“Not really. He called me his muse. I thought that was normal. Besides, I liked the attention.”
I liked being his muse, except that awful portrait he painted and the whole reason for this fucked-up mess. Poor Elliot. And poor me. I’m so overwhelmed by Mr. Takeda’s questions and my own sorry state that I just start blubbering, “I’m totally fucked. Nobody in Hollywood wants a guy with a huge scar on his face, unless it’s, like, a gang movie or a remake ofBeauty and the Beast,but I’m not butch enough to play the Beast, and I could never pull off the rough type because I’m too fucking soft…” I babble on for a bit, worrying over my prospects, which are growing dimmer by the second. I even shed a few tears, which are 100 percent authentic.
“That’s good,” Mr. Takeda says when I pause to catch my breath. “I want you to feel free to become emotional like that for the police. You’re the victim here, Adam. I need you to remember that.”
“Okay, but what if I mess up?”
“You won’t. We just completed the dress rehearsal. If an officer asks you a question and you don’t know how to respond, you wait for me to tell you. Or I will refuse to answer on your behalf. Got it?”
“Like calling for a line if I can’t remember it?”
“Exactly.” He grabs a tissue from the bedside table and hands it to me. “Now, I want you to save those tears for the police. And as a side note, I loved the first season ofWrecked. They’d be idiots to kill you off, scar or not.”
“Thank you, Mr. Takeda.”
I dab my eyes and blow my nose and try to draw inspiration from my character. Just like when Tristan Ramsey III had to band together with his frenemies to ride out a vicious Cat 5 hurricane, I too must be brave in the face of such disaster.
* * *
The police interviewgoes smoothly enough. Mr. Takeda is like Excalibur, swooping in to cut down the officer’s questions and interrupting me when I start to overshare. Even still, I’m exhausted afterward, especially with all the pain meds I’m on. The drugs here are a lot more effective than the ones I was prescribed when I had reconstructive surgery.
Isaac stays with me overnight, until Cassius arrives the next morning to relieve him. He and Isaac make small talk for a few minutes, then Isaac leaves for the cafeteria to scrounge up some breakfast so we can have some alone time. Cassius looks sharp as ever, wearing business casual attire with a pressed dress shirt, but his face looks haggard. He must not have slept much last night, if at all.
“How are you doing?” he asks, leaning down to brush his cool lips against my forehead.
“Pretty numb,” I tell him, in more ways than one. I lean into his touch, wanting more cuddles and caresses. “Is it bad?” I ask, meaning my face.
“Not too bad,” he says, stroking my bandaged cheek.
“Are you in trouble?” My voice is hardly above a whisper because I don’t want anyone passing by to overhear us.
“I had a long day yesterday,” he says, flicking back the tails on his jacket before sitting at the edge of my bed. “Len Takeda has certainly earned his retainer. And then some.”
“He’s brilliant,” I agree.
“Yes, he is.”
“So… what happened?”
“The police interviewed me, extensively. How did yours go?” He lays one hand on my sternum, and I relish the warmth of his touch through my thin hospital gown.
“Fine. Mr. Takeda took care of everything.”
“I’m glad to hear it. The police have been at the house, gathering evidence. God only knows what they’ll find in the pool house, but Len says my self-defense argument is solid. It helps that I’m the homeowner and Elliot was living there as a guest without any sort of written agreement.”
Poor Elliot. I really didn’t mean to kill him. Why did he have to launch himself in front of that awful painting anyway? I couldn’t have known the tripod would hit him in the head. I definitely wasn’t aiming for him.
“So, no prison rape?” I ask tentatively.
“If we play our cards right,” he says and smooths out the wrinkles in my gown. His calm demeanor allows me to take my first full breath since all of this started.
“And whatdidhappen at the pool house?” I ask because I’d like to hear it from him.
Cassius stares at me for a beat, grabs my hand and lays it on top of his knee while stroking my fingers, “I went out to the pool house to fetch you for lunch and found Elliot carving up your face like a Thanksgiving turkey. Panicked at what else he might do to you, I grabbed the tripod and knocked him out. Unfortunately, he didn’t survive the blow.”
I nod slowly. Cassius wants us to stick to the story. It’s better this way. And I much prefer his version anyway.
“What about my face?” I ask, touching the bandages again.
