The Tour (15 page)

“I know,” he admits. “I’ve been talking to my therapist about this now. He told me, I mean, before the fire, ’cause I haven’t talked to him yet since then. But he told me to talk to you about it. Telling someone—telling you—helps me in being intimate with you on a different level. No secrets, you know?”

“Yeah. I understand.”

“He thinks I should report it. Because it was statutory rape.”

“I think you should, too,” I blurt, feeling the sting in my veins, a desire for revenge. He nods and looks down, his eyebrows furrowed. “But it’s not up to me,” I say, turning to face him. “No matter what you decide, I’ll still love you,” I whisper into the quiet, dim room. He blinks a little too long, wraps his hand around the curves of my hips, tilts my chin up and kisses me, soft and slow. I feel his breath as he pulls his mouth away and presses me against the dresser with his hips.

“Is this real?” he asks, his eyes landing on mine, then my mouth, and his hands come up to frame my face. “Me and you?” he asks, almost like he’s pleading.

“Of course it is,” I try, looking him in the eye as he presses his thumb under the strap over my shoulder. He runs the tip of his fingers down my arm and the dress falls down on one side. I take a fast breath and shiver as he captures my mouth. I press into him, molding myself into his frame. My softness against his fiery mass.

“This is the realest thing that ever was,” I say, aching for him, arching my back.

“Are you shivering for me? Tell me,” he demands.

“I want you,” I say. “I love you so much.” My chest is rising and falling so fast and my body trembles up against his.

“Fuck,” he says, unbuttoning his pants and lifting the silken skirt above my hips. “I wanted it to be sweet,” he says before taking my mouth, the kiss deep and soothing.

He fills me before I can beg for it. My thighs press into the crease of the dresser, my back against the reflective glass.

My hands rake down his back. My calves press into his hips.

And the words. Over and over. Him and me.

Chanting it.

“I love you. I love you. Iloveyou.”

There’s nothing more we need than that.

Nothing more than the truth.

Gifts

“S
anta came!” Riley squeals, waking us from our tangled embrace. She’s knocking on the locked door over and over. I turn to look at Kolton.

“Santa?” I say, grabbing my robe from the end of the bed and putting it on to hide how naked he likes me to sleep. I get up and hand him some sweats and a T-shirt. “Come on, Santa,” I tease and start brushing my teeth.

He comes up behind me and smacks my ass. “He does. Several times.”

I turn and slap him on the chest. “That’s Santa blasphemy.” In the other room, I hear Riley shouting again.

“It’s a drum set!”

“What?” I ask him.

“It’s for the Xbox.”

“You got her an Xbox?”

“Yeah. Your sis is a gamer, Mia. She loves that shit,” he says, kissing me with his minty fresh lips before grabbing my hand and taking me out to the scene of Santa’s overzealousness.

There are stuffed Pokémon toys everywhere, an American Girl doll with an American Girl puppy, and a new TV on top of a gamer console instead of the old TV cabinet with that huge-backed square TV. There’s a Blu-Ray player and some weird-looking chair she’s sitting in and rocking back and forth.

“What’s that?” I ask him.

“A gamer chair!” she yelps. “It’s Bluetooth. It vibrates! It makes you feel like you’re in the game!”

“Do you love it?” I ask.

“And it’s purple!” she yells. “Ohmygod!!!”

I turn toward Kolton. He’s grinning from ear to ear, his hair’s a mess, and he looks so healthy. The color is back in his skin and I have to hug him.

“Thank you,” I whisper with my arms around his neck.

“I think Santa brought something for you, too,” he says. I pull away from him and look at him sideways. He walks over to the tree, picking up a large box and handing it to me.

I pull out the paper and find a large, deep brown leather handbag inside. It’s got white writing on the front that says:

Hermes

Paris

Made in France

And then metal hardware stamped with
Hermes-Paris
on the front, a padlock and key to lock it, along with a dust bag and rain protection bag.
Wait. What?
I look up at him, and he’s standing there with this puzzled expression. “Do you—like it?” he asks. “It’s a Birkin.”

“I, um—aren’t these rare—and only fancy rich people and celebrities own them?”

“Yes,” he admits. “But I know how you are about owning leather, so I bought you a second-hand bag. So that way, you’re reusing it.”

“I’ve never had something like this before,” I admit, in amazement as I run my hand along the soft leather.

“You deserve the best. Besides you’re going to need this when you’re on tour. It’ll hold all of your essentials when you’re on the bus. It’s utilitarian.”

“Utili—what?”

“It means it has use. It’s not just for style,” he says, with confidence.

“You’ve spoiled us,” I whisper, looking at the handbag that costs more than some cars—second-hand. My stomach starts to roll, and a quick sweat forms on the back of my neck. I can’t understand how to accept such nice things. I can’t accept that I’m worthy of this excess.

“Mia, I have the money,” he reassures me, his eyes wide. “I want to spoil you. Let me. Okay? Just enjoy it—Riley is.” I look over at her smile while playing her new Pokémon game and sitting in her special gamer chair surrounded by more Pokémon stuffed toys than I even knew existed. It makes my heart feel warm. I feel surrounded by it.

“Thank you, Kole,” I murmur, as I grab his hand and watch his expression soften. “God. This is just so surreal. This is too much. But I want it; I love it.”

“Let me see you holding it. I want to take a picture,” he says, taking out his phone and waiting for me to pick it up. It’s a large bag. “It’s goat hide,” he explains.

“Goat, Kolton! Why’d you have to tell me that? Now I’m thinking about baby goats. Cute little goats.”

“It didn’t die for you. You’re keeping it out of the landfill,” he laughs. I put it over my elbow and pose for him while standing in my robe so he can take a few pictures.

“I have something for you,” I say, putting the bag down in the box and handing him a small box wrapped in the paper Deloris brought back from a nearby dollar store. “It’s not from Tiffany, or any famous French handbag,” I joke. “But it was handcrafted and I nearly died getting it for you,” I remind him, thinking back to the crowd chasing us into the store and nearly stampeding us. He leans against the breakfast bar and slowly unwraps the box. I’m nervous as he opens it, watching his expression to see if he likes it.

“A pocket watch,” he says, taking it out and feeling its weight in his palm.

“It’s a griffin, like your tattoo. Your family crest,” I try. I can’t read his expression. “Do you like it?” He bites his lip, and pops it open, looking at the watch’s face.

“This is the shit,” he says finally. I take a breath.
Thank God
. I thought I was going to turn blue for lack of oxygen. “I’m gonna look like a bad ass checking the time on this. How’d you even think of it?”

“Honestly, I thought you’d look hot with the chain going into your jeans pocket, or into the inside pocket of a suit jacket.”

“Hot!” he laughs.

“Well. Hotter than usual,” I admit. He grabs me and pulls me into a hug. “I wish I had more to give you,” I admit.

“You’re all I need, love. Look around and see what you’ve given me. This is the first time I’ve really had people to buy Christmas presents for.”

I wrap my finger around the silver chain holding the key around my neck. I wish I could bottle this feeling. Indescribable. Content, but more than that. Complete? No. I don’t know. Happy. Yes, that’s it. I’m incandescently happy.

*     *     *

Dinner arrives; he’s had it delivered. Turkey, of course. Ham, mashed potatoes, and green beans. Some bread that looks like it just came out of the oven. A pumpkin soup, for the vegetarian. Some cranberry sauce, and vegetarian stuffing for all of us. Grilled vegetables, and some hummus with a Mediterranean platter. Three different kinds of pie. Chocolate dipped strawberries, and fresh whipped cream.

“Come on, Riles,” I say, trying to peel her away from her game for the first time all day. She looks a little rough. She’s been playing too long, and the game is still bouncing around in the irises of her eyes.

Deloris, who’s wearing the owl necklace that Riley gave her this morning, sets the last plate on the table, so we each grab one, and start filling them from the make-shift buffet.

Deloris says grace before we’re allowed to eat. The food is so good that, for a little while, none of us are talking. I have this moment where I feel like I’m on the outside, watching a scene of this perfect family, but it’s not real. In this moment, I realize we are as fragile as a bubble newly formed. Once we hit the first obstacle, we’ll burst.

“What’re you thinking about?” Kolton whispers, leaning in. Everyone is chatting around us, laughing. Everyone is lighthearted… everyone except me.

“I’m anxious,” I admit, tapping my finger on the handle of my fork.

“Me, too,” he says, surprising me. “I don’t want this to end, but I know it will because we can’t stay forever. But, for right now, I need you to stay with me in the moment. We’ll deal with the rest later.”

“What will end?” I ask.

“The perfectness,” he says, looking at me sideways.

“What happens next? I go on tour at the end of January.”

“We have a gig. New Year’s Eve. Times Square, remember?” I rest my back against the chair and search my memory for having agreed to sing that night. I don’t remember it at all.

“Is it a
The Stage
thing?” I ask, genuinely confused.

“Yeah. It was in your contract. But I asked to sing with you alone. They jumped on it. It’s set.” My heart starts to pound in my ear, and my stomach begins to worry thinking about leaving and going back out in the scary world.

“I mean, I guess I don’t have to worry about my safety anymore,” I say, and then wince because I’ve just brought up Katharina’s death. At the dinner table. On Christmas day. Fuck.

He takes a deep breath. “No. You don’t,” he agrees, his jaw tensing so much I can see it through his new beard. “But whatever you need to feel safe, we’ll do that.” He sounds so sure. It takes one of the knots out of my stomach. Just one, but one less is better than nothing. I smile. It’s a real one meant only for him.

Out From Under

“W
e’re taking a G6.”

“And that explains everything,” I tease, as he leans against the cabinets while I cook breakfast.

“It’s for our trip to New York,” he clarifies.

“But what is a G6? A different helicopter?”

“No,” he says, sticking his bottom lip out a little. “It’s a small jet that flies above the weather at about thirty-thousand feet. It would take several days to get to New York via helicopter. We’d have to stop at least five times or more to refuel and rest the engine.”