Superfan

by Sarina Bowen

Brett doesn’t need to know that, though. Tonight I’m all business.

  He pulls out his phone. “I’ll want to know what Becky thinks of a Thursday release. It will hurt your first week’s Billboard ranking. But we’ll get a lot of attention for jumping out ahead of everyone else.”

  I jot Thursday release? on my notepad. This is so civilized.

  “If we launch next month, we’ll use the short timeframe to our advantage,” Brett says. “We’ll play it up as a surprise release. And we’ll just squeak into the Grammy eligibility year.”

  My heart flutters just hearing the word Grammy. “Who are we competing against in September? There must be a bunch of people pushing out albums in front of the cutoff.”

  “I made a list.” He offers me his phone.

  Each week in September is listed with new music launches tallied underneath. “The second week would be best, right? I’d rather go up against a big hip-hop album than those solo artists.”

  “Agreed,” Brett says, retrieving his phone. “So we’re looking at Thursday the thirteenth, or Friday the fourteenth.”

  I scribble that down, too. It’s only a month away! I’m getting happy chills just thinking about it. A new single, out in the world. It’s terrifying and wonderful all at the same time.

  “Our in-house publicist will get a lot of inquiries,” he says. “Those will be referred to Becky. Is there any new media on your no-fly list?”

  I shake my head. “Bring it. I won’t enjoy doing interviews, but I know it’s important.” I need him to know that I’m willing to be a team player for this release. It’s crucial to both of us, no matter how awkward our history makes this.

  He sits back on the sofa and gives me a sad smile. “Okay. I guess there weren’t that many details after all. The grunts are going to handle the rest.”

  That’s what Brett calls everyone who isn’t a CEO or a star. A grunt. I hate that term. And I hate how revealing it is about him. This man has more red flags than a communist-party parade, and I ignored them all.

  But now I plaster a smile on my face, anyway. I’ve just got to get through this meeting.

  “There’s only one more detail,” he says.

  “Hmm?” My phone vibrates again with an incoming call, distracting me. I’m not going to look.

  “I really need you to sign this.”

  When I look up, he’s placing a file folder on the coffee table. He flips open the cover. It’s a contract.

  My heart drops with a thunk that’s probably audible. “Brett, don’t do this. We’re not having this fight again.”

  “I never wanted to fight,” he says in a low voice. “So let’s not. But I need your third album.”

  “Why would I ever—”

  “Just read it, Delilah. I put in a reversion clause. The language won’t allow us to hold back the third album. Or it’s automatically yours. There’s no way for you to lose out.”

  Suddenly I’m blinking back hot tears. “But you already did that to me on this album! Why would I ever trust you?”

  “It was a mistake,” he says. “I apologize. I was so upset at losing you, Dee. I went a little crazy.”

  “You know I can’t sign this,” I say as calmly as I can possibly muster. “Charla Harris will have to do a full contract review. And my second album needs to be out before I’ll even consider it.”

  Brett drops his head. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen him look beaten. “Okay,” he says simply. “Okay.”

  Nearly sagging with relief, I close the folder and rest a palm on it. “I’ll FedEx this to Charla first thing tomorrow.” As if I’d ever sign it.

  Brett stands up with a sigh. “Something to drink?” He paces toward the mini fridge in the corner. That’s another thing I learned from Brett’s family—that rich people like their beverages to be available anywhere. “I got a couple of those Mexican sodas you like.”

  “Thank you,” I say automatically. I’m doing the math on how many more minutes I have to pretend we’re still friendly.

  He brings me the bottle, unopened of course. Then he opens a beer for himself. “To Lucky Hearts,” he says. “May it top the charts for weeks.” He raises his beer, as if to make a toast.

  I hastily twist the top of my soda bottle. It doesn’t quite hiss as loudly as a soda should, but the familiar scent of watermelon is appealing. I stopped drinking these because they reminded me of Brett.

  He’s waiting. I touch the bottle to his and fake one more smile. “To Lucky Hearts.”

  Brett holds my eyes as he takes a swig. So I do the polite thing and mirror him. As I swallow, though, I know that something is wrong. The taste is wrong. Salty and strong. I set the bottle down with a thunk on the coffee table.

  Oh shit. I need to get out of here.

  Silas

  Delilah does not answer her phone. I waste precious time hitting redial. And when I inquire at the hotel desk, I’m told Delilah isn’t registered.

  Of course she’s not. They would have used someone else’s name.

  It’s only then that I wise up and call Becky. She answers on the first ring. “Silas? You have some nerve.”

  “I know. But where is she? It’s important.”

  Becky grumbles, “She went to the jerk’s house to talk about her album launch. That’s what happens when you cancel on her—”

  “Got to go,” I interrupt. “Talk later.” After disconnecting, I shove the phone in my pocket and hightail it out of the hotel, heading down toward the water.

  I reach the sandy beach and keep on going. It isn’t far to the Ferris house, and this is the most direct route. How many times did I do this run in high school? Hundreds? Running in the sand is great resistance for the thighs and glutes. I have to stop and burn a few seconds kicking out of my shoes and socks, but then I’m tearing down the beach, past the mansions.

  This was always my view of Darlington Beach—jogging past other peoples’ dreamhouses. Beautiful, but so out of reach. When I met Delilah, I still had that chip on my shoulder. I still felt like an outsider, even though I’d lived here most of my life.

  None of that matters anymore. There’s just the cool sand and my pounding heart. I need to see her. I need to know she’s okay. And then I need to tell her my new theory about her stalker.

  Maybe I’m wrong, but I can’t afford to be cautious anymore. I’ll hire a bodyguard for my mom if I have to. Tonight Delilah will know how much I care.

  So will Brett Ferris. But that can’t be helped.

  The Ferris house comes into view, lit up and beautiful. It has a privacy hedge, but beach houses aren’t fortresses, no matter how ritzy. Nobody wants to spoil the ocean view.

  As I approach the hedge, I look up at the glassed walls of what must be an impressive, elevated sitting room. There’s movement, and I realize it’s the vertical blinds. They’re moving around a mechanized track, slowly closing off the view into the house. In seconds I won’t be able to see inside. So I jump straight up for a desperate glimpse before it’s all closed off.

  My view lasts only a split second. Delilah is sitting on a sofa, her head in her hands, dark hair cascading over her shoulders. And Brett is leaning over her, holding a pen.

  What the actual fuck?

  Seconds later, I’m testing sections of the hedge, looking for a way in. I get impatient and force the stiff branches apart, hurling my body at the narrow opening until I fall clumsily onto the patio on the other side.

  It hurts, but I’m a hockey player, so I don’t really care. Lurching to my feet, I look up at the windows. The blinds are closed, swinging gently. I creep sideways toward a planter at the patio’s edge. Would it hold my weight?

  A hand clamps over my mouth. “Don’t scream,” whispers a male voice. “I’ll get her for you.”

  Shock makes me immobile for a split second. I jerk violently around, elbow first, intending to catch my assailant in the face.

  He anticipates me, dodging the blow. I get a glimpse of his face—it’s the bodyguard, the o
ne Delilah calls Mr. Muscles. “What the—”

  “Hush!” he hisses. “I’m going inside to get her. Where’s your car?”

  “Don’t have a car.”

  He pulls a key fob out of his pocket and thrusts it into my hand. “You’re taking her to the E.R.”

  “And you?” My brain is still playing catch-up.

  “Waiting with him. For the police. I think he drugged her.” The look of revulsion on the big man’s face probably matches my own. “Come on.”

  I follow him around the side of the house to a door. He pushes me aside, out of sight, then knocks loudly. “Delilah!” he yells. “We got a situation.”

  Nothing happens. I count out far too many of my rapid heartbeats, and still there’s no movement on the other side of the door. “I’m breaking a window,” I announce.

  “No,” he whispers. “You’re invisible, you hear me? He won’t let you in. But he’ll open the door for me.” He pounds on the door again. “If you guys don’t respond, I gotta call the cops,” he yells.

  Hurried footsteps are the immediate response. Just before the door opens, Mr. Muscles levels me with a glare that says, Don’t move yet or I’ll snap you in half.

  “What’s the matter?” Brett’s voice demands. “You’re interrupting a meeting.”

  “Emergency,” the bodyguard says, pushing his way inside. “Gotta see my girl.”

  “She’s not your girl,” Brett snarls.

  There’s a crash, followed by a shout and a thunk—as if something is hitting the floor. I think it might be Brett.

  That’s all the invitation I need. I yank the door open again and charge inside. The bodyguard is standing over Brett, who’s sprawled on the floor. “Don’t move, fucker,” he growls down at him. “Or I will kill you.”

  I’m already past them both, heading for the front of the house. My heart is in my mouth as I reach the bright room where Delilah is slumped sideways on the couch.

  “Jesus, baby,” I whisper as I scoop her up into my arms. “I’m so sorry. But we’re out of here now.”

  Her eyes flicker open, but they don’t seem to register much before closing again.

  I carry her into the kitchen, where the bodyguard is now sitting on Brett’s back, dialing his phone. “Go,” he says. “The hospital is—”

  “I know where the hospital is.” I’m already carrying her out the door and toward the shiny rental sedan in the driveway. Delilah’s head lolls against my shoulder, and her eyes are slits. But she’s not all the way unconscious. So I don’t panic. Much.

  “It’s…a drug,” she slurs.

  “I know,” I say, lifting her higher onto my body as I approach the car. I brace my hip against the vehicle and awkwardly fumble for the door handle on the passenger side. “You’ll feel better soon,” I promise both of us.

  “Don’t let me go to sleep,” she begs. “Don’t want to lose time.”

  “Okay,” I babble. “I promise. I’m going to buckle you in, okay?”

  “Don’t leave me here.”

  “I won’t. Never again. We’re going to drive away now.” I kick the door open and slide her onto the seat, buckling her in. Then I stand back to shut the door.

  Her eyes open all the way, and they’re filled with terror. “Wait!”

  “I’m not leaving you. Just jumping in on the other side.” I close the door, run around the front of the car, and slide into the driver’s seat. A tear tracks down her cheek.

  My thumb swipes it away. “I’m not leaving you, okay?”

  “You did.”

  “Big mistake,” I say, pressing the car’s start button. “Never again.”

  I drive like an asshole to the medical center. Good thing it’s only a few miles down the highway. I park in front and run through the doors marked EMERGENCY with Delilah in my arms. This guarantees that I have everyone’s attention. Nurses come running, and someone finds a gurney.

  “Don’t leave me,” she mumbles, eyes closed.

  “Still here,” I promise, and I don’t let up even when the nurse asks me to leave the exam cubicle. “No can do,” I say, holding Delilah’s hand.

  The medical team asks a whole lot of questions, not many of which I can answer. Did I see the drug? No. Was it a powder or a liquid? No idea.

  They do some tests. Apparently, the available antidotes are almost as unpleasant as the drug itself, so the protocol is to monitor Delilah’s heart rate and breathing.

  There are machines for this, but I’m their backup. I watch each of her slow breaths and hold her hand.

  Becky arrives next, summoned by Mr. Muscles. “Omigod!” she wails when she sees Delilah stretched out on the E.R. bed. “I knew something was off. I feel terrible.”

  That pretty much sums me up, too.

  Eventually, the cops arrive. I don’t have any idea how much time has passed. Becky takes my place beside Delilah, and I let the cops interrogate me in an office down the hall.

  “Tell us everything that happened at the Ferris residence,” they say.

  It doesn’t take long, since I didn’t see much.

  “I think he wanted her to sign something,” I tell them at the end. “He was trying to give her a pen.”

  They can’t give me any information, so I give them all my contact details and go back to Delilah’s side. She hasn’t spoken in a while. All I can do is sit and hold her hand, watching her chest rise and fall slowly. She seems to fade in and out of consciousness. But her pulse monitor gives a steady rhythm, so the nurse says I’m not allowed to panic.

  “We’re going to admit her for observation,” a doctor says at some point.

  “He stays,” Delilah says, even though I thought she was asleep.

  “Okay, honey,” a nurse agrees. “Let’s get you upstairs.”

  When I stand up to accompany them, my body is as stiff as a ninety-year-old’s. I groan, and the nurse clucks her tongue. “Are you going to let me look at all those scratches now? There’s one nasty one over your eye.”

  Delilah’s eyes pop open suddenly. “Who hurt you?”

  “The shrubbery,” I admit. “I kinda dove through the privacy hedge. If there are security cameras, the police are probably laughing their asses off right now.”

  She actually gives me a faint smile as the gurney rolls toward the elevators. But I don’t deserve it. Not after leaving her to fend for herself with Brett Ferris.

  It’s going to be a long time until I get over this.

  Delilah

  When I wake up, I’m in a strange room, staring at a strange ceiling. It’s late morning, judging from the bright sunlight coming through the window.

  I have no memory at all of how I got here. Yet the creeptastic sensation of having lost time clings to me like a bad dream.

  “Holy shit,” I rasp, with a voice that sounds like I haven’t used it for a year. “Not again. Fuck my life.”

  “Sweetheart,” says a calm voice. “You’re fine. Everything is okay.”

  I turn my head, and the room spins. A woman sits in the chair beside me. She’s knitting a sock with yarn the color of a tropical sea.

  Weirdly enough, the sight of her calms me right down. In the first place, knitting ladies are a benevolent force in the universe. And there’s something in her steady gaze that’s familiar to me. “Who…are you?”

  “Marie Kelly. My son refused to go and lie down for a few hours until I promised to sit here with you.”

  My son. “You’re Silas’s mom?” I blink. She looks too young to be his mother. But now I realize why she’s so familiar. Those kind eyes.

  She nods.

  Several things fall into place for me. First, I just cursed up a storm in front of Silas’s mom. Second, it’s Silas who deserves all my cursing. That man stood me up, and I’m not over it.

  Except… Something tickles the back of my disoriented consciousness. He was here with me. At this hospital, I think? I remember strong arms circling me. No—carrying me. But where? The last thing I remember clearly is…


  Brett’s house.

  “Omigod.” A shiver runs through me. “He drugged me. That bastard.” My voice is an angry scrape. My memory is like a kaleidoscope. Colorful but fractured. Silas carried me out of Brett’s house. I have no idea how he got there, or why he showed up. But I do remember demanding that he never leave me again.

  Hi, subconscious. Nice of you to speak up when I’m drugged.

  “How can I help you, honey?” Mrs. Kelly asks. “Would you like a drink of water?”

  “F—heck yes,” I say, nearly dropping another f-bomb. I’m so thirsty.

  She lifts a small bottle of water out of her bag. “Silas said you would need to open this yourself.” She shows me the top. The seal is unbroken.

  Silas left me an unopened bottle of water and instructions for his mom?

  My heart melts a little. I’m very eager to hear why Silas disappointed me earlier this week. And maybe I’m insane for having romantic thoughts about him while recovering in a hospital room from a poisoning by my ex-lover.

  But none of that matters to my heart. I still trust Silas. I don’t know if that’s a good thing or not, but it’s true.

  She hands me the water, and I twist the top. Or I try to. But—good lord—I have no grip strength. I let out a little squeak of dismay as the water bottle remains stubbornly closed. “Could you…” I stop. I haven’t let anyone open a bottle for me in so very long.

  Yet Ms. Kelly reaches over and gives it a quick twist. I hear the snap of the plastic seal. And I don’t even have the energy to feel phobic about it. I remove the cap and lift that bottle to my parched lips. I drink so quickly that I end up coughing.

  “Oh dear,” Silas’s mom says. She steadies the bottle in my hand while I lean forward like a geriatric patient and try to expel the water droplets from my trachea.

  A man runs into the room so fast that he’s a blur. He skates to a stop beside my bed. I open watery eyes and look up to find Silas. “Are you choking? Is she okay?” he barks.

  “She’s fine,” his mother says calmly. “As fine as someone can be who tries to drink water lying down.” She hits a button somewhere and the back of my hospital bed slowly begins to elevate. I get control over my lungs, slowly.