All That She Desires: The Stranger (2 page)

*****

Fiona woke up two hours later. She still felt bad,
but not as bad as before. Better wait a while before trying another drink, she
thought. In fact, the thought of vodka turned her stomach.

Despite the mild nausea, she realized she was
actually very hungry. Some food would probably settle her stomach, if she could
keep from puking again.

She got off the couch and went to the kitchen again.
Except for bottles of ketchup, mustard, and barbecue sauce, the fridge was
empty. The cupboards were the same. There were a few condiments and spices, but
no food. She opened another bottle of water and sat down at the little table.
What a mess she was in.

Well, Ken had told her it would be a bare-bones
place. The owner only used it a few times a year, so it made sense that it
wouldn't have a fully stocked kitchen. And stupid her, she'd picked up a case
of high-end vodka and half an ounce of weed, but only brought a few bags of
chips for food. She needed a restaurant. And probably a grocery store.

She found her cigarettes on the floor next to the
couch. She lit one and sat, miserably cursing her situation. Why couldn't she
just have brought an assistant? This whole thing was a mistake. She was
supposed to get away from everything to try and find her center, and she was getting
more lost than ever.

There was a small town about half an hour away.
She'd passed through it on the way there last night. She could go into town and
load up on whatever she needed. The thought exhausted her. She didn't want to
do anything except wallow in her own misery, and maybe get high. But she needed
food.

A sound from outside reminded her about the guy out
there painting the deck. Maybe she could send him. He could go pick up whatever
she needed. But even if he went right that moment, he probably wouldn't get
back for an hour or two. She'd probably be dead from hunger by then.

She would have to go and get something to eat right
away. But she wanted his help anyway. He would be able to show her where to go.
And it would probably be safer if she had someone else drive right now. She
felt like she would probably go off the road, and that was the last thing she
needed. A crash would probably draw the paparazzi out there, and then the whole
thing would be blown.

But would he-- what was his name, Mike? Would Mike
help her? She had been a complete bitch to him. She finished the cigarette and
crushed it out in the small plate that was her improvised ashtray. Of course he
would help her. She was a celebrity. But she should probably get cleaned up
first.

There was a stand-up shower stall in the bathroom,
and she stripped and climbed inside. She turned on the water and soaked herself
down, then realized all of her bathroom stuff was outside with her suitcase.
She cursed, and helped herself to the bottle of discount-brand shampoo that was
already in there. It smelled like apple. Fine, whatever.

The water felt nice. A shower always helped when she
was hung over. She stood under the shower, letting the hot water spray onto her
head, trying to feel each river flowing down. Her hair felt heavy with water,
and she pulled it forward and hung it over her shoulder.

There was a small bottle of shower gel, and she
squeezed some onto her hand and started rubbing it all over herself, running
her hands over her chest and the small breasts that looked so amazing with a
pushup bra or the corsets or various other tight, sexy tops and outfits that
made up her stage costumes. She ran her hands down over her flat stomach and
her narrow waist, then back over her little round ass. She was getting horny.
She always got horny when she was hung over. Every sensation was amplified.
Anything bad was the absolute worst, but anything that felt good was amazing.
She would have stayed in the shower a while and masturbated if she wasn't so
damn hungry.

Fiona got out and dried off on the hand towel. Once
again, her bath towel was in the car. When was she going to get her shit
together? She dried off, put on the same smelly clothes, and went out to the
blue Lexus that was sitting in front of the little red and yellow cottage. She
dragged in her suitcases and set them up in the bedroom, then got dressed in
some comfy corduroy pants and a t-shirt with a zip-up running jacket. She took
all her toiletries to the bathroom and found there was barely room on the sink
for it all. Even so, she brushed her teeth until the nasty taste of booze,
smoke and vomit was finally gone, and put on some makeup. If she was going to
ask Mike to help her, the least she could do was fix herself up a little.

She chose a light pink lipstick and some silver-blue
eye shadow, and gave herself a touch of foundation so she didn't look so dead.
Her face was a bit puffy. Proper sleep and hydration were needed. She was going
to age prematurely if she kept up her present routine. But all she wanted to do
was get wasted. Her life and her future seemed to hold absolutely nothing for
her right now except nihilism and destructive self-indulgence.

The living room was still gloomy and dark with the
front curtains closed. Fiona pulled them wide open. Mike was still out there.
He'd done a lot of the deck surface, and was working his way around the
railing. He didn't seem like such a bad guy, really. He'd taken off his shirt
in the sunshine, and he was tanned a nice brown. He was half-decent looking,
and he wasn't too old. Mid-twenties, maybe? Not too much older than she was.
Her stereotype of guys who did this kind of work was that they were all
forty-plus, beer-chugging, sun-wrinkled shit-heads. He might still be a
shit-head. But she decided it wasn't fair to jump to the conclusion.

She tapped on the window to get his attention. He
turned and looked over. She gave him a little wave. He wiped his forehead with
the back of his hand and then waved back.

Fiona went over to the door and stepped outside.
"Don't come over here," he said. "The deck is all wet."

"Oh," she said. "Okay."

"Are you feeling better?" He took a drink
from a bottle of water.

"Um, a bit," she said. "Sorry about
earlier, I guess I was a bit rude to you. I just wasn't feeling very
well."

"Yeah, the throwing up gave it away," he
said with a grin. "You had a big night last night?"

"You might say that," she said.
"Look, I know this is a bit funny to ask after the way I acted earlier,
but do you think you could help me out with something?"

He shrugged. "Yeah, I guess. What can I do for
you?"

"I don't have any food here. I was wondering if
you could drive into town with me so I can pick up some stuff. Seriously, I
haven't even eaten today. I really need to get some food."

He stood with his hands on his hips, considering it.
"I suppose I could. I was hoping to get the deck and walkway done
today."

"You'd really be helping me out." She
tried to look sympathetic.

Mike shrugged. "Okay, what the hell then. Let's
get going, though. Do you mind if I use the washroom inside the cottage? Then
we can just go." He put the lid on the can of red paint he'd been using
and reached for his t-shirt.

He followed her inside the cottage. "Wow,"
he said when he saw the mess on the coffee table. "You were busy last
night."

"Yeah," she said. "It's kind of
ridiculous, isn't it? You're not disappointed, are you?"

"Why would I be?" he said. "We just
met. Actually, I didn't get your name."

She stopped and stared at him. "You're serious.
Are you joking?"

Mike froze. "Joking? Why? What am I joking
about?"

"You don't know who I am."

An embarrassed look crossed his face, and he shook
his head. "I'm sorry," he said. "I knew it. You look so
familiar. We've met before, haven't we?"

"Huh," she said, letting out a dry laugh.
"There's the bathroom. Go pee so we can get out of here."

He followed her directions and closed himself into
the bathroom. He felt bad. Mike was pretty sure he'd hurt her feelings. He was
just worried they had some past together, like a one night stand or something.

After finishing in the bathroom, he met her on the
patio at the back of the house. She was leaning against the hood of the Lexus,
waiting for him, with a hat and sunglasses on. "Ready?" she asked.
"You drive."

They got inside, and Mike backed the car out of the
driveway and onto the gravel road. Fiona looked around. "Where's your
car?" she asked.

"I just live a couple cottages up the other
way," he said. "I walked over."

"You live out here?" she said. "Like,
you're not some contractor that came out from some real place to do the
work?"

"No," Mike answered, smoothly guiding the
big sedan along the winding road. "Steve just hired his neighbor."

"Who's Steve?"

Mike looked at her sharply, and then back at the
road. "What do you mean, who's Steve? Steve owns that cottage you're in.
Seriously, who are you? What are you doing there, anyway? Steve doesn't usually
have strange people just show up and party in his cabin."

Fiona nodded her head. "Right, Steve. Ken
mentioned him. It's okay. My manager Ken is either friends or family with
Steve. They set it up for me to stay here for the next couple weeks. Give or
take. I guess I can have the cottage until whenever."

"Right," he said. "But that still
doesn't explain who you are. Did we meet here? Seriously, who are you? What's
your name?"

"This is so lame," she said. "Don't
you have any idea what's going on around you? Like, don't you pay attention to
popular culture? I'm Fiona Luxe. I'm a fucking pop star. You don't recognize me
because you've met me; you recognize me because you've seen me on TV and the
internet and goddamn magazine covers and shit."

"Really?" he said, smiling. "You're
Fiona Luxe? For real?"

"Yeah, for real," she said. "Or
whatever is real about me. I don't even know if I'm real anymore. Don't ask me
about what's real, okay?"

"Okay. Reality is off limits," he said.
"But why are you staying at Steve's cottage? Aren't you rich? Shouldn't
you be at a chalet in Switzerland or something? Or Lake Tahoe? I don't know where
do rich pop stars go?"

Fiona sighed. "I'm staying here because I'm
trying to find somewhere outside of the celebrity loop. And it's supposed to be
out of the paparazzi loop too, if you know what I mean, so I'd really
appreciate it if you could keep your mouth shut about me being here."

"Sure," he said. After slowly passing by
dozens of tidy little cottages, they were now pulling out of the lakeside area
to join the highway. Mike pushed down on the gas and they started speeding
along toward the nearby town. "You do understand though," he said,
"that people might recognize you in the grocery store."

"I'll say I look just like her and people say
that all the time." Fiona was slumped back into the seat, watching the
forests and fields speed by. "That usually works. Just back me up."

"Okay," he laughed. "This is
weird."

"I just need to chill out for a while."
She sighed and dug a cigarette out of her pocket. She rolled down the window a
few inches and lit up.

"You're a singer, aren't you?" he said,
giving her a sidelong glance. "Isn't it a little weird to smoke if you're
a singer?"

She took a deep drag and blew the smoke out.
"Am I a singer? My voice gets processed in the studio and I lip-synch
live. Who gives a shit what my actual voice sounds like? Or whether or not I
get cancer? Okay, I guess my fans would care if I got cancer. But whatever,
right? They don't know me, and they've never met me. It's a relationship of
illusions. It's all fucking bullshit."

"That's funny," he said. "I've never heard
anyone talk about their actual fans."