Chapter 7
Friday
Caged animal doesn’t even begin to sum up the last seventy-two hours. Rob’s been watching me like a hawk ever since he found me pacing up and down the hotel hallway, convinced that David Rishton, straddling a dragon outside my window, was coming to get me.
Apparently, MDMA doesn’t make for a good replacement for when your Xanax prescription runs out. The intrusive thoughts that the medication was supposed to quell consumed me in Technicolor surround sound. If that’s what a bad trip is, I’d hate to experience a catastrophic one.
Rob still carries the battle wounds across his face and arms from when he forced me into the shower.
I’d reacted like a cat being given a bath.
My senses have been on high alert ever since.
My lack of sleep and the intrusive thoughts returned in full force yesterday, and today has done nothing to soften the blow of the comedown.
And now I’m stuck waiting in my trailer, waiting for the film crew to set up the final scene before I jump on a plane to New York for the commercial shoot.
Christopher still hasn’t responded to my text. I click over to the message thread every few minutes, hoping to see the typing bubble, only to be crushed by the weight of disappointment each time.
I adjust the cushion under my head as I lay on the couch, getting a whiff of Rob’s subway sandwich that makes my stomach churn.
“Can you eat that outside?”
“I’m under strict instructions not to leave your side.” Rob throws the wrapper in the trash can beside my boots.
“I’m well aware.” Lifting myself up, I turn to face him.
Rob raises an eyebrow.
I’d be freer locked up in prison. He’d refused to leave the trailer last night when Johnny showed up to help distract my mind from Christopher.
Now I’ve added the loss of my privacy to the long list of things I can’t do.
I also can’t skateboard, because of insurance premiums and the fear I’ll do something to mess up next week’s VMA performance, surf, since there’s no ocean nearby, or eat out, because of supposed security issues.
Instead, I’m left here alone to pick at my cuticles, sucking the blood from my finger to prevent it from dripping on my white T-shirt.
Rob’s overprotectiveness does have one silver lining, however.
He’s stopped Laura from accessing the trailer.
Her incessant texts about Brian this weekend got so erratic I had to block her.
A beep sounds, and the trailer door unlocks. Screams pour in from the fans gathered outside. Lucy slams the door behind her. She removes her baseball cap, her red hair falling out, and places my fan mail on the counter.
“They’re ready to begin shooting.” She rests her hands on Rob’s shoulders. Her head is barely visible over him, even though he’s sitting down.
The ball of dread in the pit of my stomach, leftover from shooting with Aiden, is replaced with a wave of nausea. I can’t avoid Laura any longer.
“Let’s get this over with.” I get up, grab a couple of signed pictures, and make my way to the trailer door.
The sooner this shoot’s over, the sooner I can get to New York.
And the sooner I get to see Christopher.
The late afternoon sun continues to bear down on me. Sweat forms across my beard. My sunglasses offer the only relief from the heavy biker jacket and black jeans they’ve got me in for this scene.
The crew moves the growing crowd chanting my name out of shot across the street while I stand at the entrance to the 1950s diner, opposite the Greyhound bus sitting directly outside.
Earlier, I was barely able to lift the duffel bag I’m carrying, but my muscles are no longer needed. The padded-out polystyrene gives the desired illusion with none of the weight. If only it were that easy to remove the emotional baggage I’m carrying.
Laura sits at the counter with another actress, swinging on her stool opposite the milkshake machine. A hamburger and fries sit in front of them both. Two separate families occupy booths by the windows.
“And action,” Alfonso shouts, hidden at the back of the diner.
“How can I help you?” the hostess asks. The red hair clipped under a striped paper hat matches her red-and-white poodle shirt dress.
“Table for one please,” I say, dropping the bag from my shoulder.
“A counter seat okay?”
“Sure.”
The waitress grabs a menu and leads me to the right toward the counter. A map of America with Route 66 signs on it adorns the back wall.
My spine stiffens as we get closer to Laura, and I swallow the boulder growing in my throat.
“Make yourself comfortable,” the hostess says, gesturing to an empty stool to Laura’s left. “A waitress will take your order shortly.”
Just breathe.
A heavy sigh leaves my mouth when I drop the duffel bag and slide my jacket over the seat before sitting down. A sharp, foul perfume smell hits me on the inhale. I hold my attention on my breath for an extra beat to let the odor subside before picking up the dialogue.
“Would you recommend the milkshake?” I reach over to tap Laura’s silver jug with my finger.
She pushes her chest forward, batting her fake eyelashes. Her emerald-green eyes lock onto mine. “Wanna try it?” She slides it across to me.
I nod and grab the jug, taking a drink and letting the thick creamy vanilla shake dance along my tongue.
The sugary sweetness hits the back of my throat and my mind calls for more.
I pull back slightly, cautious of brain freeze and the slippery slope that consuming more leads to.
Continuity demands that I hold myself to the same amount of consumption every take, and I definitely don’t need another night hugging the toilet.
“Mm, that’s good.” I slide the jug back to Laura, who spins around to face me.
“I’ve not seen you round here before,” she says. She reaches out with a finger to wipe the milkshake from my mustache and beard underneath my lip. “What’s a guy like you doing in a small town like this?”
Goosebumps pop up across my forearms at the touch of her hand.
“I’m just passing through.” I lower my voice as I lean toward her.
Another waitress slides between Laura and me. “What can I get you?” she asks.
“I’ll take what she’s having.” My gaze is locked on Laura. The twitching leg of the actress to Laura’s right draws my attention as the waitress holds position.
“Oh my God, it’s really you, Alexander Morgan!” The actress, who seems barely over eighteen, squeals and puts her hands up to cover her mouth.
My attention turns fully to her as Alfonso yells cut.
“It’s me.” My shoulders drop and I force a smile.
It’s the response I’m used to offering whenever people stop me. I’m never allowed to be off. I always have to be happy and available, locking away whatever’s really going on, so that my real mood can’t be weaponized by the media.
God forbid famous people be human too.
Rob comes over and pulls the actress away. I shake my head when he looks back at me for direction on whether to remove her, so he takes her round the corner instead.
“Can you believe Brian still hasn’t returned any of my messages.” Laura shoves her phone in my face.
“What?”
I reach for a french fry.
“Has Brian messaged you since he left?” She throws her phone down. “And come to think of it, why won’t you message me back either? Has he said something?” Laura studies every inch of my face, like a detective scouring a crime scene for any trace of evidence.
“No,” I answer truthfully.
I guess I’m lying by omission by not disclosing the voicemail he left me last weekend, but I already have one ex occupying my mind. I don’t need her ex occupying it too.
“That bastard.” Her face twists in revulsion. “He promised he’d call every day when he returned to LA, but nothing.” Laura dips a french fry in ketchup and shoves it in her mouth. I let the silence between us grow while she chews, letting her marinate in her resentment toward him.
Laura leans back toward me. “Do you remember anything about that night we went back to my room?” She smacks her lips loudly as she reaches for another french fry.
The mere thought of that night leaves a bitterness in my mouth. The sight of two condoms in the trash instantly flashes through my mind. Numerous questions line the edge of my tongue.
What does she remember?
Why was one of the condoms inside out?
Did she know Brian was into guys too?
Her furrowed brows make me rethink asking any questions.
“Not that I can remember, we were all pretty out of it.” A flicker of irritation underlies my words at this unfolding Spanish inquisition.
“You better message me straight away if you hear from him.” Laura tightly grips my wrist with her hand. My stomach lurches at the thought of having any more unnecessary communication with her.
A nod is all I can muster. Her hand slowly releases its grip.
No wonder Brian cut off all communication with her.
“We’re ready for another take,” Alfonso says, coming up to us and grabbing a french fry. The chef, who has been lingering behind the counter, pours out a few new ones to replace the ones we’ve eaten.
I let out another sigh. God, I can’t wait to get out of here.
I’m desperate to collapse into the seat at the back of the private jet and switch off for a couple of hours, but it seems the team wants to run through the plan for the next few days.
“So good to see you,” Connie says. She half stands up from her seat to embrace me, pulling me downward. The fur collar from her jacket tickles my nose. She quickly grabs her laptop as it slides down her leg to stop it from falling.
Lucy comes up behind me and passes me my sweatpants. I quickly change in the toilet before returning to join them. I sit in a beige leather seat opposite Paul as he wraps up a call. Lucy plonks herself down in the seat beside me.
“Good to see you, kid.” Paul slaps my knee and throws his phone down on the table as Erica and Rob come down the aisle alongside the steward, who balances a fruit platter in one hand while pressing a button beside the window next to me to bring up a table.