Lying him down, I slide into bed behind him and pull him tight against my chest. My lips press into his disheveled hair, and then the back of his bare shoulder.
“I’m here,” I murmur against his skin. “I’m here. I’m sorry.”
Ari’s breathing slows, and his body relaxes. So does mine, all the pent-up tension from the last few days draining out of me.
The truth is, I’ve grown to need this just as much as he does.
TWO
ARI
ONE YEAR LATER.
The first thing my brain registers is the sound of Francis yelling, then a rhythmic beeping that could probably lull me back to sleep if not for my manager’s nasally voice telling off his assistant. What a douche. I hate that guy.
My mouth opens before my eyes do. My dry lips peel open to try to alleviate the taste of bile and something metallic. My tongue feels thick and dry. There’s a dull, pulsing ache behind my eyes that makes the ceiling lights blur when I attempt to blink my eyes open and focus.
“I don’t give a fuck who leaked it,” Francis snaps. “We need damage control. Now. Shut it down!”
I wince at the sound of his loud voice and shift uncomfortably. Something tugs at my chest, and I look down. There are wires attached to stickers on my chest, and I’m vaguely aware of a monitor beeping to my left. There’s a thin, off-white blanket pulled up to my waist, an IV tube taped to my arm, and bruises blooming along the inside of my forearm.
Recognition sparks, and the monitor betrays me, quickening beeps snitching that I’m awake by announcing my elevated heart rate.
I’m in the hospital.
I have a vague memory of the events that brought me here, and a flash of something that I thought was a dream. I look at the empty chair next to me where I must have imagined Will before.
Where is he? Is he still so upset that he wouldn’t be here with me?
It’s my fault that I landed myself here. It wasn’t even about me, it was…
Jesse.
Fuck.
“So, you spin it. That’s literally your job, isn’t it?” Francis snaps into his cell phone from the other side of the room.
Memories crash in out of order—broken glass, blood, Jesse’s unmoving body, Will’s worried face looking down at me. The way my chest squeezed so tight it felt like my heart and lungs would explode out of my ribcage. My bodyguard Eric holding me back while I screamed.
He wouldn’t wake up.
“Jesse,” I croak. The monitor at my side beeps faster, louder. I push myself up on my elbows, and nausea rolls through me in a thick wave. “Francis, where is—” He doesn’t hear me, or he pretends not to. I feel dizzy, but I make myself sit up, hands pushing back my stringy hair. I can’t get my thoughts in line to make sense of everything.
The door to my hospital room opens, and I look up hopefully, ready to grill whoever walks through that door about Jesse’s condition. I’m not sure how long I’ve been out. I have a vague memory of waking up before and seeing Will in the chair next to me. He spoke, told me I was okay, maybe something else, but I don’t remember. I think I threw up. After that, nothing. It could have been a dream, but I have an awful taste in my mouth.
My shoulders slump when the man who enters isn’t hospital staff. He’s dressed in expensive clothes and has a visitor’s pass stuck to his open-collar light blue button-down shirt. If the assessing way he looks around the room, first landing on me, then focusing a cold glare on Francis, is anything to go by, he’s probably a PR or legal rep from the label. The way Francis’ face pales as he quickly ends his call confirms my suspicions.
“M-Mr. Holland,” Francis stammers. “What brings you here? I told management I have the situation perfectly under control.”
“Do you really?” Mr. Holland says, ignoring Francis’ attempt at a handshake and staring down at him with an intensity that makes me want to cower. I don’t know how Francis, the sniveling, paunchy little prick that he is, manages to even stay on his feet. “Because there is a mob of press outside this hospital, and the news and gossip sites are reporting that Jesse Moore died of an overdose earlier this evening.”
I nearly choke on the nausea that rises in my throat at those words, and almost miss Mr. Holland's next words.
“You’re fucking lucky that’s not the case. You’d better hope he walks out of here unscathed, because you will be held accountable.”
A tear falls down my cheek. So he’s alive, but do we know if he’s going to be okay?
Why won’t anyone tell me what’s going on?
