Sweet As Sin

55

I stayed with Grace for the next two nights. We never did go see the Rocky Horror Picture Show. I went straight to bed and stayed there, rising only to eat and use the toilet. I was ill in every way a person could be: soul sick, heartsick, physically sick. None of the food I ate stayed down, but Grace kept forcing soup and crackers on me, keeping me hydrated with Pedialyte. On Tuesday morning, Grace went to my house and retrieved my kit and a few other things I’d need for the trip to Santa Barbara because I just couldn’t face the possibility that there might be paparazzi still camped outside my door.

But Officer Cox had been right. The paparazzi had moved on to more interesting stories. Grace relayed that there wasn’t a single cameraman in sight.

Nico and I were already yesterday’s news.

I drove to Santa Barbara in Grace’s Lexus because my Fiat was still parked in my garage, and she insisted she’d use a car service to get back and forth to her office. “I can write it off as a business expense,” she said airily, waving my protests away. “Besides, I’ve always wanted to know what it feels like to have a chauffeur.” And that was that.

And now I was in an ocean-view hotel room in Santa Barbara, sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the cell phone in my hand. I’d turned it off on the cab ride home from Nico’s, not wanting to hear any more excuses. Not wanting to know if he’d try another tack. Now I felt sufficiently far enough away to deal with it. With shaking hands, I hit the button to turn it on.

There were five voicemails.

The first was from Chloe from three days prior. “Just wanted to let you know I got home in one piece. Hope you’re okay, too. Dude, that was intense.” She paused, and I could picture her chewing her lip. “Um . . . so . . . how long do you think I should wait before calling Officer Cox?” She giggled. “I think I need to report a woman dying of being s*x starved.” She hung up after promising to send her crew over to clean up what remained of the trampled flowers in my yard.

Three days ago felt like another lifetime.

The next call was from the coordinator for the Reem Acra shoot, saying she’d emailed me the final itinerary and inviting me to a cocktail reception, which happened to be in just a few hours’ time. I quickly texted her to confirm, then went back to voicemail.

The third call came in at two thirty in the morning. At first, no one said anything. Rock music pounded in the background, blaringly loud. Then, in a thick voice, Nico spoke.

“Gave you eighteen hours. Now ask me why.”

My heart jumped into my throat. The music played a moment longer, then the call cut off. Another call came in the next day at almost 4:00 a.m. More loud music. Another pause. Then Nico’s voice again, even rougher this time.

“Goddamn it, Kat.” He hung up.

On his final call, Nico didn’t say anything. It sounded as if a party had been raging wherever he was for days. All I heard was music, the sound of his ragged breathing, and, making my heart clench, a woman’s faint laughter in the background, before the call dropped and I was left clutching the phone to my ear, shaking.

Maybe Nico was taking a ride on the Village Bicycle after all.

The phone in my hand rang. I jerked so sharply I dropped it. I put my hand over my thundering heart, took a few breaths, and leaned down to pick it up. Seeing the number on the readout, I made the decision to press Send before I was even conscious of it.

“Nico.”

“f**k,” he breathed, “you picked up.”

He sounded terrible. Actually, he sounded incredibly relieved, but also pissed off, strung out, and a little drunk.

“I had my phone turned off.” Why was I explaining that to him? What was I hoping for here, something that would make sense? Something that wouldn’t make me want to jump off my hotel room balcony? I should have learned my lesson by now.

“Runnin’ away again. Always fuckin’ runnin’ away from me, Kat. And always comparin’ me to some other dickhead that broke your heart. Even your dad.”

Blood rushed to my face. My ears were scalding. “I’m going to hang up now.”

“Yeah? Well before you do, ask me why.”

I was shaking in anger, in hurt, in confusion. “I already told you, why doesn’t matter. You made your choice perfectly clear. It is what it is.”

His laugh was disturbing on many levels. “Don’t kid yourself, baby. Why’s the only thing that ever matters. Now ask me.”

I stood and began to pace. “How long have you been up?”

“A while. Where are you?”

I didn’t answer.

“’Cause I know you’re not at home. Know you haven’t been there in days. So where are you, Kat?”

He’d been by my house, more than once, looking for me. Why? He wanted to have his cake and eat it, too? “I’m working.”

“Where?” His question was clipped and demanding.