not enough, because I don’t feel any better. The familiar burn is there. The warm embrace of not giving a shit. But no matter how hard I try to give into it, I can’t stop giving a shit. I don’t want Serge to be mad at me. Even if he’s totally wrong about what happened, the stubborn asshole. I just want things to go back to being the way they were.
I don’t know what time it is when I decide it’s a good idea to try to call him and explain things. He doesn’t answer. I hang up and try calling again and again, each time the lump in my throat growing bigger and harder to swallow past.
By the fourth call, I’m crying and when the voicemail clicks on, I actually leave a message, hiccuping and sniffling at the hotel bar.
“Serge… It’s not… I’m not…” I feel a fresh press of tears behind my eyes and then they’re just streaming down my face without any control, full-on ugly crying in public where anyone can see me. “You’re right. I am a fuck up. I’m sorry.”
I drop my phone on the bar beside me and hold up my hand for another. The bartender pushes me a glass of water and I just glare at it.
“I’m in a fucking room upstairs, don’t cut me off,” I slur. “’Nother tequila. Make it a double.”
He looks at me dubiously, but I flash my black card at him again and he shrugs. “Your funeral, lady.” He must be old enough he doesn’t know who I am. Thank God.
I’m not the only one at the bar. It’s got this lounge/restaurant feel and it’s had a steady stream of people all night, but I’ve been ignoring them all, just hoping no one snaps a picture of me getting wasted. But the hotel bar seems safer than something in the city, I figure. Not that I actually put that much thought into the choice, I’m just trying to rationalize it now and I know it.
Finally, the bartender does cut me off, but at that point, I can’t even argue anymore. I can’t even string together two words, and the whole world is swimming in front of me. I’m not even sure I can make it to my room at this point, but they’re closing down, so I have to try.
I stand up from the stool, everything lurching, my head swimming, all the lights too bright to keep my eyes open more than a slit. Immediately I stumble, grabbing wildly for the bar for support.
“Come on,” someone says, and a strong grip takes hold of my waist, supporting me on the way out. I don’t know who it is, but my only thought is it’s Serge, coming to rescue me after hearing my voicemail. I think I might have called and left him more, but I’m not even sure of that to be honest.
A sob breaks from my chest. “I’m sorry,” I cry.
“Shh,” he says, rubbing my arm. But his hands aren’t callused in all the delicious ways Serge’s are and I force myself to blink until my eyes focus.
“Garret?” I mutter, completely confused as he shoves me into the elevator. “What’re you—”
“Saving your ass for the second time today,” he says. “You’ve just made a very public spectacle of yourself.”
“I did?”
“Really, Tori, with your relationship with the label as tenuous as it is, I can’t believe you’d be so reckless.”
“I—” I start crying again, burying my face in my hands. I didn’t even think about the label or my parole or anything else when I sat down at the bar. He’s right. I fucked up everything.
He’s got his hand on my back again as the elevator doors open, and then he’s unlocking the hotel room door and I’m so thankful to be back in my room where I can just cry myself to sleep.
It only takes me a few steps to realize this isn’t my room. My room isn’t some big fancy suite because it’s on the same hall as all the other rooms for the group.
“What—?”
“You really should learn to be more discreet, Tori,” Garret says, shaking his head disapprovingly, blocking the exit. Then his hands are moving to his belt, the clink of the buckle coming undone punctuating his next sentence. “But I can keep this incident out of the papers for you…”
He shoves his pants down and then his semi-hard cock is just out in the open in the air between us. It’s clear what he means. And it’s clear he doesn’t think I’m in any position to refuse.
“Fuck you,” I spit, trying to push past him toward the door, but he grabs me, his hands so tight on my arms they hurt. “Let me go!”
“I’ve put a lot of work into you, you little bitch, and I expect something in return,” he growls, dragging me toward his bed. I dig my heels in and struggle for all I can, but he’s strong, and even though I’m sobering up fast with the present danger, my body’s slow to catch up, still so inebriated I can barely stand.
“Those fat paychecks not enough for you?” I grunt, twisting even as his grip tightens. Finally, I do the only thing left to do. I bring my knee up between his legs as hard and fast as I can. It throws me off-balance, so I don’t get a good shot and I only clip his b
alls, but it’s enough for his grip to loosen just a bit. Enough for me to break away because I’m expecting it and he’s not.
“You bitch!” he screeches, lunging for me as I work the door handle. Once I’m in the hallway, it’s safe. There’s cameras in the hallway. He’s not going to drag me kicking and screaming back into his room, right?
I wrench the door open and stumble into the hall, falling on my hands and knees. I feel Garret’s clammy hand wrap around my ankle and he tries to pull me back in.
Just as I’m kicking him off, the elevator door dings, and it startles him enough that I’m able to break free and get to my feet, hurrying to take the elevator and use whoever’s coming out of it as protection.
Thankfully, Garret doesn’t follow me.
I lean back against the cool wall of the elevator and try to get my heart rate back to normal. My blood is pumping fast with adrenaline, with the need to keep running and never look back. I think I must be in shock because even though I know that was really serious and I should be sobbing my eyes out, I can’t seem to muster a single tear.
I stumble out of the hotel, needing to get as far away from this place as possible, and just start walking. I don’t know where I’m going or what I’m hoping for, but I can’t stand still and I can’t stay here. And just like that, it’s like old times. Me fucked up, wandering the streets of an unknown city in the wee hours of the morning.
Except normally I’m not alone. And then it hits me. My salvation. I pull out my phone and hit my most common contact.
After two and a half rings, Onyx answers. “Tor?” he says sleepily. “It’s four in the morning.”
I sniffle, so relieved to hear his voice, to have my lifeline again. “Can you come pick me up?”
“Where are you?” he asks, sounding much more awake all of the sudden.
“I fucked up. I fucked up so bad.” I finally find those tears and now they won’t stop coming.
“Fuck,” he groans. I hear the sound of clothes rustling and it puts me at ease. He’s coming. Of course he’s coming. Onyx never lets me down. “Where are you?” he asks again.
“I don’t know… Somewhere in San Diego.”
“What?”
“There was the competition and…” I sniffle or hiccup or sob between every other word and finally he can’t handle it anymore.
“Okay, okay. It’s going to take me a couple of hours. Can you find a Denny’s or something to sit in until then?”
“Yeah...” I sniffle.
“Okay. Try to stay out of trouble, will you?”
“I’ll try,” I say, swiping at tears wondering why the hell we don’t have teleportation technology yet in this day and age.
Uber comes to the rescue again and some really nice lady named Janet takes me to Denny’s and listens to what I can tell her about the story. When we get there, she parks and walks me in, sitting me down in a booth with a firm hand on my shoulder.
“This young lady needs a pile of french fries and a— Honey, you like chocolate or vanilla?”
“Chocolate,” I answer.
“And a chocolate milkshake, stat.”
“Thanks Janet,” I say, slumping over in the booth. She pats me on the back reassuringly.
“You want me to stay with you ’til your friend gets here?”
“No, that’s okay, thanks though.”
“Well, if you need me, you just request me, all right?”
I nod and she leaves. Not a minute later my phone dings.
“Five stars,” I mutter, tapping the screen. “A million stars for Janet.”
“Here you go hon,” the waitress says, dropping off a plate of fries and a bottle of ketchup. “Your shake’ll be right out.”
“Thanks,” I say, already shoveling fries in my face hole. I need the carbs. I need to be sober enough to actually explain everything to Onyx by the time he gets here. Because I know he’s going to want to know why I dragged him out of bed and two and a half hours down the state to pick me up after a bender I shouldn’t have been having.
After the fries, I get french toast — my normal drunk food — and I somehow manage to put it all away over the next hour or so. I sent Onyx the address as soon as Uber told me where I was going, but it’s still surprising when he walks in, because it should have taken him another hour to get here.
“What’d you do one-twenty the whole way?” I ask as he sits down in the booth across from me.
“Maybe,” he answers with a shrug. “Can I get a root beer?” he calls to the waitress. “Please?”
“So what’s going on?” he asks. I shrug, reaching for my glass of water.
“Jesus, Tori, what happened to your arms?”
I look down and both my arms are starting to turn an ugly angry purple, the outlines of Garret’s fingers all too obvious.
And then I tell my best friend everything. I can tell he’s judging me pretty hard by the time I get to the bar, and I don’t blame him. I know I shouldn’t have done that. I know it could have risked everything. And things could have been much worse if I hadn’t been able to fight Garret off.
By the time I get to that part of the night, Onyx is clenching his fists, looking like he’s ready to go rip Garret’s head off himself.
“He’s still our rep,” I caution. “And it’s his word against mine. We know how that goes.” I don’t add what we’re both thinking: especially with a reputation like mine.
“That son of a bitch needs to be fired,” Onyx growls. I nod, but I’m pretty sure nothing will ever come of it. That’s just how things work in our industry. Rich powerful men get to do what they want, and the young girls they take advantage of are disposable. A dime a dozen.
“Can we just go home now?” I finally ask, once I’ve caught up to where I called him. Onyx frowns, sighs, and looks at his phone.
“Yeah, come on. Let’s get you out of here.”
They’re the best words I’ve heard all night.
Chapter 11
Serge
The minute Tori’s out the door I feel bad about how things just went. Part of me wants to run after her, but the other part — the part in charge of what my feet do, apparently — says good riddance. I’ve always known that Tori spells nothing but trouble for me, and this just cements it. She’s wild and reckless, impulsive and hot-headed. It’s not a good mix for two addicts to get together, and I know it.
But I still can’t stop thinking about her. Maybe she does have an explanation for what happened earlier, for the swarm of paparazzi all clearly there for her and not the kids. She played it so cool when I noticed all the cameras, but I knew something was up. I might have been out of the biz for a while, but I still remember what it’s like. I know what a pre-scheduled media blitz looks like, even from the parking lot. But I suppose I should at least give her the chance to explain what she can — after she cools down. After we both cool down.
Besides, now I’m alone with thirty-five kids. I don’t really have the time to sit and wallow over whatever the hell just happened between us. The kids are having a good time, jumping on beds, watching TV, going to the pool. It’s really not hard to watch them, I just have to be a responsible adult. Someone has to.
Eventually, around midnight, everyone’s back in their rooms, locked up tight for the night. Everyone except Tori. As far as I can tell, she’s never come back, but her luggage is still in her room. That seems super weird, so I head back to my room to call Onyx. Maybe he knows what she’s doing, where she is. I know she’s a big girl and she can handle herself, but I still worry. I don’t know why, because I’m still angry at her, but I do.
When I wake my phone up, a ton of notifications pop up all at once. I left it in the room while I was hanging with the kids, not wanting it to get broken or tossed in the pool or anything like that. But now I see that Tori’s been trying to call me and a fist of panic closes around my chest. What if she needed my help and I wasn’t there?
I feel like an ass.
Then I listen to
the voicemails and my heart sinks through the floor.
It’s clear she’s wasted, slurring and crying, a total wreck. It’s hard to listen to, and each one gets more and more unintelligible. I don’t waste any more time calling Onyx.
“Hello?” he answers, clearly suspicious of my name being on the caller ID.
“Hey Onyx, it’s Serge—”
“I can read.”
“Right, well, I was wondering if you’ve heard from Tori?”
“Should I have?” he asks, his voice taking on a rough edge.
I sigh. “I don’t know. We kind of had a fight and I haven’t seen her since. I think she might be drinking.”
“Goddamnit,” he mutters under his breath. “Well, Tori’s going to do what she wants to do. If she’s out getting wasted, it’s probably best to just let it run its course.”
My hands ball into fists, my jaw clenching tight. “She’s all alone, don’t you think that’s just asking for trouble?”
“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but Tori is always asking for trouble. Alone or not.”
It’s not an answer I like, but it’s the only one I’m likely to get.
“Well… Will you let me know if you hear from her?”
“Sure,” he says, some girl in the background trying to pull him away from his phone. “Don’t sweat it. She’s done worse.”
That doesn’t really make me feel any better. Because that’s the kind of thing people said about me when I went missing before a show and wouldn’t answer my phone. They were so used to Ian and I fucking up, going around doing all the drugs we could get our hands on, that no one found it out of the ordinary when we hadn’t been heard from in hours and we missed curtain call. We’re just lucky that Luke was pissed off enough to track us down with the intention of beating some sense into us. Instead, he found us both pretty much comatose, me nearly dead.
So no, I don’t find comfort in the knowledge she’s ‘done worse.’ It just makes me think this might be the worst she ever does and it’s going to be my fault.
I lay in bed for hours, staring at the ceiling, watching the shadows move from under the curtains, wondering where Tori is and what she’s doing. If she’s okay. If we’re going to be okay.
