11. Tailored Rags #2
I drove the SUV down the winding stretch of the coastal highway, the sun dropping below the horizon. My back ached from the hours spent wrestling the pitchfork. I pulled into the cracked lot of the Tide’s End Motel and threw it into Park.
I stepped out into the cooling evening air and pushed through the glass door of the lobby.
The space smelled of stale cigarette smoke and cheap pine cleaner.
A flickering neon vacancy sign buzzed against the front window, casting erratic red shadows over the peeling wallpaper.
I walked up to the front desk, my shoes tracking clods of damp earth onto the thin carpet.
An older man sat behind the laminate counter, reading a newspaper.
His name tag read Gary. He glanced up, taking in my dirty shirt and the scruff on my jaw, before looking back down at his paper.
He didn’t recognize me. In London, restaurants shut down the second I walked through the door. Here, I was just a stranger dragging dirt into his lobby.
I pulled my wallet from my back pocket and slid a black Amex card free. I set the card on the laminate counter.
“I need a room for the rest of the week, preferably something quiet in the back,” I said. “You can keep that card on file for any incidentals.”
Gary didn’t even look at the name engraved on the metal. He pushed the card right back across the counter, sliding it toward me.
“We don’t take fancy credit cards here, mister,” Gary said. “It’s cash only, forty dollars a night, paid upfront.”
The card sat between us. That piece of titanium could command private jets and buy out luxury suites across Europe. On this stretch of the coast, the card was completely worthless. My Hollywood power meant nothing in Sutton’s new world.
I stayed quiet. I didn’t try to explain who I was or demand special treatment. I picked the card back up and slid it into my wallet.
“I understand,” I replied. “Let me just find enough cash to cover the first three nights.”
I drove my hands into my trouser pockets, searching for any loose bills I had brought from the airport. The rough fabric scraped against my open blisters, the raw skin burning as I dug past my keys. I forced my fingers to close around the money.
I pulled the crumpled bills from my pocket and set the cash on the counter.
Gary scooped up the cash and slid a rusty key across the desk. I picked it up, ignoring the sting as the jagged edges pressed into the torn flesh of my fingers. I slung my jacket over my shoulder and walked out of the lobby.
The damp, coastal evening air did nothing to ease the ache radiating down my spine. I walked along the cracked concrete walkway that ran the length of the building, checking the faded numbers glued to the doors.
“Room twelve,” I muttered, matching the key to the faded numbers.
I pushed the key into the lock. It jammed in the cylinder, making me wrench my wrist just to force the latch open. The friction pulled at the raw edges of my blisters. A fresh bead of blood formed in my palm, but I ignored it and pushed the thin door open.
The room smelled of trapped humidity and mildewed carpet. A flickering overhead bulb cast a sickly, uneven glow over the floral wallpaper. I dropped my jacket onto a rickety chair in the corner and walked to the center of the room.
I sank down onto the edge of the mattress. The springs groaned violently, the mattress buckling under my weight. I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees, and stared at the caked mud burying my shoes.
A harsh, rhythmic buzzing vibrated against my thigh.
“Not now,” I whispered, reaching into my trouser pocket.
I gritted my teeth against the pain of the rough fabric and pulled my phone free. The smooth, sterile screen was cold against my bleeding skin. I swiped my thumb across it, wincing as the pressure forced the blister wider.
The screen illuminated the dim room with a glaring white light. The display was flooded with notifications. The PR machine was still churning, oblivious to the fact that my life had just collapsed on a dirt driveway.
I pulled up the web. Eleanor’s team had already deployed their damage control for my sudden disappearance from the European tour.
“Hayes Gallagher on strict, private vocal-rest retreat due to exhaustion ahead of awards season,” the digital headline read.
I stared at the sanitized lie. My mother was treating the absolute ruin of my marriage like a minor scheduling conflict.
She traded my wife’s safety for this shallow, hollow circus, wrapping my life in press releases while Sutton hauled fertilizer in the mud.
I locked the screen, dropping the phone back onto the mattress as if it burned.
A new text message illuminated the dark screen. I picked the device back up and clicked the banner.
“Blaire: The studio is furious you left me on this tour alone. Get back here, we have the SSGAs this weekend.”
I stared at the phone resting on my palm. The blood from my raw thumb smeared across the glass as I scrolled, staining the white text bubbles. I had sacrificed my family to protect this manufactured, plastic reality. Looking at the screen, all I saw was the arrogance that had cost me my child.
“They don’t understand that none of it matters anymore,” I whispered to the peeling wallpaper. “I am not going back.”
I sat frozen on the edge of the mattress, staring down at my ruined palms resting faceup on my knees. The skin was torn and raw, caked with dried mud and slick with fresh blood. The blisters throbbed.
“Your face and your hands are multimillion-dollar studio assets, Hayes,” my mother’s voice echoed in the quiet room, a crisp memory from a hundred different makeup trailers. “You do the choreographed stunts where the cameras can see it, and you let the crew handle the actual dirt.”
I let her voice fade out, staring instead at the filthy reality of my hands. I pushed myself up from the bed, my legs stiff, and walked the three steps into the cramped bathroom. I grabbed the handles of the sink and twisted them open.
A rush of cold water blasted into the stained bowl. I plunged my hands under the freezing stream.
The icy water bit into the open wounds. A sharp, stinging pain radiated across my hands as the mud and blood finally washed away, swirling down the drain in a rusty pink spiral.
I gripped the edge of the sink, letting the water run over the blisters until the sting faded into a dull, persistent ache.
I looked up. A flickering bulb mounted above the mirror cast harsh, unforgiving shadows across my face. I stared at my reflection.
My face was covered in scruff, and my eyes were lined with exhausted shadows. I didn’t see an untouchable leading man in the mirror anymore. I just looked like a desperate husband hiding out in a roadside motel. I had spent my entire life avoiding actual dirt, exactly the way my mother taught me.
“My perfect image is exactly what cost me my family,” I muttered to the glass. “I am done protecting the asset.”
I turned the tap off. I grabbed a towel from the rack, dried my raw hands, and walked back into the bedroom.
The phone was still lying on the quilt, the screen dark. I picked it back up. I didn’t unlock it to check the PR headlines, and I didn’t type a response to Blaire’s demands. I pressed my thumb against the side button and held it down.
The shutdown screen flashed across the glass. I swiped the red slider to the right.
“Let the studio burn,” I whispered to the empty room as the screen went black. “I’m staying right here in the dirt.”
I dropped the silenced phone onto the cheap nightstand, ready to pay whatever price it took to earn her back.