13. A Stranger in the Lobby
Chapter thirteen
A Stranger in the Lobby
Hayes
Isat up on the sagging mattress. A dull ache radiated down my back when I moved, a brutal reminder of yesterday’s labor in the cow stall.
I rolled my shoulders back and walked bare-chested into the cramped bathroom.
I leaned over the low porcelain basin and twisted the rusty tap.
Cold water sputtered from the faucet, splashing against the stained bowl.
I bent down and retrieved the shirt from the floor.
Grabbing the soap, I held the fabric under the running stream.
I rubbed the bar of soap against the stained cuffs.
The rough fabric dragged directly across the open blisters on my palms. I hissed through my teeth, my grip slipping on the wet cotton as the raw skin tore open a little further.
“Come on, get out,” I muttered, scrubbing the stain.
I dug my thumbnails into the weave to scrape away the dried dirt.
The water ran brown down the drain. I was scrubbing cow manure out of expensive designer cotton.
A few days ago, I had a massive team tracking every tailored thread on my body.
The sharp sting in my raw hands was proof of where I actually was.
I wrung the shirt out. I draped the wet garment over the metal shower rod. I walked back into the bedroom, the damp carpet rough under my bare feet. My cell phone sat dead on the laminate nightstand where I had abandoned it. I picked it up and held my thumb against the power button.
The glass screen illuminated the dim space.
“Your face and your hands are multi-million-dollar studio assets,” my mother had warned me before my first press tour.
I looked down at my torn, bleeding palms in the glaring screen light.
I was actively destroying the asset she had built, and for the first time, the damage felt good.
The device vibrated in my hand, buzzing against my torn skin.
A dozen missed-call notifications flooded the lock screen before the phone began to ring.
The sharp electronic chime rang out against the peeling wallpaper. Toby’s name flashed across the screen. I accepted the call and pressed the phone to my ear, staring out the small motel window toward the highway.
“Mr. Gallagher, you’ve been off the grid since London. The studio is threatening a breach of contract if you don’t return to LA for the SSGA press conference.”
The panic in his voice sounded absurd given what I had lost. The Los Angeles PR machine was running its usual playbook, but it held zero leverage over a man who had already lost his wife. I maintained my grip on the phone.
“I am not leaving this town until I fix my marriage, Toby. Tell the studio I am taking an indefinite leave of absence, and stop forwarding their threats to my personal cell.”
I clicked the volume down a notch. His frantic breathing leaked through the earpiece.
“I will relay the message, sir. But Eleanor is warning that if you miss the live SSGA broadcast later this month, the studio will drop your upcoming franchise contract.”
My mother assumed money and box-office access were the ultimate weapons. She assumed I would run back to the red carpets the second my career was threatened. I stared at the sagging ceiling above the bed. The studio’s corporate threats meant nothing on this stretch of coast.
I ended the call and tossed the phone onto the mattress.
I stepped away from the bed and crouched beside my canvas travel bag on the carpet. A sharp pain flared in my lower back as I moved. I dug past my remaining trousers and pulled out a clean T-shirt. I dragged the worn cotton over my head, forcing my stiff shoulders through the fabric.
“Just focus on the errands,” I muttered, adjusting the collar.
I grabbed my wallet off the nightstand and slid it into my back pocket.
I left the cramped room and stepped out into the coastal morning.
The bright sun beat down on the cracked asphalt of the motel parking lot, forcing me to squint against the harsh light.
The sharp, salty breeze carried the scent of low tide and exhaust from the highway.
I walked three blocks down the narrow sidewalk toward the center of town.
Every step sent a sharp ache up my calves.
My stiff legs resisted the movement, but the physical reminder provided a necessary focus.
It kept my mind off the luxury penthouse I had abandoned in London and centered my attention on the mud of Driftwood Blooms.
I reached the local pharmacy and pushed through the doors. The air conditioning chilled the sweat on my neck. Fluorescent bulbs hummed overhead, illuminating long rows of linoleum aisles. I walked past the cosmetics and greeting cards, searching the aisle signs.
“Aisle four,” I whispered, spotting the sign for first aid.
I grabbed the bottle of ibuprofen from the bottom shelf. The pills rattled inside the bottle as I stood back up. I moved to the hardware section next, locating the soap. The rough plastic dug into my raw palms. I carried the two items to the front of the store and set them on the checkout counter.
An older woman wearing a red smock stepped behind the register. The barcode scanner chimed twice.
“Ibuprofen and industrial pumice soap,” she said, tapping the screen. “That comes to twelve dollars. You look like you’ve been pulling double shifts down at the docks with the state of those hands.”
She didn’t recognize my face. She didn’t ask for a selfie or stare at me like a studio asset. She just saw a battered laborer buying painkillers. I welcomed the absolute indifference. My name meant nothing in this town, and that was exactly what I needed to prove to Sutton.
I pulled my wallet out, moving slowly to keep the leather from rubbing against my open blisters. I took out a crumpled twenty-dollar bill and slid it across the counter.
“I’m just helping out at one of the local farms,” I replied. “Keep the change, please.”
The cashier dropped the cash into the drawer and handed me the items in a plastic bag.
“Well, make sure you take those pills with a heavy meal, or they’ll tear up your stomach,” she warned, wiping down the counter. “Have a good morning.”
I took the crinkling bag off the counter.
I pushed through the glass doors of the pharmacy, the freezing artificial air instantly giving way to the punishing coastal sun.
The heat radiated directly off the concrete sidewalk.
I kept a tight grip on the plastic bag. Moving carefully to keep the handles from biting into the raw blisters on my palms, I checked the flow of traffic.
A weathered truck turned sharply into the lot directly across the street. The brakes squealed as it bumped over the curb.
I stopped. I knew that rusted fender.
I looked past the vehicle, spotting the large maroon sign mounted above the single-story brick building. “Cedar Point Women’s Clinic.” The passenger door swung open. Sutton stepped out onto the blacktop.
“Sutton,” I whispered.
I stared at the curve of her stomach beneath her shirt as she carefully stepped onto the blacktop.
I had absolutely no idea why she was here.
The terrifying reality of missing the last four months hit me—I didn’t even know if this was a scheduled stop or a desperate emergency.
The panic of not knowing rushed over me.
I moved. I shoved the bag into my canvas jacket pocket. The pill bottle caught on the pocket lining, snagging the fabric and nearly ripping the seam as I forced it downward.
I sprinted into the road. My boots hit the baking asphalt, kicking up loose grit. A passing sedan honked, the blaring horn fading down the street, but I ignored it. I kept my eyes locked on the entrance of the clinic. They were halfway across the lot.
“Sutton, wait!” I shouted, the exertion burning in my chest. “Please just hold on a second!”
Sutton froze. She turned her head, her hand dropping to rest over her bump.
Ruby reacted a moment later. She pivoted on her heel, stepping directly in front of Sutton. She planted her work boots wide on the blacktop. She raised her arm, completely cutting me off from my wife.
I skidded to a halt a few feet away. The heat radiating upward from the pavement baked the sweat on my neck.
“You have got a lot of nerve stalking us across town, Hollywood,” Ruby said, staring me down. “You need to turn around and walk away right now.”
I raised my ruined hands, holding them open to show I wasn’t going to push past her.
“I am not stalking anyone,” I said, my chest heaving from the sprint. “I just saw you walking in from across the street.”
Ruby didn’t drop her arm. She didn’t budge an inch.
I looked past her shoulder, trying to catch Sutton’s eye, but the harsh morning sun made it impossible to read her expression. I had no idea what was happening inside her body, and the not knowing made me physically sick. I swallowed the last of my Hollywood pride right there on the pavement.
“Please, just tell me if everything is okay with Sutton and the baby.”
I stood with my arms raised in the stifling heat. The air baking off the blacktop smelled of stagnant exhaust. Ruby held her ground, squaring her shoulders to block my path to the entrance.
I shifted my weight, stepping to the side to see past her shoulder. Sutton had stopped near the curb. She wasn’t looking at me. She was staring at the doors.
“Sutton, please,” I said, my voice hoarse in the dry air. “Just talk to me.”
She didn’t move. The silence stretched between us, unbearable under the coastal sun.
Then, she turned around.
There was no anger in her green eyes. No rage, no disappointment, no tears. She looked at me with a chilling, polite detachment. It was the exact look she used to give aggressive paparazzi when we had to walk a press line together—a look reserved for a nuisance she was forced to tolerate.
“This is a routine checkup, Hayes,” Sutton said. Her voice was steady, cutting through the hum of the highway traffic. “You don’t get to parachute in and play the concerned partner after a four-month absence.”