“Hey, Hawke,” I call out.
He stops, turning his head just enough to show his profile. “Yeah?”
“Thanks, man.”
A slash of red colors his cheek, visible for only a brief second before he walks out. Hawke speaks with his back to me. “Anytime, man. You’d do it for me.”
And I would. We get each other. More than anyone knows. The two of us were brought together by horrifying circumstances. Despite our troubles, we bonded right away and have been friends ever since. Almost eleven years.
I shudder. I can’t believe it’s been nearly eleven years to the day since I sat on the beach and swallowed a handful of pills. If that lady and her dog hadn’t found me… I shake my head, pushing it out of my mind.
I brush the fuzz off my teeth and splash water on my face. Bracing my hands on either side of the sink, I stare at the mirror, trying to remember a time that I didn’t hate the person on the other side.
“Fuck.” I push off the counter in disgust.
“Gavin, let’s go!”
Smile, Walker. Hawke is doing this for himself as well as you.
I fix my facial expression, grab my wallet, and head into the sitting room.
“Ready?” Hawke turns off the screen and slips his phone in his pocket.
“Ready as I’ll ever be to see some ‘art or some shit’.” I make air quotes, holding back a chuckle.
“Fuck off, Gav.” Hawke flips me the bird.
“Yeah, yeah. Come on.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. Hawke reaches out and pulls open the door to the suite. “After you, sir.”
I flinch, glancing into the hall to make sure it’s empty before stepping out.
“Hey,” Hawke grabs my arm. “You’re safe, okay?”
I nod even though I don’t believe a word he says.
“Right. I know.”
We take the elevator down to the lobby of the gilded, upscale Peninsula Hotel. The entire ride, my mind mulls over all the ways someone could walk up and hurt one of us. Hell, some psycho did it to Sydney Tannen a few years back. It could happen to me. I swallow around my thick tongue, my heart pounding against my ribcage.
“M-maybe security should come upstairs next time,” I whisper, sweat collecting at the back of my neck.
“If that’s what you want, Gav. Whatever it takes,” Hawke murmurs, his shoulder bumping mine to let me know he’s there.
Outside, we climb into the waiting car and I’m able to relax. Not much, but a little.
Halfway through the displays at the MOMA—I opted for the Warhol exhibit—I begin to enjoy myself. I’m no longer observing the other patrons. Checking each face to see who looks like a psychopath and who looks normal.
The bodyguard hired by the label trails behind. He leaves enough space that I can forget he’s there, but stays close enough to keep me from feeling vulnerable. Regardless, he can’t stop fans from whispering when they recognize us, or from asking for autographs. Every time someone approaches, my throat closes up and my heart skips a beat. Despite it all, I manage to have a good time.
Hours later, Hawke is cackling the entire way back to the hotel. “Fucking soup cans! Shit. I wish I thought of that. I’d be rich.”
My expression must be a sight because Hawke’s eyes widen and he laughs harder. “You are rich,” I say drily.
He snorts. “Yeah, I know. But soup cans!” Hawke has laughing fits all the way back up to my room. This time, at my request, the big bodyguard joins us.
“Dude, you’re losing your mind.” I snicker, sliding my keycard into the slot. When the light turns green, I push it open.