738 Days: A Novel (39 page)

“Thank you,” the woman says, beaming at me, as Chase tugs on my elbow and leads me to the van door.

“She’s going to sell that on eBay the second she gets home,” he says in my ear with a grin. “Probably with one of those crocheted toilet roll dolls that’s supposed to look like you.”

I nod, but I’m shaking, my heart rattling in my chest. I’m not even sure why. She was nice enough. It’s just the idea of being singled out, which, duh, is what the entire crowd is doing to us. But I guess I always thought of it as more for Chase, not anything to do with me.

It occurs to me right then as I climb into the van that if this is something Chase and I want to do, to try to be in a real relationship, then this kind of reaction—crowds, signs, insulting questions, people asking
me
for autographs—will probably happen again. A lot. Eventually it would die down, but until then, we would be the focus of a lot of attention.

Before I was thinking of this only as a temporary obstacle, something to survive until it was done and I could go home. I want a normal life, have ever since I got back. But now, I’m not sure if that’s possible, not if I also want Chase.

“What happened? Why weren’t you answering your phone?” Emily asks Chase as soon as the door shuts behind us.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “This morning didn’t go the way I expected.” But he smiles at me, and his thumb rubs over the back of my hand, easing something tight in me.

We can figure this out; we just need a chance.
I know it. I feel it.

But Emily isn’t so easily soothed. “Were you drinking?” she demands, as the driver pulls out. “They warned me about that.”

Chase tenses, but I’m faster to anger.

“Hey,” I say sharply, even though it’s none of my business. But it’s none of hers, either. “He’s your job, but he’s a person, too.”

Color floods her face as she glares at me.

“It’s fine,” Chase says to me. “No. I’m not drinking.” He doesn’t even seem all that offended. But I’m seething on the inside that she dared to ask. She’s not the director, his agent, or his mother. It’s not right.

But then he’ll always be owned, partly by other people, by their expectations and public perception.

I was aware of these things before, but somehow now, it feels more personal, like the loss of something or someone I barely had a chance to know.

As soon as we’re on location, Emily rushes us toward the makeup trailer—no time for a stop at Chase’s this morning.

“Are you all right?” he asks me as she hurries ahead of us, talking into her walkie.

I smile. “Yeah, just a little overwhelmed.” In truth, I’m longing for the moment when we get to go back to our rooms, not because of the “naked stuff,” as Mia would say (well, not only because of that), but because that just feels more real.

Chase slides his arm around my waist and stops us both right there in the middle of the line of trailers, with people bustling all around us, and turns to face me.

He hooks his fingers in the open pockets of my fleece to tug me close. “Tomorrow we’re moving to shooting nights,” he says, his expression serious. “How do you feel about breakfast out? I did some research, and there’s a pancake place near here that boasts twenty-seven different syrups. It’s supposedly free if you try all of them at once.” He grins at me. “A challenge.”

In spite of myself, I laugh. “That sounds disgusting.” But I love that he found time, at some point, to look into random places that might be interesting. It makes me feel like no matter where we are or what’s going on, he’ll always find a way to show more of the world to me than I would have let myself experience otherwise.

“What, no blueberry-banana–cotton candy–pecan combo for you?” he asks with mock confusion.

I wrinkle my nose. “Some things are good in combination; some are not. It’s a fine art, knowing the difference.”

“Such a limited palate,” he says, tsking at me. “I bet you still like maple from the plastic bottle.”

I raise my eyebrows. “And you have, what, a special syrup collection, vintages gathered from all over the world?”

“Maybe.” He flashes me a smile that warms me down to my toes. “Want to see it sometime?”

I roll my eyes at him, but I can’t help laughing.

He lifts his hand to touch my cheek then, his smile turning into something more serious as he regards me with a strange expression. “Thank you for defending me. It was…” He drops his gaze to somewhere near my feet. “No one’s done that for me in a long time. I haven’t deserved it in longer than that.”

When he looks up at me again, his eyes are shining with an emotion that makes my chest tight. This is someone unused to being loved, the true kind of love where you want the best for the other person instead of what’s easiest for you.

“She was out of line,” I point out, uncomfortable with praise for something that was automatic when it came to him.

“And you cared,” he argues.

I frown at him. “Well, yeah.”

“Chase,” Emily calls, her voice huffy.

But he ignores her, leaning his forehead against mine before dropping down to brush my mouth softly with his. “Thank you.”

“Aww, adorable. Late but adorable.”

I look up to see Karen standing in the open door of the makeup trailer. She folds her arms across her chest, the mermaid scales on her forearm rippling with the movement, but she looks more amused than angry.

Emily is at the base of the stairs, shaking her head at us. She, on the other hand, looks angry.

As Chase climbs into the trailer, Karen steps back to make room and punches him lightly on the arm as he passes.

“What?” he asks, but the grin on his face says he knows exactly what’s going on.

“So I guess you’re listening to me this time,” she says to him, flipping one of her braids behind her shoulder. “That’s a pleasant change.”

“Told you—new version.”

I have no idea what they’re talking about, but he looks happy and even she seems slightly less grumpy, which I’m beginning to think, for Karen, is the equivalent of someone else laughing hysterically. The two of them are an odd pair as friends, but they make sense in that way, too, because they’re opposites. If this is the first step in repairing that friendship—one that obviously meant enough to both of them that he felt horribly guilty and she was seriously pissed—then good.

As Chase sits in Karen’s chair, I take my place in the extra one on the opposite side of the still-open doorway. Despite the fresh cool air from outside, the trailer reeks of chemical cleaner and acrid smoke. The walls are covered in dark smudges and attempts at fresh paint.

“Yeah, sorry,” Karen says, catching my expression in the mirror as she starts her work on Chase. “It’s getting better, but they were pretty thorough. Thanks a lot, assholes.”

Oh. The vandalism. “That happened here?” I ask.

“Unfortunately,” Karen says. Then she frowns at Chase. “What is going on with your hair?”

I smother a laugh, but apparently not well enough as he gives me a sharp look.

“I didn’t have time to shower this morning,” he says.

Karen just sighs and pulls out a spray bottle and starts squirting him with it. And Chase looks about as happy as a soaked cat about that.

“Something came for you,” she says as she works. I think she’s talking to Chase until she jerks her head at me. “I put it on the other counter.”

I glance to my right to find a large gold box I hadn’t noticed before, pushed against the mirror. It’s one of those pre-wrapped jobs, where the lid just lifts off. My name, in fancy calligraphy-like letters, is written on a matching tag.

I look at Chase questioningly.

“Not me,” he says with a frown.

A faint quiver of trepidation ripples through me. I’ve had enough experience with unannounced packages and letters—the FBI was, for a short time, monitoring our mail—not to reach for it without more information.

“Where did it come from?” I ask Karen.

“One of the runners brought it over an hour ago, maybe,” she says with an odd look at me.

“You saw her drop it off?” Chase asks, his gaze meeting mine in the mirror. He’s not sure about this, either. He told me yesterday that Security said there was nothing verifiable about the threats the reporter mentioned. But this confirmation that I’m not being paranoid sends a warm rush of relief through me.

“Yes. What’s wrong with you?” Karen asks him, frowning.

He shakes his head. “Nothing.” Then he says to me, “If a runner, a PA like Emily, brought it, then it’s from someone on set. They wouldn’t bring you anything just left outside.”

As soon as he says that, it clicks.
Adam.

I roll my eyes. Probably phase two of whatever stupid jealousy/revenge scheme he’s working on to cause trouble for Chase.

I scoot it closer and lift the lid cautiously, just in case, and find …

Nothing but mounds of gorgeous, individual red rose petals, reaching almost to the top of the box.

My shoulders relax, and the tightness in my stomach vanishes.

Plucking out a petal, I hold it up to show Chase. “Adam,” I say by way of explanation. To fill a box this size, it must have taken dozens of flowers. An expensive and showy gesture, exactly something he would do to piss off Chase.

Karen snorts.

“Such a dick,” Chase grumbles.

“He’s just trying to provoke you.” I stick my hand in deeper, seeking the note that will no doubt contain either overwrought—and likely stolen—poetry with rose metaphors or some kind of suggestive proposal, whichever he thinks will bug Chase more.

“He wants you to break. It’s like a little kid poking at…” I stop, the words dying in my throat. My fingers, now an inch below the velvety surface, touch cool metal. But it’s not the substance beneath my fingertips that makes me go still as much as the all-too-familiar shape.

My heart seizes. Acting instinctively against the terror barreling through me, I yank my hand away. But my wrist catches the edge of the box, and it tips in slow motion toward me.

Hundreds of dark red petals spill over the edge of the counter and float to the floor, like a slow-motion rendering of blood droplets falling.

And then the chain, metal links bright and blindingly shiny in the overhead lights, clatters out, tipping over the counter and piling onto the floor with a rapid chink-chink-chinking sound that I still hear in my nightmares.

28

Chase

Behind me, Karen gasps. “Oh my God.”

Amanda is frozen for a moment, her hand in midair, the chain and petals in a heap at her feet, then she scrambles out of the chair. She presses her back against the trailer wall, as far away as she can get from the chain, but her eyes are showing edges of white from terror and her chest is heaving like she’s run for miles.

I throw myself out of my chair, putting my body between her and the “gift” on the floor, like that will help, as if it’s a snake that might strike.

But Amanda doesn’t see me; her gaze is fixed on the chain and the rose petals, which, now that I’m looking at them from over here, resemble blood. And I’m sure that was intentional.

Goddamnit.

Amanda slides down the wall, curling into a tight protective ball but staying balanced on the balls of her feet. As if she might have to run.

My heart feels shredded, like someone is actually stripping away pieces of it, at the sight of her this way. She’s so scared she’s trembling; so pale and gray that she looks ghostlike. Was this what she was like right after she got back? No wonder her family is so fiercely protective and angry at the idea of her leaving with me.

I’m ready to tear someone apart for this.

But Amanda has to be my first focus.

“Amanda?” I kneel down cautiously in front of her, my hands out in an I-mean-no-harm posture. Touching her right now would be a bad idea, no matter how comforting I mean it to be.

“I’m fine. It’s fine,” she says, but she’s rocking herself. Her right hand is locked around her left wrist, her fingers tracing the scar.

I’m caught between the sting of tears in my eyes and the incontrovertible and unstoppable rage welling up in me. Someone is going to pay.

“Shit,” Karen whispers from somewhere over my shoulder. “Amanda, I’m so sorry; I didn’t know.”

She didn’t, but I should have. My back stiffens. This is Elise. It has to be. Which means it’s my fault. “Motherfucker, I’m going to kill her,” I say.

“Kill who?” Karen asks, moving closer. “Adam? Chase, I don’t think he—”

“Emily,” I shout over my shoulder.

“Chase,” Karen says.

“Emily!” I bellow.

She appears in the doorway with a disgruntled look. When she sees the flower petals, the chain, and Amanda, her eyes widen. “What—”

“Get Leon on your walkie. Get him over here,” I say. This has gone too far. He needs to know everything. No matter what.

Emily hesitates. “I’m not sure if he—”

“Fucking get him now,” I snarl at her. Once Leon tracks Elise down, I’m sure she’ll tell him everything and Amanda will never forgive me. But I can’t let this go. This has to stop. Now.

Emily blanches but nods rapidly and backs away, her walkie already raised to her mouth.

“Chase,” Karen says again, her voice holding an odd and trembling note.

I glance over my shoulder to see her holding a slip of paper, the edges charred faintly, like a decorative effect.

“I found it on the floor. It must have been inside,” she says. Then she turns it around so I can see the printed words on the other side.

GO BACK WHERE YOU BELONG
,
BITCH.

I reach up and punch the wall as hard as I can. The cheap plastic surface gives easily under my fist, denting from the impact but raising surface shards that slice into my skin.

“Chase!” Karen shouts.

But the pain feels good; it reminds me I’m not helpless.

“Dumbass, you’re making it worse,” Karen hisses at me as I shake out my hand, blood on my knuckles. She jerks her head toward Amanda, who is cowering to the side, away from me, away from the noise.

Fuck.

Automatically, I reach for her but stop before I touch. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I won’t do it again. I’m sorry,” I repeat, babbling in my panic.