My phone buzzed, reminding me to take it off the charger before I left. After the incident at the skate park, I was more careful about keeping it with me.
“Ten o’clock. Not so bad this time, Zoe.” I might even be able to find someone to hit the boardwalk with me. I flicked through a few notifications on my emails and did a mental tag for two jobs at the end of the week. I locked my studio behind me and wandered down the hall to the common area. A commercial for the next superhero movie was on the TV.
A few of the girls I knew well enough to say hi to in the hall were sprawled out on the beanbag chairs that littered the huge room. I wandered out to the back patio and found Bent lazily rocking in his massive swing. He’d challenged two of our woodworking artists to make a “man-sized” swing. Considering Bent was approximately the size of a redwood, it took some doing.
He didn’t even bother looking up from his book, just held up his finger and pointed over his shoulder. “Eat something, baby girl.”
I rolled my eyes, but the scent of Bent’s famous jambalaya put the kibosh on a trip to the boardwalk. I’d rather sit out here anyway. I filled one of the large bowls stacked next to the Crock-Pot. No InstaPot for Bent. His food was made on a low simmer in his mama’s ancient setup. I knew that because he’d told me a million times how much better a seasoned slow cooker was. I dug around a bit and found some fresh brown bread. Bent was technically our property manager, but it was pretty much code for den mother. He cooked for us a few times a week and gave us life lessons whether or not we wanted them.
I knew not to interrupt him. Bent was serious about his books. You only interrupted him when there was blood or fire involved. Since I had neither going on, I just settled in one of the large rattan chairs at the edge of the fire pit and dug into my food. Since I was pretty sure I hadn’t spoken to another human in four days-ish, I was content to wait a little longer.
Facebook held little appeal, but it was the only way to keep up with my family. I rejected approximately fourteen friend requests from creepy guys and another fifty from women I’d never met or heard of. Between the news articles after my a
ttack, and Ian’s unrelenting posts on Instagram, my name got around a lot more than I’d like. His fans were—well, incredible was one word for them.
Insane, obsessive, and scary were a few more.
It didn’t even matter that I didn’t reply to his posts, they had it in their heads that we were more than acquaintances.
Yeah, that was what it was.
I was too exhausted to lie to myself.
The spicy rice and pork filled me up and made me sleepy. Scrolling through Instagram showed me all the ridiculous ways that Ian used Matilda, my Polaroid camera, in pictures. They were getting more and more outlandish.
The latest post included my camera and my sunglasses on a scarred pub table with a flight of frothy beers. Evidently, Ian was getting into the microbreweries that were popping up everywhere. This one was in northern California, a few miles from Oregon.
I swiped through a series of photos on that post. Even fans wanted to pose with Matilda now.
I’d need to bleach the hell out of her before I used her again. If I ever got to use her again.
I fell asleep with my fingers clutched around my phone and Ian’s laugh echoing in my brain. He followed me into dreams again.
I couldn’t escape him. Or was it that I didn’t want to?
Eleven
Margo Kagan bit into an apple, What To Expect When You’re Expecting in hand, as she made her way through their spacious living room. The apple thing was supposed to give her energy since caffeine was now on her list of no-nos. How was she supposed to stay upright?
An eight-ounce coffee was safe.
That was a thimbleful in her world.
She’d need to eat a bag of apples a day to get through this pregnancy. At least if her energy level of the last few weeks was any indication. The baby book said her second trimester would be much better. She was doubtful. Those baby books hadn’t been written with a touring rock band in mind.
Hmm. Maybe she should get one of the girls on that. There was enough babymaking going on.
Then again, she hadn’t been able to tell anyone. Even Lila, her best friend. Which was fucking killing her. Just because her head was going to rotate didn’t mean they had to keep it a secret. And okay, so they’d had a band meeting about holding off on babies so they could tour. Shit happened, right?
And soon it wouldn’t be able to be hidden, either. Those involved with Oblivion men—and Oblivion women—had too much baby knowledge for her to hide it much longer.
Being neurotic on her own sucked. Evidently, her poker face was far better than she ever thought it was, because no one seemed to be the least bit suspicious. She wasn’t sure if she was offended or hurt that there was nothing different about her. Maybe their visit to the doctor’s today would help.
However, her husband was taking everything to heart when it came to the very dogeared copy of the famous baby book he’d stolen from Nick’s house.
He’d scribbled in a notebook and tagged so many pages in Nick and Lila’s copy that Simon had actually gone to a bookstore and bought his own. She was pretty sure he was going to give her a dissertation next. Then again, the bookstore had been a rabbit hole of epic proportions. He’d come out with two shopping bags filled to the brim with books and magazines.
Keeping a lid on this pregnancy was getting more and more difficult. There were so many babies being born between Oblivion and Warning Sign that buying a baby book was barely cause for a rumor in the paparazzi market. Thirty of them was a little more precarious.