“Holy shit.” She laughs, the sound breathless.
I can imagine her curled up in the corner of the closet she shares with my brother, tucked between Louboutin heels with her dark-red hair pulled into the messy bun she likes to sleep in.
“That’s insane. What did you do? Do you think he liked you? Did you exchange numbers so you could see him again?”
Excited chatter is one of Fiona’s many features, and I can already tell she’s ramping up to some questions I don’t know how to answer.
“I didn’t exactly tell him my name,” I say, cutting her off.
“What? Why the hell not?”
“I don’t know,” I admit, and I don’t. Truthfully, it was the night my dreams used to be made of and giving him my name at the end of it would’ve at least given him the opportunity to find me one day down the road.
Maybe that’s why I kept it a secret.
I don’t want him to find me.
“It’s complicated. We… did stuff, and I don’t know. Have you ever been… intimate with someone, and felt gross about it afterward?”
She hums. “Did he force you to do something?”
“No!” I pinch my eyes closed, not even sure what I’m trying to say anymore. “I don’t know. I guess it was just a long night, and I didn’t think about giving him my name. Besides, I kind of like the idea of this being a one-night thing. Two strangers passing by, looking for a way to pass the time. That kind of deal.”
“God, please don’t ever tell Boyd that.” She laughs again, and it almost warms the icy brick of unease sitting on the floor of my stomach.
When we hang up minutes later, I feel much lighter than I did when I left the tattoo parlor, and it’s that feeling I grasp on to as I drift off, pushing everything else away and letting exhaustion consume me.
I’m certainly not prepared for what I wake up to.
12
I sleep through my gym session with Liam.
Normally the night after a show, I go to bed early and wake up energized, ready to tackle the day. The lag in my sleep schedule from my late night is already affecting my productivity, and it’s been less than twelve hours since I left the tattoo parlor.
At least, that’s what I’m choosing to blame the laziness on, and not a relapse of a depressive episode.
My gaze flickers to the red velvet sofa at the foot of the bed; the green dress that little angel left behind is draped over the arm, taunting me.
I’m not sure why I took it, and I definitely had no business bringing it back here with me.
Any man worth his salt doesn’t provide evidence of the nights he’s trying to forget.
The golden halo etched into the skin beneath my thumb begs to differ.
The bedroom door swings open while I’m still in the bed, and Callie walks in, her dark hair pinned back with an emerald clip. Wearing a beige pantsuit and carrying a clear binder in her arms, she looks more like my manager today than my mother, and for some reason, it irritates me more than usual.
“Do you like costing me money, Aiden?” She doesn’t come over, just stands in the corner, glaring down at me.
I groan, pulling one of the massive pillows over my face. “How am I costing you anything? Last I checked, you work for me.”
She clicks her tongue in disapproval. “Ay, every time you sneak off when you’re supposed to be networking, or promoting an album, or in general not being a hoodlum and running away from your guards, I lose a quarter-million dollars in brand investments. Paid partnerships. Label deals. Everything your father and I have worked so hard to secure for you just gets flushed down with the train.”
Blinking, I refrain from correcting her; when she’s upset, her accent thickens, and English phrases get lost in translation. It was worse when I was young, and sometimes downright embarrassing depending on the context, but my own Spanish translations are tepid at best, so I don’t say anything.
“‘Your father and I?’ Since when are you two a unit?”
Her jaw clenches, blanching her tan skin. “When it comes to you, hijo, we’re a unit.”
“You mean when it comes to dinero.” Sitting up straighter, I work through the stiffness in my muscles, ignoring the groggy desire that shoots through me, telling me to lie back down. “Dad tell you I asked about the contract?”
Brown eyes sharpen as they narrow, and her mouth flattens. “Por qué?”
“I want out, Mother.”
Lips turning down, she shakes her head. “That isn’t possible. Who would you sign with, or are you forgetting your father had to beg for the producers at Symposium to even take you on?”
Embarrassment flares in my cheeks; how could I ever forget? A few very public meltdowns, and suddenly you’re the poster child for mental instability.
Apparently, for most labels, that’s not a great brand to associate with.
“I could always go solo. Produce and upload my own shit.”
“What, and be like those little SoundSky rappers? You know that’s not sustainable.”
SoundCloud, I want to say, but I just drag my hands down my face and stay silent.
Her face softens slightly as she stares off into space, as if the cogs inside her head are turning slowly. After a few moments, she shakes her head and cracks open her binder.
“Ay, never mind that. We don’t have time for it. You have a postshow briefing to catch up on this morning, plus you need to make an appearance at a boutique opening down the street.”
I groan, twisting the bloodstone ring on my thumb. “That sounds like a press event.”
“We’ll make it quick. We have to be on the road to Pittsburgh no later than ten, anyway.”
With a grunt, I fall back onto the mattress and sigh. Seconds later, the dull clicking of her heels drifts farther away, and then the bedroom door closes, leaving me alone in the massive space.
I should be used to it by now. If I’m not working, there’s no reason for anyone else to hang around.
Even though my body absolutely doesn’t want to, I drag myself out of the bed and over to the closet, sliding the door open slowly. I don’t turn on the light, refusing to acknowledge the mess inside in the hopes that maybe one day it’ll go away.
Logically, I know that’s not how these things work, but I’m not in the mood to deal.
Stepping over a pile of clothes, I grab on to one of the wooden shelves and feel around for the clean clothes I stacked inside yesterday. Then I slip quickly from the little room, stuffing myself into black jeans and a dark-orange hoodie.
After washing my face and finger-combing through my hair with wet fingers, I step out of the bathroom and stare at the foot of the bed. My eyes are glued to the green dress, irritation swimming in my veins that she wouldn’t even give me her fucking name last night.
I can still taste her on my tongue, can still feel the way her cunt tried to swallow my fingers whole, and yet I’m left with nothing.
Nothing but the reminder of why I don’t engage with the opposite sex.
Snatching the dress up, I lift it to my nose, inhaling that goddamn peppermint scent until it feels like my lungs might explode.
I should burn it. Throw it away, at the very least. But when I try to toss it in the bin for housekeeping, something stops me, like an invisible hand reaching out and keeping me still.