A Safe Space (Someone Else's Fairytale Book 4) (5 page)

“That’s not necessary.”

“Really? You able to keep up with your fan mail and requests for visits and stuff like that all on your own?”

“No, but—”

“I’ll beg, I swear.” Her voice is strained. She really is getting choked up.

“Um…well…”
Say yes for the children you help
, I think to myself. Still, it’s hard. “Why don’t we meet up and—”

“Yes! Okay, here’s my address. Actually, I’ll text it to you. Just come by whenever.”

I thank her, end the call, and realize that a small crowd has gathered to stare at me. I’m standing on the sidewalk just outside my agent’s office. Slowly, I slip my sunglasses on and retreat in the direction of my car.

This always feels standoffish to me, but I don’t really know what else to do. Say, “Hello, people staring at me. You guys having a good day?” Most people can walk around and be invisible, but fame changes all that. Fame puts you in a giant fishbowl with a steady stream of gawkers. Just walking around this morning, I’ve likely had my picture taken multiple times, and this is a good day. A bad day is when the photographers follow me around and shout taunts to try to get a reaction.

My car is a Corvette, a bright-pink Corvette. Not exactly low key, and also not exactly easy to liquidate. If I
had
to, I could sell it to afford food, but then any other car I got would just depreciate faster.

I slip inside and head to Cleo’s place, which turns out to be a little studio apartment in Santa Monica. Cleo herself is a redhead with freckles and three cats who lounge on her windowsill. She greets me with a hug.

“Hello!” she croons, ushering me in. “So are you still in touch with Mackenzie Schaller these days?”

I shake my head. “I wish I were. She’d be fifteen now, I guess. But no, the family didn’t keep in touch with me.”

“I can help you find her. Seriously, let me do that. Some web searches, some Facebook searches… We can totally do this.” She escorts me to her overstuffed couch and we sit down.

“Listen,” I say. “Thank you for—”

“I hear rejection coming,” she says.

“Look, managing all the hospital visits and stuff I do can be a huge job. I mean, maybe it won’t be now that
Veronica
is off the air, but I own a whole bank of storage units, literally, to keep all the files of letters and stuff. I visited a lot of kids over the years.”

“Uh-huh, okay. So I guess I’ll need to know your filing system.”

“It could be more than a half-time job.”

“Sure.”

“You are really determined, aren’t you?” I say.

She nods. “Listen, some people just want to work for a famous person, but that’s not me. My sister’s famous. I’m over all that. I want to work with someone who’s a hero, and that’s you.”

“I wouldn’t say—”

“Well I would.” She brushes my objection aside.

I bite my lip, unsure of what to say next.

Cleo doesn’t mind the silence, though. She coos at one of her cats that has jumped up on the couch and scratches its ears.

“So how old’s your brother now?” I ask.

“Thirteen and healthy as can be. I was his bone marrow match, so I got to be his donor. Painful, but I would not trade it for anything.”

“Oh, you donated?”

“Yep. Have you ever?”

I shake my head. “I’m in the registry, but I’ve never gotten the email.”

“Just so we’re clear, you are going to let me work for you, right?”

There’s only one answer she’ll accept, and I need to swallow my pride. “Fine. Yes, I could use some help.”

“Yesss! I need your P.O. box key and any logins to any accounts where fans contact you.”

I sigh in defeat and dig in my purse to get her what she needs.

My last stop of the day is to see Delia, my music agent, who also greets me with a hug. Her office is like a cave, all dark wood and burgundy carpet, which would probably look pretentious if the place weren’t so small. She’s got tiny windows that let in little shafts of sunlight that illuminate nothing, as far as I can tell. A halogen lamp, with its blinding white light, lets her see what’s on her desk.

“Okay, okay,” she says. “I am ninety percent sure I can close this deal I’m working on with a little boutique label.” Her voice is deep and resonant, and it belies her previous career as an opera singer. “I’m sending you songs. Start thinking about what you want to record. In your spare time, of course.” She winks at me.

“My show—”

She dismisses that with a wave. Clearly, she’s heard the news that it’s on hold. “Now, now. Don’t you get all swept up in the hype of the moment. Girl, just keep working, all right? That’s my advice. Think about a new album for now. The show will be back in production in about a week.”

I nod.

She pulls out documents for me to sign. One is a license to use one of Veronica Pryce’s songs on a kid’s toy commercial. I don’t own any of the rights to this song, but some lawyers like to be extra thorough, I guess. Another is the termination of my record deal with a major label. I try not to bite my lip as I sign that one—the deal was for Veronica, not me—but it stings all the same.

“All right, all right,” says my agent. “Thank you. I’ll send you songs.”

I nod, thank her, and head home, unsure whether she and Julian are right or just stubbornly optimistic because of all the time they’ve invested in me to date.

That night, I barely sleep. Every time I close my eyes it feels like they open just seconds later, though the clock on my nightstand lets me see the hours skip by until I cover it with a throw pillow. The light coming through my blinds goes from black to pale gray and although I’m still exhausted, I’m not sleepy. I sweep my covers aside, roll out of bed, and stumble into the bathroom to brush my teeth. Habit causes me to dress, grab my gym bag, and head down to my car. Kyra will forgive me, I’m sure, for leaving without her. The streets aren’t empty as I drive, but they’re not as crazy as they will be a few hours from now. When I reach the gym, I find it doesn’t open until five a.m.. It’s four forty-five by my cell phone, so after finding the doors locked, I decide to wait.

A light inside flickers on, and a familiar figure swaggers up to the door, unlocks it, and pushes it open. “Hey, Veronica.”

I brace myself, look past him, and step inside. “Thanks.”

“You get enough beauty sleep?”

Think like Kyra
, I tell myself.
Be her.
“I dunno. What’s your verdict?” The words fall flat, as if my bravado battery is still on zero.

“Nah, you always look good. Everything all right?”

Not a typical question from him, or it didn’t used to be, at least. It reminds me of the shirt tug yesterday. I should say yes, that everything is fine, and head for the changing room, but when I open my mouth, “No,” comes out.

“What’s wrong?” he says.

Don’t fall for his charms. Keep your answer short,
I order myself.
Just say that you’re stressed out and get away from him
.

I burst into tears.

“W
HOA, HEY.”

The next thing I know, I’m being dragged down the hall by one hand, and then we’re in the janitor’s closet. Devon shuts the door, and I can’t help but feel like I’m in a cheesy after-school special demonstrating what not to do. Alone in a broom closet with an arrogant chauvinistic jerk is not a safe space.

I wipe the tears from my eyes, clueless about what comes next. Is he going to try to put the moves on me? I’ve never even kissed a guy, and as gorgeous as Devon is, he’s also dangerous. He’s only after one thing from women, and once he gets it, he’s done.

There’s no hint of his player-self in his demeanor though.

“All right, talk. What’s going on?” he asks as he rips a few sheets off a roll of toilet paper and hands them to me.

I blow my nose. “I’m fine. Ignore me.”

“Like I ever do that. Is work getting to you?”

“Yeah. Some.”

He lifts his eyebrows and waits, not at all the person who harasses me and calls me Veronica.

“My show’s on hold. I can’t land a record deal. My career’s dead. I sell my designer clothes on eBay just to get by some weeks, and I don’t want to spend the rest of my life with my dreams behind me.”

Now it’s official—I have shared way too much with Devon, the womanizing creep, and have clearly lost my mind.

“Sorry,” I say. “I don’t mean to dump on you.”

“Can I ask a kind of mean question?” he asks.

I shrug. “Sure.”

“Did you finish your job as Veronica with, like, no friends?”

“Pretty much.”

“How?”

“My three costars… One’s dead from an overdose, the other’s in jail again for driving under the influence, and then Kimmie has gone all evangelical Christian country music star. We don’t have a whole lot in common.”
And
, I think,
I’ve worked long hours since as far back as I can remember, usually with only adults for company.

Devon doesn’t respond; he just frowns down at me.

I blow my nose again and wad up the toilet paper in one hand. “Anyway…”

“I’m sorry,” he says. “Not how I expected your life would be at all.”

“You spend a lot of time imagining what my life is like?” It’s a halfhearted attempt at a joke.

Rather than laugh, he just shrugs. “But you’re okay? You’re not on drugs or being abused by anyone or in trouble with the law?”

I shake my head. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just stressed.”

“Well, that’s understandable.”

“I just need to get some exercise and get to work on music or…whatever,” I say.

He nods, and before I can react, he throws an arm around me for a rough hug and a pat on the back. Then he opens the door and ushers me through.

I stand for a minute in the hallway, skin tingling everywhere he touched me while he strides away in the direction of the back offices.