CHAPTER 13
Cory
I roll up an old Grateful Dead t-shirt and toss it toward my suitcase—bullseyethankyouverymuch—and hum under my breath. I’m in such a good mood. Scratch that. I’m in a great mood, and rightfully so. Four hours later, I’m still feeling the leftover high from this morning’s Rockefeller Plaza concert. The performance was good. Scratch that again. It was great. We were, in the poetic words of the extremely-hot-in-person Today Show host, freaking awesome. It had been one of those moments when everything came together. The band was in sync, I was completely on my game, and we all knew it. The audience was into the show, the energy was simmering, the passersby stopped walking to watch us perform, and no one was swayed by the sweltering early June heat. The most exhilarating part of all: everyone had braved the temperatures for hours just to hear me sing three songs. The smell of sweat made me feel more alive than I have in weeks.
And now I’m finished. On to vacation. No more work for four weeks. My life is so much better than the men who wear suits and carry briefcases for a living. Score one for me.
I snatch up a red tie to toss it in the suitcase, and all I see is hair. Short hair. Spiky hair. The tie slips between my fingers. And then I see yellow. A yellow shirt that morphs into yellow hair the color of antique gold as it drips with wet, murky water.
And there it is again, that deep sense of dread rushing in like a tidal wave with the sole intent of pulling me under. Choking me. Squeezing me until there’s nothing left but shriveled lungs inside a lifeless body. My life sucks. No matter how hard I try, I’m still fooling myself. I’m not normal, not even close. I have more problems piling up than I’ve ever had, one on top of another like playing cards being dealt in a game of blackjack. I keep losing my hand. Over and over and over.
Four weeks of vacation won’t change that sad fact.
But as quickly as that thought comes, I shove it aside. This is out of control. Why can’t I be normal? What’s the customary timetable for grieving the lost, anyway? I shouldn’t be expected to act depressed forever. I have a right to move on. I’m entitled to get my life back. I can’t walk around like a martyr for the rest of my life, right?
I heave my suitcase on the bed, groaning at its weight. I didn’t even pack that much, but I’ve accumulated more crap on this tour than on all the others combined. I pick up a nearby example and hold it up to the light; a see-through, pink lace bra. Who tossed this onstage and why did I keep it? I grin to myself, thinking of a dozen different reasons that no one needs to know about. I stuff it under a pair of brown hiking boots and snag more items off the bed. Two G-strings—one pink, one black because some women are crazy-good at disrobing in public and aiming items at my feet—my toothbrush, toothpaste, shaving kit, a dirty pair of socks, three belts, pair of black boxers. So much junk everywhere and I’ve only packed half. I really should have taken care of this before last night’s concert.
Last night’s concert. The last show of the tour.
Even though a sense of sadness always comes over me at the end of a long stretch of performances, one thing is certain: I’m ready to hop on a plane to Miami—the first leg of my Do Nothing While Trying to Remain Anonymous vacation. After Miami comes England—where I plan to blend with the tourists and take in the sights I never have time to see while performing. The palaces. The cathedrals. Every corner pub from Surrey to Notting Hill. After England, the rest of the summer is unscheduled, exactly the way I want it. I’m sick of schedules. Tired of every moment of my life being planned out and overbooked to the point that I even have to ask to sleep. Well now I’m going to sleep, and if I want to knock myself out for three straight days on a distant shoreline, no one will be around to tell me I can’t.
I’m sick of people too.
A sharp rap on the door jolts me out of my darkening mood. Funny how moods can spike and dip so quickly, especially lately. I glance at the clock on the bedside table and reach for the door handle. Three hours until my flight, plenty of time to make it no matter who needs me right now.
But when I open the door, I’m suddenly not so sure. Sal is long-winded, and I’m not in the mood to talk. Walking back toward the bed, I decide to put him to good use and gesture for him to follow me. “Help me with this, will you?”
“Nice to see you too,” Sal says, closing the door behind him.
“Yeah yeah, I saw you less than twelve hours ago.” I say. “But I can’t get my suitcase closed.”
“Sit on it and I’ll zip it around you.”
I smirk. “If you were a woman that might be something I’d be into.”
He hits me with an eye roll. “Just sit on it.”
Thirty seconds later, my suitcase is zipped and propped by the door.
“Have you already called for a car?” Sal asks.
I pick up the phone and punch in the number for the front desk. “Doing that now. The sooner I get out of here the sooner I can forget all the crap I’ve been dealing with.”
“Hang it up.”
There’s something in his tone. Something that keeps the receiver pressed to my ear even as I stare at him. Even as I push a button to disconnect the call.
“What is it?”
He holds up his hands. “Nothing serious, I just want to make sure we’re on the same page about how you’re going to spend the time off.”
I breathe a sigh of relief. “We’ve already gone over it. I’m going to Florida, then England, then wherever to mood takes me. I don’t want a schedule, so don’t ask me for one.”
“I’m not asking for an itinerary. Only for mutual understanding.”
I send him a look. “I already promised not to go back. She’s not going to sue, and that’s all that matters.” Something tugs at my conscience when I deliver those words, but I do my best to ignore it. I’m done with the guilt. There’s only so much one man should be expected to carry, and none of it will bring that chick’s sister back to life anyway.
“Alright, as long as we’re clear. The story is barely talked about now, and we need to keep it that way. You don’t need the negative press.”
And the thing is, he’s right. As the saying goes, all publicity is good publicity. Unless you’re dealing with death. In that case, all publicity is a question mark on your character and the possibility that you belong in jail. Many people have called for my public hanging, or at the very least for me to be stripped of royalties and future record deals. That kind of press is difficult to overcome, but somehow I’ve managed to avoid losing any business deals. So far.
I’m not about to put myself back in that particular spotlight.
I slip on a pair of sunglasses and drag my suitcase out the door, knowing Sal is following behind me with my other two bags. As usual, a limo is waiting beyond the hotel’s revolving doors, along with a half-dozen paparazzi with machine-gun-sized cameras pointed straight at my head. Flashes explode in my face like artillery shells, but I don’t flinch. I’m used to the lights by now, if not the string of shouted questions. The trick is to remain rigid, to not give a reaction. It’s the only way I’ve found to make it through the incredible invasion of privacy and lack of personal space.
I duck in the back seat of the limo while the driver loads my bags into the trunk.
Sal knocks on my window. I push a button and let the window fall a couple of inches.
“Call me when you get to Miami,” he says. “We need to go over schedules and song choices. I know four weeks seems like a long time, but if we’re going to stay on schedule with the next album, we need to have everything lined up by the time you get back.” Sal types something into his phone. “And send me samples of any songs you write so I can present them to producers. That way when you get back we can—”
I pop in my earbuds and turn up the volume, letting Coldplay fill my ears. I’m done with this conversation. I can’t take another second of work talk, not now.
“Two weeks,” I hold up two fingers, unable to hear my own voice. “I’ll call you in two weeks. Everything can wait until then.”
“But—” Sal tries to protest.
In response, I roll up the window and lean my head back on my seat. It’s rude, but right now I’m trying to get back to loving my life. Really love it. Usually I do.
Not always. Not if I’m telling the truth.
I crook an arm over my eyes and close them.
Truth.
It’s a word I barely recognize anymore. What does it even mean? And can you pretend to be interested in discovering the meaning when you’ve spent so long literally running from it?
Ten years.
Ten years running.
And now, for reasons I don’t understand, all the running is catching up to me and I have no one to tell. No one to talk to without coming across as a complaining celebrity egomaniac with self-image as large as his work ethic is small. My life is so hard. Who would believe it? People believe what they want to believe. And lately most want to believe the worst.
The limo finally pulls away from the curb. I focus on the music, letting the pounding rhythm block out all thoughts of schedules, song choices, phone calls, and wavy haired grieving sisters who fling unfounded accusations like political pundits hurl insults on twenty-four-hour news channels.
I don’t have any real friends. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about.
I think of my brother, my parents, the guys I knew in high school, the girl. But that was before. Before time and bad mistakes and—
I sit up straighter in my seat.
My cell phone vibrates from its spot on my knee, and I bite back a dozen curse words. The driver doesn’t deserve to hear my foul mouth right now. But Sal always does this; he can’t go five minutes without needing something, even when I demand to be left alone. I don’t even look at the phone, just let it ring and turn my head to the side, staring at the scenery outside as it passes in a blur. I have four weeks off. It won’t kill Sal to let me spend the first two in silence.
We pull to a stop light when my phone buzzes a single time. I frown. Sal might call incessantly, but he rarely leaves a message. He knows how much I hate voicemail.
Curious, I pick up my phone and check the number on the screen. Everything in me trips at the sight. My nerves. My thoughts. My pulse.
It isn’t Sal. It isn’t any number I recognize. I turn on my messages and listen as someone coughs. Sniffs. And tries to speak.
“Cory…um…Mr. Minor. It’s Samantha. I mean Sam, Kassie’s sister?” She sniffs again. Rapidly. Three times like she’s crying. “I’m calling to let you know that Megan—the other girl in the car?—she died last night.” Her voice breaks on a sob. “You said to call you if, well…if you have a moment, could you please call me? I know you’re busy, but…”
I don’t hear the rest of her words.
The phone drops to the floor.
My head drops to my knees.
Two girls.
Scratch that. Three girls.
Dead.
Because of me.
Why does this keep happening? And when is it ever going to stop?