Chapter 8
Rhett
Bailey is quiet on the way back to her apartment, and I spend most of the time discussing what just happened with the cops.
I hate everything about this, except for the fact that I’m here.
Who knows what would have happened if Hollis had relied on the venue’s security team to deal with any of this? Bailey might have never made it out.
At the same time, the video this guy sent screams jealousy, and I’m starting to wonder if my being there tonight set off some sort of weird possessive streak with an already obsessed fan, considering the tone of that last email citing a love triangle.
After riding up in the elevator of her building, she jiggles her key in the lock of the only door on the top floor so fervently that I have to take it out of her hands and slide it in myself.
Once the key turns, she pushes it open, and I follow her in.
“Oh, you’re coming too?” she asks, glancing over her shoulder like she thought I might just leave her at the door and let her go inside her dark apartment alone. Which, sorry, Bay, but not a chance.
I lock the door behind us.
“If that’s okay with you?”
She nods.
I don’t plan to leave her alone here tonight, not until Simon sends the footage and we’ve some idea of what we’re dealing with. Then I’ll decide what happens next.
When we get through the foyer, the landing opens to a long hallway, and we pass what must be an office to our right.
There’s a small, wooden desk with a blanket thrown over the chair.
Tacked to the wall behind it, photos and handwritten quotes are littered across what look to be three very different mood boards, each with a distinct feel that somehow becomes cohesive between the three.
The room is covered in shadows, lit only by the small lamp on the desk, but I’m able to make out a framed photo facing the door. It’s the four of us at the lake — Axel, Hollis, Bailey, and me.
I immediately feel a strong punch to the gut. I should have come back sooner.
We must have been seventeen or eighteen when it was taken, laughing over what looks like a couple of charred marshmallows speared to the end of the sticks in our hands.
I pause at the door to take in the carefree expressions on our faces.
Hair, dripping wet, like we’d just emerged from the water to roast those before diving back in.
Maybe if I close my eyes, I could remember that particular night, but there were so many just like it, I doubt I could pinpoint this exact one.
Bailey steps between me and the door, her chest facing mine, then slowly slides it shut behind her, blocking my view while holding my gaze until I hear the latch catch.
Her chin tilts until our eyes meet. She looks defiant, like there’s no way she’s going to let me see whatever else I could make out in there from the doorway.
“That’s my war room,” she says, clearing her throat. “No one else is allowed in.”
I raise a brow, not really moving otherwise, but she turns the rest of the way to lead me further into the apartment and away from the door.
I like that Bailey has a war room.
Even more, I like that her war room has a photo of us in it.
She spins around when we get to the end of the hall, and her green eyes crash against me.
“You know a thing or two about war rooms, I believe,” she says, turning on each table and floor lamp in the big open room we’ve just entered.
The living area is to the right with a long island separating the start of the kitchen to our left. There’s a cushy plaid couch, and a low, wooden coffee table with brass knobs holding it up beside a bright yellow armchair.
The lamps bathe the room in a soft glow. All vintage-looking cylinder shades on wooden bases, probably spun atop a somewhat ancient lathe.
But when I turn, it’s the kitchen that catches me by surprise.
It’s a time capsule in here. Green, leafy plants tumble from thick, ceramic pots hung from the ceiling by crocheted cradles, an old espresso machine that looks like it could have been on the counter of one of the very first Starbucks, and a stove that’s green enough to have been plucked from an avocado tree.
“Before you say how old it is in here,” she says, holding up a hand, like she’s heard it a million times, “I just need you to know that I like it like this. I could renovate, but I love this old stuff. Besides, it all works well. Probably better than whatever they make now.”
“I wasn’t going to say anything about the age of your kitchen,” I tell her, running a hand along the old, butcher-block counter. It’s like velvet from decades of use. “I was going to say that you’ve always had an old soul and, somehow, you’ve found a stove to match it.”
She chuckles lightly and nods like she already knows.
“Hey, new isn’t always better, you know. Sometimes it’s the old stuff that feels the most like home.”
Watching her in this space, I know that she’s right.
She pulls a bottle of white wine from the fridge, already opened with a third of it gone.
Then grabs two glasses off an open shelf — emerald goblets made of the kind of thick glass that could be from the seventies.
Without bothering to ask if I want any, she splashes a good amount into each, draining what’s left of the bottle, then offers one to me.
We sit on a long, curved sofa, her on one end and me on the other, with both her legs stretched out between us, shoes left on the floor. Then, she drags a blanket that looks as equally loved as her countertops off the back of the couch to cover her lap.
It’s hard to believe it’s been as long as it has since we sat opposite each other like this on a couch. It’s surreal. Almost like I have to pinch myself to be sitting this close to her again. I just wish it were under different circumstances — and that I hadn’t lied about why I’m here.
She takes a sip before admitting, “I guess I should have asked if you drink wine now.”
I smile and force my eyes away from her long enough to take a sip, too. I’m more of a beer or whiskey guy, but the wine tastes sharp and tangy, which feels right for tonight. Plus, I can tell she could use a glass of it herself, and I don’t want her to feel awkward if I decline.
“No, it’s good,” I tell her. “Better than that stale, leftover crap we used to sneak from your parents’ fridge in the garage.”
She makes a face, like she’s remembering the way the three-day-old bottles of wine would taste after sitting, mostly gone, in the garage fridge at the lake. We’d always wait until our parents had opened a new bottle before sampling whatever they’d forgotten about from a few days prior.
“Anything is better than that,” she says, grimacing.
“I like this dress, by the way,” I tell her, pulling the blanket back to show the row of feathers across her knees before tossing it back up to where it was.
She smooths the heavy knit of the blanket down.
“Your sister chose it. I was afraid you would think I looked like a parakeet. But then it surprised me once I had it on.” She shrugs. “She knows what she’s doing. Most of the time.”
“There’s nothing parakeet about it,” I assure her. “It’s actually gorgeous. Looked perfect under that spotlight when you were reading, too.”
She blinks, fighting a grin, then covers it up with another sip from her glass. I don’t even bother trying to cover up my own. If I could make Bailey blush with every word that leaves my mouth, I swear I would.
But I can tell she’s just biting back what she’s really thinking.
The air is still too tense in here. She’s annoyed that Hollis asked me to come without her knowing.
It’s staring us right in the face and will continue staring us in the face until we address it more deeply than we did before leaving the event.
“So, tell me,” I start. “On a scale of one to ten, how mad are you that I showed up to run your security without telling you?”
She lowers her glass and raises a brow, repeating, “On a scale of one to ten, huh? Not a hundred?”
“One to ten. One being not at all. And ten being that you might attempt to murder me in my sleep once these lights go out. Which, I should warn you first, I’m trained for that exact circumstance.”
She mulls it over. “Hmm. If murdering you in your sleep is out of the question, then I’ll scale it back. A seven?”
“I can deal with a seven.”
“Then make it a seven point five.”
My face cracks. “That point five just crossed the line into pissed territory, didn’t it?”
“I’m not saying that you need to sleep with one eye open, but I’m also not making any promises on whether or not you’ll be chewing your breakfast tomorrow morning. We’ll land somewhere between that. Give or take another point five.”
I nod, nearly laughing at her description.
“Fair. I expected more like a thirteen. I can do seven point five. But I do enjoy chewing breakfast, so keep that in mind, alright?
“I would expect this from Hollis, but not you,” she says, eyeing me.
“Which part?”
“This is all a very Hollis thing to do.” She takes another sip of wine, but swallows this one twice, thinking in between.
“Asking me to come here without you knowing why?”
“More like she tries to fix something with a Band-Aid when a Band-Aid had no chance of fixing the problem in the first place. But every time she thinks it will.”
“And I’m the Band-Aid?”
“Yeah.”
“I mean, I was going for more like a permanent plaster cast, not just a flimsy Band-Aid but—”
“Rhett, I’m serious. She has this habit of trying to fix things to keep me comfortable until it’s absolutely necessary to give me bad news. It’s the publicist in her, I know. But it can drive me crazy sometimes because she’s also my friend.”