27. Tinsley
CHAPTER 27
Tinsley
“This is Archer Hayes. I apologize for not answering. If this is related to Hayes ? —”
I hang up the phone and check the time.
7:00 P.M.
He should have called thirty minutes ago. He’s late—and he’s never late.
I run my thumb and forefinger down the sides of my phone, turning it upside when I reach the bottom. Round and round I go, waiting for a call or a text, but nothing comes. Swiping it unlocked, I check our message thread again.
Nothing.
The last message from him was this morning. He’d sent me a video of Rowdy prancing in his stall and nickering at the sound of my voice from a recording I made for him.
I open it up and smile through the worry at my boys. I miss them. Somehow, the ache is worse now than it was before. I guess because I know what’s waiting for me, and it makes the days seem so much longer because there’s an end waiting for me and not just a deep buried hope.
The European leg of the tour has only been running for a few weeks, but I'm more sure than ever of my choice. What started as a desperate bargain with Archer so he wouldn’t leave me has now become my only way forward. I can’t go back to L.A. when the tour is over. At least not full time.
My heart has always been and always will be in Berry Falls with him. Wherever he is, that’s where I want to be as often as I can, for as long as I can.
I check the time again and it’s only been two minutes. I send another text and wait.
Another sixty seconds pass without a read receipt, response, or a call.
My finger hovers over the icon for a moment and I quietly beg, “Please pick up, Superman; you’re worryin’ me,” my accent growing thick as anxiety begins to clog my throat and uselessly spike my heart rate.
“This is Archer Hayes ? —”
I end the call and press the corner of the phone to my painted lips, not caring if the strawberry color smudges.
Something is wrong. I can feel it like a gaping maw in my stomach. Archer is never, ever late. He’s incapable of it. The very prospect of it triggers his anxiety and makes his skin crawl.
The feeling only grows when I call Hunter and am sent to voicemail after three rings. Same thing happens with Ryder and even Eleanor.
I get up from the makeup chair and toss my phone at the couch. It bounces and lands with a hard thud on the floor. I’m pretty sure the screen is now cracked, but I can’t find it in me to care. So long as I can answer it when he finally calls, that’s all I need.
I pace my dressing room several times trying to calm down, but I can’t. Walking doesn’t help. Counting my breaths is useless. Feeling the various textures in the room only alerts me to how on edge my nerves are, everything feeling abrasive against my skin. I try to identify the smells in the room but there’s too many between hair and makeup products, various perfumes and colognes, plus those that are drifting in through the ventilation.
Finally, I snatch my lip balm from the makeup table and sit on the couch, beginning to chain-coat my lips.
I lose count of how many passes I make by the time Briar knocks on the door.
“Babe, it’s time,” she says entering the room, finishing off a text or possibly an email before closing out her phone and tucking it into the back pocket of her jean shorts.
“Archer hasn’t called,” I inform, forcing the cap on my lip balm before I apply the entire stick. “He always calls. 6:30 on the dot, every show, he calls me. We talk until 7:10 when you come and we say goodbye. And you call him for his set. And then he sends me a text right after so I have it when I come off stage. And when… and when…”
“TINSLEY!” Briar shouts, her hands on my shoulders as she jerks me one time. “Breathe. Come on, in… okay, out… in… out… again… good… good.”
She breathes with me until I can resume deep breaths and a sliver of the anxiety starts to leave me. However, when she steps back I feel clammy and my mouth floods with saliva.
Rushing over to the waste bin, I grab it and puke.
I squat down in my heels and cradle it to me.
“Something’s wrong, Briar. He’s late and no one is answering when I call.”
She sits down beside me, taking the small trash can from me and producing a tissue from her utility belt. Blotting at the corners of my mouth and then with a fresh one along the cold sweat at my hairline, she soothes, “Everything is fine, I promise. If something were wrong, I would know. They would have already called and told me.”
“But—”
“Shh… trust me. This is what I do. Can you trust me?”
I give her a jerky nod of my head and answer, “Of course I trust you; I just know him and?—”
“I know, babe, and I promise, I’m going to get this sorted out for you, okay? If I have to have Mikey and John call their old team and go full operator mode on BFE, Tennessee to find your man, I will. But let’s call that Plan B, okay? Until then, I need to know, can you perform?”
I swallow and let out a shaky breath, beginning to sort through the rush of thoughts and crush of emotions. Each one gets tucked into a box and locked away to be stacked in the corner. As the pile rises, I feel a false sense of calm creep in and take over until the placid artifice I relied on for nine years comes out.
“Yes, I can perform.”
“Do you need a minute? We can delay a handful of minutes and no one will know if you need to.”
“No, I’m good. I just have to brush my teeth,” I answer, standing back up.
I smooth my hands over the outfit for my first set, fluffing the layers of the emerald colored dress’s short skirt. In the corner of the room, I check myself in the full length mirror from several angles, shaking my hair to be sure the matching bow that pins it out of my face is secure.
“Are you sure?”
The color is slowly coming back to my face and everything from before is a soft echo to be heard later.
“Yes. Let’s do this,” I assure, turning around in a puffy cloud of tulle, a serene smile firmly in place.
When I’m minty fresh again, we make our way down the impossibly long hall in a golf cart to where my band and dancers are waiting for our pre-show ritual. Before I hop out, though, I put my hand on Briar’s arm.
I don’t have to voice my plea. She simply puts her hand over mine and promises, “I will,” sending me on my way, no one but her the wiser that as I chant, jump, smile, and laugh with everyone, that I’ll be faking my way through tonight’s show.
* * *
I come off the stage and, immediately, I’m swarmed by people. One to touch up my hair, another my makeup, one at my feet helping me take my boots off and step into a set of heels, and yet another helping me yank off the white dress I wore for Ellie’s birthday so I can shimmy into a pink one that ties in a bow around my neck.
Over the ruckus, I hand over my microphone and guitar, take out my in-ear monitor, and ask Briar, “Did he see?” having just finished the part of the show that starts with Archer’s songs.
Someone—I’m not sure who—shoves a straw between my lips, and immediately I sip the room temperature water.
I know the answer before she says anything, the look poorly masked on her face. “No. I’m sorry, babe. I’m still trying.”
“I know; thank you.”
Thirty seconds. That’s all I get before I’m running down a set of stairs, following stage technicians underneath so I can come up from the ground at the stage’s forefront. I pop my monitor back in, accept a new microphone, run my fingers along my tattoo to ground myself, close my eyes, and breathe as I crouch down, ready to continue on.
* * *
As the last fan from the post-show meet and greet leaves, I fall back into an armchair and yank off my shoes. Right away, Briar’s there dropping a pair of sheep lined slippers on the ground and grabbing the custom red bottom heels and handing them off to one of the amazing women whose job it is to maintain my wardrobe on tour. I stuff my feet inside the plush shoes, taking a minute to enjoy sitting before I stand back up.
Even though John is in the room, Anya comes over and helps unzip my dress. She catches it before it hits the ground, and while she hangs it up and tags it for cleaning before I start my Paris shows, I peel off the matching tiny shorts and shimmering, opaque, flesh colored tights I wear beneath all my clothes.
I don’t immediately dress—modesty a thing of the past—and instead flop back onto the leather couch letting the fans cool my sweaty, flushed skin. This and ice water are the best experiences every night following a show. On a table, my strawberry cased phone mocks me while I try to ignore it.
When I’m no longer burning up, I dress in one of Archer’s t-shirts—breathing in his fading scent as I tug it over my head—and knot the excess length up at my waist and pull on a pair of leggings. Hair piled in a lopsided nest on my head, I remove my makeup and wash my face.
Once done, I let myself pick up the offending phone. I’m despondent and unsurprised to find I don’t have my usual text let alone any missed calls or new voicemails.
Accepting the pint of chilled strawberries and a massive tumbler of water that are handed my way, I shuffle toward the door, already hitting ‘call’, and say, “I’m ready.”
In the back of a Land Rover, London passes me by, the historic city lit up for the night. When we pass the turn I’ve come to know as the one for the hotel, I sit up in my seat.
“Where are we going?”
“Airport,” Mikey answers from behind the wheel on the right side. “There’s an issue with fans in the lobby so we’re taking you to Paris now.”
It’s not uncommon that, after several days in the same city, where I’m staying will get leaked to the press. It comes with the territory. But I wish it hadn’t been tonight. I was supposed to get to tour the Tower of London in the morning and see the Crown Jewels. Not that I would enjoy the arrangements Archer made for me if I still haven’t heard from him.
I can’t help but wonder if maybe nothing has happened at all. If maybe the longer he’s been back home, he’s begun to rethink things. Rethink us and what being with me now truly means.
“Don’t go there,” Briar scolds. “I know you’re concerned, but I promise you, whatever it is you’re thinking that has that look on your face, it’s not true. So don’t go there. I’m sure Archer has a reason for not answering your calls.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know,” she concedes after a minute. “But I do know that man, and I’ve seen how he looks at you, Tins. You’re, like, his entire world. So if he’s not answering you, it’s with exceptional reason. Don’t doubt him.”
I close my eyes and rest my head on the window.
“You’re right.”
“I know I am; you’ll see.”
I must have fallen asleep because it feels like only seconds later that we’re pulling up at Heathrow’s private terminal and Briar’s waking me up.
“Mikey, aren’t you coming?” I ask when Briar, John, and I are all set to head in and he’s hanging back.
“I’m dropping you all off and then going to collect everyone’s luggage from the hotel, Miss Jacobs.”
“Oh, okay…” I respond.
His answer is odd. Normally when they get word of this happening, someone on their team has already secured everything so we can leave as the four person unit we always are. But I guess it must have happened with not enough time for the usual protocol to take place. Still, it seems… off. John and Mikey rarely, if ever, take both Briar and I out alone.
I glance at John for any sign that something’s up, but his face is as stoic as ever. Damn SEAL training.
As for Briar, she’s typing away on her phone, completely oblivious.
Again, I say, “Okay,” and take up my spot between her and John.
Once we’re through the check-in process, we head out to the plane. I’m halfway up the stairs when I stop and look back at the airport debating on whether or not I should try again.
Giving in to frustrating temptation, I take my phone out—sure that whenever Archer sees the explosion of calls and texts from me he’ll regret insisting I have it—and try calling one last time.
I don’t expect anything to change, but when the first ring comes through, I trip on the last stair of the plane. I’m clutching the phone to my ear like a lifeline, waiting and hoping. The second ring comes and with it, singing.
I can hear my voice unaccompanied by any music. I’m singing a song that hasn’t been released to the world. One Ty hasn’t even heard yet. The only person who has heard this song is…
“Archer?”
He’s here, on my plane, phone in hand smiling at me.
He swipes to accept the call and looking right at me, says, “Hey, Shortcake. Sorry I missed your calls. I had my phone turned off.”
Dropping mine, I run the few steps between us and jump in his arms, squealing his name.
We stumble back and fall into one of the club chairs and between peppering kisses all over his face, I demand, “What are you doing here? How did you get here? Why are you here?” I don’t let him answer though, instead crushing my lips to his, sucking the taste of whiskey from his tongue.
I moan into his mouth when his hands grasp my ass and adjust me in his lap so I’m sitting directly over the growing situation in his pants.
Dragging my lips off his and down to his throat, I groan, “I’ve missed you,” before sucking at his pulse.
“I’ve missed you too, baby. That’s why I’m here.”
My hands are already making their way under his t-shirt and he’s guiding my hips to rub over him when Briar interrupts.
“Hi, yeah, remember us? We’re still here.”
I go to slide off Archer’s lap but he keeps me on him, only allowing me to shift so my legs are across his lap.
“You knew!” I accuse.
“Of course we knew,” Mikey answers, climbing up to join us. “We know everything.” Looking at the bottle of whiskey on the cart, he lifts it up and shows it to Archer. “Shit, man, how much did you have to drink?”
“There was turbulence,” he explains, fingers caressing the exposed skin between the shirt of his I’m wearing and the waistband of my pants.
I cup his face, my smile stretching so wide it’s hurting my cheeks, and soothe, “I’m sorry, baby.”
He puts his hand over mine and leans into my touch, bright green eyes staring unwaveringly into mine. “You’re worth it, Tinsley. You’re worth everything to me. All parts of you, all the time. I just needed time and help getting myself together so I can be worthy of you.”
“You already were.”
“No,” he says, shaking his head. “I wasn’t. I wanted to be, but I wasn’t. But I’m workin’ on it and I’m gonna be everything you need. Whether we’re in Berry Falls, L.A., or Paris. I’ll be exactly who you need and love you how you need because you deserve nothin’ less than that.”
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small, worn, black box that I haven’t seen in ten years. Opening it up, he says, “I had other plans for how I was going to do this but?—”
“Yes!” I accept at an ear splitting level, throwing my arms around him and kissing him. “Yes, yes, a hundred, million times yes, Archer.”
He slips the antique diamond onto my finger, watching me as he kisses where it rests. “I love you.”
“I love you too.”
Behind us, a bottle of champagne pops and Briar squeals, clapping her hands. “Let me see!” She takes my hand and compliments, “Beautiful. Seriously, it’s stunning.”
“Thank you.”
“Okay, so wedding plans. What are we thinking? More importantly when?”
“Winter,” Archer and I answer together. “She always wanted to get married at Christmas.”
“Like this Christmas?”
I glance up at Archer as he stands, hand raised to keep himself from hitting his head on the cabin’s ceiling. Once he’s safely up, he takes my hand in one of his and the open champagne bottle and two flutes in the other and begins leading me to the back of the plane. “If she can have everything she wants for this Christmas, yes.”
“Shit, I need to get to work,” Briar replies, instantly in planner mode.
We’re sliding the door closed when John calls out, “Seatbelts for take off and landing!”
In the room, Archer gently places the crystal flutes inside a cabinet and locks it. Then drinking straight from the bottle, he pushes me onto the bed, and climbs up with a knee on either side of my thighs, trapping me beneath him.
Another sip and his hand comes to my throat, securing my already riveted attention. There’s a small squeeze at my pulse and I’m following his hand up so I’m leaning back on my elbows.
One more sip—his eyes darkening as he watches me—and Archer leans down and kisses me, passing the champagne from his mouth to mine.
“It’s an eighty minute flight from here to Paris. How many times do you think I can make that pretty pussy of yours weep for me?”
Falling back flat on the bed, I start to peel his shirt off me, my bare breasts stealing his attention.
“Let’s find out, Superman.”