The Right Man

by Mankin, Michelle

  “No, man. I lost her. I know the score.”

  A beautiful, caring woman like Brenda? I’d known it would only be a matter of time before some other guy came along who could give her what she wanted. Things I couldn’t or wouldn’t offer.

  Fidelity. Reliability. A permanent home.

  “You send her the flowers?” I asked. Red roses. Her favorite.

  “Yeah, but I don’t think it was such a great idea. Those aren’t the kind of flowers you send somebody on their wedding day.”

  “I had to do something.”

  “You shoulda just called. Told her you’re sorry you screwed up with her. Wished her well. If Randy sees ’em and figures out who they’re from, it’ll just piss him off.”

  “Too bad. My brother’s marrying my ex-fiancée.” I had been prepared for her to move on. It was who she’d moved on with that had blindsided me. “Doesn’t anyone get that I’m the injured party?”

  Brad snorted. “You stepped out on her.”

  “We were on a break! And she’d withdrawn from me emotionally long before that.”

  So did everyone else back home when I dropped the bomb that I was leaving college to pursue a career in the music business. Everyone except for Brad.

  “Not an excuse,” he said.

  Brad didn’t bullshit, just spewed the facts as he saw them. He always gave it to me straight, which was one of his best qualities. He had a lot of them—intelligence, loyalty, honesty. There were a lot of reasons he was my best friend, my only one these days. My bandmates didn’t count. We enabled one another’s dysfunctions.

  “I know. I get it. I came clean with her and accepted the blame.”

  I raked a hand through my hair, and my agitated movement stirred up more noxious perfume. The fragrance stung my eyes again, making them tear up. It sure as shit wasn’t the sharp shards of regret.

  I had made my bed. Gotten laid in it before I ended it with her. But I was good now. Things were better. I’d moved on.

  So, why did every step I’d taken since then feel like the biggest lie of all?

  Chapter 2

  * * *

  Jewel

  “Shit,” I muttered, waking to my alarm blaring. Rolling over, I fumbled for my cell. After swiping off the clock function, I frowned into the grainy gray twilight. I couldn’t believe it was sundown already.

  “Get a move on, Jewel, my precious gem. Nothing’s worse than time that’s wasted.”

  Gran’s age-warbled voice was only in my mind nowadays, but hearing it echo in the lonely hallways of the past made tears prick my eyes.

  “I miss you,” I whispered to the painting of her that hung on the wall opposite my bed. Eyes a golden shade nearly identical to mine, though infinitely wiser, seemed to gaze back sympathetically. If only I’d heeded her wisdom. “I’m sorry, Gran.”

  Her serene expression radiated forgiveness because that was the way I wanted to read it. But there would never be any absolution. All that remained was the portrait. An amateur one. After all, it had been my hand that had painted it. The lessons to improve my craft that I’d hoped to take when I moved to LA had never come to pass. More practical concerns like food and shelter had quickly taken precedence over art and dreams.

  Reminded of those pressing needs, I tossed aside my threadbare covers, bolted upright in bed, and threw my legs over the side. I needed to get ready. No one was going to wave a magic wand and make money appear.

  Swallowing hard, I grounded myself by gripping the edge of the bed—the cot that functioned as one—in my apartment that was barely larger than a broom closet. A translucent scarf thrown over a light bulb didn’t soften the harsh reality.

  My current accommodations were a far cry from the comforts I’d once enjoyed inside my grandmother’s foursquare home. Here, cardboard boxes served as tables. Plastic cartons stacked as shelves. Foil over the lone window curtained the light during the day.

  My already sagging spirits sank lower when I noted the other cot beside me was unoccupied. The rumpled sheets provided no clue as to where my roommate had gone. She was probably gallivanting around doing who-knew-what as usual. Camaro Montepulciano had a kind heart, taking me in when I had nowhere else to go. She’d shown me the ropes. But she rode on the winds of her everchanging moods.

  I let out a disappointed sigh, but I didn’t fault her. Cam had her flights of indulgence; I had mine. Painting, mainly, though I only had the dregs of a few basic colors left to work with and no more canvases. No escaping through the strokes of an imagined reality today.

  Feet on the floor, I firmed my frown into a determined line and got out of bed. I stood, my fingers curled into my palms. The embers of a once-bright hope flickered uncertainly inside my chest. Wishes couldn’t fan them to a healthy glow, not when blanketed by so many suffocating regrets.

  I closed my eyes, allowing myself a moment in the meadow in my imagination. A crown of common daisies on my head and a handful of them in my tiny grip. My grandmother beside me, her strong fingers wrapped around mine.

  Gran had been my firm foundation when the world around me was shaken. It had been eighteen months since she passed, but her loss hadn’t gotten any easier. For me, grief wasn’t just a burden, it was a razor-sharp knife that had carved out a permanent cavity inside me.

  Opening my eyes, I blinked through the sting of tears and ineffectively rubbed my hand over my aching heart before I shuffled to the shower.

  Predictably, the hot water ran out halfway through, and I had to rinse my hair in a cold stream. Sliding the plastic curtain back, I stepped over the rim of the tub and placed my feet on the old towel that stood in for a bathmat. Ribbons of russet against my slim shoulders wept rivers that rushed downward over the slopes of my breasts. I grabbed a towel from the rack and draped it around my slender frame. It absorbed the excess moisture from my body, but it couldn’t wipe away the pain.

  At the cracked pedestal sink, I picked up the comb from the glass shelf and began the time-consuming process of running it through the long strands to untangle my hair. My empty stomach grumbled. I ignored it and the reflection of myself in the rusted mirror. I preferred not to acknowledge the hard-learned lessons reflected in my eyes.

  Finished with my hair, I set aside the comb and returned to the adjoining room. Maybe I had a leftover packet of crackers in the bottom of my bag.

  Crouching beside my cot, I removed the slouchy handbag I stored under it. I rummaged through the contents, looking for money and food, but discovered it was as empty as my stomach. Setting it aside, I pulled out the box that contained my clothes. Not the ones I was most comfortable in. The other ones.

  My work clothes.

  I laid out the lace and the silk on the bed. Seductive undergarments on one side. All the pieces to the costume that made up my outward persona on the other. It helped to compartmentalize the two aspects of my life. What happened to her, my alter ego, didn’t happen to me. It was a lie, but sometimes I believed it.

  Lingerie and outfit on, nail polish and makeup applied. I tucked my hair under a wig and arranged its platinum-blond pigtails around my face, avoiding looking at my heavily mascaraed eyes rimmed in kohl as I took a quick glance at my reflection.

  The white oxford shirt had been too tame before I took a pair of shears to it, cutting off the sleeves and baring the midriff all the way to my bra. The red-and-black-sequined skirt I’d salvaged from the dumpster at Goodwill was so short, it revealed the racy crimson-and-black garters that held up my fishnet stockings. Black sky-high stilettos completed the look.

  The whole effect was my artistic bent put to practical use. When I was done, my persona was part naughty Catholic schoolgirl and part comic-book villainess.

  I tugged on a hooded jacket against the night chill and stuck out my tongue at my reflection before I left the bathroom. This chick doesn’t take anything seriously. She doesn’t put up with shit, and she does what needs to be done.

  Shoulders back, spine straight, invisible armor against real
ity in place, I left the apartment. The musty corridor was deserted, thankfully, except for a half-naked man lying on the hallway floor. I stepped over him, and he grunted.

  “Sorry, Terrance.”

  “It’s okay, Jules.” His wizened face riddled with pockmarks, he peered up at me through his good eye. “You going out?” The idea of that seemed to make him sad. He wasn’t alone in that sentiment.

  “Yeah.” My gaze slid away. I had no food. The rent was overdue. I had no choice.

  “There’s always a choice.” Gran’s voice echoed inside my head again. Only she was gone, her bright, shining ideals carried off with her, leaving me alone with no one but myself to rely on.

  “Watch out for Wanda,” I told Terrance.

  “She on the warpath?”

  “If you mean is she on a mission to clear out the nonpaying residents who like to nap for free in the hall, then yeah, that’s what she’s on for sure.”

  “Shit.” He sat up and reached for the oversized garbage bag that contained all his belongings. “Don’t have no place else to go,” he muttered.

  “And there but for the grace of God go you.” Gran’s voice. And that small-town upbringing I’d run away from.

  I sighed. I couldn’t let him inside the apartment. But the shelter on Peach? I had a token for a bed. I’d gotten one just in case I had nowhere else to go.

  Bracelets jangling on my wrist, I dove my hand into the pocket of my skirt. “Here.” I offered the token to Terrance.

  “You sure?” he asked, even as he stretched out his thin arm to take it.

  “I’m sure.”

  I fought back the wave of trepidation and got my feet moving again. Traversing the remaining length of the narrow hallway, I pushed open the door to the stairwell. I glanced around inside it to make sure it was clear before I started down.

  At the bottom, I pressed the bar to open the heavy steel door but jumped back when a diminutive black woman with an attitude as huge as the Hulk appeared inside the circle of light from the overhead motion sensor.

  “Wanda,” I said.

  Shit. Shit. Triple shit.

  I wobbled on my stilettos. My retreat was cut off as the door to return inside the building snapped closed behind me.

  “Jewel Anderson, I thought I might find you here.” In a business suit, her glasses sliding to the tip of her nose, Wanda raked her gaze over me. “Going somewhere?”

  “Um, yes. I—”

  “You conveniently forget that your rent is due?” She arched a brow.

  “No, I’m just—”

  “Sneaking around. Three days late.” She clucked her tongue. “You’ll pay the late penalty. I’m not floating you a zero-interest loan.”

  “I know you won’t. I didn’t expect you to. It’s just that we’re a little short this month.”

  “You two are always a little short. I should’ve kicked your sorry asses out the first time. Girls like you—”

  “Not a single person is on a waiting list to move into your apartments,” I said, my spine stiffening. “Tiny rooms. A/C and heat that’s always fritzing out. No blinds on the windows. Hot water that barely works.” I put a hand on my hip and lifted my chin. “And you don’t know me or the type of girl I am.”

  Wanda scoffed. “Girl, I know everything I need to know about you. Cheap-ass hooker, blaming everyone but yourself for the predicament you find yourself in.” She looked down her nose at me, and even though I stood a half foot taller than her in my stilettos, I was the one who felt small.

  I didn’t like her. I didn’t like her at all. Even when the rent wasn’t due, I avoided her.

  “I’ll have your money after tonight,” I said, though my stomach churned on nothing but my bravado.

  “You will, or I’ll be evicting you first thing tomorrow morning.”

  Once she hit me with that ultimatum, she spun around. Her sensible heels clicked on the concrete as she marched the length of the alley. Probably off to her office to roll around on her stacks of cash and polish her broomstick.

  Mean. Evil. Spiteful woman.

  My eyes burned from within their kohl frame as I watched her go.

  Don’t cry, I told myself, curling my hands into fists and focusing on the bite in my skin from my nails rather than on my fear that my roommate and I would likely be on the streets soon.

  I squeezed my eyes shut. I couldn’t give up before I even tried. It wasn’t just me. There was Cam to consider.

  Reopening my eyes, I forced my body into motion, navigating the trash strewn in the alley. Crushed aluminum cans. Broken liquor bottles. I stepped gingerly between them, feeling as used up and empty as the abandoned items around me.

  At the sidewalk, I slowed my pace and ducked into the shadows beneath the awning of an adult-clothing shop. I glanced over my shoulder. No sign of Wanda or anyone else watching me.

  I let out a sigh and caught a glimpse of my reflection in the plate glass.

  My eyes were wide pools of gold beneath dark auburn brows. If only they were an actual physical commodity I could pawn.

  I slammed them closed. Fool’s gold. They gave away too much. It was unwise to appear vulnerable outside the apartment.

  Opening my eyes again, I narrowed my gaze and gulped in a deep, determined breath. Then I reached for the hood on my jacket and pulled it over my wig.

  Be brave, I told myself, remembering another of Gran’s sayings. “Bravery isn’t the absence of fear; it’s the ability to keep going despite insurmountable obstacles.”

  Bravery was my choice. One foot in front of the other.

  My night was only starting; I still had to get on the bus. It would take me two transfers to get to the better-paying side of town. Further, I had to hope that I looked more tempting than the girls who had already set up shop over there.

  If I didn’t, I was fucked, and not in the way that would get me the money I needed to pay the rent.

  Chapter 3

  * * *

  Rush

  “Rush. Rush. Rush.”

  The chanting of my name echoed in the cinder-block corridor after I left the stage.

  “They want a second encore,” Brad told me, as if I didn’t already know.

  “They can’t always get what they want.” I snagged the white towel a stagehand offered me and swiped it across my brow.

  Narrowing my eyes at my manager, I noticed the chicks we swept past vied for his attention as much as they did for mine. Blond, blue-eyed, barely older than me, Brad was the manager of the ten-million-dollar-a-year Rush machine. He was also catnip to the backstage pussy that went for his Armani brand of boring boardroom predictability.

  “Life sucks and then you die, right?”

  “Rush.” His tone was warning as he glanced up from his phone and the glow of platinum profits from tonight’s sold-out show. “Not here.” He lifted his chin to remind me of our audience. “Put a lid on the negativity.”

  He might have a point about the crowd. My PR rep, the stylist, and the visiting record-label VP had signed nondisclosure agreements, same as the groupies. While my staff was paid handsomely to keep their mouths shut whenever I shot off mine, I held no such sway with the ticket-holding masses.

  “I’m not making apologies for how I am.”

  Brad frowned as we entered the dressing room. “You weren’t always this difficult.”

  I brushed past him on the way to the bar. Out of deference to my company, I poured a tumbler of whiskey. Alone, I would have chugged it straight from the bottle. I threw back the socially acceptable portion, but the fire the amber elixir ignited barely registered. Ditto for the lingering adrenaline rush from the roar of the Staples Center crowd.

  Get a grip, I told myself, staring at my reflection. The guy within the rectangular frame of bulbs surrounding the mirror looked a little too needy and wrung out. His brown hair was plastered to his skull, and so saturated with sweat, it appeared black. The eyes were the real giveaway. Twin portals whirled with a vortex of negative emotions.r />
  “No more drinking.” Brad snatched the bottle of Jameson from my grasp. “You know what happened last time you got trashed.”

  “I remember. No need to rub my nose in it.” Sales had gone in the shitter after someone posted a video of me going nuclear on an overly aggressive paparazzo.

  I had zero regrets. Asswipe had it coming for shoving his camera in my mother’s face at the funeral. If my father had been the pillar of strength in our family, she was the pedestal. Only she had crumpled completely when they lowered his casket into the ground. Remembering that day and all that had been lost, the ground rumbled at a Richter-scale magnitude beneath my feet.

  The betrayal of my ex-fiancée marrying my brother was a minor temblor in comparison.

  It wasn’t only that my father was gone, or that Brenda had moved on, it was that so much had been left unresolved with each of them. I knew my failure as a man was the common factor with each.

  As the specter of that truth rose within me, my mouth went dry and my hands twitched. I needed another drink. No, I wanted to drain that entire fucking bottle of whiskey dry. And I knew what that meant. The narrow line I’d been walking with my drinking had gone well beyond a casual thing.

  I ripped my gaze away from my reflection and glared at Brad. “Is my car washed and gassed up?”

  I could see no other cure for what ailed me. I needed to get away before I did something ill-advised. Paparazzi were like a plague of locusts, ready to devour my mistakes, and talking heads were on standby to regurgitate the lurid stories for mass consumption.

  He scowled at me. “Yeah, but do you really think you’re in any condition to drive?”

  “I need some fresh air.”

  “Rush, you’ve got interviews and the VIP meet and greets.”

  “You said we were through with all the bullshit after tonight.”

  “After tonight’s obligations. It’s not all about you. Your fans are what keeps the Rush machine cranking out the cash, and you know it.”