Trouble Me (12 page)

The man I love is a movie star. He’s a natural target. I’m pregnant, and I know every single terrible sad story I’ve ever heard about lost babies by heart, since they linger stubbornly in the crevices of my brain. I have two beautiful young men I love more than my own life, and they’re about to be in the prime bad-choice-making era of their lives. I know what it’s like to lose a loved one. It’s happened once; it could happen again.

All of this could tear me apart or paralyze me. Fear of the unknown.

Strangely, today a peace settles over me. For right now, for this moment, nothing is wrong. I can’t know what will happen tomorrow, but there is no sense in worrying about it tonight. I wonder where this calm came from, but I am thankful for it.

Maybe it’s the knock to the head. Perhaps some sense found its way in.

I close my eyes and am surprised to feel drowsiness settle on my limbs, warm and heavy. For now, I will sleep and know that the ones I love are safe.

J
ESUS
. I S
TEP
O
UT
O
F
T
HE
L
IMO
, and there it is, as usual—the roar.

As usual
. I sound like a total douche. I can’t believe I just thought that. Here I am, about to be interviewed on a national morning TV show, and I’m Mr. Blasé.

But I want to be at home with Kelly right now. Last night, we argued, and she fainted, and it scared the hell out of me. I’d rather keep an eye on her than stand here and listen to people scream their heads off at the sight of me. Now I really sound like an ego-maniac.

I do have my absolutely neurotic moments: “They aren’t squealing as loudly as they used to.” That’s the thing about going after fame or acceptance or whatever this craziness is—it’s so cliché, but there’s never a point where it’s enough. Because really what a narcissist like me—a fame whore, an actor—is looking for, we’re not ever going to find out there. Until we’re enough inside, all the success and magazine covers will just whip people like me into a weird, insecure frenzy. We need to get another hit, score another deal, more more more to get the same buzz we used to get from less attention. That sounds utterly familiar, doesn’t it?

Why couldn’t I be a normal addict and transfer my addiction to something like Saint Bernard-size plastic cups of Mountain Dew? I shake off nicotine and alcohol, but fame, man, it tastes so damn sweet.

Facing the crowd, I breathe in deep and bite the insides of both of my cheeks as I stand tall. This deep breath and slight twinge of pain helps to center me, sure, but Sandy, my publicist, also taught me to do it for the red carpet, for appearances. It makes the cheekbones pop.

Wow, this stream of consciousness is getting dangerously shallow, isn’t it?

Anyone who thinks photogenic people were born that way haven’t been through media training with a major movie studio.

“Hey, handsome.” It’s Amanda.

“Amanda.” I’m gonna be hoarse. It’s loud out here. The concrete canyons of the city bounce all the sound of the crowd back to my ears. Again I wish I was back at the condo, still in bed with Kelly since she goes back to Boise soon.

Amanda pokes me on the arm. “I’m here to save you from taking yourself so seriously.”

“Uh-huh.” I eye the sidewalk between us and the stage door to the television studio. On one side, a large group of people is contained against the building by a metal crowd-control fence. On the other side, the sidewalk is supposed to be clear for us and for anyone who hopes to just walk down the street, but people have heard the commotion and are starting to mill around to see what’s up. The limo I just got out of pulls away, and Tucker joins us for the short walk from the fire lane up the city sidewalk to the back door of the building. We’re taping a spot to promote the movie on the morning show I hate, the one with two people who despise each other with a passion but who pretend to be besties for the sake of sagging mid-morning ratings.

Tucker hustles us along, his hands out to clear a path through the gathering crowd. We have to edge closer to the street, avoiding the looky-loos.

“Let’s go in. We could hold hands.” Amanda gives me a sly look.

“No, we couldn’t.”

“’Cause we’re not going steady? You could give me your ring. Or pin me.”

“’Cause I’m in love with someone who is quite clearly not you and who wouldn’t be caught dead wearing jeans with that amount of shit on the back pockets. What, did you tie one on and get crazy with the Bedazzler?”

“Suck it, Pettigrew.”

“Always the lady, Amanda.”

Right now I only mildly hate her, and most of the time on set it’s been more reminiscent of Arthur and D.W. than Hepburn and Tracy. She’s the pesky cartoon kid sister—if D.W. were into cupping and fish pedicures and colonics and whatever other weird beauty nonsense Amanda is doing to herself lately.

I look to my left as she takes a step ahead, just in time to see Tucker lunge toward me.

At that exact moment, someone shoves me from behind, hard. I’m off balance, turn a bit in my bid to regain my footing, and am thrown back on my heels. I’m going over, about to be off the curb.

Except that there’s nowhere for me to go, no pavement on which to be laid out flat, because this isn’t the bowed-in fire lane next to the studio alley. Moving north, the flow of traffic is right on me. Behind me. About to take me out.

Tucker’s hand has me by the neck of my sweater, roughly, and he yanks. My head comes up, sending the trajectory of my body in a direction away from the New York City traffic. But as he gives me a serious neck burn, I also feel sharp, clean pain bite hard into my shoulder blade.

I hear a crunch, a pop of plastic, and hope that crunch was glass or something else besides my scapula. Noise—a yelp—escapes my mouth, and for a second I’m self-aware and proud of not letting loose a huge chain of filthy, angry pain words.

But I also hear a sick gasp come collectively from everyone witnessing what just happened. There’s an eerie half-second of quiet, then girlish screams of concern.

I’m listening, but really what I’m doing is being dragged by one arm and my lapels. Tucker pulls me through a door.

“
Oh shit oh shit oh shit
.” I hear myself repeating it, like a panicked mantra.

Tucker shouts, bellows, and now I look at linoleum and the glare of fluorescent lighting, and I hear, I think, the heels of my shoes squeaking and squealing on the tile because Tucker’s not done dragging me yet.

I wonder when he’s gonna stop when all of a sudden he does.

We’re in the back of a kitchen, by a prep sink. He’s on the cell phone, and he’s put himself between me and anyone else. There’s a small crowd of wait staff and cooks hovering behind him, but navy-sport-coated burly guys form a human barrier between him and them. They must be network security.

He talks to me. “Andrew! Andrew!”

“Huh?”

“Are you all right?”

“What?” I have no idea what the hell’s going on. Everything’s just now coming into focus. “You shredded my neck.”

He turns me around, away from him. I look at the sign above the sink:
It’s New York State Law, Wash Your Hands Before Returning to Work.

He barks again. “Someone get me scissors. And give me a status report on the driver of the SUV. I want the actual statement he gives to the police.”

I feel something hot and wet on my right hand. It’s blood. It’s my blood. “My shoulder?”

Someone’s gotten him scissors. “Jesus, Andrew. What happened out there?”

“Someone shoved me. It was like a dirty play from that Burt Reynolds movie, the one where the prison guys play football.”

“
All the Right Moves
?” There’s loud ripping of fabric.

Jacket’s ruined. Probably the sweater, too. Jeremy’ll be pissed. He got Escada to dress me for today. Now it’s all gone to hell. “No, not
All the Right Moves
—that’s Tom Cruise. Good God.”

Tucker works on the back of me. “Oh, I know.
The Longest Yard
.”

“Yeah, that one.” I watch my blood drip into the sink. “Tuck, the blood thing. You know how I do blood.”

“Your own, not well. How do you feel right now?”

To tell the truth, right now I can bet money—oh hell, I’ll bet that sweet flat screen I was going to give Jeremy for Christmas—that I’ve been struck by a car. I know logically that I took most of the hit to the right shoulder blade, which laid the flesh above it wide open, probably clean down to the bone.

But shock’s a wonderful thing. I don’t feel anything, not yet, except for the warm, wet river down the right side of my back.

“Janus, come put pressure on this,” Tucker says. Janus comes to my side. Tucker leans around, looks me in the face. “Ambulance is one-forty out. They’d be here right now, but the traffic is a cluster. Police shut the whole block down. EMTs are driving the last half-block down the sidewalk.”

Something comes to me clear and bright, like a yellow balloon in a blue summer sky. “Tucker, that was on purpose.”

Tucker looks me straight in the eye as he turns me around and helps me sit on the edge of the stainless steel sink that’s now covered in my blood. There go the six-hundred-dollar pants. My shoulder decides to start throbbing in a hey-there’s-some-trauma-going-on-here rhythm under the heavy-fisted pressure Janus’s putting on it.

Tucker nods gravely. “It was definitely on purpose.”

W
HEN
T
HE
P
HONE
R
INGS
, I answer right away, expecting Andrew. He left insanely early to tape a morning show segment. He’s even less of a morning person than I am, so this is a grouchy phone call, probably.

“How’s Mandy?” I ask in greeting.

“Kelly, I’m on the way over there.” It’s Jeremy.

“What?”

“I’m on my way, be sure to buzz me up fast.” I’ve never heard him sound like this. His voice is brittle, like gray driftwood on the beach.

“What’s wrong? Where’s Andrew? What’s happened to him?” My heart is pounding.

“Stop. He’ll kill me. He didn’t even want to tell you yet. He got clipped by a car on the way into the studio for the taping.”

“Clipped? What does that mean?” My voice is high and tight.

“A car grazed him. He took it on the shoulder.”

“Oh my God, Jeremy. Where is he?”

“Getting stitches. Getting checked out at Roosevelt Hospital, since Jordan the dick won’t rest until he knows his investment is in one piece. The studio doctor could’ve handled it, but no—”

“Jeremy! Why are you coming here? I want to go there and see him.”

“Ah, that’s just what he said you’d say. I’ve been told to come over there and prevent you from going anywhere. Tucker and Andrew will come home shortly. You are to stay put. End of story.”

“That’s crap. I’ll get a cab.”

Jeremy exhales sharply. “Kelly, for chrissake. Just do this, for once. Don’t flip out. This is hard enough on him.” Jeremy is always one for the tactful, gentle comment.

“How badly is he hurt?” I ask.

“Lots of stitches. Nothing else as far as I know. It’ll hurt like a bitch, though. No pain meds for Mr. Clean.”

I turn circles in the kitchen. Judging by the other night when I fainted, I need to proceed with caution—too much spazzy aimlessness on my part and I’ll probably keel over again. I sit at the kitchen island.

“I’m here. Buzz me up.” Jeremy hangs up.

I’m on my feet again. I try to stay quiet. Hunter’s still asleep. He stayed up late last night watching movies. Beau’s in his room reading. What are we going to say to them about this? It’ll scare them. They’ll worry for Andrew.

There’s a loud rapping on the door. I check the peephole and let Jeremy in.

He’s got a bag in his hands. “I brought food.”

“You stopped to get a bite to eat? Who does that?” Sometimes Jeremy’s absolutely callous demeanor makes me want to push him off a cliff.

“I stole it from the green room at NBC. It’s the least they can do. Fuckers almost got my favorite client killed.” He dumps out cartons of milk, juice boxes, bagels, croissants, doughnuts.

I can’t help it. I laugh. “Jesus, Jeremy.”

“Tucker’s expected to do all the crowd control? By himself?” Jeremy waves a bagel around in his zeal. “Did it not occur to them that one of the biggest stars in Hollywood was coming by? They couldn’t even close the stupid sidewalk for thirty minutes while they did arrivals?”

“What happened?”

“He was walking into the studio, the crowd surged, he got pushed almost into traffic. You owe Tucker big. He swiped him out of the way, before anything worse could’ve happened.”

I sit down again. “My God.”

“Hey, hey now.” He finally seems to remember that I’m Kelly the widow, Kelly the lady who knows death. He sits down next to me, grabs a doughnut. “Listen, Tucker was right there. No big deal. He’ll have a good story to go along with the scar.”

I can’t say anything. He hands me a chocolate milk and takes my hand, pats it.

We sit like this for a minute. It’s the nearest to compassion Jeremy gets. When he’s quiet, that’s a very big deal.

“You know, it’s probably best if you don’t watch TV for the day,” he says after a moment. “They’ll have coverage of it for a while.”

“I just want him to come home.”

He lets go of my hand and starts walking around the kitchen. He finds the butter and slathers it on one of the bagels. “He’ll be here. I’ll hang with you till they come. It’s going to be fine.”

“I just want to have a peaceful day or two with him. Is that too much to ask?”

“He’s Andy Pettigrew, Kelly. Yes, it’s too much to ask—at least until he’s not so famous. That’ll happen, sooner or later. Right now, he’s on fire. So, no, no peaceful stuff quite yet.”

He pats my hand again. “C’mon. We’ll go sit on the patio and sunbathe. Maybe you can suntan that expanding belly of yours. Tan fat is better than white fat, you know.”

Even with my spinning head and pounding heart, I would rather sit with him than be left to my own devices. “All right. But if you call me fat again, I’ll cut your heart out with that butter knife. Do not mess with a pregnant woman.”

“Got it.” He leads the way to the patio.

I spend the whole time, three agonizing hours, waiting for Andrew and Tucker to come home. I’m drenched in sweat, chewing my lips, trying to breathe in nice and slow, and at least for the baby’s sake, trying to stay in control. I will not cry. This is not my moment to be all shaky and wimpy. I don’t know how badly Andrew’s hurt, and he’s going to need the TLC, not me.

I hadn’t thought about the pain meds, not till Jeremy said something. Andrew will hurt. That sucks. “Ice. We need more ice, I bet. I should check.” I make a move to get up from the lounge chair Jeremy’s parked me in.

“You have plenty. I had Hunter check.” Jeremy went in and talked to both boys. I suspect he made it sound all very nonchalant. I guess I’m thankful for that. There’s no way I could have told them without crying, and they’d freak out. When I had to tell them their dad had died, it was one of the worst times in my life. I suspect I would have a similar look on my face, and both of them probably would get taken right back to that moment. No need to drag them back through that.

I hear voices in the hall and jump to get up. Jeremy grabs my arm again. “Slow down, sister. Let him come out here.”

I hate Jeremy—have I said that? I sit impatiently.

Tucker appears on the patio first. His face is passive, no emotion on it whatsoever.

Andrew’s behind him, his arm in a sling. He is pale.

I jump up, run over to him. “Andrew, oh, Andrew.” I stop short.

He puts the free arm out. “I can’t tell you how good it is to see you.” He hugs me.

I reach up and touch his face, search his eyes for clues. “Are you all right?”

“Yes. My shoulder hurts like a mother. But I’m fine. Tucker was right there.”

Tucker nods. “The crowd got a little out of hand. Nothing we haven’t seen before. It’s just that there’s nowhere to go on a New York City sidewalk. Andrew stepped back off the curb, and the car caught his shoulder. Police questioned the driver, but he just had nowhere to go, couldn’t get out of the way. Felt awful about hitting a huge movie star. He’s terrified Andrew will sue him or something.”

Jeremy gets up. “What’s the damage?”

“Sixty-seven stitches.”

“That’s gonna leave a serious mark.” Jeremy shakes his head. “Did you at least get pain meds while you were in the ER?”

Andrew shakes his head in return. “I told them no. They did numb the area with local. It wasn’t terrible.”

Tucker disagrees. “Yes, it was. There was some whimpering.”

“You or him?” Jeremy gives Tucker a nudge.

“Both, to be honest.” Tucker walks a perimeter of the patio. He scans the surrounding buildings. I can tell he’s rattled. His heightened awareness equals nerves.

“If you guys don’t mind, I’d like to go lie down. You all can leave now.” Andrew looks at both of them.

Jeremy waves him off. “Oh, no you don’t. We’re the support team. I’ll crash out on the couch in the media room. I have to run damage control, and I’m answering all of your calls—your cell and Kelly’s cell. Sandy’ll be over tomorrow to help.”

Andrew rolls his eyes, points at Tucker. “You’re already in the guest room. Are you part of the hovering too?”

“I’ll keep the press off your back. They’ve set up camp out front. I can keep them out of the building. And then I want the building swept. Apotheosis is sending extra guys over. I told them fine as long as I get to coordinate it.”

“One big family, eh?” Andrew leans his good hand up against the wall of the patio, defeated.

“I’m kind of glad. It’ll make the boys feel better. They like having the guys around.” I take his hand, wrap my fingers around his. His hand is clammy.

“Fine. I want to go close my bedroom door and talk with my fiancée. Does everyone approve of that?”

Jeremy perks up. “What? Fiancée? Since when?”

I haven’t heard Andrew use the word, either. I thought we were keeping it on the downlow. “What?”

“Look, Kelly and I are getting married. Maybe we’ve been joking about the proposals up till now, but now that I’ve had an opportunity to take stock—while I lay on my stomach for an hour getting stitches—I don’t care if I haven’t had a chance to propose properly. You’re my fiancée, and that’s that. The rest is details.”

My chest feels warm. I give his hand a squeeze. “I agree completely. Details.” I kiss him gingerly on the cheek. “Why the sling?”

Tucker takes the question. “No movement. It’ll pull the stitches in his back out.”

Andrew laces his fingers into mine. “Come with me.”

Jeremy holds a hand up. “Not to dwell on details, but are we going public with the fiancée thing?” Jeremy tries very hard to keep a neutral face, but I can see the excitement spark in his eyes. This news would set things on fire for Andrew in the press in a good way, not in an almost-died-when-hit-by-car way—for a couple days, at least, until the twenty-four-hour news cycle lost interest and moved on to something else.

“Let me sleep on it, Jeremy.”

“It’d be great to get them off the car thing.” Jeremy flips his phone over and over in his hand. The man is a caffeinated terrier.

“I hear you, J. But I said let me sleep on it.” Andrew walks right by him. “I think it’s fair to say I’ve already had a long-ass day, don’t you think? Don’t force me to decide about it now. I want to lie down for a while.”

“No problem.” Jeremy steps back.

Andrew pulls me by the hand down the long hallway to our bedroom. I stay quiet. He gets us in the door and pulls it shut.

“I was going to give you this when I got home tonight. Proposal number five. It was going to go in your piece of pizza.” He pulls a slim silver band out of his pocket. It has a tiny red apple made out of rhinestones on it.

I feel tears slide down my cheeks. “It’s so cute. Yes.” I slip it on, try for a joke. “I probably would’ve accidentally swallowed it if it’d been hidden in the pizza. It’s better that you’re just giving it to me.”

“Tucker bought it yesterday from a guy on the street. He’s always looking out for me, you know.” He smiles a little, and then closes his eyes for a long pause.

I can’t say anything. I watch him. He lets go of my hand, goes to the bed, pulls back the covers. He looks at me. “I want to lie down with you. I want to hold you and listen to your heart beat. I want you to tell me about each little twitch you feel our baby make. I want to fall asleep with my arms around you.”

“Okay. Do you want me to get your jeans off?”

He looks stuck. He’s gotten his shoes off.

“Yes, damn it. I wish it was because we were going to do nasty, dirty things to each other, but the pain right now…”

“Stop. You’re human. Stop trying to be so strong. It was a close call.”

I come to him, unbutton his jeans. He steps out of them and kisses me for a moment.

“I don’t even want to try the shirt. It was a beast to put it on after the stitches.”

“I don’t recognize it.”

He wears a big, soft gray T-shirt. I help him to take the sling off. He holds his arm folded against his torso, tucked like a bird’s wounded wing.

“It’s Tucker’s. He gave me the shirt off his back. He can’t stand that I got hurt on his watch. He might not forgive himself.”

I shake my head. “It’s nobody’s fault. Just an accident. And you’re fine. He caught you. Just a stupid accident.”

Something dark flits across his face, creases his brow and turns his mouth down. I see the expression, and it’s gone, replaced by the actor face, perfectly placid, perfectly neutral. “You’re right. Just an accident.”

“What?”

“Nothing. It’d just be a stupid way to die.”

“We’re not talking about that. I’m treading on very thin ice here. You know that. For everyone’s sake, we’re not talking about death. No one wants me to go there.” My voice trembles as I say it, but I swallow hard. This is not about me.

“Enough. Lie down with me.” He climbs in and arranges himself carefully.

“I don’t know where to go. You can’t hold me; you’ll hurt your back.”

“Stop.” He pats the spot in front of him. “Right here, baby mama.”

I crawl carefully in next to him. I hold as still as I can. He puts his arm over me, draped over my growing belly. “Is this okay?”

He kisses my neck. I feel his breath on me, and it’s shaky. “I love you.”

He doesn’t say anything else. I lie there, listen to him breathe. Eventually his breathing falls into a rhythm.