Fake (West Hollywood 1)

I winced. “Sorry.”

He just nodded.

“And Precious is a no.”

His lips were pressed so tightly together they started to turn white.

“Would you like an ice pack for your family jewels?” I asked.

“That might be a good idea, actually.”

I climbed off the bed and carefully stretched my arm. It ached like holy heck. To be expected, I guess. It was only when I opened the bedroom door and faced the dark hallway that things went south. My mouth dried and my body stopped.

“You okay?” asked Patrick from the bed.

“Yeah.” And I was. I totally was. I just couldn’t get my damn feet to move.

All stayed silent behind me for a while. Then the bedsheets rustled and he limped to my side. Poor wounded warrior. He was wearing another pair of those soft sleep pants. But I was in too much of a state to admire his half-naked body. Objectifying him at the best of times was wrong. Right after I’d abused his balls just seemed plain rude.

“How about we go get it together?” he suggested.

“It’s okay. I can do this. I need to do this.”

He flicked on the hallway light. No boogeymen waiting to jump out at me. No stalkers hidden in the shadows with weapons in their hands. Just the gloss of the polished concrete floor and the clean white walls. The stark modern paintings. Everything was fine.

“There’s two security personnel outside keeping an eye on things,” he said. “You’ll have around-the-clock protection from now on.”

I swallowed hard.

“I want you to know, Norah, I am so fucking sorry about today. Nothing like that will ever happen again if I can help it.”

I nodded and forced my foot forward. One step at a time. Past the office, gym, and home theater. Next came the guest bedroom where Jack slept. Opposite which sat my room with its carved-up door. There were some impressive gouges in the wood, care of Beth’s knife. One lone dark spot of blood lingered on the floor, though the rest was gone.

And still Patrick watched in silence.

I headed on into the living room, turning on a light. The wall of glass doors leading outside showed only black emptiness and my own reflection. Perfect for making the most of the view, but damn creepy when you stopped and considered if anyone might be watching out there. My mind was wide awake. My whole body over aware. I didn’t know how else to describe it. And all the while, my heart hammered inside my chest.

I made a rush for the kitchen and the freezer, grabbing a bag of frozen vegetables. Victory. Male voices speaking softly came from behind me. Jack and Patrick now waited in the living room, both wearing identical expressions of concern. Like I might burst into tears or have a meltdown at any moment. Jack still wore jeans and a tee. Guess he hadn’t made it to bed yet. Unless musicians went to bed in their Levi’s. Who knows?

“I hear you struck a blow for all of womankind,” said Jack, fetching his acoustic guitar from the corner of the room.

“As my grandmother says, treat ’em mean, keep ’em keen.”

Patrick took the bag of frozen goodies with a pained smile. His manspread was mighty as he placed the mixed peas, carrots, and beans in his lap. Then he looked to me and patted the empty space on the couch by his side. Of course he wanted to keep me close so he could keep an eye on things. He felt guilty about today. It made sense.

“What time is it?” I asked, getting comfortable.

“Just after midnight,” said Jack, taking a seat on the couch. He started plucking at the strings, playing a beautiful melody without even looking. “How are you feeling?”

I gave him the best smile I could manage. It was pretty average. “I’m okay.”

“Dad had a stalker for years. Sent him all these deranged messages,” said Jack. “He kept turning up at the house, trying to get in. It was scary as all hell when I was a kid.”

“I bet.”

“Finally, they put his ass in jail.”

“Are you going to see your dad while you’re in town?” asked Patrick.

Jack pursed his lips and shook his head. “Nope.”

“It’s been a while.”

“It has,” he agreed. “Years, in fact.”

Patrick scratched at the stubble on his chin and said no more.

I didn’t know much about Angus Gilmour. Just the basics. One of the early greats of the grunge rock movement, he’d married and had a child, Jack, while young. When grunge faded, he’d moved into alt rock. The marriage had been turbulent, as detailed in many of his songs, and the couple eventually wound up divorcing. It must have been wild, growing up in that scene, in that sort of household. Being born a second-generation celebrity with money, privilege, and recognition. But I kept those thoughts to myself.