CHAPTER 8
EMILY
I wasn’t much of a drug user. I’d smoked a few times in the High School of the Arts. Dropped acid once. Did my share of drinking. Once we got to LA, I saw how people acted on drugs, and mostly they were fine until the chemicals reached their brain. Then, no matter who they were, they were douchebags.
I had to dance the pot through my system. Sweat it out. I got up and did Darlene’s first dance in my dining room.
The first thing I ever choreographed for Darlene was one-two-three-and-up-and-turn-and-punch-and-bend-and—
I was a singer and dancer. Feeling fake euphoria or really shitty wasn’t good for my performance. Smoking hurt my throat. Drinking depressed my immune system. So I just passed. The only time I felt really and truly free was when my body and the music worked together to make something new. Without that feeling of connection, I felt broken.
One-two-three-and-up-and-turn-and-punch-and-bend-and—
I wasn’t prepared for how my body would react when the marijuana left it. I felt awake and exhausted. Sweaty-palmed. Confused. I was watching a show, then another, and didn’t remember changing the channel. When I closed my eyes, I concentrated on the light bursts behind my lids in a way that was mentally uncomfortable.
One-two-three-and-up-and-turn-and-punch-and-bend-and—
The moves weren’t connected to my pleasure centers. I did them because I could. Because I wanted to work the drug through and out of my body. Because I didn’t want to eat another chip. I just wanted someone to talk to. Barring that, I’d dance.
My phone dinged, and I scooped it up.
—Was it fun, babe?—
Vince didn’t have my new number, and I’d blocked his. But there he was. I took a screenshot of the text just like I was supposed to. Because he was admitting he was the one who put the pot in my brownies and that he’d found my number.
Except, since the number wasn’t his old one and I’d blocked him, this could be anyone.
And if I engaged him, I was giving him what he wanted, control over my time and my thoughts.
I knelt down. Tried to take a deep breath, because that was what a girl did to relax. Right? Take a breath. Think. Except I couldn’t think. Not clearly. I couldn’t decide if it was him, and I didn’t know if I needed proof or if it mattered, and my brain was all cocked up with stuff and things and the two millimeters between the edge of my nail polish and my cuticle. How all my toes had the same amount.
Would Darlene be proud of me if I texted back and proved it was Vince? Would the police say, “Good work”? Or would that open the door for him?
Just as I was obsessing over open doors, there was a buzz from the front gate.
I swallowed about four internal organs.
What was I supposed to do? I had a plan in place. What was it? The gate was modest, coming right up to the sidewalk, and had a keypad, microphone, and buzzer. The fence obscured the view of the house. I had cameras everywhere. Of all the security systems in Los Angeles, it wasn’t even close to the most exhaustive, but it made sense for the neighborhood and was a good deterrent.
Brain. Fucking brain.
I had a button to push. A red button on a keychain that would alert the police. It was on my bag, which was near the door, and there was one Louisville Slugger in the car and one in the front closet I was supposed to wield in case of emergency.
But I wasn’t supposed to answer the buzzer or acknowledge him at all.
I tiptoed to the front closet, wishing myself invisible so I could check the monitor and confirm it was my psycho ex.
The security closet had a monitor for each camera. The front gate feed showed a man in front, and it wasn’t Vince. Not at all. There wasn’t an ounce of douche on the guy. He was still in his suit. Tall and strong, looking down one end of the street, then the other, checking for danger.
I pushed the microphone button, and he spoke before I could say anything.
“Emily? It’s Carter. Carter Kincaid.”
His name was sexier every time I heard it.
“You nearly gave me a heart attack.”
“Sorry. I should have called first.”
I opened the door and padded down the front walk in my bare feet. The night was warm, and the stones were cool. The squirrels rustled the loquat tree.
I turned the lock and opened the heavy gate.
“Hey,” I said. “I thought you were at the music thing?”
“Darlene’s fine. Thor has her. Do you always answer this gate by yourself?” He touched the gate frame, putting his finger in the hole to make sure the dead bolt was deep enough, eyeing the buzzer, the keypad, the knob.
“It’s not like I have a staff.”
“Yeah. Well . . .”
“You can stop looking at everything. I’ll point out where the cameras are.”
“No need.”
He moved his eyes from the security system to my body, making me realize I wasn’t dressed appropriately. I’d peeled off my sweatpants when I started dancing around, leaving me in Lycra short shorts and a crop top. He’d seen me in outfits like this a hundred times during rehearsal, but without the safety of two dozen dancers and assorted hangers-on, I felt naked.
And I kind of liked it, because it was him.
“Didn’t you come to look at my security system?” I didn’t care why he came. I wanted him to stay. I needed company.
“I wanted to see how you were feeling.”
“It’s complicated.” I stepped out of the way and handed him my phone with the text open. “Come in.”