The Girl On The Half Shell (17 page)

Oh god, I want to die. That’s all there is to it.
I rush across the stage. I’m beginning to feel nauseated, but not from the alcohol, though the Kamikazes are making my head spin. It’s seeing Alan with Nia, and knowing he just saw me make a fool of myself.

I hit the cooler air in the dirty, dark walkway leading from the club to the back alley and realize how messed up I am. I’m not seeing double, but I did let myself get pretty messed up. And to make matters worse, I am cowering in a back alley, afraid to go back into the club because I just made a fool of myself on stage in front of Alan Manzone, who couldn’t care less, because he is with Nia, and I haven’t a clue how to get from the alley to Bowery to find my blond Nordic driver.

Oh shit! Oh Shit! Oh Shit!
I lean back into the chilled wall and want it to swallow me whole.

“Chrissie?” Vince has joined me. “You OK?”

I fan my burning checks with a hand. “I’m OK. Just feeling a little overwhelmed.”

“I get that. I miss Sam too.”

He steps closer, putting his arm around me. I look up at him. “Is there a way to get to Bowery from this alley? My car is out front and I don’t want to go back into the club.”

If he thought my request strange, it doesn’t show in his expression. Instead, he looks very
no big deal
about the whole thing.

“I can get you through the club without taking you through the club.”

“Thanks. I’m sorry to be such a pain.”

“You’re Sammy’s sister. I wouldn’t leave you hanging in an alley.”

I smile weakly at him and relax into the comforting coolness of the wall. I won’t look completely alone and pathetic if Alan should see me leave the club. Not that Alan would notice. Not that he’d care. I feel my emotions start to churn again.

“Chrissie, it’s amazing that we just bumped into each other,” Vince murmurs, and I look up to find his eyes regarding me intently. “I’m glad you’re in New York.” He steps closer, putting his arms on either side of me, and I now feel trapped against the supporting wall.

I fumble for words. “I won’t be in New York. I’ve decided to stay in California.”

“But you’re here tonight,” Vince says, and now I’m in his arms being pulled into him.

Panic. The feel of him sends me into instant panic. “Vince, please!” I try to squirm out of his hold.
He’s going to kiss me and if he does I think I’m going to be sick.
I twist and he quiets me with his hands.

“You know I’ve always liked you, Chrissie.”

That small child voice in my head screams:
No you didn’t. You were always mean to me.
His hand is on the base of my spine moving me into him and his face is lowering. His mouth flattens against mine and the feeling is suffocating.

“Please stop, Vince,” I plead, as his lips move to my jaw.

I slip my hands between us, up against his chest, but my arms are like putty and I can’t force him off of me. His breath smells of beer and pot, his mouth is cruelly hard against me, and his hand is moving upward under my shirt.

“Miss Parker? You have a phone call,” says a voice in the darkness. Vince jerks off of me and I see Kevin in the shadows.

“I do?”

I clumsily pull my clothes into place as my disjointed thoughts function enough to warn me to hold it together, Kevin is rescuing me. I take his outstretched hand and nearly stumble as I walk to keep pace with him.

A few more steps, Chrissie. A few more and then you’ll be in the safety of your Blond Nordic Driver and it won’t matter that Vince is following and you can’t seem to shake him any better than you could shake Jimmy Stallworth.

Kevin stops at an open office door and reaches in, then shoves the receiver at me. I stare at the phone, my brain snapping. I couldn’t possibly have a call here. My shaking hand holds the receiver against my head.

“Hello?”

If there is a person on the other end talking, I can’t hear them. There is too much blaring noise and background music. “Hello? Is there anyone there?” I shout.

Quiet. It’s almost as though whoever is on the other end stepped out of a noisy room. I can hear street sounds now.

“It’s Mr. Whoever You Are. I thought I would see how you were doing,” says a low, raspy voice.

Whoa. My head spins. Is Alan really calling me while on a date with Nia or am I so messed up I’m imagining things?

“Really. How remarkable. Where are you?”

“In front of the club.”

My head buzzes and I lean tiredly against the wall. “How New York chic of you. Do you always slip out of clubs to escape your supermodel dates to call other girls in the club?”

Alan laughs. Vince is watching me like a hawk. I don’t understand why Alan is calling me. I don’t understand anything at present or why I feel like I’m about to faint.

“So, what are you doing on the street talking to me?” I ask my tongue heavy with my words.

“You disappeared so quickly from stage it seemed the logical next move. I heard about your audition, by the way. What happened?”

How does he know about my audition? Jack probably, and again I feel that strange sense of curious disbelief knowing that they talk about me.

“Your kiss didn’t work. I could hardly play.”

“That bad?”

“That bad. Didn’t permit me my second piece. Excused me after one.”

“Maybe they didn’t need to hear more.”

“Oh no,” I counter, my words very breathy now, “that’s Juilliard’s version of booing you from the stage. They don’t throw things at Juilliard. They just say
enough.
”

“I should have kissed you better.”

I think of his mouth on mine. “I hate New York. I can’t wait to get home. I don’t want to live here.”

“Do you need a shoulder to cry on?”

“I just want to go home, Alan.”

“OK, Chrissie, we’ll do that, but you have to hold it together. Exit the club and climb into the car waiting.”

“Sorry, Alan. I don’t do threesomes. Not even in limos.”

Oh god, what made me say that?
I feel Vince’s eyes dig into me.

“I’m alone,” Alan says, and this time there is a raspy caress to his voice.

It feels as though the floor beneath me has given away. Did Alan Manzone just dump Nia to pick me up in a club? No, Chrissie, no. I don’t know what’s happening here, but that would be entirely too crazy.

“What did you do with Nia? Send her shopping?”

“No. I told her I had to go. I left her my car. I’m in yours.”

Mine? How did he know that the car out front with the blond Nordic driver was mine? I inhale deeply, willing myself calm. “How gentlemanly of you.”

“No. Actually very ungentlemanly. How much have you had to drink, Chrissie? Is Vince Carroll still with you?”

How does he know that Vince was with me in the alley?

“I’m a little buzzed. Two…”
Why is my head swimming again?
“…maybe three drinks. Nothing more. Just a little buzzed.”

“Put Vince on the phone.”

I hand Vince the phone. Vince is nodding and saying aha, aha, aha, then hands the receiver into the office.

I don’t like the way Vince is looking at me.

“What the fuck is going on, Chrissie? Are you involved with Manny?”

Manny? It takes a moment for my fuzzy brain to realize he’s referring to Alan. “Why?”

“Because Alan Manzone just told me to get your ass out front now and if I touch you he’s going to kick the shit out of me.”

The whole situation is beyond the abilities of my befuddled mental state: Vince and his prowling hands; Alan and the phone call; and how messed up I feel after only three drinks.

Vince is pulling me through the club and I can’t get my thoughts to keep up with the rapidly shifting scene as he drags me out onto the front sidewalk. My car is parked by the door, my blond Nordic driver is waiting, there is a crowd, and the tabloid photographers are no longer relaxing against the brick of the building. They are rapidly clicking away. Flash, flash, flash.

The popping flashes make me sway a little on my feet and Vince reaches out to me. I panic, nearly tumbling to escape his repulsive touch and I’m suddenly swallowed by an angry swarm, taking pictures, shouting questions, so many questions, and I can’t get out of the swarm and I can’t breathe.

“Keep the fuck away from her,” someone shouts behind me, and then the swarm evaporates and there are people everywhere, the cameras are flashing like a meteor storm, and Alan and Vince Carroll are fighting. Everything is moving slow, like I feel inside: Vince on the ground; Alan kicking him in the gut over and over again; Vince trying to crawl away; the hard snap of Vince’s arms; the girls screaming.

“Oh my god!”

Frozen in panic, I stare at the ensuing chaos. Shit, did Alan Manzone just kill Vince Carroll right in front of me? I feel frantic screams rising inside of me, but I can’t get the air from my lungs to push them out. Then Vince groans, and I’m relieved and I don’t know why, but it’s probably because Alan is shouting to put me in the car and I have David’s kind steadying hands helping me there.

I’m pushed down onto the seat, the door slams behind me, and I am trapped inside. Strange flashes mar the tinted windows, and there is shouting, so much shouting and my head hurts. Nightmarish images flash in and out of my head and I struggle to try to lift myself from the seat. I need to call David to get me away from here.

I’m pushed back into the leather and Alan drops heavily into the seat beside me. The car door slams. I can feel the pressure of the car moving forward with rapid speed.

The only sound within is Alan’s heavy breathing and I warn myself to hold steady, but his eyes are blazing and I don’t understand what is happening. Why would Alan Manzone show up out of nowhere and beat up Vince Carroll on the sidewalk in front of CBGBs?

I can feel Alan all around me and I know without looking at him that he is very angry. Why is he angry? Why doesn’t he say something?

“What the fuck are you doing at CBGBs with a known drug dealer and Vince Carroll?” he growls through gritted teeth.

“You know Jimmy Stallworth?” I ask, though why that seems a reasonable question I don’t know.

His eyes are blazing as they lock on me. “Everyone in the industry knows Jimmy Stallworth. Fuck!” He lets out a long and primal exhale of anger. “What the hell are you doing making the rounds of the New York club scene alone? Do you have any idea what could have happened to you? Fucked up? Alone? With guys like Vince Carroll and Jimmy Stallworth? Where the hell is that useless friend of yours?”

“Rene,” I supply contritely, though I don’t know why I am contrite.

“Whatever,” he counters, sharply dismissive.

I’ve never heard
whatever
with a British accent and I can feel myself being swept away by laughter. The laughter feels strange, a disobedient force, but I can’t seem to stop laughing and am vaguely aware that there is nothing funny happening here.

Alan’s eyes lock on me, blazing. “Stop laughing. This isn’t the least bit funny. It would have been better for us both if you hadn’t done this.”

My head buzzes. Nothing I do has anything to do with him. He has no right to stomp about like a caveman and then yell at me. I want to tell him to go to hell. I’ve obsessed over him for five days, and now he has the nerve to pop up out of nowhere, create that horrifying scene, then behave as though I’ve behaved badly. What I do is none of his business.

“I really wish you’d stop telling me what would be better for
me
,” I exclaim in frustration. “How would you know what’s better for me? I don’t even know.”

He arches a brow. “Exactly. If you did, you wouldn’t be stupid enough to be out partying with Vince Carroll and Jimmy Stallworth.”

I hear it in his voice, concern, something I understand. My combativeness fades. My limbs relax all on their own and it’s as if I’m melting, my flesh is melting, until I am deep in the leather seat, against him, my cheek resting on his shoulder. It feels so wonderful to be touching him, to be close. I tilt my face. I stop when he fills my eyes.

“Why are you angry with me?” I ask and those captivating black eyes flash at me.

“The Blue Light was awful enough, you stumbling and drunk and making a fool of yourself. But I didn’t expect to see you tonight wired on stage singing with Vince Carroll.”

The interior of the limo has calmed, less full of angry Alan. I take in more details of him. He definitely looks rock star New York chic tonight: Leather pants, open shirt and all. The same clothes from his television interview earlier today.

“I hate how you’re dressed,” I whisper.

“I don’t particularly care for your attire. That top must belong to Rene.”

I crinkle my nose. “Attire? My we are British again. I guess this does make me look a little slutty. And you are right. It is Rene’s.”

Those black eyes lock on me. I begin to burn. “No, Chrissie. You don’t look slutty. You look like a girl out looking for trouble. That’s how you look tonight. Incredibly hot and looking for trouble.”

His thumb runs along my jaw line. I can feel a jolt shoot down, all throughout my body. He turns my chin until I’m looking straight at him.

“You are a very beautiful girl.” He kisses the underside of my chin. My organs tighten. I pull in a sharp breath. “And unfortunately,” he whispers, “you are very, very fucked up.”

He sets me back against my seat. My body screams. I can’t tell if he’s mocking me, toying with me or angry with me. “Behave yourself,” he commands.

I jerk away from him and sink into my side of the seat. “And I was about to take my top off because you are right—I would never buy this for me.”

“You can take your top off if you want. I don’t fuck fucked up little girls and I’m sure the tabloid photographers would enjoy it.”

OK, he’s mocking me, and through my deadened senses I feel my anger surge. “Yeah right, Alan. I’m yellow carding you. That’s bullshit. Do you mean to sit there and tell me you don’t go to bed with drunk women? You’d be the first rock star in history…”

Those black eyes swivel. I shiver. “No, what I’m saying is you are too much shit to deal with for a fuck. I fuck drunk women all the time. I don’t do bullshit, Chrissie. If you ask me a question, I will tell you the truth. You need to decide how far and in what direction you want to go before you start something.”