McKenna

AS SOON AS Matt left that day, I called my attorney and made sure the restraining order was put in place. But, as many women know, a piece of paper isn’t necessarily an effective weapon. So Matt’s shown up at places I’ve gone—like the grocery store—and stays just far enough away that I can’t do anything about it. He’s haunted my steps, which has made me more and more of a recluse.

But not today. Today, I have to go to the Project’s Big Reveal. It’s the day the finalists for the national competition are announced.

And Ozzy will be there.

I lace up my shoes and stand. Grabbing my phone, my finger hovers over Ozzy’s name. Matt’s threat forced me to keep my distance from him and it’s been torture. It’s taken all of my willpower not to drive over to his house and throw myself in his arms, dumping all my problems—and Matt’s threat against his life—on him.

No.

This is my fight. He’s already seen me struggle to keep my mom under control—I can’t let him know I also have my father’s life on my conscience, and a psychotic ex-boyfriend on my tail. I’m supposed to be his muse, not a woman who can’t keep her world in check. I toss the phone onto my bed and add more concealer under my eyes. Yes, retreating from Ozzy is for the best. But, it’s killing me by inches.

Straightening the sheer sleeves of my blouse, I give myself the same pep talk I’ve been using all week. He’s better off without you. You’re doing him a favor. It’s better he’s alive and with someone else than with you and dead. And, above all, this is my responsibility to resolve. The law did its part, now it’s my turn to keep everyone safe.

“Are you almost ready?”

A smile crosses my face. Mom’s been having a really good week, never once forgetting time. That could be because I’ve been home these nights on a reliable basis, as opposed to flitting through her life and throwing off her sense of normalcy. She’s what matters. I need to stay grounded for her above all else. “Almost, Mom!”

I put on some eyeliner and mascara, flip my full head of brunette hair—no color appealed—and place a printed copy of the graphics into my bag. I set up the entire display yesterday on the Project’s computer system, but grab a thumb drive with it on just in case. Can’t be too prepared.

Walking into the hallway, Mom motions me over to the living room’s bay window. She twirls her finger in a circle, and I obey, giving her a three-sixty of my outfit. She laughs. “I don’t know where you got your sense of style, but you always look spectacular. Your work is going to be adored today.”

I kiss her cheek. “I hope so.” No need to let her worry about the monetary aspect if I don’t make it into the national competition. I can tell her the good news later. Hopefully.

“I wish I could go to the party with you. But my mind sometimes leaves me.” Clearing her throat, she continues, “Know I’m there with you in spirit, cheering you on.”

It’s as if someone punched me in the chest. That she’s still aware—on any level—of what’s happening to her is tragic. I force a sunny smile. “Thanks, Mom. Honestly, I don’t think I’ll be gone too long.”

She pats my hair. “Now stop trying to play this down. It’s a big deal.” She hugs me. “You’re my big deal.”

I blink back tears and check the clock. “Well, I better go. I’ll let you know all about it when I get home.”

“Knock ‘em dead!” She picks up her knitting and starts another new hat. She sends me off with the same words of encouragement that I gave Ozzy before he did his shows—thoughts of the man send a pang through my heart.

I walk out of the house and gulp some air. Ozzy’s going to be there. I haven’t seen him in over a week and our texts have become more perfunctory as the days passed. Sometimes he didn’t even respond. It’s all for the best. If Matt sees us together—and he’s always around me somewhere—he could kill Ozzy. I can’t be responsible for another death. I can’t.

Swiping the tears away from my cheeks, I hop into my Honda and head off toward the venue for the party. As I drive, more tears course down my cheeks. I miss Ozzy so badly.

Getting my emotions in check, I wonder if he’ll come to the event alone. I can’t imagine he’s met someone else. Who am I kidding? He’s probably met several someones. After all, it’s been days. When it comes to Ozzy and sex, that’s like dog years. I sniffle as I turn into the parking lot.

Once inside the party, I plaster a fake smile on my face and greet the members of the Project. Felicia comes over. “Hi, McKenna! Great turnout, huh?”

Forcing an upbeat tone, I reply, “Sure is. Everyone’s excited to see the newest attraction at the Strip.”

“Your presentation is going to be the highlight, for sure.” She winks. “Can you believe it’s finally seeing the light of day?”

I grab a champagne flute from a waiter as he walks by. “I know. The year flew by.” Does she say this to all of the graphic designers here tonight?

Other members of the Project join us and we all marvel at the press in attendance. “Greta did a super job with PR.” I nod. I bet Rose would’ve done better, but keep my thoughts to myself.

Felicia’s index finger points into the room. “You got to work with him, huh? Man, your job didn’t suck.”

Proverbial red lights flash. I brace for impact as my eyes travel the distance to where Felicia is pointing. It’s one of the artists I worked with—not Ozzy. My body relaxes. “Yeah, I had it easy. His songs were hard to create graphics for.”

“But you did a great job.”

“Thanks.”

I sneak an avocado toast point off a tray and leave Felicia to walk around. I need to keep moving, otherwise I’ll jump right out of my skin. A waitress approaches. “Gazpacho?”

“Sure.” I take a shot glass filled with the chilled soup. Smiling at various luminaries, I nod and keep moving.

The air changes and I know, without turning, that Ozzy’s here. Late, which suits me just fine. Placing a now-empty dish on a high-top table, I suck in a breath and turn around slowly. He’s across the room from me, looking as hot as ever. Sunglasses, a white T-shirt, bracelets around his wrist and ripped jeans—the quintessential rockstar. And hanging off of him are two bimbos.

I blink.

He has his arms around each of the tall, skinny blondes. He laughs, living large. My scalp prickles and I make my way to a quiet corner. Knowing I can’t keep staring at the blank wall forever, I turn around and look at the floor. Maybe I can remain out of the way until they announce the finalists for the national contest. And then escape without having to interact with him at all.

Ozzy’s belly laugh brings my head back up. On their own accord, my eyes travel in the direction of his laugh, and land on the trio, who now are talking with the President of the Project. He stands with his legs apart, and one of the women has her hand on his abdomen. Bitch.

I stifle the urge to run over to the trio and scratch the bimbos’ eyes out. Well, he’s the one encouraging them, so I add Ozzy’s name to my shit list. How could he do this to me? He of all people knows how important this night is to me—how much rides on it not only for myself, but for my mother.

“Looks like he’s having a good time,” Felicia notes, her eyes filled with pity.

Jumping at her sudden appearance, I cover my reaction with a nod. Wanting to disabuse her of the need to pity me, I say, “Do you know when Peggy’s going to speak?”

She glances at her watch. “I think the President’s Address is within the next half-hour or so.”

How am I going to endure thirty more minutes of this torture? Maybe I can hide out in the ladies’ room. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to find the restroom.” Not waiting for her response, I head in that direction.

Once inside, I plop down in the little seating area and take several deep breaths. Wanting to appear busy in case someone should enter, I fish out my lipstick and hold it in my hand. Cover story in place, I rest my head against the wall. No sooner do my eyes close than the door opens, so I sit up. In walk the two bimbos who complete Ozzy’s outfit. Great.

“I felt his nipple rings,” one giggles.

The other replies, “I heard he has his junk pierced, too. Can you imagine?”

Cackling, they head into the stalls. Ignoring the belly flops occurring in my stomach, I mutter, “Why, yes. I can imagine.” All too vividly.

Their chatter carries to the anteroom, but I can’t make out their words. Knowing my sanctuary has been invaded, I drop the lipstick back into my purse and escape.

Straight into a broad chest.

“Oh!” I bounce back.

A very familiar musky scent—combined with the sharp aroma of whiskey—invades my nostrils and I know, without looking up, who that chest belongs to. With slow movements, my eyes run from his boots, up his legs and straight to sunglass-covered eyes. Who the hell wears sunglasses at night? Oh, I know. Some douche nozzle who needs to cover up the fact that he’s drunk at the biggest event in my career in years.

“You’re drunk.”

“Not enough, apparently.”

Biting my lip, I say, “Excuse me.” Because, what else can I say?

In response, his stance widens and he flips his sunglasses to the top of his head. His pupils are pinpricks. I close my eyes against the evidence that he’s high as well.

“I thought you were different, but I was wrong.” He bends down, the pungent smell of whiskey almost making me gag. He slurs, “You’re just like Teresa. Since you don’t have the balls to break up with me ‘cause you’re in love with another guy—not that we ever were really dating, only fucking—I’m doing the honors. Have a nice life.”

Each one of his words hits its target, directly on my heart. He doesn’t know the threat Matt poses, or the pressure I’m under. Not understanding his reference to Teresa or another guy—and tamping down my desire to go postal on his drugged-out ass—I remain silent. This is for the best.

Giggling precedes the sound of the door opening and the two bimbos head toward their prey. I don’t say another word and scurry as far away from him as I can get, but not before I hear him smack their asses and their responding sexy squeals.

Safely ensconced back into a corner, I check the time and pray for this to be over. The lights blink, indicating the speeches are about to begin. An announcer asks everyone to take their seats. I scan the room until I find Ozzy and his blondes, and find a chair as far away as possible.

Felicia stands up at the front and, when her eyes light on me, she motions for me to join her. Crap. Plastering a smile, I walk over to her and sit. “Thanks, Felicia.”

“Couldn’t have our star graphic designer hiding in the back.” She nudges me in the side, wearing a grin.

I should say some witty retort, but my brain is fried. I want to throw myself into Ozzy’s arms and beat him upside the head at the same time. Instead, I nod and open a program I didn’t design.

Sighing, I force myself to look forward and not to glance to my right where he’s sitting. Finally, the President takes the podium. “Hello, my name is Peggy Laswell and I’m the President of the Artist Avenue Adventure Project. I want to thank you all for coming here today to see the three wonderful presentations we have for you. You’re definitely in for a treat, I can tell you that.”

I join in the applause, although not really caring what she’s saying.

“So, without further ado, we’re going to run the three programs for you, back-to-back. Each feature well-known Las Vegas musical artists, and showcase some wonderful graphics by really talented local people.”

The highlight reels begin to run. The first is well done, if not a bit traditional. The second one has a unique take on the music. Mine runs third. While the other two receive polite applause, the ovation for mine is longer than the others combined. Please let this be a good sign.

The lights come back up and the applause lasts for another full minute. When it quiets, Peggy says, “I’d like to introduce you to the three graphic designers behind these wonderful presentations. Please stand when I announce your names— Penelope Miller, Stefan Leonard and McKenna James!”

Forcing a smile, I stand. Two other people in the audience join me.

The President continues, “Let’s give all three of the designers another round of applause!”

Shifting from foot to foot, I endure the spotlight. Can Ozzy see me? Is he even looking? As soon as the applause dies down, I slink into my seat.

From the podium, Peggy says, “Well, I have one final bit of housekeeping before this part of the program concludes—the announcement of the finalist who will go on to represent the Artist Adventure Avenue Project in the Youth-Art Consortium’s national competition.”

This is it. What I’ve been working toward for this past year. The exposure alone should keep Mom in nursing care twenty-four-seven, even if I don’t win. I need to be the finalist. I cross my fingers and Felicia puts her hand over them.

The President holds up an envelope and rips it open. “The person going on to represent the Project in the national competition is …”

I try to quell my rapid breathing, but my chest rises and falls in unmeasured beats.

The President looks around. “McKenna James.”

I sag as my name is called, my eyes now filled with tears. I made the cut. Felicia shakes me and I smile. I’m one step closer to keeping Mom at home, and honoring my vow to my father.

On their own volition, my eyes skim over heads and land on Ozzy’s curly one. Two blonde ones surround it. I wring my hands.

The President clears her throat. “Congratulations, McKenna. Remember, the winner of the national competition will be announced next month in Los Angeles. Now, everyone, thank you all for coming and please enjoy the rest of the party!”

Felicia hugs me. “I wanted to tell you that you made the finals before, but I was sworn to secrecy. I’m so happy for you!”

I force my leaden arms to wrap around her. “Thanks. I truly can’t tell you how excited I am.”

She laughs as we stand. “I’ll email you your plane ticket and information for the event in LA. I’m rooting for you.”

“Thanks.”

Ozzy’s laughter floats into my ears, which forces me to walk in the opposite direction. He made it perfectly clear I’m no longer a part of his life. And judging from his behavior, I’m well rid of him.

Keep telling yourself that, McKenna.

I’m swarmed by a bunch of people offering their congratulations. I spend the next hour or so meeting and thanking them, all the while trying to track Ozzy’s movements. I know the exact moment when he leaves, his hands full of his blonde companions.

“Please add my congratulations to the pile you received today.” An attractive guy about my age, although somewhat scrawny, holds out his hand. When I shake it, his piercing hazel eyes capture mine. “I’m Jeremy Davis, and I write for the Record News. The Project asked me to write a profile about you.”

“Oh. I didn’t know about the publicity.”

He smiles, his longish blond hair brushing against his shoulders. “I think Greta set it up.”

“That makes sense.”

“So, can I interview you tomorrow? I’m on a tight deadline.” He glances toward the projector. “I really enjoyed your work.”

I laugh. “You don’t have to butter me up, you already got the interview.”

He shrugs. “Simply telling you the truth.” We set up a time to meet tomorrow morning at a local coffeeshop.

Back in my car, my whole body deflates from the effort of the ruse I just put on. I need to tell Mom the good news—if she even understands.

And cry myself to sleep.