Beauty and the Baller

Some of the blood returns to my brain.

Wait . . .

A sinking feeling trickles in.

Did I . . . did I call her . . . Whitney?

No way. Impossible.

My heart drops to my stomach as realization kicks in.

Jesus, I totally did, but . . . it wasn’t like that.

It just wasn’t.

I don’t know what to say. She heard me, of course. Grimacing, I stare at the back of her head and wrestle with how to explain about Whitney’s death, how she died in my arms, how it was my fault . . . but those memories are full of thorns.

I search for words, but my tongue feels thick, my brain sluggish, fighting through the haze of bourbon. I should say I’m sorry, I should ask what her name is, I should tell her that she’s the best thing that’s happened to me in a year . . .

Exhaustion wins and drags me under.

When I wake up, my head is stuffed with cotton balls. Sunlight glints in through the blinds, and I rub at the grit in my eyes. Tensing, I turn to look at the pillow next to me. There’s no one there, not even an indentation. The room is dead quiet except for the blaring horns from the traffic outside. A heavy feeling settles in my chest, and I can’t decide if I’m relieved or disappointed she left. I rake my hands through my hair, frowning, as I try to piece the night together. It might take a while.

I hiss when I see that it’s two in the afternoon, and I’ve missed lunch with Whitney’s parents in Connecticut. Cursing under my breath, I yank my pants off the floor, fish out my phone, and then fire off a text apologizing.

I collapse back on the bed. One thing is clear. I had sex.

Guilt chews me with sharp teeth, then spits me out in disgust. Couldn’t I have waited until after Whitney’s one-year anniversary? Doesn’t she deserve that? I loved her with my whole heart, with everything inside me, yet it feels as if I betrayed her.

Swallowing thickly, I get up and grab my clothes, when a golden arm cuff rolls out of my shirt. I rub my fingers over the thick metal, my head flashing to last night. I recall us dancing, the sex, yet . . . I frown, squinting. She was blonde, yes. She had blue eyes, yes, but the rest is vague and blurry.

Sure, I’ve been blackout drunk, but how can I remember the awe in her eyes when we met, her bubbliness, the smell of her neck . . . yet not her features?

Maybe I don’t want to? Guilt over Whitney? I exhale. I don’t know.

Another memory trickles in, ugly and harsh, and a curse escapes my lips. I called her Whitney. A fresh wave of remorse settles over me. Jesus. No wonder she left without a word.

My insides twist as I glare at the whiskey bottle on the nightstand as if it’s to blame.

Deep breaths come from my chest as I pace around the room, my head churning. I pick up the bottle and toss it in the trash. Something has to give. I can’t keep doing this to myself, to my body. The truth is I’m numbing myself, wallowing, spiraling closer and closer to destruction. This isn’t me. I’m not a drunk. I’m a former superstar. I’m Ronan Smith and . . . I pause as clarity runs through my head. I want my life back, no matter what that may be.

Closing my eyes, I touch the ring around my neck.

Today is when everything changes.

Chapter 2

NOVA

Two and a half years later

A white Jeep roars into my yard, barely missing my mailbox; stalls for a second; and then mows through my flower bed. Azaleas, monkey grass, pampas grass, all driven over, but when it takes out my yellow rosebush—the one Mama planted for my first birthday—I’m ready to murder someone.

I stamp my foot and pull out my earbuds in the middle of “Unchained Melody,” by the Righteous Brothers.

Sparky hisses, his back arching.

There. I’m justified in my anger. He only hisses at bad shit.

Standing on the sidewalk under the glow of a streetlight, I lift Sparky up and rub his head, his blue cat eyes still glaring at the car as it backs out of my yard (without acknowledging us), then jumps the curb and lands on the road. The vehicle zooms through the stop sign at the end of our street, then takes a harrowing right turn onto the highway.

“Thank God we weren’t in her way,” I mutter, and by her, I mean the girl who burst from the house next door shouting “It’s over! I mean it this time!” and then threw herself into the Jeep that nearly killed us.

Someone new is living in the old Locke house.