Finally, I'm Lost in Your Eyes

Chapter 5

“Mail,” his bodyguard grunts, tossing it on the table so that it smacks loudly.

The table rattles with the amount of mail, a few envelopes scattering to the floor. The sound echoes around his silent home, and Paul casts a large shadow over his eyelids as he towers over him. Dominic flinches, cracking open one eye.

Dominic tosses his sunglasses onto the wood and turns away from the large bay window he had been sun-basking in front of begrudgingly. His manager was right about the view from this window. It’s quite lovely. And optimal for soaking up Vitamin D. Even through glass, it is relaxing.

He shouldn’t be surprised by the absurd amount of mail to hit him today. He should have anticipated that fans would send him all sorts of letters - somehow get his address and leave mean comments despite him walling himself from social media. They always find a way.

“I’m not reading that s**t,” Dominic mutters, tossing his bare feet onto the windowsill and turning his phone over in his hand to make himself look busy.

He sees Paul shake his head out of his peripherals. Paul moves over to the large piles and pushes aside all the pastel-colored, personal letters to find a newspaper. He flattens it out with a cough and drops it onto his lap regardless of Dominic’s attempts to avoid the real world.

Dominic doesn’t dare look at it. Whatever it is, it can’t be good. It’s either something about him, his girlfriend, or his deteriorating career. None of which he cares to read about.

“I’m busy.”

“No, you’re not. You’re pretending to read old text messages. Boss told me to make sure you get this and read it.”

Dominic holds a finger up to his lips and brings the phone to his ear, calling Carissa. To which, Paul gets tired of him playing and rips the phone from his hands. He stuffs it in his pocket and points to the newspaper, his tone firm. “Read it.”

“What is it?” He grumbles, running his fingers through his unwashed hair. Now that he thinks about it, he’s not entirely sure when the last time he had taken a decent shower was.

“How the hell am I supposed to know? I’m just the messenger.”

Dominic growls and snatches up the paper, preparing himself for the absolute worst. If it’s another article about his attempt, he is seriously going to consider declaring that month vacation in Cancun that he’s been threatening management with. He cannot stand to look at one more journalist report treating him like a victim of his own decision.

And well.

It’s not an article about his attempt.

Rubbing his eyes, Dominic squints at the fine print, pressing his fingers into his nose as he sighs. Till he’s making indents into the bridge between his eyes. He huffs as he reads the headlines, slightly angered. “What the hell is this?” He tosses the paper, stabbing the headlines with his pointer finger. “Is he trying to piss me off then? Because it’s working.”

Paul leans over his shoulder and frowns. “I doubt that was their intention.” His dark eyes become shadowed again as he runs his fingers delicately over the newprint. It’s a weird change when he was so serious a moment ago. As if it’s wet and going to crumble under his fingertips, he quickly yanks his hand back.

Dominic can’t help but wonder if he’s thinking about the moment he found out about his attempt. If he had a similar reaction to the news.

“Who even reads newspapers anymore? Jesus.”

Dominic holds out his hand for his phone, which Paul reluctantly hands back, and shoves it between his ear and his shoulder, flipping to the other side of the page. He doesn’t want to read it.

“What in the bloody hell did you just give me?” he barks into the mouthpiece. “Why the hell am I looking at a suicide article of a young girl? I told you to stop harassing me. Is it tragic? Sure, probably. I didn’t know her. But I’ve told you repeatedly I’m done with this s**t. How am I supposed to move on when you keep giving me f*****g reminders?”

He pats his pockets for some cigarettes but doesn’t find any. Looking up, he sees Paul c*****g a box in his hand, waving it around like it’s a proud accomplishment to keep it out of his possession. Dominic rolls his eyes.

“You didn’t read it, did you?” the voice accuses through the phone.

“Of course not,” he chuckles sarcastically, dropping his feet from the windowsill so that he can stand up and stretch. “You know me so well.”

“Well, Dominic. If you had read it, you would have realized that this isn’t just the random suicide attempt.”

Dominic picks at his nails, walking into his kitchen. His skin feels stretched, too thin when he moves. Like it’s barely clinging on. He really hates when they have these talks. “What do you mean?”

“Why don’t you just read it?” his manager bites back before there’s shuffling by his ear. “Give the phone to Paul, would you? He seems to listen better than you.”

Such a lovely individual. It’s a wonder Dominic hates him really. He sets the device on the edge of the kitchen counter, leaving it behind. “Paul, management!” he calls over his shoulder.

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll get it.”

It’s been, what? Three years now? Two and a half? Since he first signed with this management? He should look into getting a new company to represent him. It will be a big jump. Probably a lot of paperwork and a lot of pain, but he imagines a completely reimagined brand. A path to redemption and revival. He doubts a management change is going to solve everything, but it’s a good start.

He can’t tell them that though or they’ll definitely cut his career. Doesn’t even trust his mum or sister, based on the mere fact that his manager has them charmed. He would not be surprised to see either of them rat him out for brownie points, so he’s not really got anyone to talk to about that either. It’s an unfortunate event considering he tends to take their advice on pretty much everything.

A finger taps his shoulder as he is getting out a glass. “D, you should read it.”

Dominic twists around to give him a haughty glare but is surprised to see he’s already walking off, phone clenched tightly in his large fist. Tired of putting up a fight about it, he regards Paul’s serious tone as non-negotiable and takes a look at the article against his better judgement.

“I don’t suppose you’d be willing to give me the Sparknotes version?”

His question goes unanswered so he looks at the title again, wondering what is so special about this story. Why it appears to have made the front cover. He surprisingly finds his answer in the name of the victim herself.

Iris. One of the rising stars in the industry. Dominic knows of her, of course. His management had mentioned her as a possible collaboration, but for whatever reason, she was ruled out in favor of different artists. His eyes skitter down to the meat of the words, ignoring the uncomfortable shutter that runs down his spine.

It reminds him of the radio announcements, talk show hosts, and award ceremonies he was forced to watch that emphasized how much he was liked. All bullshit, of course. None of those celebrities who called him out and wished him well, were ever his friends. They did the occasional collab with him or maybe met him once or twice at a party, but by no means did they ever know him enough to call him a good person.

They’re doing the same thing with Iris now.

Iris was in the London area once again, seen getting cozy with her hubby, American model, Ryan Munch. The two were seen leaving his apartment early Tuesday morning. The following morning, Iris was called into Boden medical hospital -

Dominic remembers Ryan Munch. He hardly knows anything about him, other than what he’s read in articles, mainly about Iris, but he knows they’ve been dating for a month or two. He’s been in the limelight for a few years, jumping around and taking small gigs here in there. Dominic’s seen him at a couple of afterparties, now that he thinks about it. Hanging off of Iris’ arm like a show pony.

He looks like bad news, if you ask Dominic. Classic fuckboy persona and ridiculously pretty face that he could use to charm any girl he’d like and scratch in another notch on his bedroom post.

Dominic knows what they would assume. Dominic would know all about that, right?

His eyes scan non-committedly over the text. Iris tried to commit suicide . . . by an unsafe dosage of sleeping pills and a total of five shots of heroine . . . Eerily similar to a suicide attempt made six months ago by another musical artist, Dominic Davis . . . Are we seeing a down spiral in celebrity mental health?

A down spiral seems about right.

Pressing his knuckles to his throbbing temple, he slides the newspaper away, no longer bearing to look at it any longer. Eerily similar huh? Why does that send chills down his spine? He hardly hears Paul enter the kitchen.

The phone somehow finds its way back to his hand, and Dominic is too numb to resist it. “The press is really worried. They mention you – they call you the f*****g match to the flame, and they’re predicting that there’s going to be a meltdown among the greatest stars. Domino effect. We need to fix this.”

“Like hell we do,” Dominic bites, rolling his eyes and scratching at his scalp. Paul takes over the task he’d originally come in to do, brimming up the water glass he had never actually filled. “It’s none of my business, and you know the f*****g media. They make s**t up like this all the time. They connect things that don’t even make sense, and people believe it because they’re f*****g naïve about everything to do with fame. There’s no proof whatsoever that I was the quote unquote f*****g match.”

“Davis –“ Dominic bites into an apple, narrowing his eyes at Paul when he sees him intently listening to their verbal match. “They found a sheet of your music on her bed when she tried to take her own life. That’s how you’re connected.”

Dominic’s pulse drums in his ears, a horrifically sick feeling rolling over him in one giant wave. He quickly presses a hand to his mouth to curb his nausea, concerned he’s going to throw up then and there. The room spins. His greasy bangs fall into his eyes, tangling with his eyelashes. A hand comes forward to push it out of his face but it’s not his own.

Paul graciously accepts his head when it collapses into his chest.

“What song was it?” He demands, voice shaky and teetering on the edge. It’s not hard to decipher that Dominic is about to have a break down.

“Does it matter?”

“Yes! It f*****g matters - I . . . I need to know.”

He presses his cheek against Pauls’ sternum, blinking down at the floor with his wavy vision. The grout between the tiles squirm, fuzzining, and that’s the only warning that appears that he might possibly be subject to a brief wallowing session here in the arms of his bodyguard.

In the moment, he doesn’t think about how Paul is going to pity him later, or if he’s letting his emotions get the better of him in front of an audience. He’s more than aware that he’s starting to sound like a babbling i***t - the emotionally unstable wreck that he’s always tried to keep hidden within an unbreakable exterior he keeps for the media, but all he can think about is the blame. He is the reason she hurt herself. He’s always the reason.

Why? he wants to wail aloud. He never wanted to hurt anyone. He’s said this over and over. He’s never wanted anybody to hurt. He just wanted himself to stop hurting.

And now he’s here. Now. With a young girl’s fight for life on his consciousness.

“I apologize, Dominic. I’m not sure what the . . . erm, song was. That sounds like a question for the police.”

Dominic huffs furiously. Heat travels up the back of his arms, curling and gathering at the back of his neck, and he has to physically pry himself out of Paul’s arms to pace. “Well, who’s running the investigation then, Rob? Who the hell can I speak to who would actually give a damn about that poor girl? I know it’s not you. I know it’s not you because you didn’t even give a damn about my own life when I almost lost it.”

“That’s not fair, Dominic,” he utters, appalled. “Calm down, lad. We were all upset -”

“No, you weren’t! None of you cared! All I wanted was to be told that I -” Dominic chokes a bit, taking a deep breath. “That I would be missed. That someone f*****g cared enough to stop by my hospital bed just to have a little chat because they missed my voice. And don’t say that my mother and sister were there, you know bloody well that they don’t count.”

Paul reaches for him again. Though, this time he ducks.

“I didn’t call just for you to start screaming nonsense at me.” When Dominic doesn’t answer, he keeps talking. “If you want my honest opinion, Dominic, you can have it. I think you’re a coward. I think you milk your unhappiness because you like being pitied. You always have to be the victim, and it’s quite honestly a burden. You don’t ever see the opportunity, only tragedy . . . You’re a mess, and you don’t get any sympathy from me for this. I don’t think Carissa deserves any of this either.”

Dominic’s throat closes, his nose involuntarily shriveling as Paul jumps in and lightly grabs his shoulder, sensing an ugly tension between the two hot-headed individuals.

“Carissa?” he repeats mindlessly, his brain short-circuiting at the name. Carissa. f**k. He - No. She hadn’t visited him either though. His stomach instantly drops as he’s realized he’s totally disregarded her again. It’s never on purpose, but she’s almost never at the forefront of his mind. Even after being together for over two years.

Paul snags the phone like an overprotective father. “Lay off the lad, yeah? He’s in distress. He’s clearly not thinking straight.”

“Are you speaking for him now, Paul? Last I checked the boy was nineteen years old. He can think for himself.”

“You’ve provoked him,” Paul argues. “I’m only defending him.”

Dominic drops his head into his hands, his back heaving. The hot disbelief melts away inside him as he processes his manager’s accusation, wrenching itself darkly into guilt. How can he be mad when his manager is so right? He had forgotten his own girlfriend. He had forgotten her late night gasping confession to his landline. He had forgotten her sacrifices to stay sane throughout all of this. To give him the space he needed to heal and recorporate. To forgive him for all the lying and cheating and drama.

He always forgets about her somehow.

Because Rob’s correct in all his assumptions. He only ever sees the bad in something. He only ever feels like a victim, even if it’s not about him. This isn’t about him, but he’s made it all about him anyway.

Dominic snags his phone back stiffly, his body shaking. A tear drips from his nose, and he wipes it away pridefully, letting his manager’s harsh words settle deep in his bones - to calcify in his muscles and make him ache regretfully. “Well spit it out then,” he half sobs, half growls, unsure how else to respond. “What did you call for?”

Paul shakes his head, eyebrows furrowed with disbelief. He turns around and disappears from sight, seemingly too disappointed to find something to say.

“Take this as an opportunity, Dominic. You go visit with her family and friends, her team, and we can work our magic to make it look like you’ve recovered and now you’re helping out others who are facing the same traumatic experiences. You can become a spokesperson for an entire movement . . . who better than someone who had overcome that same trauma? Bam! You’ve got your credibility back.”

“You’re certain that’s all it takes?” he scoffs skeptically. “A little pop-in?”

“Of course not. I expect you to follow this through to the end. I want you to put on a performance.” He pauses, allowing his words to hang in the air. “Remember - the attempt gets swept under the rug. That’s what we agreed to.”

Dominic licks his dry lips, rolling his burning eyes to the ceiling. “I’ll do it.” Because he will feel physically sick if he doesn’t. Because he thinks that if he doesn’t go to her, he will feel this ill for the remainder of his existence. “For her. Not for you.”

“Understood.” The line clicks off.