I allow the call to ring through, knowing I’ve probably only got ten to twelve minutes max to get back to the hotel before Paul blows his lid. To gain some time, I shoot a text to my assistant, Lucy.
Just in the sauna. I’ll be back in ten.
Lucy is the easiest one of my team to manipulate into getting some me time. Three dots appear as she begins typing a response, then disappear. My chest instantly tightens. They must already know I’m not in the sauna.
The fear of repercussion tightens its grip round my throat, only to ease slightly when the three dots reappear.
Lucy
Okay. Let me know if you need anything.
I’m good.
Lucy thumbs-up my message in acknowledgment, and I slide the phone back into my pocket along with my room key before grabbing my sobriety chip, flicking it back and forth between my thumb and pinkie finger.
Go to rehab, they said.It will be great.
Have therapy, they said.It will help.
They’re all a bunch of dirty, dirty liars.
Rehab and therapy won’t bring Samuel back. Won’t resolve the issues, including my sexuality, that I still have to hide from the world. The only things that seem to work are running, working out, sex, and drowning myself in alcohol. Well, after two years of trying it their way, I’ll be damned if I continue to put myself through hell by digging up the past and ignoring solutions that work.
It’s called the past for a reason after all.
My phone vibrates again, forcing me to pull it out of my pocket once more. This time it’s a message rather than a call from Paul.
Paul
Rob checked the sauna. Where are you?
Ugh. Can’t Paul get off my back for one minute? Surely that’s not too much to ask for, is it?
I take a look at the whiskey in front of me, then back at the chip. I grab the tumbler and down it in one. The back of my throat burns and I instantly feel the alcohol rushing through my veins. The hairs on the back of my neck stand upright. Oh, howI’ve missed the taste. How it releases the tension in my body, slows my heart rate down, and calms my brain.
I get up from the stall, leaving the chip behind on the table. Keeping my head down as I make my way past the tables and out through the door onto the street, I begin typing rapidly.
Tell Rob to wait by the side entrance on Harwood Ave. I’ll be there in ten minutes.
It actually takes twelve minutes, because as I pass where the accident happened, I see the cyclist being loaded into an ambulance on a stretcher, and pause. He still seems alive, much to my relief. I finally stop on the opposite side of the street from the hotel and rest my back against a lamppost, facing away from its historic red-bricked exterior, to catch my breath.
Given the wrath I would have faced from Paul and Connie, my publicist, if I’d actually killed the cyclist, I can tolerate whatever awaits me inside. I chance a quick look at the door, where a few fans are loitering.
I momentarily debate whether to wait until they move on or just make a dash for it, when I see Rob’s tall dark frame on the other side of the glass. He turns his head left and right, scanning the street, before clocking me and nodding. One of the fans turns to follow the direction of his nod and squeals as she spots me. I dash across the street, weaving through the cars, and somehow manage to make it past the fans and through the door that Rob holds open before they can snap any pictures.
As we make our way along the hallway toward the elevator, Paul intercepts us. He starts to grill me in a lowered voice.
“Where have you been?” A vein in his neck bulges.
“I went for a run around Regent’s Park to clear my head.” I cross my arms over my chest.
A hotel guest attempts to approach me, pen and pad in hand,but Rob cuts them off, keeping them at a distance. All I can do is smile and wave while Paul keeps me moving into the elevator.
Once the doors close, Paul casts me the look I fear the most: disappointment fused with anger. It never fails to make me feel small and disobedient.
“We don’t have time for you to just go out for a run whenever you want. It’s not safe for you to go out by yourself. If you’re going to go out, you need to take Rob with you.”
“Cause that won’t draw any attention. Plus, it’s not like Rob can keep up with me.” I nudge Rob’s belly with my elbow. Rob’s brows furrow as he looks down at me. His six-foot three-hundred-pound body overshadows my five-foot-eight frame.
