by Megan Crane
‘Ken thanks you from the bottom of his heart,’ Jenna had lied, conscience perfectly clear, and then she’d hung up without further ass-kissing because it had already been getting late.
The Wild Boys had played an ‘impromptu’ set at the stroke of midnight. Everyone was still talking about it, and Jenna could see the raised white stage in the centre of the gallery’s main room with the instruments still on it and video screens scattered here and there, still playing the videos that would have enhanced the performance.
She had not experienced the set herself, however, because she had instead spent that time standing outside, trying to look cute enough for one of the bouncers to let her in. When that had failed, as she did not possess hips the approximate width of a Twizzler, she’d snuck around the back and had climbed in the nearest window – which had, unfortunately, led directly into the men’s bathroom.
The less said about that psychologically scarring experience, the better, she thought now with a shudder – and resisted the urge to run off and scour her hands once again.
Expecting Tommy to be less than happy to see her, Jenna had taken the precaution of looking like someone else. She’d picked up a blonde wig on her way downtown, and shoved all her dark curls beneath it as best she could. She’d knocked the wig askew on her way in through the window, and had wasted precious minutes readjusting it. Now, her scalp itched and she was rapidly overheating, but she hoped she could use the disguise to get close enough to Tommy to warn him about Richie.
And beg him to trust me—But that was not tonight’s objective, no matter how much she wished otherwise. Not to mention, he would say no, her caustic side felt the need to point out.
Shut up, caustic side, Jenna thought.
She manoeuvred her way through the crowd. Models and artists and the glitterati, as far as the eye could see. But no hint of Tommy. Jenna saw Sebastian chatting with Basquiat in the corner, and there was Nick making time with Linda Evangelista. But neither Richie nor Tommy seemed to be around – which, of course, terrified Jenna to her core. What if she was too late?
But no, Tommy’s car had to go over that bridge … Except, what if her being here had changed things? What if Richie decided to go ahead with his plan earlier than scheduled? Jenna wasn’t exactly conversant on the geekier aspects of time-travel philosophy – it was Aimee’s husband Ben who read all the science-fiction novels and could expound on the ramifications of disrupting the space/time continuum – but even she could grasp the concept that the very fact of her being in the wrong time could disrupt the sequence of events in that time.
Which meant that Richie could act whenever he chose. As long as he killed Tommy, did it really matter how or when? Tommy would still be dead.
Scared now, and more determined, Jenna pushed her way into the series of smaller rooms, skirting the edges of pretentious conversations – I adore the insouciance of the artist’s pastels, don’t you? – and incomprehensible ones – I told her max it out to the ultra max, you dig? And then, finally, she saw him.
Relief swept through her. He was still alive.
But he certainly did not look happy. Jenna tried to pretend that she didn’t feel a surge of triumph upon seeing that, but she couldn’t maintain the lie. He looked tired and, around the eyes, shattered. Just like me, Jenna thought, and there was a small and petty part of her that was glad. She tried to shove it aside because it was terrible to take pleasure in something like that, even if he should have trusted her no matter how crazy she sounded, and because the important part was that he was still breathing.
Tommy stood with his back against a pillar, nursing a cocktail and – if his expression was any indication – not paying the slightest attention to the conversation going on around him. Two society types and a short, round sort of man in a suit of many neon colours – possibly, upon reflection, Elton John – were bickering over something, their gestures and laughter so animated and over the top that Jenna suspected the use of narcotics.
She eased closer. She was wearing the blonde wig, so it wasn’t as if anyone was going to pick her out of such a densely packed crowd without a good look at her face. She figured she could saunter on over, drop the necessary information in Tommy’s ear, and then retreat before he picked up where he left off and insulted her further. She was not going to drink him in, or manufacture a reason to touch him. She didn’t even need to touch him to have the almost tactile sense of what his skin felt like beneath her hands.
Jenna moved around the pillar, and kept Tommy in her sights. She would not let him see the yearning she felt raging through her. She would not defend herself any further than she already had.
She was only steps away from him when he looked directly at her, the suddenness of it stunning her – pinning her with those shocking green eyes. Something washed over his face – a spark of hope, followed quickly by the dark fury she recognized all too well.
‘Nice try,’ he said, in a kind of nasty-edged drawl that she was sadly close enough to hear.
‘I have to tell you one thing,’ she said calmly, even though nothing felt calm, especially not inside her. She was all tilt and spin, and it was because he was near. ‘One thing and then I’ll go, I promise.’
But then Jenna froze as two beefy-looking men in suits appeared as if from thin air and marched with grim purpose towards her.
She only vaguely understood what was happening as they grabbed her arms. But she understood what she saw on Tommy’s face. The betrayal and the hopelessness. The anger.
And then she was being hurried through the crowd. Dragged, in fact – or that was what it would turn into if she stopped walking along with them. The pretty people broke off their conversations and stared at her, and Jenna could do nothing but hang between two men who each individually outweighed her by a hundred pounds at least, keep her feet moving or risk being hauled out like a sack of potatoes, and let them gape at her over their cocktails.
Her stomach ached and the blood rushed to her face, and she realized with despair that he really, truly, thought she was a psycho. A complete lunatic, and not in any sort of casual way. In a serious, hired-bodyguards-to-keep-her-away-from-him way. He had hired these men to intercept her.
Jenna thought she might throw up. Or, worse, burst into tears.
The bodyguards wrestled her out of the gallery through a side door, and Jenna found herself in one of Manhattan’s less attractive alleys, complete with upended garbage cans and the upsetting sound of scurrying in the furthest, darkest corners. The men holding her released her in a deliberate way that was more like a push with the momentum, so she staggered to keep her balance and found herself grabbing on to the slimy wall to keep herself upright.
She was the trash. Tommy had ordered them to remove her like she was no more than trash.
I will not cry I will not cry I will not cry—
‘Stay away from Tommy Seer,’ one of the bodyguards growled in a full Jersey accent. ‘Next time, we won’t be so gentle.’
‘You hear that?’ the other one demanded.
‘I hear it,’ Jenna said dully, and turned herself around to face them. There was only the dim bulb over the gallery door to light the alley, and it cast the two men in shadow. They looked bigger, more menacing. She swallowed.
And then behind them, the door opened, and Tommy walked out.
Jenna’s heart leapt in her chest, though she knew better. But he was there, and he was walking towards her despite the objections of the two giants – he even told them to go back inside – and it was almost like a dream.
It was only the two of them in the alley once the door thudded closed. He was wearing some kind of cloak-like thing that flowed around him and made him look like Heathcliff. It was almost romantic, really. If she squinted, she could pretend that wasn’t fury on his face but passion, and he wasn’t coming towards her for any reason but that.
‘What the hell is this?’ he demanded in that cold, awful tone, and Jenna had to release the fantasy and stop squinting.
He looked so tired, with near-purple crescents beneath each eye. She wanted to reach out to him.
But she couldn’t. She was the reason he looked that way. He thought she was a stalker. A mental-health risk. There would be no reaching out.
‘Richie,’ she said, her voice thick. She coughed to conceal it. ‘I think it’s Richie.’
‘Oh, really?’ Tommy did not sound impressed. He stopped in front of her, and for a moment it looked like he might reach across the distance between them. His hands moved – and then he remembered himself. He shifted his weight and planted his hands on his narrow hips. ‘What a surprise. Richie. You’re just going down the list, aren’t you?’
‘There were reasons to suspect every one of them,’ she said, stung into defending herself. ‘But I really do think it’s Richie.’
‘Of course you do.’ His lips flattened, and it hurt that he was looking at her with such contempt. It was much worse than when she’d first met him. So much worse, because now she knew what it felt like to be looked at as if she was the only woman in the world. ‘Do you have any reason to suspect Richie, Jenna?’ he asked, angrily. ‘Any reason at all?’
‘Of course,’ she said, her temper kicking in. Because it was better than bawling. ‘He’s the only one who—’
‘Let me rephrase that,’ he interrupted her, his tone vicious. ‘Do you have any reason to suspect him that involves actual evidence, and does not involve supernatural claims of any kind?’
Jenna could only stare at him, mute.
‘That’s what I thought,’ Tommy muttered. He took a step closer, and then seemed to think better of it, though he didn’t move away. His voice lowered, and every word pounded into Jenna as if he was using his fists. ‘Explain to me why you’re doing this. Look at yourself. You’re wearing a disguise and creeping around an art opening. You just got bodily removed, and you still keep going. Why? Give it up, Jenna.’
‘If I give it up, you die,’ she gritted out, reeling from his tone as much as his proximity. She could almost taste him. If she just reached out— but she was afraid of what he would do. ‘It doesn’t matter if you believe me. I know, and I have to do something about it.’
‘It might interest you to hear that there have been no “accidents” since I last saw you,’ Tommy growled at her, his gaze piercing. ‘What a coincidence.’
‘It’s not a coincidence, Tommy,’ Jenna said, willing him to believe her, to hear her, but knowing he wouldn’t. ‘There are only a few days left and he’s waiting for the big finish.’
‘You have an answer for everything,’ he said. ‘And every one of them crazy.’
‘I know it sounds crazy,’ Jenna assured him. She held up her hands, palms out – so close to grazing the planes of his chest. ‘Come on, Tommy. I know how crazy it sounds. Did you ever think I was crazy before? Even a little?’
‘No,’ he said, and his mouth twisted. His gaze darkened. ‘Which doesn’t help your case. It makes me a gullible idiot.’
‘Or maybe it’s not crazy,’ Jenna whispered. ‘Maybe it’s true. How else would I have known—’
‘Because you planned it!’ he burst out. ‘You planned all of it!’
‘Of course I didn’t plan it,’ she hissed at him. ‘Before anything happened between us the one thing you knew about me was how much I worshipped you. Groupie zombie worship, right? I would never hurt you. Somewhere inside you have to know that.’
‘There is no somewhere inside,’ he gritted out. ‘There’s only the reality. You’re nothing but another unhinged fan. I can’t believe I was stupid enough to overlook that.’
‘Tommy—’
‘Don’t do this again, Jenna,’ Tommy warned her, stepping back and condemning her with a sweeping look, one that took in the blonde wig and made her cheeks heat. ‘Next time I’m calling the cops.’
‘Tommy, please.’ She was begging. She should have felt humiliated, but maybe that would come later. At the moment she was only desperate that he hear her. ‘Please, whatever you do, think about the possibility that I’m not completely off my rocker. What if Richie really is planning to kill you? What if I’m not making all of this—’
‘What if I get you committed to Bellevue?’ Tommy interrupted, his tone lethal. ‘What if you spend the rest of your life in a straitjacket? These are much better questions, and ones I think you should consider. Who knows? Maybe John Hinckley is getting lonely in his psychiatric wing.’
Hinckley, who had attempted to assassinate President Reagan in 1981 for the love of Jodie Foster. What a lovely comparison. Jenna sucked in a breath.
‘Just keep an eye on Richie,’ she managed to say, hearing the tremor in her voice. ‘Please.’
Tommy stared at her for a moment, and she could see his temper and his disgust. He swayed closer, whether to touch her or berate her, she couldn’t tell. Something flashed between them, and Jenna held her breath. Tommy’s mouth twisted in anger and then he wrenched himself away from her. He turned abruptly and stalked back across the alley, throwing open the door and disappearing inside. His two security guards glared through the doorway at Jenna, who was relieved when the door slammed shut once again.
She stood there in the dank, dirty alley and told herself to breathe. To calm down. To let it go.
She felt something like a sob, or a scream, roll up from deep in her gut, and she let it wash through her, gathering steam until she tore the blonde wig from her head and hurled it with all her might at that door he’d let slam in her face. It hardly made a noise at all – it just fell to the ground and lay there, blonde hair bristling in the cold night air.
Jenna drew in one breath, then another.
Well. This was one hundred per cent commitment, nothing held back, everything on the line, wasn’t it? Everything she’d always been too afraid to do. And now she knew why.
I will not cry I will not cry I will not cry—
And then there was nothing else to do but go home.
Tommy stalked through the gallery, furious.
That ridiculous blonde wig. What had she been thinking? Did she believe for one second that he couldn’t pick her out of a crowd? That he hadn’t seen her the moment she walked in? It was the way she held herself. The way her hips moved. The way she held one wrist so tightly with the other hand, like a little girl. He would know her anywhere, and more than that, he would know her even if he was blind. It was like she was superimposed over him and he had to fight through her to see anything else at all.
But his real fury was reserved for his own pathetic, sorry self. He called her crazy – what about him? What was the point of having bodyguards to protect him when, at the first sight of the reason he needed them in the first place, he raced to her side? And then, instead of letting them do their job, he’d run after her like a panting dog, desperate to have one more interaction with her. He couldn’t lie to himself – he’d wanted to talk to her. He’d wanted to be that close, to be able to smell her perfume and watch the emotions cross her face. What was he doing?
Maybe Jenna couldn’t help her delusions. Maybe she had some mental disease. He, on the other hand, was supposedly sane and in possession of all his faculties. So why had it made his chest ache to see her look at him like that – like he was hurting her? Why did he want to turn around right now, run outside, and beg her to pretend she’d been kidding around so he could be with her again?
‘This party is boring,’ Richie said from Tommy’s side, making him start with surprise. He immediately stepped away from Richie under the guise of snagging a drink from a passing waiter, but that wasn’t the real reason. The real reason was that she’d warned him about Richie – and apparently, he listened to the ravings of madwomen.
‘Of course it’s boring,’ he replied calmly, as if his crazed stalker hadn’t accused Richie of plotting his death, and as if that accusation hadn’t taken root somewhere inside of him. He raised his drink towards the mass of people around them. ‘Look who’s here.’
Richie sighed, and looked ar
ound. Tommy looked at Richie. The real issue was not that Jenna had planted suspicions of Richie into Tommy’s head. The issue was that no small part of Tommy wanted Richie to do something, he was forced to admit to himself. Bash him over the head with his wine glass, knock him out, anything that proved Jenna right. Tommy couldn’t accept the time-travel thing, of course, but he’d overlook it if the murder thing panned out.
He realized what he’d just thought to himself, and was appalled.
‘What’s going on?’ Richie asked then, frowning slightly. ‘You look annoyed.’
‘Tired,’ Tommy said.
‘I think I’m going to leave,’ Richie said. ‘Play some cards, if anyone asks.’
‘Fine.’ Tommy knew that by anyone, Richie meant Duncan. Sebastian never seemed to want to know Richie’s whereabouts – which Tommy had always assumed meant he either knew them already, or preferred not to know, an issue that Tommy had no interest whatsoever in learning more about.
After his band mate walked away, Tommy sucked down the rest of his drink and felt sorry for himself.
His life was completely empty. That was not exactly news, of course, but it hadn’t hurt as much before Jenna had made him dream about something different. Something more. But that wasn’t his life – this was. He was standing in a room packed full of people, all of whom would claim him as a friend, none of whom knew him at all.
He felt like a ghost.
Later, Tommy sat in his expensive apartment and stared out at his expensive view. He cared about neither.
He’d bowed out of the party not long after Richie had left, and had made his way back uptown alone despite the offers of several enterprising ladies. Now he sat in the dark and brooded. About being a ghost. About the choices that had led him here. He thought about Jenna, of course – he couldn’t seem to avoid it. Specifically, he thought about what she’d almost said out in that alley, before he’d interrupted her.
