by Nic Joseph
There were karaoke singers wailing everything from “My Heart Will Go On” to “Shoop.” Nearby, Vanessa was making out with a man who she said was Tim, but I had a good feeling he wasn’t. And my hand was sweaty and sticky from the number of times it had been grabbed by a faceless stranger before I could react and yank it away.
Still, I put my name on the list for karaoke and gave in to the night. When my name was called out, Vanessa pulled away from her date and yelled something as I navigated the crowd to get to the front of the room. There was no stage, just a cleared-out space near the DJ, and I took the microphone and got into place.
I heard the opening chords to “You Oughta Know” by Alanis Morissette—my go-to karaoke song—and I began to sway. I was walking the fine, liquored line between complete happiness and total breakdown. I swallowed and pushed on, letting the familiar lyrics drip off my tongue.
The words were scrolling across the monitor too slowly, but it didn’t matter; I knew them by heart. As I sang, I let my gaze scan the crowd of people dancing, some watching me, some singing along. This was fun. Keith and I used to do things like this every weekend, laughing and drinking until we forgot our last name. I didn’t want to give in, didn’t want to be that person, yet I wondered what our lives would be like if I hadn’t asked him to pick up that bottle of Merlot.
If he hadn’t chosen to head south down Ashland Avenue that day at the exact same time that the kid in the black SUV decided to look down at a text message.
Where would we be?
Behind the karaoke screens, the pop videos still played on the television screens in the background, even though they’d been muted for the amateur singers.
As I sang, a motion on one of the television screens caught my eye.
It was the group of people dancing that made me look in the first place, but then I was focused on the man in the center as the camera zoomed in close to his face.
I kept singing as the shot zoomed out again, the connection brewing in my mind but still fuzzy.
When the camera zoomed in again, the man’s face was clear, right in the middle of the screen. I stumbled over the lyrics that I knew so well before stopping completely, the cool head of the microphone pressed against my lips.
I stared at his face, but I wasn’t seeing him there, on the TV. I saw him in the back seat of my car, his body leaned forward, his gaze locked on mine in the rearview mirror.
Lotti.
He was right there, dancing on the television in the middle of a group of gyrating, scantily clad women, as if it were the only place in the world he belonged.
At some point, the microphone slipped from my fingers and crashed to the floor.
• • •
“What do you mean, he flirted with you?”
There was a voice asking me that question, but I couldn’t place it. There was an entire room full of people watching me, and I swayed a little.
“Who liked your unwashed hair?”
I blinked and finally looked up to see the DJ looking at me, a smile on his face. He was watching me, waiting for me to respond as Alanis carried on in the background.
Surely, I had not said that out loud.
Surely. I had not. Said that. Out loud.
But the moments before I’d dropped the microphone were a blur, and the expressions on the faces of the people standing in front of me suggested otherwise.
I opened my mouth, and a squeak came out. Closing it, I scanned the group until I landed on Vanessa. She was watching me, her eyebrows raised, but the moment we locked eyes, she sprang into action.
Bathroom, she mouthed, bolting toward me. She reached down and scooped up the microphone before handing it to the DJ. Then she took my arm and dragged me away. As we navigated through the crowd, Alanis was turned off, and as if to further test the limits of my sobriety and sanity, the song from the video screen was turned up.
I gasped as the sounds floated through the room.
It was the song from the car.
The one I’d talked about with Lotti.
The man on the television was singing the same song I’d talked about last night with the man on the freaking television.
What the hell?
As we stepped into the bathroom, Vanessa let go of my arm and walked quickly past the stalls, stooping to look beneath each one in a clean and easy motion—she’d obviously done this before. When she was done, she whipped around and placed both hands on her hips and tilted her head to the side.
“What happened out there?”
I swallowed, swaying, and Vanessa shook her head. “Somebody’s tolerance has gone way down,” she said. “You’ve had, what, a drink and a half?”
“I…” I stared at the bathroom door, where I could still hear the faint sounds of Lotti’s music video.
“What happened out there?” Vanessa asked again. “You said he flirted with you?”
“I did?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said with a laugh. “And that he even likes your unwashed hair, which, for the record, is disgusting.”
I took a deep breath but didn’t respond.
Vanessa had very quickly become one of my closest friends, and even so, I wasn’t sure I should tell her the truth.
I barely believed myself. Why should she?
“Paula?” she asked, watching my expression. “Who were you talking about?”
I winced, lifting my finger to point in the air.
“Him.”
Vanessa followed my finger up to the ceiling and then looked back at me. “What?”
I sighed and walked over to the door. Yanking it open, I let the music stream in. I pointed out across the room at one of the television screens and spoke again.
“Him.”
She looked out into the crowd and then back at me. “Who?” she asked, clearly losing patience.
“Him,” I said a third time, this one a whisper. “On the TV.”
Vanessa looked up at the screen, turned back to me, and then looked back out at the TV. She blinked a few times, her mouth open, and then her expression quickly turned to worry.
“Okay, maybe I shouldn’t have forced this night out,” she said with a chuckle. “Come on. We should go home—”
“No,” I said. “I’m serious. I picked that guy up. In my DAC. Last night.”
Vanessa blinked and stared out at the televisions.
“Lotti” was on screen, still standing in the middle of the group of women. He pumped his hips back and forth while the women executed sexily choreographed dance moves around him with remarkable precision.
Vanessa finally spoke. “You mean…Ryan Hooks?” She said it as if she’d said “Santa Claus” and my sanity was at question. “You picked up Ryan Hooks in your DAC last night?”
I blinked. “That’s Ryan Hooks?” I asked. “Ryan Hooks, Ryan Hooks?”
“Yes…” she said slowly. “You do know who Ryan Hooks is?”
“Of course,” I said. “I guess I didn’t know what he looked like.” I’d heard of the Grammy-winning singer and could even sing a few of his songs, but I’d always imagined that he’d be a bit younger and more baby-faced than the sultry man I’d met the night before.
But it was definitely him.
I knew faces; I drew faces.
“Ness, that’s the man I picked up, I promise.”
Vanessa knew me well enough to know that it wasn’t the kind of thing I’d make up. Her expression slowly began to shift from confusion to concern to excitement.
“How? Where?” she asked.
“I picked him up at the Renouvelle. In South Loop. And took him to an apartment building in the Gold Coast.”
“No way,” she said breathlessly. “Not possible. It had to be a look-alike.”
“No,” I said, looking back at the screen as he spun around in a
circle and then stared seductively at the camera. I thought about the man’s face as he leaned forward in the back seat of my car. “It was him.”
Vanessa seemed to be processing, and then her eyes lit up. “What did you mean he flirted with you?”
I blushed. “That might’ve been a stretch,” I said. “But he was very nice.”
Vanessa shook her head. “There still a good chance it was a look-alike,” she said. “But if it wasn’t, hot damn. That’s amazing. He is so hot. You should’ve flirted back.”
I laughed. “Well, he forgot all about me once he saw his date.”
I didn’t think Vanessa could look any more shocked than she had, but her eyes got even wider, and she took a step backward.
“You saw Tiffane!” she asked. “No, no, no. Paula, do not tell me you saw Tiffane and did not get an autograph for me.”
“The actress?” I asked, frowning. “No…”
We stared at each other for a few moments, and then realization set in. Vanessa put both hands to her mouth.
“You saw him with someone else.”
It was a scream and a whisper at the same time, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone look so sad. I resisted the urge to remind her that she was a grown woman with a teenage daughter, since I knew how important celebrity gossip was to her.
She took a step closer to me. “Do not tell me you saw him with someone else. I wouldn’t be able to handle it.”
“Let me guess. He’s dating Tiffane?” I asked.
“They’re married, Paula. Where the hell have you been the last five years?”
“Living a life that has nothing to do with either of them.”
Vanessa rolled her eyes. “Yeah, yeah, we get it. You’re too cool for celebrity news,” she said. “Ryan and Tiffane are my third favorite celebrity couple.” She sighed loudly. “This is the best and worst news I’ve heard all year,” she said.
“Your daughter graduated from eighth grade last month—”
“I just wish there was a way for you to really know it was him,” she said, ignoring me. “For sure.”
“How many times do I have to tell you?” I asked. “I draw faces for a living… Well, I used to. It was him.”
“Yeah, but you can’t prove it.”
I froze, a thought crossing my mind.
“Actually, I might be able to.”
“What?” she asked.
But I’d already spun around and walked out of the bathroom. I heard Vanessa call out after me, and then she was on my heels as we walked back through the restaurant. The song had changed, and the volume had been turned up, which seemed to be enough for people to forget my marvelous performance a few moments earlier.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
I stopped and turned to her. “I found a phone in my car last night, after I got back home from the diner. I don’t know when it was dropped, but—”
“You think it might be his?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I need to call it a night anyway. I’ll check when I get home.”
“So will I,” she said with a determined look on her face. “I’m coming with you.”
It took us twenty-five minutes to get back to my house. When we arrived, we both opened the doors of our DAC and stumbled down the street toward my car. I was sobering up enough to know how ridiculous we were behaving but still drunk enough not to stop. I popped the trunk when we were about two cars away.
“Wait,” Vanessa said, putting out a hand to stop me.
“What is it?” I asked. I stopped in the middle of the street, and we stood there for a moment. She was smiling, a drunken, wistful smile, and I laughed out loud when she didn’t speak. “What?”
“What will you do if it’s his?”
I frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Assuming we find out it really is his phone, what will you do with it?”
“Besides letting you lick it?” I said, but she didn’t laugh. She continued to stare at me, and I shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe try to find his number one fan and sell it for a grand? Problem is, you don’t have that kind of money.”
She laughed, and we walked on, crossing the few feet until we were standing behind my car.
I lifted the trunk and leaned in, rummaging through my lost-and-found bin.
“I know what I would do,” she said. “As much as I love him, if Ryan is cheating on Tiffane, I would call up Star or People and sell it to the highest bidder. You know there are pics of other women on there.”
“He’d deserve it,” I agreed as I rifled through the box. I found the phone and pulled it out, holding it up to show Vanessa.
“This one,” I said. “This is the one I found last night.”
She grabbed it from me and held it up to her face, pushing a button. On the dark street, the screen lit up her features, and I could see every emotion that crossed it as she stared at whatever was on the lock screen.
The dubious excitement.
The moment of recognition.
The shock.
I think until that moment, I’d thought it wouldn’t be his. That this little escapade, as fun as it had been tonight, would be over as quickly as it had started. But I knew immediately that it wasn’t true when I saw Vanessa’s face.
And that was before she squeezed her eyes shut, tossed her head back, and screamed into the night.
Chapter 5
It was a picture of Ryan and his wife, Tiffane.
But not just any picture.
It was unlike any photo of a celebrity couple I’d ever seen before. The starlet was makeup-less, and there were bags under both her eyes, none of which detracted from her beauty. Still, the intimate photo led me to believe that they’d woken up shortly before the selfie was snapped. Their faces were pressed close together, and they stared into the screen with matching grins. There was something so personal—so ordinary—about it, which let me know right away that I hadn’t been mistaken.
I hadn’t made it all up.
I wasn’t delusional.
Ryan Hooks had been in my car.
“I can’t believe it,” Vanessa hissed as she seemingly came to the same conclusion. “It really was him! And you saw him cheating on Tiffane.” She paused for a moment and then raised her eyebrows. “What are you going to do?”
“Do?” I asked, holding the phone in my hands and looking up at her. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. You can’t just go stick it in a drawer and forget about it,” she said. “Let’s see…you could tweet him and offer to return it in exchange for free concert tics. And a chance to meet Tiffane.”
I laughed. “That is an option.”
“Or you could hack into it and read all his texts. Or actually sell it to a news site, like I said! I bet they’d pay a ton for Ryan Hooks’s cell phone.”
I blinked a few times and then shook my head to clear it. “Ness, the only thing I’m going to do right now is go inside and get some sleep. You want to crash?”
“No, I need to get home,” she said with a sigh, pulling out her own phone to call a car.
After she left, I stood outside for a while, staring at the image on the phone. When I finally walked into the house, most of the lights were off. Keith had gotten into the habit of leaving one on in the living room before he went to sleep, and I was grateful for it tonight; I needed all the help I could get. I stumbled to the couch and plopped down, turning to look at Shelby as I did. She was lying in her usual spot with her eyes closed, but I had the sense she’d just laid down as I opened the door. I pulled myself back up and walked over to her, kneeling, the alcohol encouraging me to make amends, even at this ungodly hour.
“Hey, girl,” I said quietly, running my fingers through her soft fur. She opened her eyes and stared at me but didn’t move an inch. “Let’s bury t
he hatchet, okay? Truce?”
She stared at me with something that, in my current state, felt like a look of disgust, and I straightened up, walked back to the couch, and sat down. She watched me for a few moments more, but then she let her eyelids drop again.
“Fine,” I said out loud. “Don’t say I never tried.”
I could hear the breath coming out of my body, and I opened my mouth to try to inhale and exhale normally. Why was it so hard to breathe like a normal person? I hadn’t had that much to drink in a long time, and I knew I would feel it in the morning. My own eyes drooped, and I knew I should go to bed and take advantage of what would, at the least, be a solid night of rest.
But who could sleep after that?
I pulled my phone out of my purse and, with clumsy fingers, opened up a Google search. I took a peek at Shelby, who was still lying there with her eyes closed, and then punched in a quick search: Ryan Hooks.
I let out a long, slow breath as his picture came up, and there he was, just like that. It had been twenty-four hours since I’d met him, but I felt the same rush of attraction that I had as I drove him to the Gold Coast. Only this time, I didn’t feel so bad. He was a celebrity, not just a random guy I’d picked up in the middle of the night. Keith and I spoke frequently about our celebrity crushes (more often, I told him about mine and grilled him on which ones he found attractive).
This was okay.
This was allowed.
Ryan Allen Hooks.
Born December 7, 1979, in Los Angeles. He was the son of a movie producer and an actress, which seemed fitting. As I scrolled through his Wikipedia page and a handful of news articles, he stared at me with the piercing eyes and jawline that could cut glass.
I navigated to his official webpage next, and that’s when the pieces of the puzzle started coming together. He was in town for his “Love or Lust” concert tour, performing at the Chicago Theatre, only ten minutes or so from where I’d dropped him off. He was also doing a show down at a stadium in a town twenty miles outside the city. He only had two shows left, and then he’d be in Dallas a week after that. I wondered if he was staying in Chicago until then or if he was going somewhere in between.
Then I wondered why I wondered that.
