“Chanel.” I examine the tags of a pink blazer and shake my head, fighting a smile. “He’s out of his mind. Certifiably insane. Yep.”
I remove tissue paper from a Gucci box and examine the candy apple red bag that emerges. The hardware is heavy and solid, and the zippers run smooth.
“Dane,” I whisper, loving the way his name feels when I say it. I wish I could say it more. Calling him Master feels contrived and awkward. Silly.
I yank out a Fendi belt and slip it around my waist.
Perfect.
I am an actress, and this is a role I’m playing. I can be this girl. I can be the girl who wears fancy things and graces his presence like I’m some elegant socialite.
With an armful of things that cost more than what my father makes in one year, I head over to the closet and carefully unload. A small ledge below a mirror will house the cosmetics he provided.
I’m not a girl who normally wears much makeup, but I know my way around a makeup kit, especially for special occasions.
As soon as everything is properly stowed, I fold up the boxes and bags and tuck them all into one another. I assume he’ll want all of this back when he’s done with me.
I am an actress. This is my part. These are my costumes.
It’s that simple.
***
My check engine light comes on halfway through my commute home and a burning odor wafts through my air vents. I’m not sure why Waverly got the shiny new Jetta, and I got stuck with the family’s old Chrysler, but I figured this was going to happen one of these days.
I buzz past a green sign that tells me Whispering Hills is twenty-three miles from here. My palms sweat against the steering wheel as my mind dithers. If I pull over and call my father to get me, he’ll wonder where I got my phone. If I drive with this light on and something goes wrong mechanically, I’m not sure my father will pay to fix or replace my car. Money’s tight at home. I heard him saying so the other night to Mom.
But without a car, I won’t have a way to get to Salt Lake City, and I’ll lose my position with Dane.
Wisps of pale smoke escape the front of my hood and graze over my windshield.
I can’t win. Ever.
I smack my hazard light buttons and pull over to a nearby rest stop. One nickel, two dimes and a penny are all I see in my cup holder, so I climb out and begin feeling around between seat cushions and under floor mats until I find two more quarters.
There’s a payphone inside. I’ll use that to call Dad and go from there. I still haven’t quite figured out how to tell him I have a cell phone for work. I’ll get around to it, but I’m not ready yet. If he takes it away, I’m not sure how I’ll explain to Dane that I won’t be reachable 24/7 like he requires.
Shit.
My toes pinch as I walk, reminding me that I’m still wearing the Christian Louboutin heels I’d slipped into per Dane’s request earlier. I changed into a little black dress by some designer I couldn’t pronounce and pranced around in these bad boys the rest of the afternoon. Before I left, I changed back into my old outfit but forgot to switch shoes.
Hopefully, no one at home will notice. I doubt any of them have ever heard of red-bottomed shoes, and I can always say they’re from Target. No one will question me because the truth would seem more preposterous than a lie.
I slip some coins into the phone and dial my dad’s number.
“Mark Miller,” he answers halfway through the first ring. For someone so anti-cell phones, he’s got that thing glued to his hand most of the time.
“Dad, it’s me,” I say.
“Bellamy?”
“Yeah, I’m calling you from a pay phone.” I press my forehead against my balled up fist. “My check engine light came on, so I pulled over.”
Muffled voices come through the other end like my father has covered up the phone and is talking to someone else.
“I’m here with Cortland, and he says his uncle has a towing business. I’ll send Cortland out to pick you up, and someone will come for the car later tonight.”
A sick twist of relief and dread swirl in my belly.
Also, why are they together right now?!
“Great,” I say. “I’m at the Sierra Valley rest stop, about twenty miles outside of town.”
“He’s leaving now, sweetie. Sit tight.”
TEN
DANE
“Right this way, Mr. Townsend. He’s been asking about you.”
I follow a middle-aged nurse in Winnie the Pooh scrubs down a sterile hallway. At least there are no flickering lights or shit-stained carpets. We never would’ve put him in a place like that.
“Are you sure?” I ask. “Last time, he didn’t know who I was.”
Where the fuck is Beck? Beckham should be here. I shouldn’t be doing this alone.
“He’s had a few lucid moments today,” she says gently. “He’s on a high dose of morphine right now.”
She raps on the door to a dark room. It feels much later than six o’clock in here. The drapes are pulled, and the T.V. is on, but there’s no sound. Guess it doesn’t matter how much you shell out for a nursing facility, all the money in the world can’t get rid of that sick, depressing veil that saturates all who dare to enter here.
“Uncle Leo.” I have a seat in the chair next to his half-elevated bed. His brows twist when he hears my voice, and he turns his face toward me. It takes all the strength that man has just to open his eyes halfway.
I place my hand over his, careful to avoid his I.V. lines.
“How are you feeling today?” I ask.
“Dane.” There’s a dry scratch in his voice, and my name mostly comes out in a puff of air.
Fuck me. This is hard. I’m calling Beckham and chewing his ass the second I leave here.
And then I realize he said my name. He remembers me. He’s acknowledging me. It’s the first time in months.
“Yes, Uncle Leo. That’s right. I’m Dane.”
“Where ya been?” He sputters. His eyes are wider this time. Brighter than ever. He licks his dry, cracked lips and then curls them into a mischievous smile. I see a little bit of a younger version of him inside there.
I know he’s teasing, and I force myself to smile. It’s much easier to smile right now than to think about the fact that this seventy-year-old beautiful bastard’s days are numbered.
“Where’s your brother?” His brows straighten.
“He was supposed to fly in this afternoon.” I shrug. “I bet he’ll be here tomorrow at the latest. He wants to see you.”
“Tell him to give his cock a rest for a change.” Uncle Leo laughs, which turns into a coughing fit. He knows damn well about Beckham’s reputation as a ladies’ man, after all he learned from the best. “Man thinks he’s a Goddamn sheik.”
“Well, he did change his last name to King...”
“Sorry to interrupt,” an orderly in a white outfit comes in with a paper cup and a glass of water. “It’s time for your meds, Leo.”
It’s crazy to watch a man I once idolized lying feeble and dying in a small ten by ten room at a hospice center.
Fuck pancreatic cancer.
The doctor called us yesterday, told us Uncle Leo doesn’t have more than a week left.
I wait for the orderly to leave before scooting closer. I’ll be here all damn night. I’m not leaving for anyone or anything. The light in his eyes is flickering, and I’d give anything to hear one of his stories one last time before he goes.
“Hey, Daney-boy, can you hit that button for me.” His grip loosens from a button connected to his morphine drip. “Give me some of the good stuff, will ya?”
I press the button for him, knowing it’s only a matter of time before he forgets who I am again.
ELEVEN
BELLAMY
I count thirty-five black cars passing until one slows down and veers off the exit ramp toward the rest stop.
There he is, my knight in shining armor riding up on his big black steed.