3. Logan #2
My blood feels too hot, and my eyes are burned with the residual light of so many camera flashes.
“We’re going to take care of this, Mr. Stone,” the security guard says. “The staff has already scheduled triple the outdoor security, and we’ll be installing more barricades.”
“It’s fine,” I say quickly, waving my hand through the air. “You did an amazing job. I’m just…”
I don’t have the ability to finish the sentence.
My nerves are completely fried, and already I see a few people across the hotel lobby who are trying to take videos of me, though at least they’re trying to do it in a subtle way.
“Is there anything I can get you, Mr. Stone?”
“I just want to be alone,” I tell him. “I’m sorry you had to handle that.”
“It’s no problem at all.”
He escorts me to the elevator and pushes the button. Once we’re upstairs at my room, he leaves, but something about the gorgeous, spacious hotel suite feels too claustrophobic right now, too.
I just need to be outside, and alone.
I need air. Badly.
I grab my own bottle of Scotch from my room, leave, and walk down the hall, because I’m sick of my suite.
There’s a door over at the end of the main hall.
Yesterday, I found out that this door leads to the rooftop. I saw a maintenance guy walk out through it last night. I ignore the sign that says “no exit,” and the door opens easily with a firm shove.
No alarm.
Thank God.
I walk out onto the rooftop and exhale.
A gust of wind hits my face, a burst of fresh air on my hot skin. All of the city lights twinkle below the inky night sky. I heard that a windstorm is blowing through tonight, but the whip of the air doesn’t bother me.
New York is vast and tall, nothing like my palm-tree lined home in LA.
But right now I’m glad for the difference.
I look up at the cloudy sky, trying to will the adrenaline out of my blood, but it doesn’t take.
“Fuck,” I say out loud, and it comes out breathless.
It’s not just my work schedule.
It’s not just the mobs of fans, either.
I’ve known all week that it’s more than that.
On top of everything, this week holds the ten-year anniversary of Daniel’s death, a night I’ve probably been dreading all week, and likely the reason I’ve been drinking Scotch like a fish every night alone.
My childhood best friend’s been gone so long now that my whole life is unrecognizable from what it was like when he died. He passed when we were 19, and now I’m 29. Ten whole years.
His fame was nothing close to this… and it still ate him alive. He starred in a couple of teen movies, started getting recognized, and got a little bit too much money too young.
Fame drained the life from him. Took him from me.
At first, just his friendship. And then all of him.
I normally keep all of that in a sealed black box inside me… but it’s harder right now. Knowing that it’s been a full decade makes it hurt in a new, sharp sort of way.
Being thrust into the same public eye that destroyed my friend’s life, and ended up killing him, also doesn’t help much.
I pull in a long, slow breath, trying to steady myself.
“To everything being different,” I say softly into the air to nobody, holding up the bottle of liquor before I take a swig.
I’m only alone for ten minutes, taking small sips from the bottle, when I see a flash of movement.
Someone storms outside.
The glossy black door swings open fast, and I see a figure in the dark.
It’s him.
The bartender.
I’m leaning on a half-wall in the shadows, out of his view. An orange-red neon sign casts a pool of light from a nearby building, and he steps forward into the glow, toward the edge of the roof. We’re on the twentieth floor and the air is whipping his waves to one side of his head.
I stay hidden. I don’t even want to think tonight, let alone speak to a stranger who makes me feel too many things.
He's upset. Clearly.
Who hurt you?
He reaches out with the toe of his black boot and kicks a leaf over the edge, his leg going out over the open air for a moment, 20 fucking stories above the city.
I get a molten feeling in my knees and deep in my stomach.
Okay, so you’re insane.
He sits down right on the end of the roof and his long legs dangle off the goddamn side of the building, pressing his palms behind him on the low ledge and turning his head up to the night sky.
I can’t take it anymore.
I have to move.
“You shouldn’t be doing that,” I call out, my voice echoing slightly as I walk over toward him, stepping into the neon light.
He keeps his body leaned back as he turns his head, frowning at me like I’m the intruder.
“Didn’t come up here for company.”
I nod toward the ledge. “Neither did I. Did you come up to be one bad move away from death?”
He realizes it’s me and his expression softens a little. But he’s still upset. He lets out a sigh, turning back toward the city. His neck is smooth and pale, and his necklaces glint in the light.
Everything about him is unpredictable in a way that puts me on edge. I feel like my body is suddenly hooked up to the electrical grid.
He can’t possibly be about to jump, right?
“I wanted to be alone.” He stresses the last word as he cuts me another look.
“Sorry,” I tell him, but I don’t step away.
He moves to rake a hand through his hair, then leans back on his elbows. His sudden movement sends a fresh jolt of fear through me because holy hell, one wrong movement and you’re splattered on the concrete, kid, do you have some sort of deathwish?
On instinct, I step forward and reach in front of his shoulder.
“Chill out,” he says, swatting my hand away and sighing. “What are you, nighttime security patrol?”
“Be more careful,” I tell him. “Maybe I was just scared shitless I was about to see you become a bloodstain on the street.”
“If I move, will you leave me alone?”
“Yes. Please. Just get up slowly.”
He swings one of his boots back up onto the cement with a total lack of self-preservation. I reach down and grip his arm, and I refuse to let go until he’s standing again.
He takes a step away from the edge, and then another when I widen my eyes, squeezing his arm.
“I’m fine.”
I let him go. He smells faintly like cherry syrup, which must be from the bar. His gaze lands behind me, and I realize he’s noticing the partly empty bottle of Scotch that’s sitting on the ground where I just was.
“Drinking again?” he asks.
“Yep.”
“Same.”
I’m probably only a handful of years older than him, but even when I was his age, I would never take a risk like he just did.
He digs in his pocket and takes out a cigarette, putting it between his lips. He doesn’t make any moves to light it, though, and it hangs there between his lips as he looks out at the river of cars on the street far below.
I toss him an upward nod. “Are you okay?”
“Are you really still here?”
“Because you don’t seem okay.”
He pulls the unlit cigarette from his lips and looks down at it for two seconds before ripping it in half between his fingers. He strides over to the trash can near the wall, tossing the pieces away.
“Are you looking for a real answer to that?” he asks. “Or yes, of course I’m okay, thanks, have a great night?”
I’m silent for a moment. The sound of a car horn blaring below drifts up in the air. “I’m not sure.”
He puffs out a bitter laugh. “Damn. I feel like I should be asking if you’re okay instead.”
He’s right. I don’t exactly remember how to have a real conversation anymore, but I’m not going to mention that to him. Even while I dream, I think in sound bites now:
I’ve just been so grateful.
It’s been a dream come true.
Fame is…
Fame is a lot. But I know how lucky I am, of course.
No one’s spoken to me like he has in a long time, even before my life exploded.
“I do want the real answer,” I finally tell him. “We don’t know each other, and we never have to see each other again. I know how to keep a secret.”
He lifts an eyebrow. “Fine. The real answer is no, I’m not okay. But I never really was in the first place, before I started dating again last month, so does it really matter if my girlfriend cheated on me?”
I press my lips together and give him a short nod.
“I see.”
He takes his gaze over my body. Suddenly his gaze feels even more intense, which I didn't think was possible.
“I’ve been cheated on before, too,” I tell him. “Not fun.”
He waves a hand. “I’ll be over it soon enough.”
I watch him for a moment, trying to gauge if I should keep talking.
It’s strange to remember the person who cheated on me. It was a long time ago now.
“I thought I would get over it fast, too, but it didn’t work out that way,” I tell him.
“The woman I was dating got upset that I kissed my male co-star, when I was in a play. Turned out she was the kind of person who doesn’t believe men could be bi, which is inconvenient for her, because she was dating me. ”
“Meaning?”
“I’ve been with men and women,” I explain. “She changed when she found that out. Then she cheated instead of having the courage to break it off fast.”
“Brutal.”
“Just saying, I understand how shitty it feels, even if you know you dodged a bullet. Sorry you’re going through it.”
“Thanks.” He nods, looking me up and down. “You do theater? I thought you must be a corporate exec when you said you were in the film industry.”
Yep, I do theater.
And very popular TV.
And probably filming a major motion picture soon, but I don’t want to tell you that.
“I used to do theater,” I tell him. “My character in that play was a gay soldier in the Roman Empire.”