by Flite, Nora
I didn't care that I was damp.
Things were finally clearing up between me and the people I loved.
Fiddling with the door in the long, quiet hallway, I hummed to myself. The song I'd been writing with Drezden was catchy, the tune undulating in my chest and traveling to my brain. Stumbling into my room, I slammed the door and gazed on the place that I had to myself.
I wonder where the others are, where there rooms are?
My tangent of a thought was halted by the brisk knock on my door. Startled, I spun around, still caught up in my warm high of emotions. Gripping the handle, I tugged the door open wide, half expecting to see Drezden himself.
Wet, pallid and gaunt from hard times, the man outside was not my boyfriend.
“Hey,” Johnny Muse said, eyes jittery in the orange lights. “Sorry to bother you so soon, but I just—I was thinking about earlier—about what I had said—and I wanted to clarify a few things.”
Gawking openly, paralyzed by surprise, I fought for words. What the hell is this? Had Johnny followed me to the hotel? There was no other explanation.
He looked both ways, ducking low and shoving himself into my room. “Hey, wait,” I said, backing up to keep space between us. “You shouldn't be—”
“It's just really, really important that I explain everything better! You know?” The door clicked behind him, his hoodie casting sharp shadows on his thin face. He no longer stared anywhere but right at me, an awful hunger deep in his faded emerald eyes. “Okay, so yeah, I got the impression you didn't believe everything earlier. I can't—like, handling that is hard for me. Got it?”
The back of my heel hit the edge of the bed. “Johnny, you need to leave.”
“I will, I will!” Ruffling his hair, then palming his Adam's apple, he frowned. “Just listen. Please. The thing about the graveyard, okay, so I said Drezden went a little nuts. Maybe I said crazy? He was over the top, and he did push me down, but okay so he didn't like, pummel me or anything.”
Shaking my head slowly, I felt for my phone in my pocket. The budding seed of danger had become a full on rose with thorns. “Sure. Fine. You still need to go.”
His face fell limp. “You don't believe me about him, do you?”
“I—it doesn't matter if I do.”
“No!” His brows curled like snakes. “I really, really need you to believe me. You've got to see that he's a psycho, you need to—to leave the band. Okay? Okay, got that?”
He came here to tell me a more toned down version his story. I might have believed the new version, if he hadn't told me the extreme one first. Or if he hadn't stalked me here and shoved his way into my room. Fuck. This was bad. “Yes, okay. I'll do that.” My legs inched me sideways, trying to get around him towards the exit.
Johnny held his face, pulling his skin down in exasperation. “You really don't believe me! God dammit!” Too fast for me to react, he snatched my shoulders, shook me till my teeth rattled. “Why won't you believe me!? You need to believe me!”
That was it, my self preservation kicked in. Shoving at his chest, his forearms, I hurried to disengage. Opening my mouth, I got out a partial scream. A single fist to my skull ended it, stunning me so much I simply toppled to the floor.
Carpet nuzzled my cheek. I need to move! Above me, through the bells whistling in my ears, I heard Johnny talking. Run, fight, anything! His shadow fell over me. I couldn't make sense of his words, but there was a panicked, apologetic smear in them that made me furious.
Run. Fight. Save yourself.
The memory of the bullies shattering my first guitar drilled into my head.
Fight.
“Shit, shit, what do I do? I didn't mean—” Johnny's tirade ended, my knuckles scraping along his cheekbone. “What the fuck!” Cupping his skin, he made a grab for me. That was fine; I let him, pulling him down onto me and kneeing him in the guts.
I won't let anyone bully me again.
My nails cut his forehead, blood caked underneath.
I'm not a victim anymore.
Never again.
He let me go, hugging himself, coughing. I was on my feet, rushing for the door. I wanted to escape, to break away from this living chaos ruining everything.
Johnny Muse wasn't ready to abandon me.
Long fingers tangled in my hair, throwing me backwards. Off balance, I spun sideways, disoriented. Run run run! My temple slammed into the wide-screen TV, toppling it—and me—to the ground. Lifting my eyes, wanting to see where my attacker was, I felt his fingers on the front of my shirt.
In one great swing, he threw me. My shoulder made a sickening connection with the coffee table. Glass shattered, the middle crumbling; my strength went along with it.
No, I thought in disbelief. No, it can't end this way. Moving was too hard, every twitch of my body made the torturous fire in my right shoulder worse. My arm, what's wrong with my arm?
Dizzy with pain, I struggled through the blur. Emerald eyes, dragon-fire that wanted to burn me and take me to hell, waited for me. Johnny was crouched above and ready to pounce.
Fight, I told myself. Run, I begged. Nothing in me would move.
“I didn't mean to do this.” He was breathing heavy, muffling any pity in his voice. “Fuck. If you'd only believed me. Then I wouldn't... this wouldn't have...” Shaking his head, he aimed blood-shot eyes over me. I didn't know what he was looking at. Thinking was a struggle, my vision turning hazy, black.
Run. Fight. I need to save myself.
I need to...
The soft blanket of unconsciousness was all I had left.
Chapter Five.
Drezden
I knew I'd pushed the time I'd spent back home. Brenda had called my phone more than once during the trip, each voicemail getting progressively more manic. I'd returned her call once; when my flight was taking off. “I'll need a car when I land.”
She hadn't been impressed. “You're really trying my nerves. It's already three, what were you doing all day out in freaking Syracuse? God, I'm going to have grey hairs before you're through with me, I swear.”
Peering out at the slate colored sky as my plane landed, my spirits were soaring. I grimaced at the flare of hot pain along my lower back when I climbed from the seat. Worth it, I told myself, thinking about the look that would be on Lola's face.
Worth it.
The car was waiting for me, the driver one of many forgettable men in black hats that matched the paint job. I was a foot away when the rear window rolled down. The lines under Brenda's eyes were deep, dark things that spoke volumes about her hangover. “Get in,” she muttered.
Yanking the door open, I slid in next to her. “You didn't need to meet me.”
“Of course I did.” Her fingers were a blur, typing into her phone. “I've been up since eight, busy wrangling the set-up for the venue, all while wondering when you,” she spared me a glance, “my special star, would return to me.”
“I made it back.” My chuckle was cut short as I leaned myself too hard against the seat.
Brenda arched an eyebrow, shutting her phone. “You alright?”
“It's nothing.”
“Nothing,” she repeated doubtfully. “Fine. Have your secrets. I'm just glad you're back.”
Fingering the shape of my phone, I nodded. “Me too. Did... anyone wonder where I was?” Did Lola ask at all? She hadn't taken any of my calls.
“Honestly, I've been a little frazzled and busy all day.” Shaking her head, she smoothed her hair over and over. “I left voicemails for everyone today. No one has responded. My guess is everyone is still sleeping at the hotel.”
Still sleeping? I'd left so late last night. It had taken everything in me to resist knocking on Lola's room, imagining her tucked in and alone. Unless she stayed on the bus. The idea bothered me, her by herself. “Are you sure they're all there?”
“No, of course I'm not sure.” Waving her phone, she frowned at me. “Fretting about you has left me sort of distracted, get it?”
A slow, suspicious squint inched along Brenda's face. “Oh. I see now. You're not even worrying about the show, you're still thinking about her.” Collapsing deep in the seat, my manager groaned. “Priorities. But fine, relax already. We're on our way there.”
Peeking out the window at the buildings rolling by the deeper we got into the city, I tried to calm my beating heart. Soon, I'll see her. Then I can tell her—show her—everything she's wanted to know.
“If I have to pull everyone from their beds, I'll—oh, huh.” The sound of her phone blaring tugged my attention. Brenda's lips turned down, thumb flipping the device open. “Weird, it's the hotel.” She cleared her throat. “Hello, Brenda Westlake speaking.”
Right in front of me, Brenda's expression morphed from confusion, to shock, to flat out anger... and then flustered defeat. “What is it?” I asked.
Turning away, she motioned at me to leave her be. “Uh huh. Uh huh. Yes, I understand—no, that's fine, this thing happens. Hm?” Her voice lowered drastically. “I'll want to see proof of that. Yes, I'm on my way. Just—yes, I'll talk to you there. Thanks.” She snapped the phone shut roughly. “Fuck! God, this band!”
“What happened?” Why is my blood racing?
She turned her glare towards me, chocolate irises flashing. “Someone trashed one of the rooms I rented. What the hell? You guys should know better by now!”
“Don't blame me, I was with you all night.”
“I blame you for other things!” Gritting her teeth, Brenda crossed her legs and wagged her top foot rapidly. “Porter or Colt, maybe the both of them. Probably got some girls up into their room and went nuts. Jackasses.”
“They didn't say which room it was?”
“No they didn't say which room!” Her hands clasped her forehead, lashes touching her cheeks. “They just said they had a bill for the damage. Fifteen thousand dollars!? Are they joking?”
We pulled up outside the Hilton. Brenda flew from the car, stopping only to speak to our driver. “Stay here, I'll need a ride to the venue for me... and maybe some headless corpses.”
Smiling tightly, I followed her inside. The last time a room had gotten busted up on our dime had been over six months ago. And it wasn't Porter or Colt then. The memory of Johnny soured my stomach.
Brenda had regained her composure. That mask of sweetness slid on firmly, her hands folding on top of the front desk. “Excuse me,” she said softly, “I took a phone call a few minutes ago. I'm Brenda Westlake.”
“Ah! Yes, right.” The man was young, short, gelled hair that was blonder than lemonade. “I'm so sorry about this. But, it seems the cleaning lady found one of your rooms... well.” He shrugged, lips stuck in a forever-false smile. “Out of sorts. Here, this is the paperwork.”
Sliding up to the counter, I watched over Brenda's shoulder. The front desk associate gave me a brief look, but otherwise, he was content to point out the itemized list. I felt Brenda's fury growing. “A television? Seriously!?”
Balking, the guy—I saw his name tag said 'Jeremy'—raised his hands as if Brenda would strike him. “I... yes, everything there—”
“I want to see,” she huffed. Lifting the paper, she waved it side to side. “Nothing is approved to be charged to my card until I see first hand the damage in room—wait.” In a blink, my manager's face turned ashen. “This makes no sense. Is this the right room?”
Warily, Jeremy offered a keycard. “Room two-fifty, correct.”
My heart worked itself into a ball of elastics. “Lola's room?” I whispered.
Snatching the card, Brenda power-walked to the elevator. I stayed on her heels the entire way.
****
It was worse than I had imagined.
The cleaning lady had been inside, that much was obvious with the crisply made bed. Even so, the remains of a broken glass table, as well as the shattered flat-screen, were in plain sight. It was a scene that made no fucking sense to me.
Covering her mouth, Brenda turned in place. “Wow. She really was mad at you.”
“What?” A jolt of defense turned my muscles to steel. “You think she did this because of me?”
“I don't know.” Sighing, she folded up the paperwork and stuck it in her purse. Gingerly, she touched the top of the broken TV. “Between her running off yesterday and you spilling your heart to me last night...” I bit my tongue at her interpretation. “If she didn't do this to let out some tension, then why? To break her 'oh look at me, I'm an out of control rocker' cherry?”
There was sweat staining my throat, a sickening warmth turning my intestines into an earthquake. This doesn't make sense. Could Lola—would Lola—do this? “Are you sure it was her?”
“Well, I did make sure she had checked into the hotel when I left this morning.” Shrugging, Brenda sat on the edge of the bed. “She didn't answer when I knocked, I guess she could have left and the cleaning lady decided to go bonkers and smash everything.”
Lowering my brows, I scowled at her. “Take this seriously.”
“I am taking it seriously.” She patted her purse emphatically. “Fifteen grand worth of seriously. Drez, this isn't the first time someone has smashed up a hotel room on tour.”
Pricks of neurosis were sinking their fangs into me. “I can't see her doing this.”
Eyeing me with growing concern, Brenda stood and came my way. We both heard the crunch of a forgotten piece of glass under her heel. “You of all people, you can't imagine breaking things out of anger?”
I wouldn't let my guilt blind me. “Lola isn't me.”
“Lola isn't exactly free of violence in her history.”
Crinkling my nose, I showed her my back. I can't believe she would do this. But was Brenda right? Maybe I was denying it... because it meant this damage was my fault, otherwise.
Somehow, I discovered my phone in my grip. I hadn't seen Lola since yesterday afternoon, and I felt like an addict who needed a hit. I want to talk to her. To see her, fuck, to touch her.
To find out why she did this—why this happened.
Rolling my thumb over my phone, I gave in and dialed her.
The fact she hadn't called me, texted me, anything at all since we'd last spoken... it left me cold. But it'll be better. Everything will be better.
Honesty.
Her voicemail beeped. I didn't leave a message.
Shoving the phone in my pocket, I leaned my forehead on the cool door frame. Where is she? The show's in three hours. She can't just hide from me. She needs to be here.
I needed her with me.
Brenda touched my elbow; I pulled away, heading out the door. “Drez—”
“Let's find the guys.” My voice cracked, I cleared it with a snarl. “Find them, then we'll look for Lola.”
Exiting into the hall, my lower back burned like a new sun.
****
Unlike Lola, Porter and Colt were indeed in their own rooms. It took some rough shaking from me to get them up, but they didn't fight me for long. “Lola,” I said briskly, trying to get Colt to focus on my eyes. “Have you seen Lola?”
“What?” Pushing me off, he yanked a dirty shirt over his head. “What time is it, man?”
“Have you seen Lola?”
“I—no, not since yesterday.” Cocking his head, the drummer took a swig from a glass of bathroom sink water. “Ugh. That tastes awful.”
I wasn't listening, I just headed into Porter's room. He had barely gotten his jeans zipped when I started talking. “Tell me you've seen Lola.”
Shooting an uneasy glance my way, he grabbed his jersey from a chair. “Something's wrong, isn't it?”
“Maybe, maybe not.” Brenda leaned around the door, ignoring how Porter blushed, pulling his shirt over his head. “You guys have any wild parties last night? Or hear anything like a party from Lola's room?”
Coming up behind u
s, Colt spoke around a toothbrush in his mouth. “We played a drinking game. We both lost—and won—if that gives you an idea of what we heard.”
I scraped at my scalp, no longer hiding my nerves. “She won't answer my phone.”
“She wouldn't if she was miss-breaks-a-television-levels-of-pissed,” Brenda said.
“You have her number,” Porter said, zipping up his jacket. “You call her, Brenda.”
Energy flooded me; I gripped my manager by the shoulders, giving a shake. “That's perfect! Call her. If she doesn't pick up, then this has to be about more than me.”
“Whoa, easy!” Digging her nails into my wrists, Brenda pushed me off. “I'll call her, calm down. I think you're missing the point, though.” Lifting her cell, she tapped the buttons. “I left voicemails for everyone this morning. Her too. No one called me back.”
The boys managed to look the appropriate level of chagrined. “Oh,” Porter laughed. “Uh. Guess I slept through those.”
Brenda gave me a pointed stare. “It's ringing.”
Holding my breath, I bent low, trying to hear. Each bit of noise was a stab in my chest, my hope that Lola would pick up and interrupt the ringing ballooning by the second. At the sound of her voicemail, I bared my teeth and punched the wall. “Dammit!”
“Holy shit, calm down!” Colt said, clapping me on the shoulder. “Maybe she lost her phone, she could be at the tour bus, or the venue. Right?”
Inhaling till my ribs hurt, I strode out of the room. “We'll check there next.”
No one else seemed to feel the way I did. This mounting sense of distress, that something was dangerously wrong here. The last time Lola had gone missing, she'd been with Brenda. That had disturbed me, but this...
This left my molars throbbing with paranoia.
****
The tour buses had been moved. I spotted ours along the sidewalk in front of the Paramount theater, orange cones dotting the street to block off other vehicles. People were crowding, taking photos or lining up to flock early.
