***
The Lofts at Sunset sounds swanky, doesn’t it? I think of sunset and lofts, and I think of palm trees and kidney-shaped pools, flanked by talented actresses and screenwriters. But I’m wrong. The Lofts at Sunset is composed of cracked, lackluster cement, and the only plants are dying in the window boxes of the residents. Sirens echo from the north and the south, and I cringe as I consider the kind of security a place like this must have. I wonder if Jared did see her file. I wonder if the lock on Roxanne’s door even works, how quickly it might snap against brute force.
I gaze up at the lighted windows of The Lofts and then advance through the swinging glass door.
The Lofts have such low security that the front door doesn’t even have a doorknob. The lobby is nothing more than a couch and a set of stairs. It practically screams, “Come rob somebody!” There’s a thin wooden door on the first floor with a brass numeral 1.
I gallop the stairwell two at a time. I didn’t have the opportunity to slip away throughout the entire day, and it’s already late evening now—almost twenty-four hours since those files were compromised—all because the LA McMansion was packed with technicians and security and the goddamn producers all buzzing about, rewiring, resetting, taking footage, examining leads.
Door number two looms in front of me, and I spring on it, pounding.
A tiny female voice pipes from the other side of the door: “I’m calling the police right now.” It’s not Roxanne, and I hope I’ve got the right place.
“Maybe that was overzealous of me,” I correct myself. Having a British accent seems to calm Americans, so maybe hearing me speak will help. “I’m looking for Roxanne Meriweather? My name is Blake.”
“Oh! I don’t know. Wait a minute, please… sir.”
I stand and breathe, calming myself with the knowledge that Roxanne is apparently safe and healthy enough to be holding conversations with her roommate. Wherever Jared is, Roxanne is safe here and now. And I’m here now.
The door slowly falls open to reveal Roxanne, and I ache at the sight of her. She’s changed dramatically.
Her face is lean, bringing her cheekbones into drastic relief. I can see her bare collarbone too easily. She wears rumpled white pajamas, and I’m not sure if they’re from last night or tonight. They don’t look fresh. Her hair is spiky and wild, suddenly in a pixie cut but still black.
She looks tired. She looks older than she did before. I can tell it in her bleak, baggy eyes. Her drained complexion.
It’s only been a few weeks since I last saw her, but she’s visibly lost weight.
God, I want to hold her. I want to breathe her in and let her cry, because I know she’s going through something without me.
“Roxanne,” I breathe.
“Blake,” she replies. Her brow gently dents. “You’re not supposed to be here.”
“Not supposed to?” I smile softly, unable to believe my ears. “Don’t you know what hearing those words makes me do?” I step closer to the threshold, but Roxanne doesn’t move for my passage. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” she swears lightly.
“May I come in?”
“For a minute,” she whispers.
Roxanne swallows and steps back. Something is really wrong here.
As we enter the loft, I gaze wonderingly, acting like this apartment isn’t the size of my master bathroom. The place is shockingly small. There is a living area and eat-in kitchen on the first level, then a short staircase, probably leading to two bedrooms. There’s a blanket and pillow on the couch, and a sleeping bag strewn across the living room floor. Two portable racks of clothes and a television crowd the den.
A petite redhead in khaki shorts and a white top scurries past. “I’ll be back later, Roxy,” she pipes, shooting straight past us. Very smooth. “Do you need anything while I’m gone?”
“I’m fine,” she says, watching her roommate depart with sad gray eyes, like she actually wishes she could go with her. What’s going on here?
“Nice to meet you,” the redhead says, then vanishes through the door.
As soon as she’s out the door, I’m closing the space between Roxanne and me. “It’s been too long,” I intone deeply. My hand scoops up to cup her cheek, but she cringes away from me like I might hit her or something. My heart splits at the gesture.
I let my hand come back down without touching her. “What’s going on?” My hackles rise, and I add, “Did something happen?”
“No, no, no,” Roxanne insists. I don’t believe her. She isn’t looking at me. Her eyes are on the wall. Was Jared already here? “My other roommates will be home soon, and I just don’t want anyone to see you here.”
“Why?”
“The… the press,” she fumbles. Her desperation is obvious. “I just don’t want anyone to see you here, okay? You’re not supposed to be here.”
My blood pressure ticks up as I realize I’m being crowded toward the door, even though I just walked in. Even though the last time we really interacted, I was thrusting into her at Mach speed, splitting her open like I was the rock and she was the scissors. That night was pure ecstasy. I thought she felt it, too. It was only a few weeks ago. Why won’t she tell me?
“Did…” I don’t want to scare her, but I have to say it. I have to ask. “Did Jared come here?”
If it’s possible, even more color drains from her face. “How did you know?”
My face and my fists are pounding with blood instantaneously. I want to rip through every wall between Jared and myself until I’m on top of him, giving him manual facial reconstructive surgery. He’s been here, I think, unable to see straight. He’s been in the same room with Roxanne again.
“Someone broke into the LA mansion offices,” I tell her. “They looked through some files.”
“He called me.” She swallows. “He saw that episode of us in Greece together.”
I march past her and climb the stairs like this is my place. “Which room is yours?” I demand to know. “Let’s get you packed. You’re coming back to the McMansion with me.”
“Uh,” Roxanne calls up to me as I push open one door, then another, trying to figure out which is hers without any input. One of the rooms is dominated by a drum set, and the other is scattered with fashion magazines, a million cosmetic products, a mannequin head, and two guitars. Bingo.
I head on in and hunt through the closet for a suitcase or a duffel bag. A pillowcase. Anything.
“Uh, Blake, I can’t come stay at the LA location,” her voice broaches from behind me. “It’s a breach of contract seven ways from Sunday, and…and I don’t work there anymore.”
I pivot on my heel and examine her again as all my plans fall down. She’s breathing hard, and she looks like shit. But I love her. That has already happened, and there’s nothing I can do about it now. I love her. She needs help. I have to have her with me, to protect her. If she doesn’t come, what am I supposed to do? How am I supposed to do my job if she won’t let me?
“I’ve been working at a different studio.” She swallows thickly and seems to force her next words. “All month.”
I swallow, too, turning back toward her closet and scooping up a black duffel bag. I unzip it and dump it onto her bed. “It doesn’t matter,” I tell her, wrenching open her dresser drawer and grabbing a fistful of t-shirts. “You’re coming.” I shove the shirts into the duffel bag and go back for more. “Candace and company can just deal with it, or I’ll walk.”
“Blake! No!” Roxanne shrills from behind me, actually sounding adamant. She grabs the wad of clothes in my hand, and I go still, really looking at her. Her eyes are wild and desperate. “You can’t just make all the rules. I’ll get arrested for trespassing. The show will be suspended, and the producers will do whatever they can to bend you. Since I’ll be in jail, I’m sure all they will have to do is promise not to press charges, as long as you play ball.”
My fingers loosen, and she extracts the clothes from my fist.
“You have to let me do this by myself,” she whispers. “I have my own job. I have my own place. You can’t just spirit me away like some knight in shining armor.”
“Yes, I can.”
Roxanne tucks the clothes back into her drawer, and I deflate, knowing that she’s staying. She’s right. I can’t just sling her over my shoulder like a caveman.
“But I don’t want you to,” she asserts. “This is my real life. Your real life is over in that chateau.” She takes the next stack of clothes out of the duffel bag and puts them back, refusing to even look at me. “I bet a lot of girls get caught up in all the magic of a place like that.”
I scowl at her and cock my head. I’m trying to figure out if this is an evil twin or a doppelgänger of some sort. “What are you talking about, Roxanne? This isn’t the real you. The real you would be making fun of my hair right now and offering me a drink. The real you would be ecstatic that I broke another rule without implicating you in any way. The real you would be kissing the shit out of me, straddling me on that perfectly good bed over there. What did Jared say to you? Why are you closing me out?”
“I’m not closing you out,” she lies, her voice getting louder. “I got a new job and I took it. And maybe I came to my senses about what was happening between you and I, Sir Berringer.”
She’s on her way to put the duffel bag back into her closet, and I take one wide stride and close the space between us. I refuse to let her define all these new boundaries.
“Wait,” I say.
I pull her into my arms and grasp the duffel bag, thrusting it down into the floor like it disgusts me. I trace down her throat with my fingers. She can’t hide the way her body responds to me. I feel her every cell flower at my touch. Her lips part. Her neck relaxes. Her eyelashes flash up and down as she looks from my eyes to my lips and back again. She does still want me. I knew it. My lips just barely brush over hers. She whimpers softly.
“This is what’s happening between you and me,” I remind her.
“Sex,” Roxanne whispers, even though her body language is still wide open to me. I think I could fuck her right now, but I want to talk about this. “I doubt I’m the first girl to think that she has something special with you, just because your dick was inside her once.”
I can’t listen to this talk. I have to show her that she means more than just a random fuck. Or tell her. “Roxanne—”
My fingers trail down her throat and skate over her collarbone, then I pause. My words jam up in my throat. I don’t know how I didn’t see it sooner.
The brass chain is missing. Her throat is bare. I’ve seen her freshly showered and wearing it, but now, in day-old pajamas, it’s gone.
“Where’s your key?”
“It’s not my key,” she clarifies for me, slipping from my embrace. She crosses the room and scoops the intricate brass key off a writing desk in the corner, then holds it out to me, dangling by the end of its chain. “It’s your key.”
As asinine as it sounds, only one question crops into my mind: “Are you breaking up with me?”
Roxanne chuckles softly and shakes her head, as if that’s funny. I really can’t convince her that this is different from all the other women…or maybe Jared scared her so bad, she’s convinced herself that it’s worth the trouble to end this now.
“This is the first time in my entire life,” I confess to her, “that I’ve actually regretted being a man-whore in the past.”
“Ahem. Thank you for this,” Roxanne says instead, completely ignoring what I’m saying. “Please take it back. I will always carry the sentiment with me.” She extends the key to me in her flat, open palm. “But I don’t live there.”
“Keep it,” I breathe, folding her fingers over the key. I stoop down and press my mouth to her knuckles, gentle and pressing at the same time, but then she draws her hand away. “You might be surprised.”
I turn and leave The Lofts, hesitating and doubting myself every few steps that I take. It’s not just Jared. It’s not just this new job, which Candace probably forced her to take. It’s not just all the speculation about that fuzzy background image on some opening shots of my property.
It’s this strange, wiggling feeling in my heart, like something is on the tip of my tongue, but I know that I know it.
Something else happened, but she won’t tell me what it was.