Break It Up (3 page)

I let
myself be led into the bedroom. That is something that’s happened to me before, but usually with different results. Zach shut the door behind us and said, “Listen, I’m sorry,” as if pouring alcohol in my presence was some major disrespect.

“It’s fine.”

“It’s been a rough week.”

“Yeah, sure. Really. It’s okay.”

“Since we fired my mom.” He raked his fingers through his hair, which obediently returned to its perfectly styled state. I wondered if he had his hair done absolutely every day or just on days when he’d be seen by the public. Well, I suppose that would be every day…

As the topic of his mother came up, I felt like a journalist without adequate preparation. I knew that questions about her were off limits, even if I didn’t plan to record the conversation and post it with a media outlet. Just mentioning her probably would give Zach license to storm off. Conversation over. But I didn’t know what to do because he brought her up himself.

So I kept my mouth shut.

He looked at me, his head still bowed. Even through his lashes, his gaze was intense. I didn’t dare move or even breathe with it on me. After a small eternity, he shifted to stare at the wall and then the floor.

I stood in the middle of the bedroom, which wasn’t as crazy enormous as some celebrity hotel digs I’ve seen. This was just a regular suite.

And I couldn’t help but check Zach out again, the toned muscles of his chest and arms and the sexy way he pushed his hair out of his eyes. A year ago, I’d have gone for him. I’d have flirted up a storm, shown a lot of leg, and tried to find a chink in his armor. And judging by his reaction to my friends, I’d have been shut down. In some ways that would have been better than the situation I now found myself in. At least then I wouldn’t be tortured by being this close to him and not getting anything more than an eyeful.

The silence stretched between us like a wire pulled tighter and tighter, threatening to snap at any moment. One of us had to do something.

“Thanks for looking out for me. I appreciate it,” I said.

“A week ago, we’d have had room service for dinner. We’d only be allowed out to go to the gym and for pre-arranged public appearances. We’d leave the hotel by the back door. We’d even go through the kitchen sometimes, and we’d get straight into cars with tinted windows.”

“Sounds lonely.”

He lifted his head and looked at me again. “I guess that’s one word for it.” He stepped away from the closed door and crossed the space to the bed, where he sat down, rubbing his forehead like he had a headache.

This situation was going from awkward to downright torturous. Was I supposed to sit next to him
on a bed
and pretend like that didn’t affect me? As much as I liked the idea of him being a fake with all of his disapproving glances at my friends, deep down I knew he wasn’t. He wouldn’t suddenly put a hand on my knee, look me in the eye for permission, and then jump my bones. Nope, he’d just sit there and keep himself to himself. I wanted to be anywhere but here right now, but I couldn’t think of a good excuse to leave. I stepped over to the bed and sat down next to him, not too close, but not too far either. I could just barely feel the warmth of his body heat rising off his skin. Or that might have been my imagination.

The silence between us was less tense now, more comfortable. It could just lay there undisturbed. No one was being rude by not pushing it aside.

So yes, that was how my night in Zach Wechlser’s bedroom began—with us just sitting next to each other. I knew then that this would only ever happen once, so I made the most of it, taking him in out of the corner of my eye. His chest was broad and his arms muscled but not overbuilt. He was still pretty trim and not all beefed up. His fingers, I could see, were callused and dry at the fingertips, which I assumed was from playing the guitar. As he flexed his fingers, I couldn’t help but imagine him putting those hands on me, but even the thought was too intense to bear. He wasn’t just some grinning guy on a poster on my wall now. He was real and present. Just a touch from him would have sent my heart racing.

My phone chimed and I tugged it out of my purse. The low battery light flashed at me. Crap. I called up my parents’ number and hovered my finger over the screen. My phone is old enough that the act of dialing often kills it. If that happened, my parents would get a call with dead air, probably think I was in a hostage situation, and send out a SWAT team.

Zach pulled out his phone. “You need to call anyone?”

“I should let my parents know that my phone’s about to die in case they want to reach me.”

He handed his phone to me without question. I knew how stupid it looked to dial his phone while holding my still-not-dead phone in my hand. Jen answered on the second ring.

“It’s me,” I said. “I was an idiot and didn’t charge my phone. It’s about to die.” Boy did that ever sound like a lame excuse.

“Oh, okay. Thanks for letting us know.”

I blinked. She believed me? Did she remember nothing about how I am? I’d made her life a living hell for six years. “Okay, well, I’m with Brandy and Marissa.”

“All right. Have fun.”

“Um, thanks.”

“Bye now.”

“Bye.”

We signed off and I handed Zach’s phone back to him just as it began to ring. Much to my surprise, it was someone from his contacts list, not my parents calling with the sudden realization that I’d just rattled off what sounded like the stupidest lie ever.

Zach answered his phone. “Hey. Yeah. Uh-huh. Sec.” He put it to his chest and said, “I’ll be right back, okay?”

I nodded, and he went into the bathroom for privacy. I felt entirely out of place, seated on his bed in his room, so to make myself relax a little, I lay back and took some deep breaths. It worked too well; the next thing I knew, it was 4:30 a.m.

So much
for not blowing things with Zach. I’ll go down in his memory as a mistake, but if I get out of here without detection, I hope to be a minor one. I need to find my friends, though, and I don’t know which rooms the rest of the band are in. I can’t exactly go down to the front desk and ask either.

I step out into the hall and pull Zach’s door firmly shut behind me, as if that act would seal off my connection to him and save him a boatload of embarrassment. A quick glance up and down reveals a bunch of anonymous numbered rooms.

But I’m in luck. A door across the way opens and Ben leans out, still fully clothed and still very much awake. “Hey, Kyra. We got a car for your friends a while ago.”

Even from across this hall, his clothes smell like marijuana. “So they’re both home?” I ask.

“Or wherever they told the driver to take them, yeah. We watched some DVDs of concert footage and all figured you didn’t want to be… disturbed. Did you have a fun evening?” His smile is knowing and irritating.

“Yeah. Zach got a phone call and I fell asleep.”

“Mmm-hmm.” He strides over and plucks at my shirt flirtatiously.

Fine, I don’t care what he believes. His reputation rides on this as much as Zach’s. “I just need to get out of here before I ruin your wholesome image.”

Ben rolls his eyes. “It’s just an image. It’s fiction. Better for everyone when it’s gone.”

“I’d think a little more about that,” I say. “Once it’s gone, it’s gone for good. You can’t ever get it back.”

“Good riddance.”

“You do not want the whole world thinking you’re a man-whore,” I insist. Because he really,
really
can’t tell on me to the press.

“But what if I am?”

“Listen to me. You may not believe nothing happened between me and Zach, but nothing happened, and you
can’t
leak a rumor like that about Zach to the press. Fine if you don’t care about your image, but he cares about his. Please show him a little respect.”

He meets my gaze steadily, unblinking. Then he shrugs. “I won’t tell anyone. I wouldn’t. It’s your business.”

“Thank you.”

“You need a ride home?”

“No. I drove.”

“’Kay, let me walk you to your car. I’m starving. I need vending machine food.”

“First class all the way, huh?”

He chuckles as he pulls his door shut behind him and we head down the hall. “So I’m Ben, by the way.”

“Kyra.”

“You’re Jason Vanderholt’s niece?”

“Yeah.”

“Is he part, um… Latino?”

“Excuse me? You making assumptions because I have a really good tan?”

“I have nothing but respect for your brownness.”

Without even thinking about it, I give him a playful punch in the shoulder, which he dodges before grasping my hand. That split second of skin-to-skin contact is enough to make me back off immediately, and he holds his hands up in understanding surrender.

“I’m his sister’s step-daughter,” I explain.

“Gotcha.”`

We reach the elevators and I push the down arrow.

“So,” he says, “do I get points for not making some crack about you cooking or cleaning stuff?”

“Yes, but you just lost them, plus a penalty.”

“Dang it. How big a penalty?”

“Does it matter? You weren’t ever going to get anywhere with me anyway.”

“Ouch.”

The elevator arrives and we both step in.

“Do your parents wonder where you are or is this a normal thing?” asks Ben.

“My phone is dead.”

For the second time in one night, a member of Triple Cross takes his phone out of his pocket and hands it to me. The problem is, I don’t know my parents’ numbers by heart; I’ve always used speed dial. In fact, there’s only one phone number I’ve had to dial enough times to memorize it, since I wasn’t allowed to program it into my phone. Normally I wouldn’t bother someone in the middle of the night, but some people have it coming. The phone line goes straight to voicemail, but a callback comes before I can leave a coherent message.

“Do I even want to know?” Jason asks me. “I’m at your house, by the way. Thanks for stressing out my sister.” His sister, my stepmother, happens to be seven months pregnant.

“How’d you know it was me?”

“Who else would be calling right now? And I know your cell phone is dead. And I’m married to a forensic scientist. I’m getting good at this stuff. What’s the story?”

“It was an accident,” I say. “Seriously. Not just making that up. I fell asleep.” No one brings out the whiny kid in me faster than Jason. That’s part of the reason we don’t get along.

“So you want my advice on what? How to lie to your stepmother?”

“No. I called you to get her number. I don’t have it memorized.”

“Back in my day—”

“You communicated by telegraph and had to memorize a forty-five-digit string of numbers just to call down the street.”

“Nah, we had cell phones and I didn’t know anyone’s number by heart either. Yeah, okay, I’ll tell Jen when she wakes up. She’s asleep. You able to get home all right?”

“Yes. But why are you at my house?”

“Chloe’s having a rough time.”

“Oh…”

“So you will
not
stress her out—”

“I never do,” I snap. “You’re the one who’s all high strung and stressy.”

“All right.” He sounds wounded, but he accepts my point, which is definitely a new thing for him.

Ben’s staring at me like I’ve grown a second head. “Who are you talking to?” he asks.

“I’m talking to my loser uncle.”

“Who are you with?” asks Jason.

“A friend,” I say. “He’s walking me to my car. That’s all.”

Ben’s eyes are like saucers. “You’re talking to Jason Vanderholt?”

Two conversations are more than I can handle at once. “’Kay, I’m on my way home,” I say to Jason. “Tell my dad and Jen not to worry. I’ll be there soon. Bye.” I hang up.

Yeah, this is my life—argue with Jason Vanderholt while alone in an elevator with Ben Roland.

As if reading my thoughts, Ben starts to laugh. “Why did you call him?”

“That’s the only number I have memorized. And anyway, he’s at my house.”

The elevator stops and we both step out into the dark of the parking garage.

Ben quirks an eyebrow at me.

“His new house in Albuquerque isn’t ready yet,” I explain, “and his wife started her new job today. Yesterday. Whatever. So they’re with us. Don’t tell the paparazzi.” A pointless request. The paparazzi already know. I hand Ben’s phone back to him and try not to wince with guilt. Jason’s number is now in the call history, and that’s a big no-no. But, being chewed out by Jason isn’t a new experience for me.

Ben follows me into the ringing silence of the dark subterranean lot, where the only sounds are our footsteps, the ticking of a car engine cooling down, and a siren wailing in the distance. My red jeep, Libby, sits unmolested in her spot as if waiting for me.

“Nice wheels,” says Ben.

“Thanks.”

“You all good?”

“Yeah.” I reach out to shake his hand. “Thank you.”

He smirks down at my outstretched hand before he grabs my wrist and pulls me in for a hug. “Any time,” he says, his voice low, his mouth right by my ear. His clothes
reek
of pot. I wonder how much he smoked. Before it gets awkward, though, he releases me with a salute and withdraws towards the elevators.