by Max Monroe
He smiles slightly and drops his arms to his sides, settling his hands on his hips. He dips his head for a brief moment, then flicks his head back up to force a little section of hair out of his green eyes. “You’re right. I wouldn’t have slept with you.”
I nod. “I know. But I’m sorry I didn’t give you the choice.”
He shakes his head and reaches out to take my hands, and I jump at the unexpected contact. He holds steadfast through the motion. “I’m not sorry, Rocky. Saying I’m not goes against everything else I’ve said up until now, but I’m not sorry it happened. Neither one of us was expecting this, but I wouldn’t take it back. I would never wish away this kind of a blessing, no matter how unplanned.”
I nod, blinking quickly in an attempt to fight my burgeoning tears. I feel exactly the same way. This baby is the best thing to happen to me in a long time—a part of the universe’s master plan, even if it wasn’t a part of mine.
“Life’s a mess,” Harrison says. “But there’s art in all the splatters.”
We stay quiet for a long moment, just standing there looking at each other, until his eyes avert from mine and fixate on my stomach.
“I don’t really know pregnancy protocol, and this might be a little forward, but can I…?” he asks softly, glancing between my face and the belly that contains a tiny, growing baby inside. Our tiny, growing baby.
All I can do is nod.
A soft smile lightens his face as he gently reaches out both of his hands and presses them against my stomach. Even through my clothes, I can feel the warmth of his skin. It’s such a contrast to this cold room, to this cold world, and goose bumps pebble my arms.
“I can’t believe there’s a baby in there,” he whispers, voice filled with awe.
“I know.” A quiet laugh escapes my throat, and my stomach jolts a little against his fingers.
“Can you already feel the baby move?”
“Yeah.” I nod. “Just little flutters here and there, but nothing you can probably feel yet.”
“Do you know…?”
I shake my head, already knowing what he’s asking. “I don’t know the sex yet. Actually, I don’t want to know. I want to keep it a surprise.”
“Wow, Rock. Just…wow,” he whispers and gently removes his hands from my belly, and the loss of the warmth against my skin urges my lips to pull down at the corners.
I have the oddest urge to grab those hands of his and stick them right back where they were, but my attention is snagged by the sound of Heidi bursting through the door.
I jump, backing two steps away from Harrison in a knee-jerk reaction.
My eagle-eyed manager notices my stupid overreaction, then the very visibly empty room, and makes a beeline over to us. “What the hell is going on here?” she questions aggressively. “Where are all the people?”
“Heidi,” I start, but Harrison interrupts me, sticking out his hand for her to take.
“Harrison Hughes. Father of the baby. Nice to meet you.”
Heidi looks down at his hand with distaste and distrust and pulls me back with a strong hand at the shoulder immediately.
“This is a professional engagement. Contracted and signed by HawCom Media. I don’t know who you think you are, but—”
“The CFO of HawCom,” Harrison interrupts calmly. “And also, the father of Rocky’s baby.”
“Rocky?” Heidi says sourly. “Jesus Christ. Come on, Raquel,” she instructs, trying to push me to the door. “I’ll be filing a complaint with the bureau of businesses—”
“Heidi, stop!” I yell, struggling to get my footing on my six-inch heels like a newborn colt. “Harrison is the father, and I’ve known him since I was five years old, so you can calm your tits. No need to call the National Guard.”
“Do you think this is funny?” she asks me, frowning severely. “Your security is a joke to you?”
“Of course not!”
“You’re acting like it. It starts here, and the next thing you know, psychos are knocking down your door. We don’t need another incident like 2009.”
Harrison steps forward, a line forming in the skin between his eyebrows. “What happened in 2009?”
“I had a stalker.”
“A stalker?” he replies with concern.
Heidi rolls her eyes. “Yes. A stalker. She’s a celebrity, for God’s sake. She has men like you crawling all over her all the time.”
“Men like me?” Harrison questions, justly offended.
“Yes. Money-hungry, fame-seeking—”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. I don’t want money from her. I definitely don’t want fame—”
“That’s what they all say,” Heidi says snidely. “And they’re all fucking liars.”
“Hey!” I finally squeeze in. “Harrison isn’t like that. And I’m guessing he doesn’t need the money since you said he paid a million dollars for this.”
“Likely a scam. Probably embezzled it from the company.”
“I have my own fucking money,” Harrison booms. “I don’t need to steal it.”
I try manically to put an end to this shitshow, turning to Harrison, my eyes apologetic. “I know you do. It’s okay. We’ll give you the money for this back, by the way.”
“We absolutely will not!” Heidi shrieks.
Harrison waves a hand to me, ignoring her. “I don’t need it. Put it in a trust for the baby.”
Heidi shakes her head smugly. “Wow. Flaunting your wealth a bit, aren’t you?”
Harrison scoffs soundly. “First, I’m money-hungry, and now, I’m flaunting my wealth? Which is it?”
I put my fingers to my lips and blow, and a piercing whistle cuts through the room. Both of them freeze, turning their heads to me, but Heidi, being the way she is, does it with an extremely bitchy scowl.
“Let’s go back to my apartment. We can continue this—or not—but for the love of God, if I don’t have to be in this outfit, I’m gonna get the hell out of it.”
“You have your fitting for—”
“I know, I know. The fat dress for the Oscars. Reschedule it.”
“I can’t just—”
“I’m thinking this is a little bit more important, aren’t you?” Harrison says on my behalf. It’s sweet, but dear God, it only lights a fire under Heidi again. I can see it in her eyes.
Instead of waiting for another explosion, I grab Harrison’s hand and head for the door.
Consequences to all choices are inevitable—I’m waddling proof.
But in this case, there’s no way forward but to take a step or two back.
Harrison and I might’ve only spent one night together, but no one can deny that one night has connected us forever.
The night of August 15th, 11:45 p.m.
Raquel
I am a woman on a top-secret mission to avoid…humans—at least any humans that resemble anything relating to Hollywood.
Fingers crossed no one catches me in action.
Cool rain pelts my heated skin, pricking at my goose bumps like needles as I run down the deserted New York sidewalk.
Gobs of nearly black hair stick to my face, and my tennis shoes feel heavy with saturation. Passing storefront after storefront, I peer frantically inside, looking for somewhere to escape the onslaught.
I feel out of control and reckless, and the first bar I come to is going to have to restock their liquor when I’m done with them.
That’s a lot of big talk for someone who doesn’t drink, my mind taunts, but I shake it off.
Forty-five minutes I spent letting some man I don’t even know ask me questions I probably wouldn’t tell my own girlfriends—if I had any. As it is, I’m a floundering solo act with no one but the people I pay to turn to. People I don’t even know what to think of anymore.
I spent another half hour on top of the show listening to my manager and my agent tell me what good news it was that Niall so carelessly and callously discussed my personal life for a live audience of two hundred and fifty and millions o
f other television viewers before I had enough.
I haven’t been in charge of my own life in a long time. Not my career, not my friendships—not even the state of my own dang-blasted virginity.
For God’s sake, an almost thirty-year-old woman should be sexually awakened. She should be in tune with her wants and needs and go after them with confidence. She shouldn’t have to answer to anyone about who she’s sleeping with or why she’s doing it or if she’s done it before.
I shiver involuntarily as the moisture invades my skin and trickles deep into my bones.
Shit. I have to get out of the rain before I’m too sick to start filming my new show, Highlander, in a few days.
Not only is it an opportunity of a lifetime—I’ll be working with the best director, producers, and costars in the business—but I’m contractually obligated to come as I am, so to speak. Same weight, same hair, no plastic surgery—other than any I might have already had, of course—and not carrying a virus or bacteria or plague of any kind.
Running through the rain in search of alcohol is almost decidedly not a responsible career move, but I’m doing it in the name of self-care.
And avoiding prison. And saving the lives of others.
Honestly, it’s very complex. But important.
Very important.
Man, I need to find some booze.
Ducking back out from under the awning in front of a one-hour dry cleaner, I take to running again. It’s not for another entire block—and a whole mental rant about this city supposedly never freaking sleeping and the consequences of lies—before I spot a neon sign that promises solace in the bottom of a bottle.
It also, upon approach, thankfully seems to be the kind of establishment that doesn’t see a whole lot of Hollywood fanfic-ers with closets lined with pictures of me. The wooden door is worn and the once-maroon awning above it faded to a mauvy pink.
I really need the kind of anonymity this city is supposed to provide tonight, and this place seems like it survives on very limited patronage.
I step under the awning and up to the heavy wood door without even reading the name—the word “bar” is all I need to see—and wring out my sopping wet shirt at the hem. It stretches and crimps like I used to style my hair in the nineties, but I don’t care.
It doesn’t matter if I paid an obscene amount of money for it—it has no actual value. If I’d gotten it from my grandmother or something, then I’d cry.
As it is, all I have from my grandmother is a genetic predisposition for breast cancer. Apparently, she was a real hag.
I know that sounds harsh, but from what I hear, it’s a really generous reduction in terms. Prior to their split and practical abandonment, my parents had one common stance: hating my grandmother. My mom refused to talk about her, but my dad would talk about her all day long if given the opportunity. Cantankerous, self-centered, dysfunctional, and downright destruction-oriented, he’d say.
I thought at first, when I was young and naïve, that maybe they were exaggerating or that she’d only turned that way as a result of the death of my grandfather.
But on the one occasion she babysat for me—an act of desperation by my parents when my brother broke his arm and they had to take him to the hospital—she took me to my grandfather’s grave. I thought it was sweet, her missing him so much she wanted to visit.
Until she spat on it.
I’m talking loogie-hocking, full-fledged phlegm wad spat right in the center of his tombstone.
Splat.
It was freaking unbelievable to witness.
I was never a tattletale, but for a seven-year-old, being an accessory to spitting on the grave of a loved one was too big to keep to myself. So, as soon as my parents got home, I told them what happened…and I never saw my grandma again.
Maybe it was for the best, but sometimes, on days like today, I wonder if she was really as bad as they say or if she’d just had enough of the world.
Maybe a little of her influence would have been worth it.
But seeing as she died several years ago, I’ll never get the opportunity to give a relationship with her a shot.
Rest in peace, you old bird. Send me a sign occasionally, would ya?
I shake out my hair like a dog, completely unladylike and fucking liberating as hell, and a victorious smile creases the corners of my lips as I pull the door open to step inside.
Hallelujah! I have officially made the greatest escape in the history of great escapes. Even Houdini has nothing on me tonight.
A few patrons turn to look over their shoulders, but other than that, they ignore me. It’s the nicest feeling in the world.
I step up to the bar and pull out the only thing I brought with me—a plastic card emblazoned with my agent’s name.
Ironic, huh? Being so rich you could have anything you wanted and still having to use someone else’s card you essentially stole because you don’t have any money on you.
Yes, stole. I fucking stole Heidi’s credit card while I was making a vanishing act from my entire team. I just up and left everyone—my security, my manager, every-damn-one—at the television studio where Niall Beans films his dumb show. Surely, I’m in for one hell of a shitstorm tomorrow, but I can’t bring myself to care.
I needed this.
I deserved this.
And tonight, I shall enjoy being by myself for once.
Nerves overwhelm me suddenly as I sidle up to the front of the bar and slide onto a barstool.
It didn’t occur to me until this moment that I’ve never done this before—ordered my own drink, I mean.
Ludicrous, I know, but I’ve been in the business, and at least somewhat famous, since well before I reached drinking age. If I wanted something, I was never the one to go to the bar.
Flailing emotionally as the bartender approaches, I do the only thing I can and draw upon the only experience I have—the fake kind.
I did a movie once where I went to the bar to order for my friends.
Oh God. Am I completely overthinking this?
I’ve got to be. Just order the damn drink.
The bartender steps up in front of me and jerks his head up and out.
I sit there for a few seconds, waiting for him to ask me what I want, but when he doesn’t say anything within a reasonable amount of time, I worry I’ve flubbed it.
Evidently, he already asked me what I want with the jerk of his chin.
“I’ll, um, take a vodka and cranberry.”
He narrows his eyes slightly, like maybe he doesn’t approve of my choice. No big deal. I might be offended if I’d made my selection confidently, but given my limited experience in this area, I just went with the first thing that came to mind.
I’m hoping to everything I can stomach the harsh liquid enough to numb some of my emotions. But knowing myself well enough to admit I’m probably ninety-nine percent bluster when it comes to suddenly turning into a boozehound, I add a glass of ice water to my order too, just in case.
I watch closely as he pours the vodka halfway up the glass, the clear liquid slinking and sliding to cover the ice cubes at the bottom.
And then, I take a big, huge, deep breath and bask in the moment of true autonomy. I am, for once in my life, my own woman—even if only for a little while.
I startle as a man pushes into the bar next to me, his hair as wet as mine was pre-canine shake. Droplets drip off the dark brown ends and onto the surface of the bar as he flags down the bartender with the wave of a finger. He’s certainly done the whole bar thing on his own before.
The stranger glances my way with a small smile, I return it, and then he does a noticeable double take.
Ah fuck.
Instantly, I move my gaze down to the bar as the panic of discovery overwhelms me.
“I’m sorry,” he says, juking a little farther into the bar to try to get a better look at my face.
I try to shield it without looking like I’m shielding it. I don’t know that my efforts don’t mak
e me look spastic, but I can’t seem to help myself. Gah, and this was going so well!
“Do I know you?”
I shake my head without looking up, hoping my dark hair is covering my face enough to hide my apprehensive expression.
“You just look so familiar. I could have sworn you had the same smile as…”
He shakes his head, and in a moment of weakness—powered by overwhelming curiosity brought on by his sumptuous, deep voice—I look up to meet his eyes.
They’re green and inviting and seem to go on forever. And at the sight of me, they warm immediately.
“Rocky…Rocky Weaver, is that you?”
Did he just say Rocky? Holy hell, talk about an awful nickname blast from the past.
My heart trips over itself as it takes off at a run. No one other than my brother has called me Rocky in twenty-five years—which means no one has used it in eight—and the sensation is overwhelming. The little tomboyish girl everyone knew as Rocky—a nickname given to me by my then five-year-old brother because he wasn’t very good at saying Raquel—seems like an entire lifetime ago. And I guess, it almost was. My blood thrums as I try to come to quick terms with the merging of new and old. It kind of feels like I’ve been in witness protection, and for the first time ever, I’ve been reunited with someone I used to know.
Still, other than a vague familiarity to his face, I don’t have a freaking clue who this guy is, and having him know me at all feels sketchy at best.
“Uh, yeah. I’m sorry. I don’t remember your name.”
“Harrison. Hughes. I moved away from California the summer after my tenth birthday.”
My body jolts like a surge of electricity has been sent coursing through it. Harrison Hughes. God.
“Your brother…” he continues.
But before he can finish, I do it for him. “Hated your fucking guts.”
His answering smile is alarmingly brilliant. Truly. I’ve never seen someone be so excited to be hated before.
A soft chuckle leaves his lips. “So, you do remember me.”
I laugh. I can’t help it. It’s hard to forget the actual living, breathing bane of your brother’s existence. Sure, I’ve done it for more than two decades, but that’s because it’s so much easier to be out of mind when you’re out of sight. Now that he’s here, in the flesh, all the memories feel omnipresent.
