“I’m not stupid,” he says, standing too. He reaches for my arm but I move just in time. The second time I don’t. He has me by the shoulder, painfully pulling me closer while trying to push me down. “You and Petey’s little bathroom escapade will be in all of tomorrow’s papers if you don’t give me the same treatment you gave him—on your knees and more.”
No. No no no. I jerk my shoulder out from under his hand and sprint for the door. “I have pictures,” he calls after me, walking behind me, following like a cloud of doom. “You might as well just fuck me and be done with it.”
I reach the front door, and only stop for a second. “Fuck off, Clay.” But I can barely get the words out.
In my car, I can feel the bile rising. I need to find a place where I can throw up that’s not on the street, but I need more than that. I need Peter. I drive down the hill from his house and pull into the first spot I find on Sunset Boulevard, in front of a casual restaurant. I burst into the restaurant, startling a couple of people, and I manage to dial Peter’s number just before I’m in the bathroom and hurling my guts up. Peter answers the phone, but I can’t speak. Not right now. I’m sure the sound of vomit isn’t what he expected when he took my call.
I can hear the panic in his voice. “Amber? What’s going on.”
“I need you,” I say, weakly.
“Where are you?”
I tell him. I’m not sure what the restaurant is called, but he assures me that he’ll find it and then hangs up. I throw up again, and my body keeps going until there’s nothing left to throw up. Even then I’m gagging.
It’s not lost on me that I’m in a public bathroom, the scene of exactly what put me here, which brings on another round of heaving. But I finally manage to stop my stomach from rolling and flush the toilet. I don’t move from the floor. I need to wipe my mouth. I need water. But I’m not moving, not until Peter gets here.
I can’t stop imagining that I’m going to walk out of the bathroom door and Clay is going to be standing there, that he followed me and is going to corner me publicly. I know that’s probably not true, but I can’t shake the feeling.
Not long after I get control of my stomach, the tears follow. I feel stupid, because nothing happened, but I can’t stop crying.
The door opens, and it’s Peter’s voice. “Amber?”
I must be loud enough to hear, because I don’t have to answer before he’s pushing into the handicap stall and is on the ground with me pulling me into his lap. I didn’t lock the door because I was too busy losing whatever food I’d eaten today.
The minute he puts his hands on me, my body relaxes, because it’s safety. It strikes me that this really does mean that we’ve moved past everything, because there was a time when if you asked me if Peter Holleman was the person who made me feel safe, I would have said no. He holds me tight as I bury my head into his shirt and fight for control, even if I don’t need it with him. It takes a while.
But when I’m not crying as hard, he finally asks, “What happened?”
Thinking about it nearly sends me scrambling for the toilet again, but I hold on, digging my fingers into his shirt and jeans. I’m suddenly tired, practically swaying, and I realize that I haven’t said anything. “You threw up?” he asks.
I nod.
“We should get some food or sugar into you. Are you okay to go out into the restaurant? I’ll find us a place in the corner, no one will be the wiser.”
I’m not usually in this part of town, and there wouldn’t be any paparazzi interested in me going to Clay Markham’s house, and having some kind of drink to wash the bad taste out of my mouth sounds nice. “Okay.”
He helps me to my feet, and I wash my mouth while he looks for a booth or table, and he holds my hand while he guides me to it, and doesn’t let it go when he sits across the booth from me, or when the waitress comes and he orders me coffee and a slice of blueberry pie. My voice is raspy as I speak. “You remember that I like that?”
“I remember everything, Amber.” I look down, and he adds his other hand to hold mine. It’s cradled, and comforted. “What happened?”
This seems like a completely different world from the one we were living in this afternoon, where we were sexy and teasing and happy. It’s absurd. But he needs to know. “Clay texted me as I was leaving the studio and told me that the producers had concerns about the story, and I was pissed that they were still going to him about things like that. So I met with him. But he lied.”