Rise

by Karina Bliss

  Puzzled, she stopped.

  The bodyguard returned his gaze to someone she couldn’t see. “Dimity’s right,” he said lazily, “it’s time to call it a night.”

  “You two are lightweights.” There was the faintest slur to Zander’s complaint and Elizabeth smiled. His performance must have gone spectacularly well if he’d relaxed his alcohol ban. But their reconciliation should probably wait.

  As she beat a retreat, his voice called, “Hey Doc, don’t be shy. Come join us.”

  Busted. Elizabeth descended to the bottom of the stairs. Dimity perched on the edge of a chair with the coiled readiness of a guest dying to leave. “Please talk Zander into going to bed,” she begged.

  Zander chuckled. “If anyone can do it, Doc can.” He sprawled in an armchair, bare feet planted on the white rug. Light gleamed on the vodka bottle as he lifted it to his lips. Not tipsy—drunk.

  Elizabeth chose a glass from the sideboard and poured herself some orange juice. If she’d thought something was wrong earlier, now she was sure of it. “Did Dimity tell you?” she asked casually. “Some of the networks played your performance on the news.” There had to be more to his strange behavior than their fight.

  “Oh yeah, everyone loved it. But what did you think, Professor Winston?”

  Polite at least, that had to be a good start. Elizabeth settled next to Dimity. “It’s the first time I’ve ever seen you nervous onstage.” She smiled at him, a teasing inflection in her next words. “Were you overawed by the President?” Hey, it’s me.

  “Terrified,” Zander said dryly. “I gotta major crush on the leader of the free world. But it can’t go anywhere because our careers come first.” Eyes glittering, he proffered the bottle. “Want some vodka with that juice?”

  “Thanks, but I think I’ll head back to bed.” No point talking to him like this, she’d wait until he was sober. Standing, Elizabeth smiled at Luther and Dimity. “Looks like you two are keen to hit the sack as well.”

  “Wow.” Zander set down the bottle to applaud. “You are one insightful biographer, guessing Luther has a thing for Dimity. Mate, here’s your opening. The worst that can happen is she says no.”

  The bodyguard’s normally impervious gaze hardened, but he said evenly, “I can handle my own love life. Concentrate on sorting out yours.” Luther didn’t look at Elizabeth, but heat rose in her cheeks. He knew.

  Dimity had been staring confusedly at Luther, but she did glance Elizabeth’s way.

  Humiliated, she swung around to glare at Zander, who shrugged. “I haven’t said a word. Guess we just weren’t as good at sneaking around as we thought. Real sorry I didn’t stay your dirty little secret, Professor Winston. So do your family know this side of you or are you still trying to be the preacher’s least troublesome daughter?”

  “Zander,” she said through clenched teeth. “Stop talking.”

  “Stop talking?” He barked a laugh and ran a hand through his short hair so it stood up bristly and aggressive. “That’s a three-sixty turnaround. Normally you’re trying to pry my secrets outta me with a fucking crowbar.” He picked up the bottle again. “Maybe I should have left off crowbar; that sentence stands fine without it.”

  Dimity gasped. Luther said, “Shut the fuck up, Zee.”

  “No, go ahead,” Elizabeth encouraged with icy calm. Inside, the shards of it sliced and burned. “Say what you really think, Zander.”

  * * *

  Some sense of self-preservation made Zander pause mid-swig. “Who’s asking? My biographer? My lover?” The love of my life?

  Elizabeth’s face was white, but she said very deliberately, “Your friend.”

  “That’s a cop-out answer.” He gulped another mouthful of vodka. “My life’s turned to shit since I played nice,” he said conversationally. “I give up all my vices and my voice gets worse. I offer commitment and get slapped down. I do the wrong thing for the right reason and all I feel is dirty. If God wants me to be good, then couldn’t he make being good easier?” He rolled his head back to glare at the ceiling. “Jus’ saying, Lord, need some positive reinforcement down here.”

  “We’ll talk when you’re sober,” Elizabeth said.

  Her calm angered him. Always so together, so rational, so cold. Why had he made such a fool of himself when she didn’t care?

  “Is the spare bed comfortable? I looked in before and you were sleeping the sleep of the righteous. I can’t even remember when I last got a decent night’s sleep.”

  “Good night.”

  He couldn’t reach her; couldn’t stir a reaction. Why had he fallen so hard for this controlled, bottled-up woman who would never feel for him what he felt for her? Why had he let himself need someone again?

  “Let her go, Zee,” Dimity murmured and he ignored her.

  “You asked me what I really think, Doc. I’ll tell you.” he called after her and she turned warily. “The book is more important to you than I am. It always was.” His misery, his pain needed a kill. It was mean and snarling, pacing like a wild animal in a cage.

  “The irony is that I bought you for your fucking integrity and now it’s coming back to bite me in the ass. But the real joke’s on you. All this earnest probing and researching…but you know only what I want you to know.”

  She took a moment to reply, but her voice was steady. “Let me get this straight. You hired me for my professional credibility without any intention of telling the truth? You used me?”

  “Don’t look so damn disappointed.” Chuckling, he slugged his vodka, but the liquor didn’t pacify the beast, only opened the cage. “I use everybody, it’s who I am. An asshole. Irredeemable.” He finally got his reaction, the bloom of shock and betrayal. “If you can’t deal with it,” his voice cracked, “leave.”

  “We have a contract,” she said numbly.

  “And you honor your contracts,” he sneered. “Well, I don’t have any honor and you’re fired.”

  Finally on her face was the expression he’d bloodied and destroyed himself for. Disgust. The trifecta was complete. Zander sat back. Now you see me, sweetheart. Now you truly see me.

  “You can’t do that.” Even now, there was a thread of compassion in her voice, a last desperate attempt to understand. He couldn’t bear it.

  “We have this cute little saying in the States.” Crossing his bare feet on the coffee table, Zander toasted her with the bottle. “So sue me.”

  * * *

  Dimity chased after her. “Elizabeth, wait up.”

  She stopped at the top of the stairs. “Is Zander always such a bastard when he drinks?” she demanded.

  “No.” The younger woman looked troubled. “Things must be bad.”

  Elizabeth’s lips started to tremble and she bit down hard. “Do not make excuses for him.” She strode toward her room, Dimity in pursuit.

  “He’ll be sorry tomorrow.”

  “And what, I’m supposed to pretend it never happened? Zander runs with scissors, patch yourself up, people, and get over it.” She spun to confront the other woman. “Is it true? The only reason he hired me was to piggyback on my reputation? He’s been paying lip service to a genuine memoir?”

  Dimity hesitated.

  “Fuck him,” Elizabeth kicked her bed. “He knew I was taking a professional risk accepting the project and he promised we’d do something real—” Her voice broke.

  “You’re hurt.”

  “I’m mad!” That’s what these feelings were. “I’m not hanging around for a token apology.” In a flurry of activity, she threw the few clothes she’d unpacked into her suitcases. “I’ll write the bloody memoir without him and release it as an unauthorized biography.”

  “You can’t,” Dimity said reasonably. “You have a contract.”

  “Which Zander just broke.” He’d broken a lot of things tonight but she wasn’t stopping to assess the damage, because if she started crying she might not stop. “If he doesn’t consider the contract binding, then neither do I.”

  �
�He doesn’t mean it.”

  “I do.” She gathered the toiletries from the bathroom. “What number do I call for a cab?”

  “I’ll call… Where will you go?”

  “To a bunker somewhere.”

  “Let me book a hotel.”

  “I don’t need your help!” She stopped packing and dropped her head in her hands, discovered to her surprise that they were trembling. And cold. “I’m sorry,” she managed calmly enough through her fingers. “I know you’re my friend too.”

  Tentatively, Dimity touched her back in a gesture of silent support and she swallowed a sob. “I’ll be fine,” she said briskly, dropping her hands. “It’s just the shock…of being fired.”

  She stood a moment, trying to recall what she’d been doing, and then caught sight of the open suitcases. Packing. “If it’s not too much trouble, I would appreciate you calling a cab.” Closing one suitcase, Elizabeth yanked at the stiff zip on the second. “My agent lives in New York, she’ll give me a bed.”

  “I hate this,” Dimity sounded near tears, so Elizabeth forced a smile.

  “Please don’t worry about me, I’m only temporarily star-struck…cock-struck.” Deliberately she chose the most derogatory term she could think of. “You warned me as much when we first met, remember? Immunity comes when you realize his heart isn’t in it.” The zip wouldn’t close all the way. She left it. “I’m far too sensible and rational to fall in love with him. Which is why I have rules.” She realized she’d stopped making sense and looked at Dimity helplessly. “You must think I’m a complete idiot.”

  “No!” The other woman came over and hugged her awkwardly. “I’m thinking I never want to be where you are now.”

  Elizabeth laughed weakly. “You always know the right thing to say.”

  Then she clutched Dimity tighter. “Get me away from here,” she whispered. “Please.”

  Dimity rocked her. “I will.”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Zander woke with a groan. His mouth tasted like solvent and his throat was parched. Peeling his eyes open, he saw the stainless steel leg of a couch. It took him a moment to realize that he was lying on a rug on the living room floor with a blanket over him. The sun beat down on his face and found an answering throb in his temples.

  Shoving off the blanket, he rolled into shade and flattened his cheek against the cool marble tiles. The previous night returned to him slowly—applause, humiliation, alcohol, Doc—“Shit!”

  He sat up so abruptly the room spun and he had to drop onto one elbow to steady himself. Gingerly rolling to his feet, he staggered into the kitchen and dunked his head under the tap, then slurped some water. The low angle of the sun suggested early. He peered blearily at the wall clock as he wiped his face dry. Seven a.m.

  Moving carefully he went upstairs, making full use of the handrail, and hesitated outside Elizabeth’s door. Maybe he should work out what he was going to say first…clean himself up. He started walking away, then swung back and rapped on the wood.

  “Elizabeth.”

  No reply. Of course she’d be pissed. Zander leaned his forehead against the door. “I’m so sorry.”

  “She’s not here.”

  Her blue eyes flinty, Dimity exited his bedroom, wearing his robe.

  With a groan, Zander slid to the floor. “So I remember it right then?”

  “If you remember accusing Elizabeth of screwing you to get dirt for the memoir, telling her she was the one played, and then firing her, then yes,” she said mercilessly.

  He flinched. “Why are you here and wearing my robe?”

  “Someone had to stay to put you in the recovery position.”

  “On the floor?”

  “Be grateful for the blanket.”

  Zander pushed to his feet. “Where is she?”

  His PA shrugged.

  “She wasn’t planning on flying home though?”

  Dimity shrugged.

  “Shit!” Zander rifled through his pant pockets. “Where’d I leave my cell?”

  Another shrug. Clearly he’d receive no help from that quarter. Tearing downstairs, he searched the living room, yanking cushions off the sofa in his frantic search.

  Dimity leaned against the wall and watched. “You humiliated and then fired her, Zee. Why wouldn’t she go straight to the airport?”

  “Doc’s too smart to take what I said seriously.” He ducked to look under the couch and had to grab his head to stop it falling off.

  “Sounded pretty serious to me,” Dimity said. “She was talking about reworking the memoir and releasing it as an unauthorized biography.”

  “What…no!” Zander scanned the room wildly. “It’s all a mistake. I’ll fix this.” Through the patio doors, he spotted his cell in a planter box and pounced on it. It was sticky with champagne and the battery was low, but it worked. His call went straight to message. “Elizabeth, I’m sorry. If you’re at the airport ready to fly home, turn around. Please. Phone me. I have to talk to you.”

  Disconnecting, he looked at Dimity. “Quit teaching me a lesson and tell me the truth. How deep am I?”

  She sighed. “Right to the top of the snorkel.”

  Zander paced. “What else can I do?”

  “Nothing. You have to wait until she’s ready to talk to you.”

  “But we’re leaving for Massachusetts in a few hours.” He punched in Elizabeth’s number again. Dimity swiped his cell.

  “She knows the schedule, Zee, and badgering her won’t help your cause.”

  “She has to forgive me.”

  “You broke her trust and probably broke her heart. She doesn’t have to do anything.”

  * * *

  Being disappointed in love was like having the flu. Streaming eyes, runny nose, aching muscles, and a leaden misery that saw Elizabeth traipse from bed to couch and back again, unable to find comfort because unhappiness followed her everywhere. Praying didn’t help—she wasn’t ready to consider forgiveness, because anger dragged her from the abyss of self-pity. She needed anger.

  He’d wanted to hurt her; she’d seen the intent in Zander’s eyes, heard it in his voice. And why? Because she’d said, “Wait.” Not “no” but “wait.” Wait for me to catch up, wait for me to be sure.

  For me to stop being careful, you have to be careful of me.

  Instead, he’d slashed free with the finesse of the Incredible Hulk, tearing every artery, every vein, every tender quivering feeling in the process.

  Forget the personal cost; he’d made her feel dirty, professionally. Through all the interviews they’d done together, they’d never been on the same side.

  Elizabeth cringed, imagining the patronizing condolences of her peers when they heard he’d fired her. She’d be a joke… Hell, she was a joke.

  She’d loved the way he saw her as sexy and adventurous. Now she knew the person he’d really been seeing was a gullible fool.

  Holed up in her agent’s New York apartment, she followed the Rage circus online, through news and gossip sites. The Massachusetts and Detroit concerts received glowing reviews—clearly Zander’s performance wasn’t suffering.

  That hurt.

  She couldn’t even sketch out ideas for rewriting the memoir as a biography because she couldn’t bear to look at her notes or listen to their interviews—why bother, when it was all bullshit anyway?

  Zander left apologies on her cell every day, sometimes humble, sometimes insistent—always contrite. Elizabeth listened to each message once and then immediately deleted it because she didn’t trust herself not to hit replay.

  On the third day, he said desperately, “Doc, please. Don’t give up on us,” and she felt herself softening—weakening—and that scared her enough to block his number.

  She knew she had to see him to tie up professional loose ends and reclaim her dignity with the last word—but not yet. Not until she was sure he couldn’t talk her into giving him a second chance.

  And until then… He could wait.

  * *
*

  “Thanks, man, this means a lot.”

  The fan wore an original Rage T-shirt, which strained across his middle-aged belly. Even faded, twenty-year-old Zander’s sneer retained an insufferable arrogance as he fronted the band.

  “Always a pleasure to meet a die-hard fan.” Zander itched to rip the T-shirt at its bursting seams because he was still making that young punk’s mistakes. Instead he scrawled his autograph across his smug face. Where was Elizabeth and why wasn’t she returning his calls?

  The fan checked his T-shirt and nodded approvingly. “I’ve got nothing against the new guys,” he confided, “but I grew up with the original band and I miss the old guard, y’know?”

  “Yeah,” Zander said. “I know.”

  “But you can still belt out the hits good as ever, so you keep that up, hey?”

  “I appreciate your loyalty.”

  “Hell man, I raged through my twenties to Rage. You’ve got me for life. Mind if we take a picture? It would sure tickle my wife, she thinks you’re the relish on a Chicago dog.” He dropped an arm around Zander’s shoulders and they both grinned for his cell. The guy smelled of tobacco and Bud and the sweat of someone who’d stood queuing for eight hours in a hot sun.

  This was the last concert of this tour leg and next week, after he’d scheduled a surgery date, Zander would disappoint thousands more fans like him by canceling the Asian leg. But he’d made it. He’d won. And victory was a sour, sad and hollow thing. He’d lost Elizabeth.

  “Enjoy the show.” He patted the guy’s shoulder, before turning to another fan waving an autograph book. “Hi there, who am I signing to? Jasmine? That’s a pretty name.”

  “She’s here,” Dimity murmured beside him. Zander finished signing, his pen suddenly shaky on the page, and scanned the VIP meet and greet lounge at Soldier Field Stadium. It took him a moment to spot Elizabeth because she’d covered her bright red hair with a sunhat, the straw brim pulled low. She stood by the door—never a good sign.