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Dave North, the lead Singer for Infinite Sorrow. I rub the back of my neck. “Dave know he’s at risk?”
“He does now.” Scottie lets out an aggrieved sigh. “I swear, I should teach you lot a course …”
“Anyway,” I cut in before he can get going, “why do I have bigger problems?”
“Eventually this story is going to break. We cannot contain it.”
“I gathered as much.” Rain begins to fall in slow, soft drops, dotting the backs of my arms. “No help for it, is there?”
Scottie pulls a compact umbrella out of his briefcase before calling the car. “No. But we need to form a plan for damage control. Your image here is key. We have to make it golden.”
The rain comes on harder now, hitting my cheeks with cold splatters. “Scottie, mate, I live like a monk now. And, frankly, I don’t give a shit if they eviscerate me.” Not exactly true. It will hurt, whether I want it to or not. “Don’t worry about me any more than you have to. I’ll be fine.”
Ice-cold eyes level on me, seeing too much. “I used to isolate myself. Look out for others but never myself. It’s a lonely way to live.”
Don’t I know it. Success, failure—those are transient states. Fear can throw you for a loop. But loneliness digs its claws in like nothing else. You can be surrounded by friends and still sink into loneliness. It’s fucking awful.
“Sophie teach you that?” I quip, ignoring the dark abyss of that emotion.
Scottie’s lips curl slightly. “No, mate. You did.”
Chapter Eleven
Stella
* * *
An inevitable truth about New York City cabs: if it rains, they disappear. Like magic. Another law of rain and the city? It will hit when you’re as far away from a subway station as possible. I’m fairly certain the city wants you to get wet.
Well, I’m wet all right. Soaked to the bone as I trudge up the steps to my building. It’s a spring rainstorm, cold and relentless, hammering my skull with a rat-ta-tat-tat.
Since I went out in a T-shirt and little skirt, I’m fucking freezing. Goddamn it, Mrs. Goldman had been right; I should’ve worn a jacket.
I’d be all right if I could just get warm again. But I cannot get into my fuckety-fuckface building. My hands shake as I tap in the alarm code to the front door. Again.
And again, I get an angry flash of a red: “Access Denied.”
“Come on,” I mutter, a lump rising in my throat. “Let me in.”
If I can’t deactivate the alarm, the key won’t turn. It’s a simple yet maddening security measure that I used to appreciate. I hate it now. The keypad numbers swim in front of my face. I know I’m getting it wrong. I didn’t write the code down, yet these are the numbers I remember. My memory is solid as stone. How can I be getting it wrong? But I know how.
I punch the code in again, my fingertip aching as I jam it against the keypad numbers.
Access denied.
My vision blurs and I blink rapidly. “Fuck.” The word escapes in a small, hiccupping sob.
Someone bounds up the stairs. Please don’t be him. Please.
But the world isn’t that kind.
“Stella Button?” John crowds behind me, holding an umbrella over our heads. “Why the bloody hell are you standing there? Open the door and get out of the rain.”
Why him? Of all the people who live in this damn building, why does it always have to be him? I’d have preferred Mrs. Goldman’s “I told you so” over him right now.
My throat convulses. “I’m trying.”
He leans closer, obviously straining to hear my weak voice over the pounding rain. “What’s wrong? Is the door broken?”
My lip wobbles, and I bite it hard before answering. “The code doesn’t work.” Rapidly I punch it in only to be denied. “See?”
There’s an awful pause. I can feel the heavy weight of his stare. Then he moves, and I tense as his cheek brushes mine when he bends down. “Stella, love, it’s 22577, not 77522.”
I knew that. But how do I tell him that I thought I’d been punching the right combination, that my messed-up mind switched them somewhere along the way? I can’t. I don’t. I just stand there, rigid and tearing up.
“Hey.” The softness in his voice has me lifting my head. He searches my face, and the corners of his eyes crease. “Christ, Stells, you’re killing me here.”
I don’t know what he’s talking about. I’m the one cold and soaked.
Moving slowly, he lifts his hand and brushes a wet strand of hair off my cheeks. Silence swells between us as he stares at my face like he’s never seen me before. Then again, every time I set eyes on him it feels like the first time and as though I’ve always been looking at his gorgeous face.
