Silent Song

by Ren Benton

  A violent clash of metal against metal jolted Gin awake. A quick glance confirmed armored combatants weren’t engaged in pitched battle in the middle of the living room, so her groggy brain attributed the racket to kitchen activity.

  Lex flung a forearm over his face for protection against the light spearing directly into his eyes through the floor-to-ceiling windows. “What time is it?”

  She used his ribs as a chin rest while she scanned the devices connected to the TV in search of one with a clock. “Eleven. Too early for Simone. Must be a burglar.”

  His lips compressed into a surly line. “Remind me that I was not going to bitch at you about the lock and the alarm.”

  It wasn’t like she and Ethan had left the place unattended. “We didn’t want you locked out in the cold if we fell asleep.”

  He shifted his elbow up a notch to give her the full benefit of his glare. “Next time, let me freeze.”

  A more insistent round of clattering and banging ensued.

  “Stack of raccoons in a trench coat?” she suggested hopefully.

  Lex sighed. “Has to be your mother. She’s the only one who slept through the night.”

  Sooner or later, Gin had to accept the bitter truth, but she didn’t have to like it. “She knows if she does enough damage, someone will shoo her away and wait on her.”

  “You spoil her.” One of those talented hands worked its soothing magic on her lower back, entrancing her to ignore danger and stay with the nice man petting her — and then his mouth broke the spell. “Hit the shower. I’ll stand by with the fire extinguisher and make sure she doesn’t burn the house down.”

  “It’s my turn. You spent the whole night at the hospital with Olivia.” She sounded like a parent equitably splitting the care of their unruly children.

  She looked down at another habitually unruly element, her eyes narrowed by speculation. “How did you get home?”

  “I stuck my thumb out and got picked up by an experienced woman who stole my innocence.”

  They’d both survived the night, so there was no point bickering about who had the least credibility as a security nag. She threw her leg over his hip and straddled him for a moment in her exit from the couch. “That’s what the aliens want you to think.”

  He grinned as she landed on her feet. Desperately glad he was safe, not only from last night but in general, Gin bent over him, grabbed his hair, and kissed his forehead, hard, as if her lips could brand him with a protective seal to keep him that way.

  Glass shattered in the kitchen.

  She pulled away and found Lex no longer smiling, as if she’d transferred her solemnity to him. She feared the effect kissing his mouth would have on him. “You get dibs on the shower, bud. You smell like a hospital.”

  He grimaced at the reminder. “My signature scent. I should bottle it and call it Inpatient. You can direct the commercial.”

  She made a frame of her fingers. “Black and white. Stark. Gritty. Artistically disheveled man and woman in hospital gowns making out because it’s mandatory for the genre. You’ll provide the music, something with lots of bass to simulate and stimulate throbbing genitals.”

  “Nobody will know what we’re selling, but everybody will be panting to get it.” He grabbed one of her hands and brought her knuckles to his lips. “We make a great team.”

  She used his grip to heave him to his feet. “Remember that sentiment when we’re deeper into this long, long day.”

  Gin distracted Simone from destructive domestic exploits with an explanation of Olivia’s absence, which led to being pumped for information about the actress’s emotional state, what kind of pills she had in her possession, and to which hospital she’d been admitted. Gin had no more answers for her mother than she’d been able to give the professionals who had better reason to pry.

  Simone huffed. “What’s the point of telling me if you don’t have details?”

  Gin tried and failed to imagine a scenario in which a member of the household being removed by ambulance overnight didn’t warrant a mention. “I thought you might like to know why the person you’ve been spending all your time with for the past four days isn’t around.”

  “I would love to know, but you’re not telling me anything good!”

  Simone had responded the same way when Lex collapsed, as if the only reason she felt nothing was deficient data. Gin gave up long ago understanding how caring that someone was hurt could not be an immediate, automatic reaction. “The next time someone I love ends up hospitalized, I’ll do my best to get better juicy gossip for you.”

  After dealing with Simone, speaking to Olivia’s agent was a relief. Even with her obvious mercenary considerations, Raquel exhibited human feelings about her client’s welfare. As Lex predicted, the official party line was an accidental combination of contraindicated prescription medications.

  With Ethan’s guidance, Gin composed an official statement light on human feeling, in keeping with the intentional minimization of the incident for public consumption. She volunteered to take some of the calls to disseminate it, but Ethan insisted disrupting her schedule as if the star’s condition jeopardized the movie’s release would undermine the minor incident story and inflame the press when Olivia needed peace the most.

  For perhaps the first time in their partnership, he wanted Gin to do anything but talk.

  She eavesdropped on his first monologue. When she could think of no way to improve upon it, she tuned out the encore performances and focused on assembling a movie trailer glued together by a moody piece of Lex’s music.

  An hour later, Simone breezed into the office in full hair and makeup, wearing a gauzy blouse and leather pants that screamed I’d rather be lunching at Chateau Marmont. “How do I get to that little town from here?”

  Ethan said, “I’ll print you a map.”

  “I don’t need a map,” Simone snapped. “I’m perfectly capable of following directions.”

  “Great. Turn right at the end of the—”

  “Not from you!”

  Gin’s temples pounded once, warning of an onrushing headache. “I’m not translating from gay to bigot for you, Mother. If you want to ignore Ethan, you can find your own way to town.”

  Simone did her best to look wounded without wrinkling. “Why do you always take his side?”

  It took more than well-positioned eyebrows and a pouty mouth to convince Gin a performance was genuine. She refused to reward bad acting. “If you want me to take your side, be wrong less often.”

  “I’m your mother!”

  “Then act like it instead of a toddler competing for my attention.” Half the reason Gin had never wanted kids was that Simone had long ago exhausted her tolerance for providing care to helpless, irrational people who threw tantrums when thwarted. “Besides, Ethan is the keeper of the car keys. Unless you want to walk fifteen miles each way, I suggest you pretend to be civil.”

  Ethan handed over a map and the keys. Simone uttered record-breakingly insincere thanks and stomped away in her stiletto pumps.

  Ethan waited for the front door to slam before asking Gin, “Why would I want to keep her here?”

  “Fair point. When she brings back our wheels, we need to return Liv’s car.”

  “No chance she booked a one-way rental, so that’s going to be a hassle unless we take it back to the airport.”

  “Find the closest location. I’ll bring Lex to charm, yell, and throw money at the hassle until it goes away.”

  “His skills do come in handy. We should keep him.” The keyboard clicked as Ethan applied his Google fu to the car problem. “You know, as a friend.”

  He hadn’t asked where she and Lex had gone last night, and she wasn’t sure in which direction to correct Ethan’s assumptions about what their absence signified. Lex’s homecoming this morning had been more cozy than friendship, but crisis had complicated a situation that was knotty to begin with. Would he have walked away from the sex without a backward glance, tension resolved, i
f he hadn’t needed comfort because of Olivia?

  Gin had been too eager to give and receive comfort to pretend sex had resolved any of her feelings. Lex would have to be the one to walk away this time — and he would, soon. “We have to release him into the wild in a week, but if it’s any consolation, we’ll always have Simone.”

  An hour later, the sound of an engine drew Ethan to the window. “Hide the hookers. The cops are here.”

  Gin had expected to be called upon for summoning sirens through Chief Raymond’s sleepy jurisdiction. “Better than a news van.”

  “Debatable.” He protested when she stood. “I can deal with him.”

  She continued toward the door. “My mother’s been out of my sight long enough to get in trouble with the police. Given the likelihood of the reason for this visit being my problem, it’s more efficient to cut out the middleman.”

  Chief Raymond stood several feet from the entrance, a position that allowed him to watch through the windows while she crossed the living room. When she opened the door, he said, “This house has always reminded me of a fish tank.”

  “It’s certainly given me a new appreciation for mini blinds. Good afternoon, Chief Raymond.”

  “Ms. Greene.” He inclined his head in approximation of a courtly greeting. “Just following up on last night’s excitement.”

  Much of the day’s work had been minimizing Olivia’s overdose for the media, but hearing this man dismiss it only a few yards from the spot where someone she loved could have died sharpened Gin’s claws. “Is that what the kids are calling it these days?”

  His chin dipped in acknowledgment of the sharp words. “I’ve had more practice being sensitive when I’m at someone’s door regarding a completed suicide. This is a first for me, and I apologize for not having a lexicon for the occasion.”

  He had the composed air of a peace officer, more accustomed to talking than kicking in doors with guns blazing. She believed he’d know the right thing to say if he showed up on the stoop bearing terrible news. “I’m sorry that form of sensitivity has been called upon in your line of work often enough for you to become proficient.”

  “So am I.” He glanced once more toward the windows. “You’re aware Grayson has a Mayberry-sized law enforcement presence.”

  The chief’s two visits and that of his deputy that morning had been entirely voluntary, so Gin missed the point of the reminder. “To the best of my knowledge, that presence hasn’t been called upon to enforce any laws at this address.”

  “Yet. I have barely enough staff to manage the locals. There are no resources for directing a media circus around the seasonals’ publicity stunts.”

  Her teeth clenched at his most recent lapse into insensitivity. “Chief Raymond, there are enough publicists, managers, and agents attached to this house’s recent occupants to populate a whole other town. Not one of them would advise a client worth twelve million a project to risk her life to headline a news cycle.”

  “Are those tricks reserved for clients who can’t get work?”

  “It happens. What happens more often is this industry attracts and cultivates a great deal of emotional fragility it then exploits when inevitable disaster strikes.” Pretending to be someone else was an attractive career for people who didn’t like being themselves. Even those who began with a healthy sense of self sometimes lost it along the way. When surrounded by professional fakers, it was difficult to spot the strugglers. “No one here is desperate for tabloid attention. If the vultures descend on your quiet town, it won’t be at our invitation. If you have to arrest them for disturbing the peace, confiscate their equipment, and run them out of town at pitchfork-point, you won’t be interfering with any elaborate promotional scheme.”

  One side of his mouth quirked upward. “Is that a request?”

  She shrugged. “I’m not familiar with the local laws, but I’m sure an anonymous philanthropist would be delighted to donate a truckload of pitchforks should the need arise. Has the town been overrun?”

  “Not yet, and your driveway’s not clogged with looky-loos. If that changes, you’ll have to bring in your own security people for crowd control that falls short of criminal activity.”

  She wasn’t in the habit of treating public servants like hired help. “If it becomes a problem, I’ll bring in private security so the circus doesn’t overrun your police force.”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t bring your own guys to begin with.”

  “I don’t need ‘guys’ on a daily basis. It’s more cost effective for the paparazzi to stay near a high concentration of celebrities so if the first one they pick to stalk doesn’t do anything interesting, they can literally turn around and pick another victim.”

  They would all be kicking themselves for not being on hand to catch Olivia going into the ambulance, but none of them would have camped in the boonies for a week on the remote chance of getting a shot like that and sacrificed a hundred guaranteed opportunities in L.A. or New York.

  His gaze dropped to the scar on her throat. “What about problems that don’t call themselves the press?”

  “In the absence of an active threat, it’s unnecessarily costly and invasive to maintain round-the-clock security,” she dutifully recited the stance of countless counselors and professionals with guns. She would have debated their reasoning if having a bodyguard had made her feel safe rather than guilty that one more person might be endangered because of her.

  At the first indication of risk to the well-being of the other people currently under her roof, she’d hire a professional to stand between them and potential threats. For now, the wolves were salivating over Olivia, the most wounded member of their little herd, but the greatest danger to her called for the kind of protection Gin lacked the authority to hire on her behalf.

  Chief Raymond tipped his hat. “I’ll let you get back to work, then.”

  “Likewise. You be careful, Chief. You have the more dangerous job.”

  He paused on his way down the steps. “I don’t know about that, Ms. Greene. I started my career about the same time you did, but in my thirty years on the job, nobody’s come close to killing me.”

  Lex came up from the studio to find Gin emerging from Liv’s room with a Louis Vuitton bag clutched to her chest. “I won’t turn you in, thief, but I want half the loot.”

  Her fingers tightened on the ostrich leather, then stroked as if repentant for bruising it. “She’ll need ID, even if everyone does recognize Olivia White-Church on sight. And her clothes and moisturizer and... everything.”

  Something as small as the right kind of toothbrush made hospitalization infinitely more tolerable — and knowing someone cared enough to think of it. “We’ll take it to her. Living out of a suitcase makes impromptu venue changes convenient, at least.”

  “Will you come with me to return her car?”

  “Glad to. I was going to suggest takeout so no one has to cook tonight. We can pick it up on the way back.”

  “What a wonderful idea. Simone has the other car, though, so we’ll have to wait.”

  He leaned against the wall. “Did she discover a secret Dolce and Gabbana outlet in Grayson?”

  “The stuffed elk sentinel scares away the unworthy.” She leaned against the opposite wall and closed her eyes. “I was too eager to get her out of the house to ask where she was going.”

  The few minutes Lex spent with Simone had made it clear she was devoid of compassion for the fallen member of their party. The tragedy for her was starting her day with no one to serve her brunch and then a lack of human entertainment.

  He couldn’t do any more for Olivia at the moment, but his compassion for the exhausted woman before him demanded attention. “Sleeping arrangements.”

  “What about them?”

  “There’s a bed available to you now.” He tipped his head toward his bedroom. “Two, if you count all offers. I would feel like less of an asshole if you would sleep in one of them rather than on that lumpy studio sofa.” />
  Her silence stretched long enough for him to consider the reasons it must be difficult for a woman to find the right words to tell a man sex had been a one-time gift. Too many men responded to rejection with violence. In even greater numbers, they sulked and retaliated in little ways that made life miserable. Lex could pack up his music and leave her with nothing but a rapidly onrushing deadline for her movie.

  She’d been so focused last night on her potential to abuse power, he’d hoped she knew he wouldn’t turn his against her, but he’d be amazed if any woman felt entirely safe — physically, emotionally, or materially — when it came to any man.

  At least her arms weren’t crossed to protect her guts from him.

  Finally, she said, “You know how my mother is.”

  Those words bore no resemblance to the ones he’d expected, but Gin always had a point, even if she took the scenic route to make arriving at the destination more memorable. “Simone’s not included in the invitation.”

  “She’ll crash the party if she thinks it will make her offspring more famous. I don’t want her blabbing about us to E! News.”

  “Isn’t that what we’ve been doing for promo?”

  Her shoulders hunched. “I’d like to think there’s a difference between being coy with the media and giving them an eyewitness account.”

  He’d been thinking only of what he wanted again, not the consequences beyond his satisfaction, leaving Gin to fill in those blanks. If anything, he was less interested in making a spectacle of their relationship now than he had been years ago. The hovering scrutiny after his professional fall from grace would seem like a fleeting glance in comparison to the public eye’s interest in their relationship. Last time, Perry-Greene had been of as much interest as any celebrity couple. Now, the public debate about when and how they’d fail would be argued with precedent. Letting Simone moderate would only make matters worse.

  He had a psychiatrist’s permission to experience soul-sundering disappointment that getting Gin permanently in his arms wouldn’t be as easy as offering her his spare pillow, but letting the feeling dictate his actions was a choice. He could choose to let it go or try to cure it by arguing his way to victory.