Midnight Lily (Signs of Love) (2 page)

**********

Sleep didn't come. Sometime after midnight, I stumbled from the house to get some fresh air. The canned laughter of some late-night show grated in the background, the manufactured sound of happiness causing my jaw to clench and my skin to ache. Everything felt
wrong.
My legs wouldn't quit their restless, incessant movement, as if ants crawled through my veins. I couldn't fucking breathe. Even my thoughts were off. It felt like something or someone was knocking incessantly at my brain, as if trying to get my attention, and it
hurt.
I had stripped down to my boxers earlier and although the late summer night breeze was only mildly chilly, it felt good against my bare skin. I stood at the railing of the massive wrap-around deck, staring into the dark woods, inhaling the cool, crisp air as if it might somehow cleanse me of all my failings.

I startled slightly when I caught movement between two trees, the vague outline of a human form wearing white. Straining my eyes, I stared at the spot where I swore I saw . . .
something.
But after a moment, I looked away, rubbing at my tired eyes. Jesus, I was seeing things. It'd happened before when I'd gone days with no sleep. And now it was happening again.

Or maybe it
had
been a wolf, an animal, some trick of the moonlight that made it appear human. I raised my arms, laughing into the quiet void of night. "Hey, bears! Wolves! Listen up, motherfuckers. Do you know who I am?" My words echoed in the wide-open darkness. "I'm Holden Scott, the most lusted-after man in the NFL." I dropped my arms. "Formerly of the NFL. Disgraced, but still lusted after. Look at me. I'm a fucking GOD! Women everywhere want me. They want to have my babies. They sneak into my hotel rooms and hide under the bed. It's the craziest shit." I laughed, but it held no humor and sounded more like a strange bark. "They—" I let out a shaky breath. "They—" I sucked in sharp, cool night air, feeling waves of misery as if they were tangible, knocking me down, dragging me under, scraping me along the bottom, filling my mouth with the gritty taste of despair.

"See, here's the thing—I've got a back-up plan. I could start pimping myself out. No more freebies. I'd make a damn fortune. I'm a god among men," I called out again. And then my legs gave out as I fell to my knees under the silent judgment of the moon. And I hung my head. It felt like my soul was sleeping, and I had no earthly idea what would wake it up again.

Holden

The next morning dawned clear and fresh, the faint glimmer of yellow sunshine on the horizon. I'd managed several hours of sleep and felt a certain newness, standing at the railing of the deck with a mug of coffee, watching the pale light of morning chase the night shadows away. If only I could hold on to this feeling long enough to grasp my own new beginning. If not here, then where? Not on the field, a football clasped in my hands, thousands of fans cheering my name; not between the thighs of some vacant-eyed beauty; not even among so-called friends in my own home—always having to wonder what they really wanted from me, inevitably finding out it was something other than friendship. If not here, maybe nowhere. Maybe nowhere at all.

By mid-afternoon, the craving set in again, the beast hungering for a fix. I paced the deck, trying to convince myself to resist, knowing that in the end I wouldn't. Knowing I couldn't come up with a good enough reason. I was pathetic, I knew. How many people would switch places with me in a heartbeat? How many people would roll their eyes and play the world's smallest violin on their fingers as they wiped fake tears out of their eyes for the poor, rich sport’s star who had everything and threw it all away out of stupidity? Or entitlement. Or both. Even I couldn't figure out exactly why. When I tried, my head started pounding, and I couldn't form a clear thought. If I
could
figure it out, maybe I'd have a fighting chance to change it. Or maybe I'd still be a weak fuck who knew what I needed to do but wasn’t strong enough to try.

Because, frankly, it took a whole lot of available life comforts—not having to spend one second worrying about the basics—to sustain this level of self-pity. And I was lacking for nothing in that regard.

Not to mention that my fame insulated me from consequences others might face. "Yes-men" surrounded me—people who would rather make me happy than risk being ejected from my life and lose the status my friendship or business relationship provided. Once upon a time I thought it'd made me lucky. Now . . .

I stood in the kitchen for a while fingering the bag of pills like the plastic was a beloved's skin. Finally, with a sound of disgust, I tossed it down on the counter and went to look for some liquor. Maybe a couple shots would take the edge off. I'd never had a problem with alcohol—or rather, I'd never felt like I couldn't stop drinking if I really wanted to. Although I'd definitely done some stupid shit while under the influence, namely driving down Sunset Boulevard with two swimsuit models squealing out my sunroof and ultimately earning myself a well-deserved DUI.

Brandon had probably requested the place be free of liquor, but after rooting around in the very back corner of the pantry, I found a bottle of Johnnie Walker, still in the box, a bow affixed to the front—obviously a gift Brandon had forgotten about. Whoever cleared the place hadn't found it. It wasn't lost on me that the victory I felt at the find was probably at least a little bit tragic. I tossed back a shot anyway, grimacing as the liquid burned down my throat, resisting the urge to retch. I took a deep breath and did another, closing my eyes as warmth spread through my veins. But by six that night it wasn't enough and I gave in to my lover's call, downing several painkillers with a sip of Scotch and soda, the welcome numbness of the drugs and liquor cocktail flowing through my system.

I stumbled out onto the deck and fired up the grill, holding my glass up to the sky in cheers to the magnificence of the sunset, the sky awash in vivid swirls of pink and gold. "Impressive show. Good work."

As the steak began to sizzle, I stared out at the trees beyond, lost in my own scattered, half-formed thoughts. Movement. Something white. I froze, squinting into the dwindling light, a streak of excited fear shooting down my spine, somewhat muted by the chemicals but still there. For several beats all was still, the only sound the sizzling meat and a few distant bird cries. The hairs on the back of my neck prickled.
Something's about to happen
, my mind whispered. Strange thought, but the feeling accompanying it was familiar and the memory came back to me now.

It had been my senior year in college, and the final game of the season was about to start. There were scouts in the bleachers, at least two or three. I'd forgotten something in the locker room and had run back to grab it. Or had I been in the stands? Why would I have been in the stands? No, no, that wasn't right. Damn my memory. I really shouldn't have mixed alcohol and pills. Anyway, senior year . . . on my way out of the locker room—yes, it had been the locker room, yes, that was right—I had paused at the door, a feeling washing through me:
something's about to happen.
The same feeling I'd just had now. I'd been a warrior on the field that day, and three months later, I'd been drafted by San Francisco in the first round and signed one of the most lucrative contracts in the NFL.

My heart picked up in speed and adrenaline surged through my veins, now, just as it had then.
Something's about to happen.
Swallowing, I turned around and walked as casually as possible to the other railing and leaned against it, the forest where I'd seen movement now at my back. I took my phone out of my pocket and held it up to take a selfie. My muscles tensed. I waited. Movement again, this time in the screen of my phone. I clicked the button and took a photo. Turning around to the grill, I flipped the steak and opened the picture. A portion of my face blocked part of the background, but I’d taken a good shot of the trees behind me. And there it was—the movement I'd spotted. "Yes," I mumbled feeling a surge of success, widening my fingers on the screen to zoom in. I brought the phone closer to my face.

"Holy shit," I breathed. Whatever it was, I'd barely caught it with my camera—but it was
something
. I zoomed in more, but couldn't make out exactly what it was as it was too blurry. Perhaps a piece of white material? Dark hair? But I wasn't crazy, and I wasn't seeing things. And whatever had been there, it had waited until I’d turned my back to dart between trees. Were animals that intelligent? "What the hell?" I murmured, raising my head and looking around again, a chill moving through me. "What the hell?" I repeated.

I debated calling Brandon. Or maybe calling the police? But to report what? That I'd possibly seen a ghost? I laughed out loud. That'd go over well, especially considering I was clearly under the influence. Somehow it would get leaked. I'd be even more of a laughing stock than I already was, and sooner rather than later, there would be paparazzi hanging in the trees. Of course I
did
have the picture, but the photo was too unclear to be called any kind of proof. It would be explained away somehow, and I'd end up looking like a fool. Maybe I shouldn't trust myself too much anyway in the condition I was in.

I ate my dinner, sitting outside on the deck, my eyes trained on the woods, but I didn't catch sight of anything again that night. Finally, I stumbled inside, my phone clutched to my chest while I dozed on the couch as if the picture might cease to exist once I closed my eyes.

**********

Stripping off my clothes, I climbed into the hot, bubbling water of the outside Jacuzzi, sighing as my muscles relaxed. It'd been four days since I'd arrived here and I was bored as hell. The bottle of Scotch was gone and I only had enough pills to last another week or so. I would be forced to go cold turkey. What the fuck had I been thinking, agreeing to this? I'd have to take Brandon's Jeep and drive to the airport he'd mentioned and catch a flight. Brandon would be disappointed, but he'd get over it.

The warm water surrounded me, making my limbs feel like heavy jelly, the steam swirling, clouding my senses as my eyes fluttered closed.

"Do you believe in God, Holden?" Ryan's voice choked out.

Did I? I wasn't sure. My parents did. I was
raised
to believe. My mom was always going on about being a good Christian, but I'd never truly given a lot of thought to God. But what did I say to Ryan? His life was shit. His dad was a sadistic bastard. Of course he wanted to believe there was a purpose to all the pain he constantly experienced, all the fucking scars. Misery overtook me and I swallowed. My throat felt thick. "Yeah, man. Of course."

He nodded, his eyes closed, the bruise on his jaw a sickly, blackish purple, blood still caked on his lip. His dad had done that to him. I fisted my hands on my thighs, angry, helpless.

He gave me the barest glimmer of a smile, more fleeting than a single raindrop falling. "Okay, good because some days I don't think I can do this alone, Holden."

"You're not doing this alone. I'm here," I said. Something burned in my chest.

He smiled again. "I know. You've always been here. You, your parents." The smile slipped and he grimaced slightly.

"Maybe God sent me, you know?" I gave a short chuckle. "Jesus Christ Almighty, that sounds really stupid and self-important, doesn’t it?"

He gave me the first small laugh he'd given in a while. "Yeah, it really does, you arrogant asshole." But his smile increased and he held up his hand, his fingers making a V, the gesture he always did from the stands at the end of a game, letting me know he saw me. I held up my own hand and grinned back at him.

Water filled my mouth and I choked, jerking upward and taking in a lungful of air. My body thrashed in the bubbling water of the hot tub and I looked around wildly, trying to remember where I was. Oh fuck, I must have drifted off. I had been dreaming about Ryan when we were kids, but to fall asleep in a hot tub? Jesus, if the alcohol and drugs didn't kill me, I'd manage it some other way—in a car or drowned in a damn Jacuzzi. My heart was beating a mile a minute.

I sat up and ran my hand through my wet hair, looking out to the trees beyond. There was a girl standing at the edge of the forest. I startled, letting out a small yelp. She startled, too, and turned around. Standing abruptly, I called out, "Wait!"

She hesitated and turned her head back toward me. I grabbed a towel and scrabbled out of the hot tub, almost slipping and head-planting onto the deck. She turned back to the forest and ran. "Wait!" I called again.

I ran down the stairs and across the grassy area in front of the lodge, wrapping the towel around my waist as I ran and holding it in place so it didn't fall.

I entered the woods where she had been and stopped, the light dimmer here, shafts of sunlight filtering through the dense trees. "Hello?" I called, but there was no answer and I could detect no sound.

I looked down at my bare feet and back from where I'd come, spotting the footprints of my own path. I walked back to where I'd entered the trees behind her and looked more closely, but there was only one set of tracks: my own. Frowning, I walked back toward the lodge, looking over my shoulder as I moved away from the woods, a chill moving down my spine.
First Ryan, now this.
Was I seeing ghosts? Is this what happened when you were so deep into addiction that chemical holes formed in your brain? Or was it the lack of sleep causing me to have visions? Was I cracking up? But no, Ryan had been a memory, just a dream.

"No," I repeated aloud, reassuring myself, "I saw her." Dark hair and a white lace dress. But who the hell wore a white lace dress in the woods? I knew she wasn't part of the paparazzi who normally stalked me. If she was, her purpose would have been to get a photo and the girl's hands had been empty. There'd been no camera. So where had she come from? There was nothing for miles around. And what did I do now? Clearly she didn't want to communicate with me. But if not, why did she keep coming back? It
must
have been her before. She was watching me. But
why?
What did she want?

**********

I woke bright and early, showered, put on jeans, a T-shirt, and some sneakers. It was the first day I'd actually gotten dressed since I'd arrived at Brandon's cabin. The unfamiliar feeling coursing through my veins was . . .
excitement.

I packed some food and water and made my way into the woods, a backpack on my back, entering at the same spot where the girl had entered the day before.

I didn't want to go too far and lose my sense of direction. There was no path to follow in this forest, nothing that spoke of anyone having been here before me. And it was just exactly what I needed—to get lost in the wooded darkness when there might not be a soul around and no one would know I was missing for another three weeks. I'd die alone, quietly, unceremoniously, and maybe someday they'd find my bones, or maybe not.

I walked for an hour or so, enjoying the fresh air in my lungs, the whisper of the foliage moving in the breeze, and the sound of bird cries in the trees above. I called out here and there just for the hell of it, but there was no answer in return. My legs began to cramp, and I started to wonder if I really was crazy. What was I doing wandering through the woods looking for a vision that may or may not really exist? Suddenly I felt like a complete idiot. The excitement I'd woken with turned into sour foolishness. And I felt like shit physically, too. My body was achy and twitchy and I needed a couple pills. In my hopefulness that morning, I hadn't even thought to bring a few with me. I sat down on a rock and took out my water bottle, taking a long drink. I was cold and my T-shirt hardly provided enough warmth in the cool air of the forest, too dense where I was to allow for any sunshine. "For fuck's sake," I muttered.