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Authors: Marni Bates

BOOK: Decked with Holly
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But the admiration must not have been mutual since he jerked back, yelled “Zombie!,” and sprayed something into my face.
That's when the world dissolved into a sea of pain and everything went black.
Chapter 6
Dominic
 
T
he distinctive sound of flushing interrupted my improvised drum solo.
Well, that wasn't supposed to happen.
I stared at the closed bathroom door, coffee in hand, wondering if I had lost my mind. I'd heard of other celebrities snapping but I'd never expected it to happen like this. Not to me.
Maybe this is what it was like to truly crack under pressure.
Which was shit timing, really, since I was about to embark on a vacation. In fact, I'd have already begun relaxing if it weren't for Tim's obsessive need to push our band to greatness. The worst part was how easy Tim made the whole process look. Then again, even Chris had commented on Tim's unnerving ability to work his ass off and never be caught sweating.
I had no idea how he consistently came up with such killer lyrics for us. The only words I could think of were:
I'm so screwed. I can't think of anything. My career is over. La, la, la!
Not exactly Grammy material.
I was just starting to think that maybe I should call him back tomorrow and admit to needing some help—just to get going—when I heard the flush.
I'm not a paranoid guy. Or at least I've never thought of myself that way. It's just that when the press hounds you and your best friends and all of your acquaintances on a regular basis, you get real good at looking over your shoulder.
It's not paranoia if someone's actually out to get you.
And knowing that we do receive death threats . . . it's more than a little unsettling. Lennon might have been killed a long time ago but that doesn't mean that the threat of crazy fans no longer exists. Half the threats in our file folder have hearts doodled in the margins. And every time something really weird happens, like a celebrity gets tackled in a mall, I can't help thinking that it could have been worse and that next time it might be me. No matter how many hundreds of thousands of cheering fans you have, it only takes one nutcase to pull a trigger.
So paranoid or not, I got out Tim's pepper spray and crept as silently as I could toward the bathroom. I felt like an idiot, standing sentinel outside my own bathroom when the noise had probably come from a neighboring suite and I had just overreacted.
But then I heard the faucet turn on and the faint squeak of the towel holder as someone dried their hands.
Holy shit. I had an intruder.
I still tried to remain calm. Maybe it was someone else from room service. They might have needed the toilet
really
badly and so they broke protocol just this once. That made sense. It wasn't like I had someone lurking in my bathroom who wanted to take photos of me while I slept . . . probably. That had only happened to Tim once before. I was still bracing myself for an attack when a hideous figure lurched out.
It was impossible to tell the gender of the creature since a blanket shrouded its slight frame. Long, stringy hair fell across a sweaty face that looked inhuman in its pallor, ashen gray from forehead to lips. There was a glaze to its eyes and its jaw dropped open as if preparing to infect me with a rabid zombie virus.
And I panicked.
“Zombie!” I yelled, jumping back and laying in on the pepper spray.
I'm not proud of myself.
Although if it really
had
been the beginning of the zombie uprising I would have kicked some serious zombie ass. And really, it wasn't like
I
was the idiot who had snuck into someone's suite looking like death warmed over. That alone warranted me being a little jumpy.
Nevertheless, I felt a twinge of guilt for overreacting a split second later when the figure dropped to the ground screeching in absolute agony. And swearing. Last time I checked, zombies didn't have that kind of extensive vocabulary.
The blanket that had shielded the figure drooped lower to reveal an all-too-familiar shirt.
Well, crap. I had probably just pepper sprayed my biggest fan.
Not that she didn't deserve it after spying on me from my bathroom. That was way past the line of acceptable fan behavior and deep into crazy stalker territory. She probably wanted to sell my boxers to the highest bidder on eBay.
Of course, it was just my luck that the one fan on the ship to recognize me had to be certifiably insane.
If it hadn't been for all the potentially embarrassing questions about my pepper spray, I'd have called the concierge and reported the break-in while she was still writhing on the floor. By all rights the little maniac should have been their problem, not mine.
But if I lodged a complaint word of my presence would get out on the ship. Then the screaming female fans might appear in droves and I'd be even worse off than before.
I still wasn't inclined to show sympathy to my mentally unhinged fan, but it would be much easier to get her out if she walked than if I dragged her. It would also play better with the media, if word leaked. So I did my best to slip back into the role of the relaxed rock star.
I crouched down closer to her level. “Are you all right?”
“What do you think, dumbass?”
So my fan was going to be difficult, too. Great.
And while The Mess had looked like, well . . . a mess, earlier, she had now reached a whole new level of crappiness. Her eyes, which moments before had been eerily glazed in her pale face, were now violently red-rimmed and watering. She looked so pitiful that I almost felt sorry for her. Even though none of it was my fault . . . well, almost none of it.
“Sneaking into other people's rooms is illegal, you know.”
“Thank you, Captain Obvious. I didn't realize that pepper spray was the penalty, though. Or is that treatment reserved for
zombies?
”
Her face reddened in anger, but I chose not to mention it. Probably best for her to get the yelling out of her system before I kicked her psychotic ass out the door.
“Zombies!”
she continued raving. “Look at you, all ready for the Apocalypse and everything. Oh, wait! I can't look because
my eyes are on fire!
”
“I'd, erm, like to apologize for that part.”
“
That's
the part you want to apologize for? Not for mistaking me for a zombie. Not for attacking me in the first place. Oh, no, you're sorry for shooting me with . . . what was that? Pepper spray?”
“Yes.”
“For
pepper spraying
me in the face!
Who does that?
”
That last part didn't appear to be hypothetical: She really didn't know whose bathroom floor she was writhing on in agony. If she had, she would have mentioned it already. Which frankly was a relief. Apparently, I wasn't being targeted by a fanatical ReadySet fan, which should make extricating myself from the situation much easier. All I had to do was mutter something vaguely apologetic and send her back to her own room. Then everything would be fine.
And I'd have my suite all to myself again.
“I'm sorry you were hurt,” I specified. Time to start showing her the door. “However, that's a risk you take breaking and entering. Care to explain yourself?”
She buried her head into the blanket and snuffled. “No, I'd rather not.”
“Too bad.” I sank down until I was sitting next to her on the bathroom floor. “I think I deserve to know why you broke into my bedroom.”
“Bathroom,” she corrected. “I didn't go near your bedroom. That would have been creepy.”
“Breaking into my
bedroom
would be creepy but skulking in my bathroom is fair game? I don't think so.” My patience was definitely nearing its limits. “How did you even find my room anyway? What did you do, follow me from dinner?”
She stared at me in confusion. “No! Why would I do something like that?”
“I don't know. Why were you staring at me?”
Well, that shut her up fast. Her eyes jumped from the pile of geek clothes I had on the floor to my chest. That's when I realized I was still only wearing my boxers. Fine for pacing in my suite and trying to figure out song lyrics. Not so fine when the semi-hysterical girl you just blasted with pepper spray is huddled on your bathroom floor.
“Since you're already so at home with my bathroom, why don't you clean up. I'll be right back.” Then, without waiting for her response, I made a tactical retreat so that I could pull on some clothes, take a deep breath, and hope that by the time I came back Zombie Girl wouldn't look quite so demoralized.
But when I reentered the bathroom, not a lot had changed. She had dragged herself off the floor and she had clearly splashed water at her face, probably in an attempt to flush out any residual traces of pepper spray. Still, she looked like something the dogs of hell had chewed on before losing interest. Not that I had any intention of telling her as much. My mom drilled into me that there are some things you never say to a girl—one of which is that she looks like shit—even if it's true.
Judging by the way she clutched the sink as if she didn't trust her trembling legs to support her, she probably felt worse than she looked. I cracked open one of the water bottles that lined the sink and handed it to her.
“Here. Drink this. Water should help.”
The Mess just nodded and sipped while I briefly considered letting her finish the bottle in silence. But I wanted answers. And she was going to give them to me.
“So let's start from the beginning. You were staring at me over dinner because—” I prompted.
She pressed her lips tightly together and straightened her shoulders. “I wasn't staring. My cousin pointed you out as her next fling. I was merely observing.”
That part caught me off guard. “Uh . . .”
“Don't worry, I won't tell her about your pepper spray fetish.”
Even drained of color she still had some spunk to her, something I might have appreciated if she wasn't making our conversation so difficult.
“So this was what, then? A reconnaissance mission so that you could report back whether I prefer boxers or briefs?”
“Boxers,” she replied without hesitation. “Plaid boxers, to be more specific. And no, that has nothing to do with this.” She clutched at her stomach for a minute and her shaking grew worse before she took a deep breath and steadied herself. “Believe it or not, this is not about you. At all. I just needed to use your, erm, facilities.”
I should have figured it out sooner. I mean, the girl was rubbing her stomach, clearly in pain, her face was devoid of life, and she was shaking like a leaf. Add that to the toilet flush and I was starting to get a better picture of what was going on.
She was pregnant.
Holy crap.
Who knew what that pepper spray could do to a fetus? I didn't want it to be my fault if the thing came out with webbed feet and brain issues. Maybe I should take her to the onboard doctor. Suggest a sonogram or something to make sure everything was okay in there. Maybe I should mail her a ReadySet baby onesie when I got back to LA. That might be a good
I'm sorry for endangering the wellness of your baby with pepper spray
gift.
“How far along are you?” I asked, trying not to let my panic show.
“Um, I don't know. I only just started puking.” She blew out a sigh. “It's not a big deal, okay.”
Maybe it was too early in the pregnancy for pepper spray to cause damage? I didn't think it worked that way, but the last thing I wanted was for her to start freaking out too. Stress had to be bad for a growing baby.
“Is there, uh . . . anything you can take for the morning sickness?”
“What are you talking about? Morning has nothing to do with . . .” Her voice dropped dangerously low. “Do you think I'm pregnant?”
“Uh—”
Crap.
“Oh, my God. You think I chose your bathroom to deliver my zombie spawn,
don't you?
”
There was a dangerous glint in her eyes and she looked ready to rip my face off.
“It's just that you, uh, don't look so good and—”
I could mentally see my mother thwacking her forehead at that one.
“For your information”—she drew herself up rigidly again, her hands turning whiter with the effort—“I happen to be
seasick
. Which is a problem since I am
stuck on a ship in the middle of nowhere with an idiot who thinks I'm a pregnant zombie!
”
Her voice cracked on the last few words and she sank back to the floor in a boneless heap. And then she began to cry.
It was the tears that had me opening my big mouth and making The Non-Pregnant Mess an offer she really should have refused.

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