IRIS
I haven’t spoken to Ace in over a week. Every time he’s outside and I go out to talk to him, he walks away from me and either goes inside or jumps on his bike and speeds away, making it impossible for me to make him see that no matter what he’s running from, we can work if he would give us a shot.
I know we can.
It’s like every time we take a few baby steps forward, we tumble back down the ever-growing mountain he puts up between us. I’m not sure if the two of us will ever get over it at this point.
We’ve both admitted that we’re attracted to one another, and we’ve both voiced how much we want to be together, but whatever Ace is hiding holds him back from allowing a relationship between us to progress.
I’ve been out in the shed every day since we kissed, practicing my posture and eye contact when I sing, just like he taught me. It’s easy for me to remember how his hands felt on me—how electric his touch was, forcing the things he taught me to stay sharp in my mind.
I don’t know how he knew how to fix my performance, but he did. The crazy thing is, he gave me tips like a professional would. He was totally comfortable performing, like he’d done it a million times before. He was able to instill confidence in me. He made me feel sexy, and the looks he threw me as I sang made me feel desired—wanted. That’s why I couldn’t keep from practically jumping his bones when I was through.
Even though he’s back to avoiding me like the plague, Ace has still been doing things to help me, which shows me that he still cares about me.
He fixed Gran’s car sometime during the night after we kissed. When Birdie and I went out to jump-start the car, we were shocked to see that we no longer needed to do that. I know it was Ace who fixed the car, because how else does a brand-new battery randomly show up in a nearly twenty-year-old car?
That man is exceedingly thoughtful. I just wish he’d let me in.
I sip the last bit of my morning coffee as an idea strikes me. When I was in New York and had Internet on my mini tablet, I could Google just about anything I wanted and find an answer. It’s completely wrong of me to invade Ace’s privacy like this, but I just have to know more about him. He acts like what he’s hiding could hurt me, and if that’s the case, maybe I should really heed his advice and leave him to his solitude.
I think about the tablet I have in my suitcase in my room, knowing there’s no Internet connection available for miles around here, and just decide to do the easy thing and head back to the library to use their computer terminal.
After I get dressed, I make my way out to Gran’s car and hop inside. The car cranks alive on the first try, and I carefully back out of the parking spot in front of my trailer and pull onto the street leading to the main road.
While driving, I sing some of my favorite show tunes to pass the time, since the radio in the car is broken and picks up only AM stations. I lift my chin as I sing one of my favorites from The Phantom of the Opera and remember to adjust the way I hold my body to reflect that I’m proud of the way I sing.
Once I park my car in the small lot in front of the library, I make my way inside and sit down at the first open terminal I see. I pull up a web browser and enter Ace Johnson into the search engine. Within seconds, millions of hits on Ace Johnson pop up. I begin clicking through the list, but each link leads me to a person who is not the Ace Johnson I’m looking for.
After going through two pages of links and not finding a social media page, mug shot, or anything on Ace, I decide to try clicking on the image tab to see what my search yielded.
I scroll down the sea of pictures, ready to give up, until a bearded man with similar features to Ace’s catches my eye.
I click on the picture, and it leads me to a tabloid website with an article about that missing rock star that Birdie and I were talking about a couple weeks ago.
Celebrity Pop Buzz Nightly’s report focuses on the mysterious Ace White, who has been missing since he stormed off stage before playing to a sold-out crowd in Detroit. It goes on to say that no one has heard from him since then. The last part of the article catches my attention.
“Any information regarding the whereabouts of Ace White can be reported to the LAPD. Mr. White’s tour manager, Jane Ann Rogers, is offering a ten-thousand-dollar reward for any information that leads to finding Ace White.”
I lean back in the small swivel chair and stare at the screen, completely shocked by what I’m seeing. Is it possible that my new hunky next-door neighbor is this missing rock star, Ace White? The name fits, and the features, and banging body, but the man pictured in this article has long hair and a beard. It’s possible it might not be him either.
Before I start jumping to some major conclusions, I open a new tab on the browser and search the name “Ace White.” The first article I select shows Ace at a concert, singing from center stage and staring out to the crowd. His russet eyes are focused on the people he’s singing to, and as I stare at his face, I know without a shadow of a doubt this is the man I’ve been pining over for the last few weeks.
This is what he’s trying to protect me from? The media? There has to be something going on for him to walk away. I mean, he’s living in my run-down rental when he can afford a swanky hotel. This man can have anything he wants. Why is he running from it?
Whatever it is, it must’ve been bad, and he obviously doesn’t want to be discovered.
Everything starts to click now—his freak-outs when I question him about his past, how he knows so much about performing, the sexy way he carries himself, the vibe I got when I first laid eyes on him that he’s far too good to be in a place like Willow Acres.
Quickly I close down my web browser before anyone notices what I’ve just been looking up, and I log out of the computer.
Despite the omission of the truth about his past, Ace is still someone I care a lot about, and if he doesn’t want to be found, I’m going to help him keep his secret.