The Stage (Phoenix Rising #1) (15 page)

“Then I don’t think he’s going to let you go.”

Realizing we’re at an impasse, I nod my head in understanding, shake her hand, thank her, and leave. Why would he be so stubborn? To ask me to throw the round on purpose just to get on another team. What the hell?

I check the schedule. I’m not due at wardrobe for another half an hour. I find a bench and take out my phone. I pull up Google and type “Kolton Royce slapped.” I need to figure out what’s going on, connect some of the missing pieces.

Several articles pop up with similar headlines. I click on the GOS~P article since they don’t usually write complete falsehoods. They tell it like it is.

“Playboy Royce, Slapped”

7/13/13 12:45 AM PDT BY GOS~P STAFF

Kolton Royce, best known as our LA playboy and lesser known for his singing, was slapped in front of cameras coming out of the restaurant, The Ivy, earlier today.
Katharina Inez
was said to have yelled, “You can’t quit this!” pointing to herself before leaving. Neither Kolton Royce, nor his red cheek, were available for comment.

But then another headline on their “See also” section under the article catches my attention.

“Who’s tamed the bad boy? Kolton Royce turned over a new leaf?”

7/29/13 8:15 AM PDT BY GOS~P STAFF

Under the picture that shows Kolton looking hot as hell, but forlorn and withdrawn, it says:

Something seems to be changing in Kolton Royce’s life. The notorious ladies’ man has been noticeably absent from the LA scene. Did he meet someone? We haven’t seen him with anyone steady since calling of his relationship with
Katharina Inez
after she slapped him outside The Ivy. Their relationship was not exclusive. He’d been seen with lots of other ladies while they were dating. So, what gives?

We’re going to keep an eye out. He has been filming for a new singing competition,
The Stage
. Is it possible he’s met someone on the set? A few insiders say there might be a story there. Has Kolton been tamed by one of the protégés? A little birdie told us it might be true. But who is she? We’re dying to find out. More to come.

Holy shit! Has he read this? It’s just days old. I can’t even—I mean—how do they find out this stuff?

Everyone here is under contract not to talk to the media. Even when you lose the round, if you don’t want to be sued, if you want to be a part of the tour, you have to keep quiet.

My stomach rumbles and turns itself into knots. I want to run away, to hide. They will find out, won’t they? Unless he stays away from me. Unless I lose the round on purpose. They’re going to out us. They’ll write about him keeping me in his house, about Deloris, about our deeper connection as survivors. I’ll never be taken seriously. I’ll be the slut who slept her way onto the show. I’ve got to get out of here. I turn on my music player, plug in my ear buds, and run. Running saved my life before. Riley’s life. It feels like I finally have control over my own life, like I didn’t have when I lost my parents. When our lives turned to ashes. When Kolton barged into my life and took over.

I don’t know where I’m going. Away. Just away. Somewhere I’m not the prize to be found inside the box of cereal.

I run all the way to the exit, past the gate guard, who lets me out, and down the street. I feel my feet stuffed into TOMS wedges slapping against the concrete. I listen to my song, Burn, play over and over until it’s running through my bloodstream. I tune out my fears, my anger, my confusion, and pay attention to the sounds of my breath, the urgency of my heartbeat, until it’s all I know. My pace is not too fast, just enough to take me somewhere that’s not so stifling.

Sweat drips down my nose and falls, the air heavy with smog. My phone buzzes in the bag crossed over my shoulder, resting on the opposite hip, but I ignore it.

I need to cough, but I can’t. Just run. Tune it all out. I feel the perspiration falling down my back like salve over a burn. My phone buzzes again as I run past some industrial warehouses, through a neighborhood, and into a strip mall. My body hurts, but it’s numb at the same time. My anger and fear becomes a burn in my calves. My mouth feels like cotton and so I slow down, hobble into the parking lot, and go into a Subway restaurant.

I’m breathing in frantic, heated gasps.

“Water,” I demand, paying over three dollars for a bottle. I down it, letting water drizzle down my chin and onto my steaming chest. The families inside, eating their foot-long bread, stuffed with meats and cheeses, are watching me like I’m a wild animal that might suddenly turn on them.

“Another water, please,” I say, tapping my fingers on the counter and watch as the cold bottle is pulled out of the dewy fridge. I hand over my money and walk out of the double glass door with the cherished bottle. My phone buzzes again, but I’m not ready to check-in with my life just yet. I can’t.

I walk down a street past houses, apartments, stores, and into the covered walkway past a thrift store, a Trader Joe’s, and then a Sprint store. As I reach the end of the stores, I see a green, grass laden, square park with a swing set and teeter totter. I hobble on blistered feet across the street and over to the climbing wall resting in some sand that leads to a bumpy slide. I peek around and decide to rest on the other side of it. It’s kind of raw on this side, the fiberglass particles sticking out like fuzzy skin. I rest my soaked back against it and sip my water. My phone buzzes again. I’m
still
not ready. I’m just not sure if I can handle this anymore.

It’s not too late to pull out of the show completely and go back to normal. But then I’ll be right where I was before, running out of money, unsure about not only my future, but Riley’s, too. I swipe my phone on and ignore the missed calls and voicemails. I head straight to the messages, but don’t check to see if I have new ones. I just go to contacts, Deloris, and type:

Deloris Taylor

1:18 PM

Deloris. Please tell Riley I’m ok. No worries. I just need a little break. If the studio calls tell them I’m sick. Tell Riley I love her.

After I click, “send,” I see the flicker of the volume control. That’s the precursor for when a call is coming in. I don’t recognize the number, but it’s local. I swipe the red ignore button, making it go away. I turn on some soothing music and rest my head against the climbing wall’s insides.

My eyes feel heavy, and then heavier. I’m running through a dream in my mind. It’s a maze where I keep finding little memories of my mom and dad to hold up to my chest. Then I smell fire. I know I have to run. There’s screams, my mother is screaming; the sound embeds itself into my brain. Deep in there where bad memories go and hold on.
Where’s Riley
? I think, panicked.

I’m yelling her name when I find her huddled in the corner. I pick her up.
Run! Just run!
Running saved our lives. I hear the crackle of lives being lost as it chases me. My body jolts, and I jerk my eyes open.

I take a deep breath. It’s so cold, cold and dark.

I fell asleep? And now it’s night time? My neck is cricked. I rub it so I can straighten, my leg muscles, now knotted feel the sting of my knees hurting; I’m a mess.

I pull out the water bottle, gulp until it’s empty, and check my phone.

Shit! It’s dead. What the hell am I going to do now? This is a different kind of scared. I know I’ve really messed up. It’s dark and I’m in an unknown park somewhere in LA near the studio. I’m hurt, so I can’t walk very far. I’m in trouble with the show, I’m sure, for missing wardrobe and whatever else was on my schedule for today.

I wonder if there’s a phone that I can use over at that strip mall. I crawl on the sand on my hands and knees, checking around the wall to make sure I’m alone. Usually, in Sacramento homeless people use the parks to sleep in, but I don’t see anyone here, thank goodness.

When I straighten up and stand, my muscles pull apart like undoing knots. It hurts, everywhere. As I take my first step, the back of my shoe rubs against my heel and burns. I wince, but decide I’m going to have to walk anyway and tough it out. The right foot hurts the worst, so I’m limping. When I make it across the street to the Sprint store, I notice a guy inside. I know I look rough, but I walk in anyway.

“Hello,” he says. “Can I help you?”

“My phone died,” I say, holding it like emptiness in the palm of my hand. “I got lost. Now I can’t call for a ride.”

“Oh!” he says as his eyes grow wide, and it looks like he’s trying not to freak out because of my weirdness. “You can just charge your phone here. Unless, do you wanna buy a charger?”

“Yeah.” I take my wallet out and follow him over to the wall of accessories. “This one will work. It’s not name brand, but it’s kinda cool ‘cause it can plug into the wall, a car, or a USB.”

“I’ll take it. But, can I use your wall to plug it in?”

“Yeah,” he says as he rings me up and swipes my debit card.

“Do you have any scissors to cut the packaging?”

“Sure,” he nods, producing a pair of orange handled scissors from a drawer. Once I’m plugged in and my phone is singing its little happy “I’m on” tune, I see that I missed 48 calls. Some from numbers I don’t know—maybe the studio? Five are from Deloris. I touch the ‘call back’ and when she answers, her voice sounds high-pitched.

“Mia! Where are you?”

“I—I’m at a Sprint store at—uh, what’s this street called?” I ask the Sprint store guy.

“West Verdugo Avenue,” he says.

“I’m at the Sprint store on West Verdugo Avenue,” I say, rubbing my sore neck. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror behind him. My dark hair’s knotty, and there’s black make up smeared under my eyes. My skin is pale and my eyes look spooky as I peer into them through my reflection.

“Okay, I’m going to come and get you. Just sit tight, Mia. You’ve scared us to death—disappearing like that. Kolton is—”

“He’s what?”

“Frantic.” How does he even know, I wonder?

“Did you call and tell him?”

“No. He called me. The studio called him when you missed your wardrobe fitting.”

“Oh, well-uh, I’ll be here, waiting.” I stare at my phone. Of the numbers that have been calling me, is one of them Kolton’s
real
phone number? I have some messages, but I can’t take listening to them now. I just sit down on the carpet. The Sprint guy doesn’t say anything to me; he just lets me sit as I wait.

I don’t feel like myself. I feel numb, blank. I stare at the curve of the beige display cases along the wall near the door and count the display phones to pass the time. I don’t look too long at the wall of windows. They seem too black, angry, ominous.

Then I hear brakes and the black window wall opens. My jaw drops.

Kolton is standing in the open door. His jaw is tight, his arms stiff, his hair, wild like he’s been pulling on it.

I shake my head ‘no.’ My eyes are wide, and he tilts his head to the side like, “Come on.”

Don’t make a scene
, I tell myself. That Sprint guy could say something to the press—and then it would be over, everyone would know. That very thought was the reason I ran in the first place. I’m not about to make it worse.

“Kolton Royce?” Sprint guy asks.

“Naaa,” Kolton fake laughs. “I get that a lot,” brushing him off.

I unplug my phone and follow Kolton out toward a midnight blue, rock-god type sports car parked precariously outside the doors. He looks stiff and clenches his jaw as he opens the passenger side for me, his hand grazing my arm as I get in. Instinctively, I move my fingers to the tingling spot he’d just touched. I watch him as he trots around the back side of the car and folds himself in next to me.

“Put your seatbelt on.” His voice is strained as he puts his hand on the gear shift. I put my head down, buckle my seat belt, and look out the window. “We don’t have long ‘til they find out.”

My head snaps toward him and we peel out, my back pressed against the back of his fancy beige seat.
Until who finds out what?
I think as we head of toward who knows where.

You Have the Controls

H
e’s speeding but I don’t say anything because I know I’m in trouble. We’ve argued a lot since meeting each other, but I’ve never seen him this mad. I think I need to distract him with telling him how awesome his material goods are. “What kind of car is this?”

“A Fisker Karma.” His voice cold as his eyes stay on the road.

“It’s nice,” I say, knowing that talking to him might calm him down.

“It’s an electric car. Where’s the phone I gave you?”

“In the drawer at home.”

“I told you, I have to be able to get a hold of you.”

“Well, I didn’t want to talk to you!”

“Fuck!” he says, looking in the rear view mirror. “Duck down, Mia!” He pushes my head down. As I fold myself at the waist, he makes a sharp right, the tires skidding before he speeds up. “Mother fuckin’ shit!” he mutters to himself, or to me. “Where the fuck have you been, Mia?”