The Rockstar's Redemption

2. Rock Star.

2. Rock Star.

“Where…? Where am I?”

I start at the wounded sound of a voice.

Oh God.

Reid Colleman is awake.

I turn slowly, careful, though that doesn’t stop a few books from tumbling off the little desk.

Clumsy as always, my sweet mother would say.

Reid’s eyes study me closely; there’s curiosity and a hint of distrust in them, like he suspects something about me.

“How are you?” I ask cautiously, needing to know how he’s feeling. I already got his infection down, so the pain should have eased. He’s spent the last three days drifting between consciousness and unconsciousness, and only now does he seem really present.

But he doesn’t answer. Instead his brown eyes flash with sudden recognition, as if he’s just remembered something important. He tries to push himself up, determined to leave, but before his feet hit the floor he collapses back onto the bed with a jolt.

Almost instinctively I move closer, but I stop when I see the hardness in his gaze: having me nearby is, clearly, the last thing he wants.

His hard eyes don’t leave me for a second, measuring every move I make. I suspect he thinks that at any moment I’ll pull a knife and stab him in the chest… or something like that.

Doesn’t he remember I saved his life?

Not to brag, but he should look at me more kindly; after all, I’m risking myself to help him.

“Does your stomach and leg hurt a lot…?” I ask.

“Where am I?” he interrupts me, the force of his stare freezing me in place.

“You’re at my house,” I manage to say. “Don’t you remember anything?”

His eyes follow my every movement as I approach. His look is penetrating, powerful. The kind of look that could lead an army without speaking a single word.

But there’s something else hidden behind that hardness he tries to maintain: melancholy. I see it, I feel it. He’s a deeply sad person.

“Willa. My name is Willa O’Neill,” I say, sitting carefully on the far corner of the bed, concentrating on not touching him even lightly. “Three days ago I found you injured in an alley… which you probably don’t remember,” I add clumsily, because it’s obvious he doesn’t—“you were badly beaten, with a stab wound in your leg and another in your abdo—”

“Where am I?” he interrupts again.

“At my house,” I reply immediately—hadn’t I already said that?

He shakes his head once, a grimace pulling at his lips, and I suspect the simple movement made his head hurt. No wonder: he’s too beaten up.

“And where is your house?”

Oh.

“In Beaufort—” when he doesn’t say anything I add, “It’s a small town in South Caro—”

“I know where it is,” he interrupts again.

I look away, resisting the urge to click my tongue in annoyance.

We sit in an awkward silence for what feels like an eternity. He seems lost in thought. I, on the other hand, am trying to figure him out.

“Who…?”

“How much did they pay you to bring me here?”

“Excuse me?”

“Who wanted to kill me?”

He… he…

“How am I supposed to know that?”

“You have me here,” he says, looking at his bandaged leg. “Against my will.”

But what…?

“You can leave whenever you want, believe me.”

His stupid eyes open the tiniest bit for a millisecond. For the first time a feeling other than distrust flashes in them: surprise.

“I can’t move. I can’t move my leg.”

“Poor baby,” I say, though my voice says the exact opposite, as if I’m glad he’s injured.

Perfect, Willa. Exactly what you needed: to sound like a psychopath.

Good God.

I almost think his lips lift slightly at one corner—the smallest hint of a smile I have ever seen in my life—but it’s so quick I’m not sure it really happened.

“Why am I here… Blue?”

“Willa,” I correct, though he doesn’t seem to care. I sigh in resignation before letting the words out. “Look, you’re being totally rude to the person who saved your life, you know?”

That catches his attention; his gaze brightens with questions, though I know he won’t say anything. So I continue.

“I found you almost dead in the alley two blocks from here. I was going to call the police and an ambulance, but you asked me not to.”

“And you obeyed me,” his voice implies something unkind.

What does he think? That I did this on purpose? That I kidnapped him because I want him here? Who the hell does he think he is?

Oh, right.

He’s Reid Colleman, the most famous rock singer in the country… maybe the world.

When I cleaned his face after tending him, the pieces—no, the features—came together. The long brown hair, the stubble, the muscular, well-defined body… impossible not to recognize him.

How could I not? He’s even on the blessed morning paper.

Especially in the last few weeks, since the day I found him almost dead he’d had a concert in Columbia, the state capital. An event announced—no exaggeration—for almost the whole year. In a small town where rarely anything happens, everyone talked about it: the big rock star was coming to our state.

I’m sure my teenage neighbor drove the four hours to the capital just to hear him sing. And she wasn’t the only one; half the town was obsessed with the event.

And then—pow!—suddenly there he is. Dying.

Life’s irony, right?

I’ve never followed his career, which only increases my irritation at his stupid accusations.

After I discovered who he was, I wanted to call the police at least ten thousand times, but he made me promise something.

And no matter how much I wanted to get rid of him, I couldn’t.

A promise is unbreakable.

At least, it is for me.

“You told me that if I called the police or an ambulance, they’d find you and you’d end up dead,” I say gently, trying to calm him.

“So you brought me here, you cared for me and saved my life. Just like that. A completely altruistic act.” The tone he uses could not be more unkind.

“What are you implying?”

“That either you work for the people who did this to me,” he studies me with contempt before adding, “or you’re a fangirl who took advantage of the chance and has me locked up in her messy house.”

I ignore his comment about my house and focus on the truly disturbing thing.

“What kind of lunatic do you think I am?” I snap, outraged. “No—what kind of fans do you have?”

But he doesn’t answer. Reid doesn’t waste words, and he’s already made his opinion of me clear.

He’s just waiting for my response.

“I’m not your fan,” I say, pointing at him with one finger. “I don’t have time in my life to be watching the drama and nonsense someone like you might be living.”

He stares at me for several seconds. His look is so intense that for a moment I almost look away… but I don’t. I’m not going to be intimidated by him.

“So then there’s only the other option,” his voice turns colder. “You’re part of the people who did this to me.”

Okay!

I stand up abruptly and head straight for the door. Of course things never go smoothly for me. I let out a sharp yelp when my knee collides with the corner of the bed.

“s**t!”

And so, I ruin what I intended to be a proud exit.

I clutch my knee with a fake dignity, though I’m sure I look ridiculous trying to seem furious when clearly I’m in pain.

“Nice meeting you. You can get the hell out of here whenever you want,” I say, grabbing my backpack without daring to look at him, too humiliated by my own clumsiness. “I have a shift at the hospital, so I hope when I get back I find the pleasant surprise that you’re no longer in my house. Good luck in your life, rock star.”

And I leave, wishing with all my might never to see his face again.

|…|

“Are you still here?”

He looks at me for a second, then his eyes fall back to my laptop resting on his thighs, without saying a word. Reid Colleman even has my headphones on, the audacious i***t.

I refrain from rolling my eyes; I’m too tired. Today was a rough day, and the last thing I need is a “discussion” with this guy. Although, considering how much he talks, it’s hardly a discussion—more like a monologue.

Still, curiosity gets the better of me and I ask, “How did you know my laptop password?”

Without looking away from the screen he answers, “Your name.”

Whatever.

I grab pajama pants from my closet, a towel, and duck into the bathroom to freshen up quickly. I don’t look at him at any point; he doesn’t look at me either. We ignore each other, and I thank the heavens for it.

But, unfortunately, just as I’m about to fall asleep on the sofa, damn worry hits me. He hasn’t eaten anything all day. And if I’m hungry, Reid must be hungrier.

Reluctantly, hating myself for not being able to keep the same indifferent treatment he gives me, I make a sandwich and a quick shake with the last strawberries in the fridge. I leave it silently on the nightstand next to him and slip out.

He doesn’t say anything, not even a simple thank you.

|…|

Three days after Reid secretly moved into my house, we’ve fallen into a pattern. The famous star took over my only bedroom—which also has the only bathroom—so I run into him all the time. But it’s like he doesn’t exist: he doesn’t look at me, nor do I at him. The only time we interact is when, pitying the no-longer-moribund man, I bring him food. Why do I do it? No idea, considering that not even a “thanks” has come from his ungrateful mouth.

I can’t stop thinking how shocking this is: having him under my roof, in my bed. But I do nothing to change it. If I’m honest, I feel sorry for him. Behind all his indifference, his gaze seems so sad, so… empty.

Still, I need to know how long we’ll go on like this, because I’m tired of sleeping on the sofa for someone I don’t even like.

“When are you leaving?” I finally ask, folding my arms in front of him, trying to look intimidating.

He lifts his gaze from my laptop and stares at me for several seconds. Finally, after days, he deigns to speak.

“There’s nothing of me in showbiz.”

Oh. My. God.

“When are you leaving my house?”

“There’s not a single news item about me on the internet, Willa.”

“Willa,” I correct with a tired sigh, finding no sense in his stupid name for me. “Look, your presence isn’t pleasant to me, so I’d like to know when you’re finally going to—”

“Doesn’t it seem weird to you?”

Why does he always interrupt me?

“Oh yes,” I nod. “It’s completely weird having you in my house, someone so unpleasant and hateful he could compete as a villain with Hitler himself.”

As if it were unusual, he stares at me for several seconds.

“If there’s no news about me online, it means no one knows what happened to me.”

Damn.

“Stay as long as you want, but let’s stick to this plan: you don’t acknowledge my existence, and I won’t acknowledge yours, rock star.”

“Willa, get what I’m saying,” he keeps talking. “No one knows what happened to me.”

“And?”

He makes a thoughtful gesture, completely immersed in his loathsome mind.

“I had my suspicions, but this can confirm it. Whoever did this works for me, someone I trust.”

I look at him, surprised. “Are you sure about that?”

“Maybe, not completely, but it’s a possibility.”

“You’re telling me someone you trust planned this? For what purpose?”

“I can’t trust you,” he looks back at my laptop. “You’re a stranger who could cause me more problems.”

Yes, of course, I’m the one causing problems.

“Whatever you say, Reid.”

I turn and leave.

|…|

In the new routine we’ve established, three days later he speaks to me again.

“Two days ago I played a concert in New York,” he says, taking the orange juice I left on the nightstand.

“Congratulations, you can be in two places at once.”

Before I leave the room his words stop me: “I have a twin. It was him, I’m sure.”

What?

I look at him.

“You’re saying he stole your identity?”

He doesn’t answer; he just raises an eyebrow with that odious expression.

Reid Colleman doesn’t repeat himself.

I take a deep breath and start, “Can you tell me when I’ll get rid of you? You’re obnoxious, I don’t like you, and you don’t like me. You’re using my bed, my bathroom, my water, my electricity…”

“I’ll pay you for all of this.”

“When?”

“Soon.”

Soon. My ass.

I run my hand over my forehead, thinking.

“Do you at least have something planned?”

He doesn’t answer.

Taking patience from who-knows-where, I continue, “I don’t know what’s going on in your life or what problems you have, but if you affect me in any way, I—” I think about it, looking at his bored expression that makes me feel insignificant.

He’s so annoying.

“What would you do?” he urges me to continue with that relentless look.

Oh, he wants my rudeness.

“I’d kick your ass.”

He snorts as if I’m ridiculous, and when I open my mouth to speak he says monotonously, “You talk too much.”

No—I don’t talk too much. It’s just that he never talks.

“What the hell am I doing?!” I scream, putting my hands on my head. “I must be crazy for helping you.”

“I’ll pay you well.”

He’s so… I can’t find the words.

I don’t want to be in his annoying presence any longer, so, ignoring someone for the first time and not feeling bad about it, I turn and repeat, “I’m crazy, I’m crazy, I’m crazy…”

And while I go to my shift at the hospital, I can only pray that when I return the rock star won’t be in my bed.

Of course… that doesn’t happen.