Jayce’s phone erupts with a shrill ring and he clicks the top button to silence it without answering.
“It’s late. Who keeps calling you?” I ask.
Jayce shrugs. “Shelly. And Ruby. I had a date tonight.”
“With which one?”
Jayce frowns. “I can’t remember.”
“Nice.” Sarcasm laces my words. “Good thing that you’re upholding the bad-boy reputation of Tattoo Thief while the rest of the band is so unfortunately monogamous.”
Jayce rolls his eyes. “What can I say? I like women. The more the merrier.”
“Man-whore.”
“So? At least I choose the girls who are the first kind of easy. The rock-stars-are-hot-and-fuckable kind.”
He doesn’t say unlike Kim Archer, but he doesn’t need to. We both know Tyler chose wrong.
“And what if they get attached?”
“Oh, no. I don’t do that. I tell them up front that I’m strictly in it for fun. No games, no relationships, no strings.”
Huh. Jayce would have been exactly the kind of bad boy I craved just a few weeks ago. But now I want strings with Tyler. I want a real relationship.
I turn on my heel and rush back to Tyler’s bed in the ER. I want to ask him, in this moment. Forget waiting for him to give me the whole truth. I’m in so deep already there’s no out, no escape hatch or ejector seat.
I’m all in.
I brush the curtain aside and see Tyler, but my words die in my throat. His eyes are closed and he’s sleeping, his mouth hanging open and his face free of all the pain he experienced today.
I back away and let the curtain fall back into place between us.
Let him sleep. This can wait.
THIRTY-ONE
Back in the waiting room, members of Tattoo Thief gather around their manager, the man with the skinny beard who shepherded us through the media nightmare at the premiere. Jayce motions me over.
“We’ll do the conference in an hour,” the manager says.
I gape. “That’s fast.”
“It’s timed to hit the next prime-time news cycle.” He thrusts a hand out for me to shake and I take it slowly. “I’m Chief.”
Chief explains that we’ll hold the press conference downstairs in the hospital’s media liaison room.
“Don’t answer a question unless I call on the reporter,” Chief says. “If they think they can get away with it, they’ll start shouting questions and all hell breaks loose. Don’t contradict me or Gavin. Don’t speak for Tyler. Don’t speculate. And don’t talk about medical stuff you don’t know. Only the facts. Only what’s true.”
“No matter what,” Gavin adds, “never, ever lie. You know how they say sharks can smell fear? Gossip reporters can smell a lie a mile away and they will absolutely crucify you for it. Got it?”
I nod, overwhelmed by the litany of instructions. Gavin’s right, I haven’t been on the receiving end of questions. I am not nearly prepared for this.
“Now for the image problem,” Chief continues.
“Kristina’s got that sorted out,” Dave answers. “She’ll get Stella ready.”
“What about pictures of Tyler?” Chief asks. “We could tap one of the photographers from a friendly publication and get them back to Tyler’s bed.”
“Whoa. No way.” Gavin holds up his hands. “There is no such thing as a friendly publication.”
“He’s sleeping,” I add. “We can’t wake him up for this.”
Dave shakes his head. “Chief’s right. We have to have pictures with Tyler, just to show he’s OK and not on some kind of junkie trip and that we’re hiding him.”
“What about that redhead? The tall girl who came to our practice?” Jayce asks me.
“Violet?” I ask. “She’s a freelancer.”
“Perfect,” Chief says. “We’ll pay for the photos, choose the ones we like and release them at the end of the conference. If you can get her in time.”
“Can we trust her?” Gavin asks.
“I do.” I retrieve my phone from its hiding place, plugged into its charger under a waiting room table. Violet picks up on the third ring and her voice is cloudy with sleep.
“Hi, Violet. I’m sorry to call you so late, but I need another favor.”
“Stella.” She says my name like a sigh.
“For the record, I’m not drunk, I don’t need pancakes, but I would gladly do anything for you if you could come to Roosevelt Hospital and take some pictures. Like, right now.”
Violet clears her throat. “What’s going on?”
I relate the shortest possible version of Tyler’s seizure, the media feeding frenzy, and the press conference that’s less than an hour away.
“They’ll pay you,” I promise her. “I trust you and that’s what we need right now more than anything—someone we can trust.”
I hear rustling through the phone. “Tell me the name of the hospital again?”
“You’ll do it?” I nearly squeal. I guess I didn’t believe she would, especially after the colossal favor she did for me this morning.
“Stella, I’m already halfway down my apartment stairs. I’ll see you in ten minutes.”
I repeat the directions and hang up. My smile tells the band everything they need to know—Violet’s coming.
Kristina and Beryl steer me toward the bathroom at the side of the waiting room.
“We’ve got to get you ready.” Kristina hangs two garment bags from the door of a toilet stall. She unzips them, revealing four dresses.
Kristina picks through them, frowning at the first two. “Not red,” she mutters. “Black’s for a funeral. Blue is better on camera, but this dark green would look good with your hair.”
She points me to the oversized stall and tells me to try on the blue one. It still has tags on it and I ask her where she got the dresses so quickly.
“Called in a favor.” Kristina shrugs. “Personal shoppers can get after-hours access. I guessed on the size.”
I emerge from the stall and Kristina frowns again. The blue shift is definitely meant for a curvier girl, with the hips hanging too wide and the darts in the bust making my chest look even flatter than usual.
“Try the other one.”
I switch to the forest green dress, a wide boat neck that crosses over my shoulders and has a bit of stretch in the material for a closer fit.
Kristina nods her approval and Beryl takes a flatiron to my hair to smooth its air-dried lumpy frizz. As Beryl works, Kristina coats my eyelids with several shades of pale brown powder, then hands me a mascara wand.
“The cat-eye you normally do will look too extreme on TV,” she explains. “Just go for the natural look, mostly top lashes. We don’t want it to look fake.”
I snort. This is all about fake. Tyler’s in the emergency room and I’m playing beauty parlor dress-up.
When we emerge from the bathroom, Gavin has also changed into a fresh blue T-shirt, darker jeans, and shoes instead of flip-flops. Violet’s here too, with Jayce at her side.
“You ready for this?” Gavin asks me, and his arm reaches out to Beryl to pull her into his shoulder. Their closeness reminds me that this is what I’m fighting for—a chance to be with Tyler on our own terms without reporters pecking at us every moment.
Jayce leads Violet back to Tyler’s bed, his hand resting lightly on her back to steer her. I follow them and Tyler’s still asleep when we pull back the curtain.
Violet gestures me to one side of the bed, her camera out and ready. I pick up Tyler’s cool hand and caress it, thankful this is not the one strung with wires and an IV drip.
I pull up his covers to mid-chest. I arrange his hospital gown so it doesn’t pinch under his armpits and brush his dark hair off his forehead. His long lashes twitch and I still, afraid I’ll wake him. He shifts slightly and sighs, settling into a deeper sleep.