Our guard has his back turned to us. He has a box of pizza open, but only the crusts are left, as he watches the small TV up in the corner of the room. Of course, it’s turned to the live coverage from the cemetery. The candle lighting is supposed to commence any moment now, but they keep replaying the moment a particularly burly policeman grabs me by the shoulder just after we’ve surrendered at front gate and pushes me to the ground. There’s a scrape on my knee from that.
“At least they’re classy enough to blur us out,” I comment, leaning back against the cold wall.
Maggie groans. “Yeah, but it makes my butt look so gigantor.”
“Could be worse, I mean, what’s up with my facial expression?” I try to mimic it, tongue splayed out, eyes rolled up, and Maggie giggles so hard she has to clutch her chest.
“Oh my God, don’t do that!” she howls. When I mock her, she elbows me in the side. The TV blips back from a commercial to Nick Lively, and she perks back up again. “Ooh! Guard-man!” she calls to our guard, who doesn’t even acknowledge us, “Turn it up, please!”
“Quiet down!” The guard grabs the remote, and turns up the volume. Maggie sticks out her tongue behind his back and nudges me to get up with her. We walk over to the side of the cell closest to the TV. I press my face between the bars because the cool metal sooths my sunburned cheeks.
Nick Lively must be in his media van since he’s standing in front of a black backdrop where my face, and a very old image of Roman—when he still had honey-colored hair and no tattoos—are superimposed beside each other. Between them, Jason Dallas slowly fades in, his black hair pulled back behind his head. I never noticed before, but his eyes are slanted, and his face is long. Like a fox.
Maggie squints at the news banner zipping across the bottom of the screen. “I think they’re talking about the concert next Saturday—oh, I’d give my right ovary to be there.”
This time, the guard turns around, his bushy black eyebrows furrowing, like two goth caterpillars in heat. “Shhhhhhh!”
We hold up our hands instinctively. “Sorry,” I mouth.
He turns up the volume, and slides back down into his comfy chair. I strain my ears to listen.
“...Talk about one hell of a Roman Holiday,” Nick Lively tries to joke with a bleached white smile and forces a laugh so that even if you don’t get the joke, everyone will laugh at the poor attempt.
Maggie just scowls. “You’d think he’d have better material.”
“I’m just surprised he knows what a roman holiday is.”
Nick Lively goes on, “Jason Dallas, a fellow singer who used to be an inseparable part of Holly Hudson’s group of friends, is live from New York City where he’ll be performing next Saturday night at a concert which— as any Holidayer would know—was originally Roman Holiday’s first Madison Square gig, and reportedly Holly’s long-time dream. How do you feel about it, Jason?”
The screen splits open, and the pallid face of the real Jason Dallas blips up. His hair is pulled back into a tiny ponytail; a lock of jet-black bangs feathering into his eyes. “I feel fine. How about you, Nicky?”
“He’s totes gorge,” Maggie tells me off-handedly. “I wouldn’t say no.”
“If you could pick between him and Boaz...” When she mocks aghast, I bump her in the shoulder. “Oh come on. Like I didn’t see you making your sex-kitten eyes at him.”
“I do have a think for men in kilts...” The scary thing is I don’t think she’s kidding. Not that we’ll ever see them again, but I make a mental note to tell the next guy she dates to wear a kilt. She’d go nuts.
Nick Lively cuts in with a harsh laugh. “Oh, Jason...you’re a riot.” His lips spread over his teeth in a pained smile. “Roman suddenly resurfacing is a little unnerving, isn’t it?”
Jason Dallas quirks a black eyebrow. The ring on the left side of his lip glistens as he grins. “Unnerving? Nah.”
“When the Gardens gig opened up, you were quick to fill their place.”
“We’re under the same label. We have the same manager. So listen, if little RoMo decides to pay me a visit, I’ll be glad to fight him for the stage. He still owes me fifty-five dollars for a fuckin’ game of strip poker.” He pauses. “I wasn’t supposed say ‘fuck’ on live TV, was I?”
Nick gives another nervous laugh. “You’re something else, Jason. So how do you feel about the streakers at Holly Hudson’s memorial?”
Jason Dallas shrugs. “Don’t care. The black girl’s got nice tits.”
Maggie jumps up and down excitedly. “Nice tits!” she echoes. “Jason Dallas says I have nice tits!”
“Yeah, you do,” one of the homeless men baits, and we blindly throw back a middle finger together.
“Don’t you think it was a little rude?” Nick tries to egg, but Jason shuts him down.
“What I think is rude, Nicky—”
“Nick.”
“What I think is rude, Nicky, is you sniffing for trouble on the anniversary of the death of a good friend of mine.”
Nick blanches. “Of—of course, and she is sorely missed. So, you and Roman used to bump heads…”
Jason murmurs something underneath his breath.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that.”
“I said,” he pulls himself up in his chair and narrows his dark blue eyes. “Nicky—”
“Nick.”
“Whatever. I don’t have time for you. So, yes, I’m playing next Saturday night at eight at the Garden, and I’m going to rock the whole fuckin’ house. And yeah, that’s a challenge. So I expect Roman to show up for the fight.” He reaches his hand forward and his screen goes dark.
Nick’s smile is beginning to strain the Botox around his cheeks. “You heard it here first—it’s a challenge!”
“Too bad he won’t show up,” I reply, stepping back from the cell bars, shaking my head. Roman’s probably halfway to Charlotte by now, or Charleston, or Columbia, or Raleigh—anywhere, really. I feel tired just thinking about it.
“At least Roman’s got the memory card,” Maggie points out, pulling her dreads over one shoulder, giving the guys in the corner another stink-eye.
“If he doesn’t chunk it first.”
The iron door to the room opens, and Officer Nesky comes back in. We instantly perk up, thinking that someone’s paid our bail, but he just shakes his head when he sees the hopeful gleam in our eyes. “Juniper Marie Baltimore?” He asks me and I nod. “Someone’s here to see you.”
“Really?” My heart leaps out of my chest in a moment of complete insanity, thinking that it could be Roman...until I remember what happened in the cemetery, and suddenly I don’t want to leave the cell at all. He unlocks the cell door, and with a hesitant glance back at Maggie, I follow him out of the room and down the hallway into a small interrogation office. I don’t notice who’s waiting for me until the door closes.
“You,” I gasp.
John Birmingham grins.
Chapter Twenty-six
“Juniper? I’ve gotta say, Junie fits you a little better,” John begins, extending a friendly hand. It’s big and tan, and the ugliest peace offering I’ve ever seen. “I think we got off on the wrong foot. I’m John, John Birmingham.”
“I know who you are.” My voice is as cold as ice.
His darker-than-coal eyes sparkle with amusement. “Ah, see that’s where the misconception comes in. You know of me. See, I’m actually a pretty nice guy.”
“That’s funny.”
“I’m not much of a joker.” He retracts his hand and slips it into his pants pocket. His gray fedora is resting beside a glass of water on the table. Slowly, he eases down into his chair, expecting me to do the same, but I hover behind mine and wrap my fingers around the back of it. A table and a chair isn’t nearly enough space between us. He studies my white-knuckled grip. “You dislike me.”
“No shit,” I snap. I clench my jaw. “You’re sick.”
“Nonsense. I’m only interested in people worth my time, and
apparently, you’re worth it.”
“Was Holly worth your time?” I ask bitterly.
His eyebrows raise a fraction in surprise, but he doesn’t take my bait. “I have a proposition for you, Junie,” he says instead.
“I don’t want to hear anything you have to say.”
“Now, now, don’t assume. At least, not until you hear me out,” he tsks. “Picture this: you and me...”
“As I said, not interested.”
“And a great deal of money.”
I open my mouth to reiterate the fact that I am so not interested, that every word he’s saying is shooting blanks, when my voice comes to a complete and sudden stop.
At my hesitation, his grin grows. “See, I knew you’d come around. It might even be enough to save your father’s bar—what’s it called? The Silver Lining?”
My stomach churns. “Who told you?”
“No one had to tell me anything, Junie. See this?” He taps his nose. “I know good stories. And you are a good story. You’re an even better story now that you can save your poor dead daddy’s bar with just one word...”
I think my fingers have gone numb from clutching the back of the chair so hard. I can feel the indentions in my fingertips. “It won’t be enough.”
“Are you sure? Just think about it. You get off scot-free, I push the trite little dirty bits of you I’ve strung out over the tabloids under the proverbial rug, and give you enough money to resurrect your dear old Dad’s trash-heap!” He raises his hands into the air as if he’s just scored the winning touchdown. “All you have to do is give me back what’s mine.”
Which I don’t have anymore. My fingers release from the back of the chair as I sit down in it. “How much?”
“Five-hundred thousand dollars.”
“You don’t have that money.”
He leans in close. “You’d be surprised what money I can get from a few well-placed stories.”
“You mean lies.”
Lacing his fingers together in front of him on the desk, he leans back in his chair. “Then, option two. I take your little naked escapade viral.”
“Go ahead, my reputation’s already gone.”
“You are,” he agrees, “but your friend...what’s her name? Magdalena?” The way he says her name as a threat turns a sick feeling in my stomach. How much does he know about us, exactly? “She’s on the waiting list to NYU, isn’t she? I’m sure they would think twice about her application after this debacle...”
Maggie’s future rests on a memory card I don’t even have anymore? He couldn’t be that cruel, and NYU wouldn’t be that shameless. What did I do to deserve this sort of karma, and what did Maggie do? My mind races with something, anything, I could give him instead of that stupid memory card. Maybe—wait.
I narrow my eyes. “So, let me get this straight, I give you the card” —which I don’t have anymore— “and you give me the money to save the Lining, or I don’t give it to you and you throw my friend under the bus?”
He throws his hands into the air again. “Touchdown!”
“But why help me out with the bar? Why don’t you just give me the second ultimatum? What is the Lining to you?”
His grin drops a fraction. “It’s just a little extra cushion.”
“So that I’ll give you the card.”
“You got it.”
“And you’ll give me all that money because that is how much a few ‘well-placed stories’ can make?” I quote him.
“You betch—” Then he stops himself and curses. “I mean, no. That isn’t—”
“The answer is no.” I shove my chair out from behind me. “And if you do start spreading rumors about Maggie? You’ll have her to deal with, and she’ll make your life a living hell with a few of her own ‘well-placed stories.’ Goodbye, John.” With that, I bang on the door for the Officer Nesky to open up. John doesn’t know my threat’s empty. All he knows is that I was the last one to have the card, and that’s enough leverage to make John jump after me.
The door opens and I duck out under the officer’s arm. “I don’t know him, sir.” I shake my head, for once not having to fake my fear. “He’s insane.”
“Get her back here!” John roars, but another officer blocks him inside the room.
Officer Nesky escorts me back to my holding cell with an apology, saying that John said he knew me. Gave my date of birth and everything. Note to self: buy pepper spray.
Back in the cell, Maggie is stretched out over our bench. She sits up when I come over, and take a seat. She gives me a once over before asking, “What the hell?”
I shake my head. “It was John Birmingham.”
“No fucking way.”
“Yes fucking way.” I slouch against the cold wall and shut my eyes tight. “He said he’d give me the money to save the bar if I handed him the card.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah.” My throat begins to constrict as the reality of it finally dawns on me.
She hesitates, “If you had the card, would you’ve...”
“No.” It’s a reply I don’t even have to think twice about. I hope Roman is okay wherever he is, while I’m sitting in a jail cell paying time for a guy I never should have met.
None of this would’ve happened if I’d never gone out for ice cream with him...but that was never my choice, was it? He made a guess, and he guessed right. I gasp, sitting up on the bench. That’s it. “Remember why I don’t like ice cream?”
She gives me a strange look. “That’s what John wanted to know? That time some snot-nosed brat made you cry?”
“No. That’s how Roman knew what ice cream flavor I liked.”
Chapter Twenty-seven
For the next hour, Nick Lively goes through—in horrifyingly specific detail, I might add—the events that led up to our arrest. When they show a live view of the police station, the guard swivels back to us with a wide-eyed look. “That’s you?” he gawks.
“Fame!” Maggie singsongs with spirit fingers.
The door to the cell area opens, and the guard quickly scrambles to his feet. “Sir,” he greets the other officer, who stops at our cell and barks both of our names in a rumbling baritone. Maggie and I jump to our feet. No wonder the guard looks scared shitless. This guy is a behemoth.
“This way, girls,” the new policeman rumbles, opening the cell door.
We scuttle after him. We’ll take the hell-hath-no-fury officer over the copious amounts of drunks who have begun to populate our small cell. We barely have any elbowroom as we wiggle our way out. Nesky was right about Thirsty Thursday, and one of the drunks was beginning to look a little grabby.
Big ‘N Tall leads us to a nondescript office and closes the door behind us, waving his hand to two metal chairs. The metal is cold against my bare thighs. I really want my shorts back.
The officer—no, he has to be more than an officer to have an office, a major? Lieutenant?— takes a seat on the other side of the desk, and his thin gray mustache twitches as he reaches down and pulls up two bags full of our clothing. I sigh in relief.
“Let’s talk, girls,” he says, sliding an emerald gaze between the two of us. It looks familiar, but I can’t quite place it.
Maggie elbows me in the side and whispers out of the corner of her mouth, “Check. Tag.”
I casually slide my gaze down to his nameplate.
Oh, fuck.
His badge reads, in full, BYRD MONTGOMERY. I swallow. Hard. At least I can finally put a face to the man who disowned his son. I can’t blame Roman for never confronting his father—this man’s a giant. And he has a look that could freeze steam. I probably have a death wish, but I summon up enough courage to ask, “I’m sorry, this is a stupid question but...are you Roman’s...”
He studies me and leans back in his chair. “If I am?”
“We’re big fans?” Maggie offers with a timid laugh, shooting me an are-you-insane-or-do-you-have-a-death-wish look.
“Most young women are,” he replies. “Wh
at I don’t understand is why two fans would desecrate Holly Hudson’s memorial by streaking naked to give my son time to escape.”
A blush prickles the back of my neck. “I...don’t know what you’re talking about...” I lie lamely.
“He called me.”
I blink. Once. Twice. Had I heard wrong? Roman called his father because of us? And his father answered?
Seeing my confusion, he adds, “Multiple times.” He slides the plastic bags with our clothes in it back over to us. We stare at our wrinkled clothes. At the very bottom are the Roman Holiday underwear that started it all.
“That’s it?” I venture cautiously. This is too good to be true. “We’re free to go?”
“What about our bail?” Maggie adds.
“Paid.” He stands and adjusts his belt. “But both of you are banned from every cemetery in the area for life, and are advised to be out of the county by morning. As in, you will be out of Myrtle Beach by morning.”
Maggie’s jaw drops. “You’re kicking us out of the beach?”
He inclines a graying eyebrow. He really does look a lot like Roman, from his strong jaw line to his sharp nose to the condescending way he can raise just one eyebrow and make the rest of the world feel infinitely stupider. “Or I can escort you back to your cell, Miss Shreveport.”
Maggie turns to me with a definitive nod. “You know, all of the sudden I’m feeling homesick. You?”
“Totes,” I agree.
We grab our bags, and Officer Nesky escorts us out the back exit. He’s kind enough to drive us to Maggie’s car on his patrol so we bypass the media vans setting up out front. Through the rearview mirror, I watch as Roman’s father greets Nick Lively with a handshake—and then promptly scares him back into his van.
By the time Nesky drops us off by Maggie’s car with the warning that, come morning if we’re still around, we’re more or less under arrest again. He’s there to make sure we leave.
The Sound of Us Page 14
