Chapter 9
9
“I won’t do any interviews, Alistair,” I say. “You’re safe. Go home.”
A shadow crosses his face when I say his full name. Not sure what that’s about. But then, he seems wound up and upset at everything right now. “I heard you.”
“What? Do you think I’m lying?”
“Yes,” he says, looming over me in the confines of the elevator. Then he grimaces and says, “No.”
Surprised laughter bursts out of me. “Holy shit. I knew you didn’t trust me, but wow. Which is it, yes or no?”
“I don’t know you well enough to trust you. But no, you’re not lying. I can see that. Fuck,” he says, the brogue as thick as can be. He takes a step closer, gets all up in my face, and asks in an accusing tone of voice, “Were you in that hotel bar hoping to find your great sex?”
I wrinkle my nose in confusion. “Was I what ?”
“You heard me.”
“Because nothing says looking for a hookup like bowling shoes. Why do you even care?”
“I don’t,” he says bluntly. “But it’s not safe picking up some stranger in a bar.”
“Like no one’s ever done that in the history of time and space.”
“Lilah...”
The elevator chimes and the doors slide open to my floor. I head down the hallway to my room and swipe the door card. The prince is hot on my heels. Oh, man. I kind of want to hit something. His handsome face would do. But I don’t, because unlike some people, I am an adult who can handle her feelings. Most of the time.
“Being concerned about my safety sort of qualifies as caring,” I point out. “But moving right along. We’ve reached the part of the conversation where you explain how my sex life is any of your business.”
His mouth opens, but no words come out.
“That’s what I thought.”
“So you won’t do the interview?”
“For the third time...no. No interviews. No comments. Nothing.”
“Thank you,” he says in a slightly more subdued voice.
“You’re welcome. Was that all?”
He nods slowly but still shows no sign of leaving. So much brooding, with his rigid shoulders and set jaw. Like he’s feeling a lot and is not the least bit happy about it. Which is when he notices the small bandage on my wrist and scowls some more. “What happened there?”
We’ll be spending the night in the hallway, at this rate. Just us and the ghosts. I don’t answer him, but I do hold the door to my room open. It feels like kicking myself, letting him back into my life. If that’s what’s happening. I am such a sucker for this man. My idiocy knows no bounds. He follows me into the room and stands at the end of the bed. He truly broods like no other. It’s such a talent. And in the low light, the shadows beneath his eyes are like bruises.
“When was the last time you slept?” I ask.
“Had an early start this morning.”
With my sneakers off, I climb onto the bed. It really is comfortable. I pick up the remote off the bedside table and turn on The Vampire Diaries . Oh so carefully, I pick at the tape securing the bandage on my left wrist. It doesn’t take long for the black ink lines and irritated pink skin beneath to be revealed.
He takes a step toward me for a closer look. “You got a tattoo?”
“After my skateboarding lesson. Don’t worry. I went to a studio with a stellar reputation.” I hold up my hand to show him the simple outline of a book and its ruffled pages on my wrist. It’s about an inch and a half square all around. Not too big.
“You had a skateboarding lesson? Lilah, you’re still recovering from a car accident. Was that really a good idea?”
“Are you aware that you’re a worrier?” I ask. “It was fine. I had fun. And it’s still safer than bungee jumping or skydiving.”
He sighs. “What’s next on the list?”
“I don’t know. My decision to be more daring is shaking things up.”
A moment of silence passes. Guess neither of us knows what to say.
“I’m sorry if you feel that I was being unreasonable just now,” he says.
“Is that your idea of an apology?”
He grips the back of his neck and frowns his heart out. “It was never my intention for your feelings to get hurt, but I—”
“No. Stop. That’s not it either. You’re seriously bad at this, aren’t you?”
This time he simply says, “I’m sorry.”
“You can stay and watch TV if you want. This is the episode where Caroline just got turned into a vampire. It’s one of my favorites. She throws Damon down a hallway, and boy, does he deserve it.”
For a minute, he just stands there. Then slowly, warily, he walks around to the other side of the bed. A wild animal would be less cagey. Such a shame I wasn’t a Girl Scout, because I have earned my badge for dealing with grumpy bears. Alistair toes off his shoes and removes his coat. Then he unbuttons the cuffs of his shirt and folds them back. That he feels safe enough to let his guard down and relax is like Christmas to me. Though his exposed forearms shouldn’t affect me so much. He’s only getting comfortable. But everything low in my belly draws tight. The scattering of dark hair and lines of his muscles. How efficient he is with those big, strong hands.
He catches me staring and happily jumps to the wrong conclusion. “I had meetings today.”
“It’s a nice suit.”
“I can only stay for one episode.”
“Okay.”
“I don’t like you being alone,” he says, as if I demanded he justify his actions.
“Me being alone seems to bother you more than it does me. Have you noticed that?”
Nothing from him.
“I was alone a lot when I was younger. Guess I got used to it. My brother always had sports practice or something after school. Until I was old enough to work in the café, I was home on my own most afternoons and evenings.” As much as I want to ask how much of his life he’s spent alone, I keep my mouth shut.
He sits down, extends his legs, and shoves a cushion behind his head. It’s just me and him and a TV. And that is fine and dandy—friends hang out, it’s what they do. Though I don’t want to get my hopes up too high for us actually having a friendship. He might change his mind again.
“I take it you’re here because the press are hassling you?” he asks. “That’s why you’re in a hotel?”
“I have it on good authority that there are some hiding in the bushes at home.”
He nods.
“Who’s the they you referred to?” I ask, treading on dangerous ground. Damn my curiosity. “You said they needed to know if I was doing the interview.”
For the longest time, he says nothing. So long I think he’s not going to answer. But then he does. “The people around him can be pedantic. They’re used to controlling things.”
“The people around the king?”
“Yes,” he says, his jaw cracking on a yawn. “Sorry. Long day. They called me at two in the fucking morning in a furor about the pictures.”
“Seems excessive. There are photos of you online all the time. Both of us were keeping our hands to ourselves and wearing pants in all the shots.”
He just grunts. Guess he’s not ready to see the humor in the situation. “Their reaction to things can depend on what else is going on at the time. It’s complicated.”
“Try me.”
“Lilah...” he starts and then falls silent for a while. “If they’re setting up some positive press with, say, a charity visit or whatever and something I do eclipses that reporting, then they have a tendency to get upset.”
I wrinkle my nose in both distaste and confusion. “Are you just not supposed to live your life? Is that what they’re telling you?”
Nothing from him.
What I really want to know is why these people have a say in his life at all. But it’s none of my business and pushing for further answers might push him away.
“Let’s talk about something else,” I say. “What do you feel like talking about?”
“I don’t know.”
“Hmm. Me neither.”
He stays silent. But I can feel his side of the bed relax some.
“Thanks for explaining the situation to me.”
He just grunts.
The Vampire Diaries is not his thing. That much is obvious when he falls asleep approximately four minutes into the episode. Imagine being able to just go to sleep like that. It usually takes me at least an hour to quiet my mind.
I lower the volume on the TV and listen to the deep and even sound of him breathing. The hard lines of his face soften when he sleeps. It’s a king-size mattress, but still. I am hyperaware of his presence. Of the heat of his big body and the cedar of his cologne. Friends don’t stare at friends while they sleep. It’s bad manners to the extreme. He didn’t affect me in this way when we first met. At least, I don’t think he did. There was a lot going on that day. But now his presence hits me in the heart and the loins, and I don’t know what to do.
“Stop staring at me,” he mumbles without opening his eyes.
“Shut up and go to sleep.”
Wednesday
It takes a moment for me to figure out where I am when I wake up. And then another to understand why I’m so toasty warm. Josh didn’t spoon without cause. Any spooning always preceded an attempt at morning sex. It was fake affection to the extreme. I never found the position comfortable either. Sleeping peacefully requires space. I am not at my best in the a.m. The only thing I usually want first thing in the morning is coffee and quiet. Being conscious is hard-core. But here I am, with a body pressed to my back and an arm thrown over my middle and another under my neck. Alistair is smooshed up against me and I don’t hate it. And what’s more, the hard-on pressing against my butt cheek definitely has me wide-awake and aching in a good way.
“I know you’re awake,” he murmurs, his voice husky from sleep. “I have to be honest—this is slightly awkward.”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“You’re going with denial?”
“Sure, why not? I can ignore it if you can. How did you sleep?”
“Great,” he says with some surprise. “Though I’m not sure you ignoring my dick is a compliment. Let me just state for the record that this situation is not my fault. You’re soft and you smell good. But we’re still not soulmates.”
“You don’t think morning wood means it’s true love?” I press my thighs together oh so subtly. The way he’s making me wet is worrisome. “That’s disappointing. Serious question. Are we actually attempting friendship here?”
“I don’t know.”
“Because if there’s a high likelihood you’re going to turn around and tell me you’re busy again and drive off into the distance, then maybe we shouldn’t. That kind of hurt.”
He sighs.
“Also, total honesty here. For a big burly dude, you’re kind of sensitive. Which is not necessarily a bad thing. It makes total sense, given your background and all. But you and your situation are way outside my field of experience, and you have to know I am going to say or do the wrong thing sometimes.”
“You’ve given this a lot of thought.”
“I have.”
“As for you saying or doing the wrong thing sometimes... I’m sure this will shock you, but I’m far from perfect myself.” He stretches his neck and rolls his shoulders. Then he glances back at me. “What’s this? Nothing clever to say?”
“No.”
“Wonders will never cease.” He’s busily slipping on his shoes and tying the laces. “I think we should give being friends a chance.”
“Really?”
He nods.
“I’d like that.” Like would be an understatement. “Very much.”
He looks up and says, “What’s that look on your face?”
“I don’t know, good sir. What look is on my face?”
“Sort of pleased crossed with confused. Though you might just have gas. It’s hard to say.”
I groan and stretch. “Ha.”
“Well?”
There’s a small chance I lay awake until one in the morning constructing an overly long speech to woo him back. It was quite good. There was a heavy focus on the joy I could bring to his life, such as my penchant for witty dialogue, excellent taste in reading materials, and access to my mother’s chocolate chip cookies. A shame it won’t be needed.
“Not to sound needy or insecure, but when it comes to you, I do occasionally have a ‘Why me?’ moment. I mean, you’re who you are and I am me.”
He frowns. “Why not you?”
“I don’t know.” I sit up cross-legged on the bed and tie back my hair. Which has to be resembling a bird’s nest right about now. Coffee is required. Stat. “Because I’m not one of the beautiful people. Whoever the hell they are.”
He scoffs.
“I’m being serious.”
“I could ask you ‘Why me?’ since you have no interest in the fame or infamy or any of that other shit.” He stands and glances at the watch on his wrist. It’s probably platinum. “I can only assume it’s my charming personality. Right. I have to get a move on. Hopefully you’ll be able to go home today. The paparazzi just need their attention diverted to something new. Save Thursday afternoon for me. I have an idea for your list.”
“You do?”
He picks up his suit jacket and heads for the door. “Yes.”
Then he’s gone, leaving me with a wealth of warm, fuzzy feelings. Just a whole heaping lot of them. My cheeks hurt from being happy, and my brain is operating way beyond a safe speed. So many thoughts and emotions. I see to the essentials in the bathroom and wash my hands. Brush my teeth and hair and so on.
A lot has happened. There’s much to overthink. His morning wood is best ignored. I doubt I’ll ever encounter his hard-on again. Metaphorically speaking, we were just two ships passing in the night. Same goes for him saying I was soft and smelled good. He was being kind or something. Alistair and I are just friends. Emphasis on the just . But there’s a definite fun edge of flirt to our friendship. I am not imagining it. Not even a little.
Time to order breakfast and caffeine. While waiting for my buttermilk pancakes with strawberries to arrive, a bad thing occurs to me. Our return to friendship status increases the likelihood of me dying on Sunday. I can’t discount the way the other predictions came true. Though having lived with a due date for my death for a while now, the threat doesn’t seem as sharp. It’s more of a nagging ongoing anxiety causing concern. And if it is true, if I am doomed to die, there isn’t anything I can do to assuage the situation. Or is there?
“I was expecting you days ago,” Good Witch Willow greets me.
“You say things like that, and it makes me wonder how precise your predictions really are.” I take a seat on a nearby bench. Thanks to social media, it wasn’t hard to track her down. We’re in a community garden located off Hollywood Boulevard. “I didn’t even know this place existed.” LA is a big-ass city. It’s good to see some green amongst the concrete. All sorts of people are working in the garden. Young and old and everything in between.
“It’s been here since before you were born. You should pay better attention.” She kneels in a garden bed full of leafy greens, tomatoes, and cucumbers. Bushes of parsley, basil, and dill grow nearby, scenting the air. Her braid of silver hair hangs down her back as she digs with a small spade. “How are things with your boyfriend?”
“He was cheating.”
“And your job?”
“They passed me over for promotion.”
She sits back on her heels. “I don’t suppose you happened to catch the lotto numbers?”
“I won a quarter of a million.”
“Couldn’t you remember all of them?”
I shake my head. “No.”
“Shame” is all she says, and goes back to digging.
“I have some questions.”
“What a surprise.”
I slide my sunglasses to the top of my head. The sun is warm, and it is a beautiful day. A dragonfly lands near my hand, its body a shimmering metallic green in the sunlight. It’s like everyday magic. Fall was always my favorite season. But maybe I was wrong. Maybe it should be spring. Those cooler days before boob-sweat season kicks in. “If you can see these things, why don’t you use them for yourself?”
“My ability is a gift. It is not to be misused for personal gain.”
“Do you know when you’ll die?”
“No,” she says. “But I never wanted to know.”
“Maybe I didn’t either. Did that ever occur to you?”
“You get what you’re given. Sometimes you have to take the good with the bad.” She nudges her wire-rim glasses farther up her nose. “How’s the prince?”
“He’s not really a prince.”
“The right blood flows through his veins.” She shrugs. “I never understood all the nonsense about being born out of wedlock. The supposed shame of it. It’s good that society has moved on from such bullshit.”
“Yeah.”
“Of course, they’re counting on their blue blood to elevate them above the rest of us,” she says. “If the old rules don’t apply, then there’s nothing saying they’re any better. Just their money and everything else they stole over the years and refuse to return.”
“Not a fan of the monarchy?”
“Never saw the point.” She takes a swig from her nearby water bottle. “What do you want?”
“Not to die.”
She laughs. “We all want that. Well...most of us.”
“I want not to die on Sunday.”
“Mmm.” Her gaze softens. “Can’t help you, sorry. I am not all-powerful, I just deliver the message.”
I sit forward, choosing my words with care. “If I were to stay away from him, have nothing to do with him, would that stop the last two predictions from coming true? Would it put a stop to it all?”
“Do you really want to do that?”
“No. Of course not. I like him.”
“There’s your problem. He’s already in your heart.”
I snort. “I’m not in love with him. Sheesh.”
“I didn’t say you were. But you’re not immune to him either. You two are already on your way to becoming.” She pulls off a gardening glove and takes one of the crystals hanging around her neck in hand. Her gaze goes hazy as she stares off into the middle distance. “I’m not unsympathetic to your plight. But I can’t help you.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
She just sighs.
“There’s nothing I can do?” I ask.
“You can make the most of the time you have left.”
I let my head fall back and stare at the endless sky. High overhead, a crow passes, a blot of darkness against the blue. I should be thankful it doesn’t shit on me. Things can always be worse. Though Italians believe being crapped on by a bird is a sign of good luck. Guess it’s all about perception. “I still can’t believe this is happening.”
“Then ignore it and go live your normal life. There can be great comfort in routines,” she says. “Who knows, maybe I’m wrong?”
“Wait, are you?”
“What do you think?”
“What you’re basically saying is that the only thing I have control over is how I react to the situation, huh?”
“Got it in one,” she says, pulling her glove back on. “Now go away. I’m busy.”
I slide my sunglasses back on and wander out of the community garden. I remember hearing a quote about how aging is a privilege denied to many that feels particularly relevant now. I would have made a great grumpy old lady with sparkling silver hair. People talk about how your fucks fall away with age. How freeing it can be. Good Witch Willow certainly doesn’t suffer fools gladly. It sucks that I might not get to experience the same.
I order an Uber and stand on the sidewalk waiting. Every week or so, I stop at a nearby thrift store that donates their profits to charity. I help them with their books, sorting the new stock into categories and keeping the display looking great. It’s where I’m heading now. A car drives slowly past before parking halfway down the block from me. The person in the driver’s seat doesn’t pull out a camera or anything. Not that I can see, at least.
It turns out the lure of the internet is not one I can ignore after all. What can I say? I am weak.
There’s no sign of my name on the latest offerings from the gossip sites when I check on my cell. What a relief. A rock star and their model/actor partner had been seen shopping for baby gear. And a popular comedian had cheated on his wife. The text messages were cringey. An Olympic gymnast had announced her engagement to a celebrity chef. The photos of the two women were gorgeous, their beaming smiles and adoring gazes. Talk about showing that love is real. Alistair’s half brother, the Prince of Wales, also rates a mention due to rumors his recent big royal engagement is on rocky ground.
Some people love the fame monster. They crave it and chase it and make it their own. Having been briefly on the receiving end, however, made me wonder. How many of these people would choose to keep their private lives private? If they could do their job without the public scrutiny, would they? I know their position comes with immense privilege. But the pressure of the public gaze and being subject to so many opinions is a lot.
I don’t know.
I saved my least favorite site for last. The one that had speculated on my dress size with horrified glee. Assholes. At the top of the page are new photos of Alistair with a lingerie model at a charity luncheon at the Beverly Wilshire Hotel. He’s wearing another suit and, Lord, does he look dapper. The close-ups of his warm smile and very friendly gaze were... Yeah. It’s great that he’s having a good time. Though I could have done without the paparazzo catching the moment his hand lowered from the small of her back to the curve of his date’s ass. Not that any of this is my business. We’re just friends.