Night Shifts Black (11 page)

I jump up from my
stool and march down the hallway toward Luke’s room. I can hear the sounds as I
approach, the giggling, the purring, and it makes me sick, angry. I don’t
knock, I don’t care if Luke’s mad at me, and push through the door.

Three shocked faces
greet me, then convert to a scowl.

“Occupied,” one of
them spits.

I ignore her and try
to peer past them to the body beneath them. Luke is still conscious, but the
look in his eyes is not one I recognize. In fact, I’m not sure he recognizes
anything.

“He’s obviously out of
it. I think you’re done here,” I hiss.

“Really? I think you
should mind your own business, hon,” another woman barks.

“Hon? I’m not the one
climbing all over a guy who’s practically unconscious. What, he wouldn’t touch
you sober?”

She looks ready to
explode, but clearly has no interest in wasting her highly valuable time
fighting with a nobody like me.

“Who are you anyway?”

“I’m his cousin,” I
lie.

And they laugh. I
expected as much, but I don’t care. This isn’t about me.

“Right. So are we.”

I cross my arms,
making it clear I’m not leaving. They can stand here and waste their night
arguing, or go have fun with someone else. They glare at me as they climb off
the bed and begin gathering their garments from around the room. Finally,
they’re dressed enough to return to the party and start filing out, each one
shredding me with her eyes as she passes.

“He invited us back here.
It was his idea,” the last one mutters.

“I’m sure he did. Have
a nice time. Enjoy the hors d-oeuvres,” I reply evenly with mock politeness.

I close the door
behind them and approach Luke slowly. He’s completely naked, and has tried to
push himself up on the bed with little success. He falls back to the sheets,
eyes closed.

“Where…” There’s some
question in the string of sounds that follows, but I have no idea what it is.

“Do you even know
their names, Luke?” I ask, more to myself than him, since I doubt he could
answer me even if he did.

I don’t think I can
handle the intimate act of dressing him at the moment, so I simply pull the
blanket up to his waist. He’s sweating, and I can see he’s already too warm to
completely cover him. I move to his bathroom and return with a wet rag, placing
it on his forehead. He flinches and his face contorts into a brief grimace
before he fades completely from consciousness. Concerned, I lean close, but
hear his steady breathing. My stomach starts to constrict when I wonder what
his “guests” would have done at this point if I hadn’t followed them. I think
about what Casey had said. How could this really be what Luke wanted?

I study his face, so
beautiful, so serene without the fear and grief in his eyes. Without the lines
of ancient pain that make him look much older than he is. His body, marked with
tattoos, perfectly sculpted for the consumption of the masses, now still
against the silk sheets, held captive in its shell by a sickness no one will
ever understand. A sickness no one wants to understand, I think, as I recall Casey’s
disappointing show of concern for his friend’s state.

He’s Luke Craven. A
force. A god. He’s not real. Just a fantasy outside the grasp of our own
realities. A face. A body. A cover. A story. A goal for aspiring models.

I swipe at the hot
liquid in my eyes and take his hand, tracing his palm with the other, wondering
what it would be like to live in parallel with everyone around you. To know
that they only see you for what they think you are. To not be able to truly connect
with your own existence.

A knock at the door
startles me, and I glance up to meet Casey’s concerned look peeking through the
crack. I’m suddenly flooded with warmth and swallow the odd sensation. He
enters and closes the door.

“Is he ok?” he asks,
eyeing Luke’s motionless form.

I glance down at the
patient as well. “I don’t know. What are the different stages of substance
abuse unconsciousness?”

He covers the distance
between us and kneels beside his friend. I watch quietly, a new sensation
coursing through me as I observe Casey’s gentle evaluation. He’s done this
before, many times, and I’m amazed his expression doesn’t hold an ounce of
disdain or disgust. Just sadness. I start to regret my harsh critique of him a
minute ago.

“He’ll be ok. We need
to try to wake him up in a bit and get some water in him. Has he thrown up,
yet?”

I shake my head. “Not
that I’ve seen.”

Casey nods, concerned.
“Ok. We’ll have to do that, too. Let me get some water. Hang on.”

He pushes himself to
his feet and disappears into Luke’s bathroom. I wonder why until he returns
with a basin.

“It’s for soaking
feet, but in case you need this before I get back,” he explains with an
apologetic smile. “I’ll be right back with the water as soon as I can.”

He closes the door
quietly, and I’m not sure my opinion of someone has ever changed so abruptly.

∞∞∞

Casey returns as promised, and I find a
strange sense of relief settle over me as he moves through the door. His arms
are full, and I notice he’s brought more than just water for Luke.

“Gonna be a long
night,” he explains with another smile. He hands me a bottle of water, as well
as, a plate full of snacks. “Sorry they didn’t have French toast.”

I laugh, grateful for
his joke as much as the food. I shift on the bed so Casey can take a seat
beside me. He does, and leans against the headboard like I am.

“I’m sorry about how I
acted out there,” he begins. “It hurts you know? Seeing him like this.
Sometimes I’m not strong enough to deal with it the way I should. I try to pretend
he’s the same person now that he was then, but he’s not.”

“Messing around with
supermodels?”

He offers a weak smile,
and I can see the guilt in his eyes. “That wouldn’t have been a cause for
concern a year ago. But you were right to be worried. It doesn’t mean now what
it meant then. It’s just…” He quiets and looks away, and something about his
sad expression touches me. “I want to help him, I do, I just don’t know how. At
some point...” He meets my eyes again, almost pleading. “How can I help him if
he won’t even let me? You remember what happened at breakfast. He doesn’t want
to be helped. I’d be here every day if he let me.”

I surprise both of us
by taking his hand. I don’t know why I do it, it just seems natural at that
moment. He accepts the gesture and runs his thumb over mine. It’s the best we
can do to share our mutual struggle.

“What about you?” I
ask after a long silence.

“What about me?”

I smile over at him to
prove I’m changing the tone of the conversation. “What’s your story?”

He laughs. “You’re not
some undercover investigative reporter or something, are you?”

I shrug. “Would that
change your answer?” I tease, and I love his return grin.

“I guess not.” He
leans his head against the bed again and studies the opposite wall. We can see
our reflections in the mirror there. I would have thought it’d be awkward, but
I actually like watching Casey’s thoughts flash across his face. He’s not
nearly as guarded as Luke.

“I was one of ten,” he
announces, and I stare at him in shock.

“Ten? As in ten siblings?”

He grins and nods.
“Yes. Lucky number seven actually.”

I let out my breath
and rest back against the headboard, trying to imagine life with nine other
siblings.

“Wow. I’m surprised
you ended up with Luke and Night Shifts Black, then. Shouldn’t you be committed
to some cheesy family band? Geez, with ten of you, you could have the whole road
crew, too.”

He laughs. “Oh,
believe me, my parents tried. Three of my siblings actually still play
together.”

“Really?” I ask.

He nods. “Yep. They’ve
even put some albums out. I could never get into the country thing, though. The
black sheep, I guess,” he jokes, and I grin.

“Seriously. When you
made a left, you made a hard left, huh. Well, it seemed to work out for you
anyway.”

He shrugs. “What about
you?”

I give him a quick
smile. “No bands. Not even country ones.”

He rolls his eyes.
“You know what I mean. Luke said you’re a writer.”

It’s my turn to shrug.
“I guess.”

“You guess?” he asks
with a smirk. “What does that mean?”

I smile over at him.
“It means that saying ‘I’m a writer’ implies I’m actually making a living at
it.”

He seems skeptical.
“Really? I thought it meant you spend lots of time writing things.”

I like his response
and find myself shy for some reason. “I guess it can mean that, too. Would you
still consider yourself a musician if no one paid you to play?”

“Of course.” He smiles.
“Let’s hope that doesn’t happen for a long time, though.”

I laugh. “How much do
you make for a show anyway?” I can feel his surprise, and immediately stiffen.
“I’m sorry! I don’t know where that came from! Don’t answer that.” But he only
seems amused.

“Not as much as you’d
think. Well not anymore, anyway. We used to get three to four hundred in
guarantees. Now, it’s more like one or two. Less when we’re not headlining.”

My eyes widen. “Two
hundred? Like two hundred dollars? That’s it?”

He laughs and shakes
his head. “Oh my god, I love you! Ha! No. Two hundred thousand, hon.”

I stare at him in
disbelief. “Wait, per show? And that’s not much?”

He studies me again,
and I can see his expression change, but I can’t read it. “I mean, it’s fine, I
guess, but it’s not where the real money is. We make most of it through writing
and performance royalties.” He glances over at our sleeping friend. “This guy here
hasn’t touched a guitar in a year and is still making a fortune passed out on
his ass, believe it or not.”

“Ok, Luke I get, but I
thought you didn’t write. You said at breakfast Luke was the writer. You
weren’t good with adjectives.”

He shakes his head in
exasperation. “Seriously? Do you remember everything?”

I shrug with a grin.
“Am I wrong?”

He laughs again. “I
guess not. I did say that. But to answer your question, I was just messing
around. My name’s in the credits, too. It’s true, Luke tends to bring the magic
to the lyrics, but I’m the music guy. That hook in ‘Better Get Back’ that they
use for all those hockey ads? All me.”

“The hockey song is
from one of your songs?” I ask in surprise.

He nods. “Yeah. It’s
not one of our bigger ones. Well, it wasn’t when they negotiated the rights to
it.”

“I’d say it is now,” I
mumble. I instinctively start humming the line, and Casey rolls his eyes.

“Yep, that’s it.”

“Wow, I had no idea. I
actually really like that song.”

He shakes his head
with a smile. “You sound so shocked.”

I grin. “Sorry. I
guess…I don’t know. I try not to think too much about Luke the Superstar, so I
haven’t made much of a connection between him and his music. You know, staying
out of the whole pop culture bubble thing so I can see him for who he really is.
I guess I did the same for you by association.”

He nods, and I can
tell he understands. “I like that. He needs someone in his life who’s real, but
you should still pick up our stuff sometime. If you truly want to understand
your new friend here, you need to listen to his music. I think it might
surprise you.” He pauses and studies him. “Or maybe it won’t.”

“’
Step back, fast, I’m coming for you. Step back, you can’t handle what
I’ve got.’”

I recite the words
absently, imagining the hockey players slamming up against the boards in a series
of vicious checks.

Casey smiles and nods.
“That’s it.” He quiets, and I can see from his reflection in the mirror that
there’s a lot more to this. A lot more to him.

“People think it’s an
aggressive song. A challenge to someone, and the hockey link certainly doesn’t
help,” he muses. I glance over at him in surprise.

“It’s not?”

Casey shakes his head.
“No. That’s not what Luke’s saying at all. It’s actually saturated with
self-loathing.”

“Saturated with
self-loathing?” I repeat in amusement. “What do you mean you’re not good with
adjectives?”

He shrugs with a shy
grin. “I’ve been known to string a few together. Anyway, the part you know is
just the hook. The chorus is, ‘
I’m the
anchor drowning you. I’m your infection, better get back. I’m the hurricane, angel,
shred those wings. Step back, better get back.’”

We’re quiet for a
moment as the lyrics settle around us. I glance over at Luke who hasn’t moved.