5. Othelia
Chapter five
Othelia
Just over two hours later, Dominic pulls up out the front of Lennon’s Malibu house. He was my first call after blurting it all out to Dom as we drove in circles around the city. Dominic’s hands had clenched into fists when I burst out of the gallery crying, begging him to get me the hell out of there. He ushered me into the car just as Clay smashed through the exit, standing firm, refusing to let him near me.
Lennon’s is the only place I could go. I have nowhere else. LA has been my home for so many years now, but the thought of going back to our home makes me sick.
We purchased the 1920s West Hollywood bungalow a little over a year ago when Clay suggested we move in together, both of us wanting a space to call ours. Clay hadn’t particularly liked it. He wanted something bigger and grander like Lennon’s house, but the small ivy-covered cottage called to me. The privacy it offered, along with the guest house we converted to an art/music studio, had reluctantly sold him too.
Dominic opens the door for me right next to the twenty-foot wrought iron entryway. I hold in another sob, suddenly feeling overwhelmed by the enormity of everything that’s just happened. I’ll have to give up my home and find somewhere new to start over, alone.
The double doors swing open before I make it up the concrete stairs. Standing with a pale yellow pitcher in one hand and margarita in the other is Charlie, Lennon’s gorgeous wife. With her dark skin glowing and her tight black curls bouncing, she confidently struts in a white bohemian cover-up that perfectly matches her tiny bikini, drawing attention to her never-ending legs.
“Tilly! I figured you would need at least one pitcher of these. I’ve sent the boys to go get more supplies ’cause we are going to get you drunk tonight.” She gives me a sad smile, causing my tears to come flooding back.
Charlie hands off the drinks to Dominic, who I didn’t even know was still standing next to me, and wraps me in her arms. “You deserve so much better than that douche canoe.”
A choked laugh is all I can manage still buried in her shoulder.
“I thought you were trying to cut back on your cursing?” a gruff male voice questions from behind me.
Charlie’s chocolate eyes light up, tiny wrinkles appearing in the corners as her ruby lips tip up. She releases me with one arm but keeps me firmly planted at her side.
“Douche canoe isn’t a swear word,” she says, humor lacing her voice.
“Hey, Til.” The gruffness in Lennon’s voice becomes softer as he takes in my disheveled appearance. Looking so much different from when we parted ways just a few hours ago.
“Len…” I croak out, unable to finish his name before he pulls me out of Charlie’s arms, wrapping his mammoth frame around me.
I sigh into his chest, letting more tears fall free. He turns our bodies more towards the house, shielding me from any paparazzi that often slink around outside the gates.
“Maybe we should take this inside?” Dominic suggests, nodding towards the telescopic lens now poking through the gate.
Behind him, Jericho gives me a wink, holding up two more bottles of tequila and Trace looks around like he can scope out potential threats.
“Come, come, Tilly my love, drink!” Charlie takes the glass from Dom, shoving it into my hands as we move into the foyer. “There is plenty more where that came from!”
Charlie confidently guides us through the foyer and into the vibrant, open plan living space that seamlessly connects the kitchen and dining area. The room boasts floor-to-ceiling windows that offer stunning views of Lennon’s expansive yard and the vast ocean beyond.
House is an understatement, with eleven bedrooms each having either ocean or mountain views and six different living areas. It would be possible to live in this house with multiple people and never bump into another soul.
Charlie leads us out onto the patio, gesturing for me to take a seat at the outdoor dining table overlooking the infinity pool, everyone dropping into their own chairs around me.
When I’d called Lennon from the car, I could barely get out more words than Clay and cheating in between my uncontrollable sobs. Lennon had sent out a 911 to the guys, who had stopped off at Trace’s to ensure they would all be here to meet me when I arrived. I honestly don’t know what I would do without them.
“Do you feel up to telling us what happened?” Charlie asks, placing a gentle hand over mine.
I curl my knees up onto the seat, reaching forward to grab my drink, downing it in one. I hand it to Charlie, who promptly refills it.
I open my mouth to speak, but no words come. How do I explain to my best friends what an idiot I am?
Holding one finger up, I down my second margarita in as many minutes. Leaning back in the chair, inhaling a deep breath before launching into the story of my boyfriend fucking his assistant over his desk.
Charlie, who has spent the entire story with her hand covering her mouth, now radiates with fury. “I’m sorry, he did what? I don’t think I heard you correctly! Did you say he fucking finished in her before attempting to chase you down?”
A single tear drifts down my cheek as I nod. Before, I was inconsolable, but now staring out at the ocean, a feeling of numbness settles into me, creating a protective blanket over my heart.
“I’m going to fucking kill him.” Jericho shoves out of his seat, the plush chair sliding back, scraping along the pavement. “I’m going to kill him and burn down his stupid fucking gallery.”
Trace leans over as Jericho walks past, placing a hand on his forearm, but Jericho brushes him off. Pacing off down the length of the patio, he interlocks his fingers behind his head as he stares out at the water. His sharp exhale through his pursed lips, audible even though he nears the edge of the pool.
“This is all my fault,” I say to no one.
Every head swivels in my direction; even Jericho pauses his pacing to glare across the patio.
“Come again?” Trace looks at me, his emerald eyes piercing in their anger, for the first time, directed at me. “Why the hell is this all your fault?”
Under their gazes I feel nervous, my brain stammers to come for an excuse. “Well, the tour has distracted me. You guys know how hard it is under the constant scrutiny of the media. I should’ve made more of an effort to make him happy. Been here more, had sex with him more.”
Their frowns deepen as I gesture up and down my body: my unwashed hair tied up in a messy bun, rolls on my stomach, my thighs that jiggle and rub together when I dance on stage. “I don’t know. Maybe if I made more effort in the gym, lost some weight, he wouldn’t have felt like he needed to fuck someone else.”
Silence. The whole table says nothing as they glare at me.
Jericho, I hadn’t realized, had silently stalked over to me during my rant now pulls my chair to the side and I squeal. His lean muscular frame encases me as he presses his hands on either side of my chair, barricading me in.
Leaning so close to my face that his margarita-laced breath coasts over my skin, the flecks of brown in his hazel eyes seeming to darken with the anger that pours off him.
“Now you listen and you listen good, Othelia. I don’t care if you sprouted three fucking heads and lava poured out of your mouth every time you opened it. Nothing would give him the right to do this to you. Nothing you have done or could do excuses any of the shit you went through today. You are gorgeous and he is a fucking fool for taking you for granted.” Giving me a kiss on the forehead, he steps back, giving me space as he reaches across Trace for his drink, slamming it back as he collapses into his chair.
“We love you, Tilly. I hate to be the one to say it, but that piece of shit has been using you for a long time,” Lennon says.
I frown. “What the fuck are you talking about? Clay has been amazing. He supports me and looks after me. He has loved me unconditionally over the last two years. Loving me isn’t the easiest thing to do.”
“Shouldn’t it be, though?” Lennon questions and I sit back in my seat, his question taking me by surprise.
I have never questioned how difficult it was to love Clay. Isn’t that what you do when you love someone? Accept all of them. Good and bad.
“Plus, there have been some pretty big conditions, Til,” Trace pipes up from the end of the table, looking just as heartbroken as I am.
“Like what? That I come to a few of his exhibitions? That I sign some stuff for clients. I’m sorry, isn’t supporting your partner’s career part of being in a relationship?”
Lennon’s shoulders deflate. “Yeah, Til, but when has he supported you? He has come to what, two shows, which I might add he was forty-five minutes late to.”
“Yeah,” I cut in, “but he had to meet with some artists he was hoping to collaborate with back in the States. It would’ve been an enormous boost for his career.”
“Do you not remember what happened that night? He showed up late, with these female artists in tow, brought them backstage so they could meet us, made us sign some shit for them and then disappeared for the rest of the night, showing back up at five am drunk and pissed off you were staying with us instead of waiting for him back in your room.”
I open my mouth to respond but shut it when I realized he’s right. That’s exactly what happened. Grabbing my margarita, sipping it, my mind replay’s last summer’s tour.
I had been so upset that Clay was late for the first show he promised to make it to. The alcohol on his breath and slur in his words were obvious signs of where he’d been instead.
Showing up in the green room during the last song, arms wrapped around two gorgeous women, insisting we sign a bunch of stuff for them. He had grabbed my arm, whispering between slurs how important it was for his career. Of course, I had signed whatever he threw in front of me.
As I waited to be told where we were going, he gave me a quick peck on the cheek, wrapped his arms back around these women, and disappeared into the night. The boys declared pizza night, and we all holed up in Lennon’s room watching movies and drinking overpriced mini bar alcohol.
I remember waking to the sound of shouting. Lennon standing in the doorway telling Clay to go the fuck back to our room. Lennon refusing to let him in. Clay wasn’t having a bar of it, screaming in the hallway. To avoid any more drama, I squeezed past Lennon, patting him on the shoulder, promising I would be fine and would see him for check out in the morning. His face fell in anguish, eerily similar to the look he’s giving me now.
That night had been the first time I had ever feared Clay. Sure, we had argued before, but that night, the venom in his voice when he accused me of sleeping with Lennon startled me.
Nothing has, or ever will, happen with any of the guys. They have always treated me like a little sister.
When I brought up the fact he abandoned me, Clay scoffed and called me jealous that he wasn't doing anything but working. Networking, he called it.
When I questioned the smell of perfume that wafted off his shirt, he told me to stop being so dramatic before throwing a vase at the wall, smashing it and sending glass fragments scattering all over the suite.
He went to bed, and I spent an hour attempting to clean as much glass up as I could before room service would see.
At checkout, I told the receptionist I had accidentally knocked it over, tipping extra to cover the damages.
I left for an interview hoping we could talk more when we reached the bus, but by the time I finished, a notification from my bank told me he had bought a first-class ticket back to LA.
All my messages and calls that day went unanswered. By the time we hit the next city, he was back to regular Clay, and I thought maybe I was the issue, that I should’ve done more to make him feel welcome on the tour.
“I think he cheated on me with those artists ,” I admit, lifting my eyes back up to theirs. They don’t have to answer. Their matching looks of pity is all I need.
I pluck my straw out of my glass, drop it in the pitcher and suck hard, suddenly desperate for the icy oblivion it promises.