Chapter One
"Ma, I don't know how many times I have to tell you this, there is nothing wrong with being a writer. It happens to be a highly looked upon field of employment, and it's kept thousands of people, if not millions, in bread and butter for the rest of their lives. Look at Stephen King. Look at Anne Rice. Sure, I may not be up to their caliber yet, but I'm getting close," the woman said with a sigh, leaning back in her chair. "Why do you always call me and do this?"
Her mother's voice, which was annoying to her, spoke again. The sound of it had been changed from years of cigarette smoking. "I don't always call you and do this. You're doing it to yourself. You're a twenty eight year old woman. You should have a degree from college and you should be working at a law firm right now, like I always told you to."
The only reason you don't want me to be a writer is because you couldn't survive at it, she thought to herself. "Sure, Ma, and what was I supposed to do in the meantime? Live off of Kraft Dinner and rice? This isn't Survivor. This is what I said I was going to do ever since I was four years old. You know that. I can't believe that you're doing this AGAIN. Can't we have one conversation that doesn't start out this way?"
"We're only doing this because you start it."
"I start it? God, I can't do this. You always turn everything around on me, when you know that it's your fault. Can't you ever once start a conversation like...how's the weather? Or maybe asking me if I saw the new collection of Martha Stewart crap, but no. It's always 'Why the hell are you ruining your life? Being an author will do nothing for you.' I'm sick of it, Ma. Really, I am. At least Dad doesn't hound me about this. He knows how I feel because he takes the time out to ask me. He seems to care a little more about me, and not so much about my choices in life. You would have been helpful when I got drunk on prom night and ended up in the backseat of Curtis Brock's car when my dress was in the front seat and he was working on my bra."
Oh, she really had to say that, she realized. Her head dropped down and her free hand dug into her long brown hair. Now she was in for a fight, and that was the last thing that she needed. A pounding headache had started the moment that she saw her mother's number and name on her Caller I.D. Normally, she would have ignored the call but it had been three weeks since she had last spoken to who she commonly referred to as 'The Dragon Lady' and she tried to listen to her bitch once a month. It was the least she could do as a daughter.
And now, she was in trouble. She wouldn't be surprised if she was disowned after this one. "Alexandra Marie Colwell, what is your problem?"
"Alex, Ma. I hate the name Alexandra. It's so...prissy. How many times have I asked you to call me Alex."
"I gave you the name Alexandra, and God damn it, I'm going to use it. What, you don't like the name that your own mother gave you? Thank you, ALEXANDRA. I never knew that you were so kind." Was that sarcasm coming out of the Dragon Lady's mouth? Not only that, but now Alex could hear the tears. The tears were her mother's biggest weapon, and normally Alex would submit to them. Not this time. "Alexandra happens to be a beautiful name, one which I picked out myself for you, but that isn't the case. You being a writer is not the case at this point. What were you talking about prom night. I never heard anything about this."
Her light brown eyes rolled and she dropped her forehead on the table. "It was a joke. Just a joke," she said weakly. "Besides, what do you care what I did on prom night? I was eighteen. I was a legal adult. Doesn't everyone know what happens on prom night, or are you too wrapped up in your trashy romance novels and soap operas to open your eyes and look around the real world."
Alex knew that her mother could smell triumph, and this was it. "There you go. Why don't you write romance? Look at what Danielle Steel has done for herself."
"Oh, please. Danielle Steel is nothing but heartache and sex. You know that. Of course, she doesn't come right out and say sex. What are the words that they use? Coupling? Making love? Give me a break, Ma. They're banging like there's no tomorrow. What's wrong with Cort Demers?" she asked.
She knew the answer, but she loved to get her mom fired up. That was one of the greatest joys that she had in life. "Cort Demers? That...disgusting man that you consider a main character? A female writer should write female main characters, not have them die off in the first chapter of their first book."
Was this even going to get anywhere? If she was going to talk to her mom, she might as well get into a fight, otherwise the two of them were just going to sit there, not talking. Usually, Alex would be typing and her mother would probably be watching television, but that had changed. Lord had it changed. "Just a few points, Ma. First off, I'm considered an author. A writer is just a person that...writes, also considered a secretary, in a way. An author is a person who writes a book, someone who begins something original. Also, Cort Demers happens to be a very strong character. He was court marshaled by the U.S. Navy, and given a dishonorable discharge under special circumstances which had nothing to do with him. He comes home to find his wife dead, who happened to be the love of his life, and he tries to find her killers. What's so wrong about that?"
Silence greeted her for a moment. "What did you do, swallow a dictionary? Why do you know all these different definitions. An author is a writer, and a writer is an author." It wouldn't matter if she kicked and screamed, she still wouldn't make her mom understand. And people wondered where her hostility came from. "As for Cort Demers, he's nothing but a worthless piece of man that goes around shooting people and causing explosions."
"That's the difference, Ma. You see romance as beauty. I see action and adventure as beauty. Come on, how many times when I was a teenager did I want to sit down and watch romance movies. No, I wanted to watch Rocky, or Rambo. I can't stomach romance."
"And just when and who was your last boyfriend?"
Alex was gritting her teeth now. "We're not going there," she ground out. "You don't need to know. Really, you don't. Besides, I'm not going to tell you. Leave it alone, this is something that I don't want to talk about. Look, Ma, I have to go. Kev is going to call me in a little bit. Bye." She pressed the talk button before her mother could get another word out and threw the portable phone on the kitchen table. "Damn it, she does it to me every single time," she complained, though no one was there before she stood up and went to pour herself a glass of water.
This was the last thing that she needed at nine in the morning, Alex thought as she slammed three ice cubes into a blue glass. No matter what, a phone call from her mom could ruin her entire week. Having two stubborn people discussing personal opinions was the worst thing, and Alex wasn't just thought of as a stubborn person. No, she had the reputation of a bitch. That was one thing that she was more than willing to take.
"Yeah, right, she does this because she loves me. She's jealous that I'm a published author when her books were thrown in the trash the moment they were looked at. You'd think that it would bring us closer, but no, of course not. She has to get on her high horse and start to preach to me. God, why didn't she become a televangelist, then, and leave me the hell alone," she practically shouted, pouring cold water over the ice. It crackled a few times as she took her first sip, wincing from the temperature.
It has only been four years ago that Alex had stormed into the Dell publishing office and demanded to see the president. She knew that he had nothing to do with picking what authors were under the publishing label, but she wanted to talk to him anyway. Finally, after practically threatening four secretaries and a coffee boy, she found her way up there, telling him that she deserved to get a response for the manuscript that she had sent it. They read it that day, and before she knew it, Alex was signing on the dotted line, saying that her life basically belonged to Dell.
Not that there weren't a few drawbacks. To begin with, they wouldn't use the name Alexandra on the books, and instead, shortened her name to Alex M. Colwell when they released the first novel. It didn't fare as well as they thought it might have, but it hit the New York Times Best Seller's List at number nine, as high as it ever got. It was enough to generate attention to her, or the fictional Alex M. Colwell, as the case was.
One night, when she was bored, she had come up with the idea to write about Cort Demers. The book, which was titled 'Mind's Eye', had been finished quicker than any book she had ever written. Four months after getting the idea, the book was in the editing room before she went through three different re-writes for it. Dell released the book with as much publicity as they could, and she shot up to the number one spot on the most prestigious book list.
People loved Cort Demers, and they wanted more. 'Broken Window', the continuation to the first novel came out, and went right back up to number one. Alex M. Colwell was a phenomenon, and talked about everywhere. At the same time, Alexandra Marie Colwell had a problem. As soon as 'Broken Window' had premiered, and she started to plan the new Cort Demers novel (hopefully the last, too), she lost it.
Lost what? she kept asking herself. What did she lose? Her writing talent, obviously. She could rest her fingers on the keys of her laptop, she could pound on them like she normally would, and still, nothing would come out. Nothing would make sense. A simple opening sentence, something that Alex never had any trouble with, would be stuck somewhere between her mind and her fingers, too stubborn to come onto the screen. For a year and a half, she lived like that. For a year and a half, her mother had been telling her that she was right all along, and writing was something that she never should have looked into.
"Screw her," she whispered. She sent the telephone on the counter a searing look, and wasn't all that surprised when it started to ring. Picking it up, she rolled her eyes and pressed the talk button. "Look, Ma. I told you that Kev is going to call me, so I can't talk anymore."
Why wasn't anyone saying anything, she wondered, tapping her fingers beside her water glass. Then, the cheerful voice came back to her, calculated and careful not to mess up any of the words. "That's the first time I've ever been mistaken for your mother, and I don't take too kindly to it."
Alex sighed and leaned on her elbows. "What do you do, write down a bunch of quotes from my books to shoot back at me? 'Broken Window', Chapter Seventeen. That's when Demers answered the payphone, and found out that he was being watched by a sniper. You'll never stump me, Kevin. I write the damned books."
A low whistle sounded from the other end. "Wow, calm down, Alex. I just called to see how you're doing. The powers that be over at Dell are really pushing for the next Demers novel to come out, and they want it like yesterday. The press is going wild, because you haven't been heard from in a long time. The readers are freaking out, and they're even buying that first piece of crap that you wrote."
Although the tone was friendly and teasing, she didn't take it that way. NO ONE called her work a piece of crap, but she had to admit that it wasn't her best effort. It was good, but not as good as the Demers novels. Those had just exploded out of nowhere. And now they wanted more. They always wanted more. They never STOPPED wanting more. It was ridiculous, and she was beginning to get sick of it. This wasn't what she had signed up for. "Look, you're not helping me out any here. I have Writer's Block, all right? Capital 'W', capital 'B'. They deserve more recognition than just the words, because those two words are a big part of my life right now."
"That wouldn't make a good press release." He sighed. "Are you sure? Absolutely sure? Because this doesn't sound too good, and when something doesn't sound too good, and it involves you...that's really bad."
"Well, THAT makes me feel a hell of a lot better," she said, looking at her reflection on a glass door. Oh, she was pissed off. She could see the expression and recognize it easily. If one more comment was made towards her, or her writing, and it was uncomplimentary...it would be the Pearl Harbor fiasco all over again. People were going to die, and she had a feeling that Kevin and her mom were the highest on her hit list. "Look, I've tried all right? I've sat here, for hours on end, looking at the damned lap top and not typing anything!" As she was talking, she reached over and picked up her glass, sipping her water quickly, wincing at the temperature.
She didn't deserve this shit. If anything, she figured that she should be treated like a queen. She was, after all, one of the people that brought the most venue into the publishing company. Cort Demers, her main character, was like Anne Rice's The Vampire Lestat to Ballantine Books. Nothing but money. "Well, try again. If you can't get anything down tonight, we're going to have to do something about it. Maybe you just need a vacation or something. Look, I'll call you the same time tomorrow morning, and see what I can do, but...honey, you've got to write. This is not good for the company, it's not good for me, and it's definitely not good for you. You're hot, and you want to stay that way. I don't care if you write something like 'The cat died on the living room floor.' As long as it has some sort of intelligence in it, I'll take it at this point."
"Fine, and don't call me honey again," she shot back angrily as she slammed the phone down. This was ALL she needed.
In the midst of the flurry of crew members running back and forth (and forgetting what crew they were actually with), one person was standing against one of the buses, watching someone carefully. Two people, actually, and while it brought a smile to his face, it made his heart fall a little bit every time.
Sure, Chris Kirkpatrick had been the whole driving force behind bringing the couple together, but it bothered him a little. To watch them when they were together, to watch them publicly show their love and affection for each other...it was enough to make him want to curl up in his bed and pull the covers over his head, like he used to do during thunderstorms when he was a child. It scared him...because it showed him what he could never have.
There was no point in being an optimist, he figured, as he watched Brooklyn Turner laugh. He had tried and failed. There was no such thing as a good relationship in his vocabulary, Those things just didn't exist for him, and they probably never will. Slowly, he slid down to the ground, the gravel crunching under his heels as he looked down, pushing a rock with his finger. Why did he all of a sudden feel like he was sixteen again. That he was watching the girl that he had been crushing over for the past three years...walk up to someone else with a smile. He had watched Brooklyn and JC Chasez together, and never said a word about what he felt. Oh, he was happy for them, of course. There was no doubt about that in his mind, but...he couldn't help it that it bothered him.
No, he sat there and watched them, and in a way, put himself through his own hell. Why couldn't he ever get the girl? Why couldn't he be the hero of the story for once? He was stuck being a secondary character, being the comic relief, or the person that everyone loved, but didn't think deserved a chance in the story. Yet, he was one of the most famous people in the world. Everyone assumed that he would have women hanging off of him. Yeah, right.
Chris watched as Brooklyn smiled and moved closer to JC, as if it was such an unconscious gesture. The press loved to see the two of them together. They were America's golden couple. Despite the rumors that had followed their relationship, despite the problems they had, they were still together. Why couldn't he find himself someone like that?
With a yawn, he pushed down his wire rim glasses, rubbing one of his eyes. The sun was barely up, and already people were moving around him like it was past noon. Everyone except him looked so awake. He had basically rolled out of bed and pulled on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, not even bothering to put in his contact lenses. And why was everyone smiling? They were excited to get rid of the singing group and have a vacation. The guys were happy to go away with Brooklyn to her cabin for a month of well deserved vacation. So, why wasn't he happy?
A shadow suddenly covered him, and he looked up, squinting his eyes to block out the rising sun. "Can I talk to you for a second?" Brooklyn asked, her hands on her hips. Without a word, he patted the ground beside him and watched as she slid down next to him with a groan. "Oh, it is far too early to be doing this," she complained, scratching the back of her head.
"You came over here to tell me that? I feel privileged."
With a smirk, she leaned her head back. "No, I wanted to ask you what the hell you did to my boyfriend. What's up with the...the...hair thing," she said, gesturing to him. "I mean, it's cute and all, but damn. He had the Ben Affleck hair going on, and now...he looks like a character off of Scooby Doo's Mysteries."
He chuckled, and reached to pull on her hair. "I could ask you the same thing. What's with the curls. Is it permed or just temporary?"
Her hands hit his away, and Chris pulled them back, closing his eyes. "We're not talking about my hair here, and yes, it is a perm. What we're talking about is THAT." She pointed to JC with a chuckle. "I had that hair style back in seventh grade. Is he going retro on me or something? Trying to make some sort of statement?"
He shrugged. "One day he went to go get a haircut, and then came back with that thing. What did you tell him about it?"
A devilish look appeared in her eye. "Oh, I told him that I liked it. I'll get used to it, I guess. What I really wanted to say was that I would like to shove a handle up in ass and use him like a floor mop, but that would have been too extreme." They both laughed as she waved and walked back to JC.
Never once did she notice that something was wrong with him. Not that it was a big surprise. He was great at hiding his emotions. After all, he had known her for five or six months, and she hadn't picked up on it once. She would eventually. Someone had to. But it still got to him that no one even realized that there could be something wrong with him. He always gave out the advice. He was always the one that people turned to when they had a problem. Never once, not yet, had he turned to any of them. Because that wasn't him.
But something had to change soon. He could feel it. The only thing was...he didn't know if he was going to like this change or not.
"All right! Load up, guys. We're getting out of here!" The driver of Brooklyn's tour bus stuck his head out the door and yelled at the group that was in the parking lot. Immediately, six people headed for the bus. Chris sighed and picked himself up off the ground, brushing away all the dirt and pebbles from him. Another four hours, before their vacation would actually begin. So why wasn't he laughing and smiling along with the rest of them? It didn't matter. He could very easily put a smile on his face, if he had to. And it looked like it was a time for the re-appearance of happy Chris.
It was an automatic movement for Alex to hit the italic button on the taskbar of her word processor, before she changed the font. Ever since she had started to write at home, she made sure that her mother wouldn't be able to read it. Her handwriting had become surprisingly unintelligible, giving her mom something more to complain about ("You write like a damned doctor. Why didn't you ever got to medical school?"). Even now that she was living on her own, she made the font small that someone would have to come close to the screen to read it, a comfortable size eight, Arial, for Alex.
Her eyes closed, and she breathed deeply. Her fingers easily pressed on the keys, typing out "Chapter One" before she pressed the enter button twice, and turned off the italic feature. Her eyes reopened, and she watched the blinking cursor for a moment. Why did a sudden feeling of dread overtake her, she wondered as she continued to stare, now moving her right hand so that her nails would lightly rap against the lacquered surface of the dining room table.
She stilled the tapping and picked up a rather long black pen, sticking it her mouth. Slowly, she chewed, as her eyes went down to the notes that were spread out around her. Everything from Cort Demers' childhood to future ideas were strewn around carelessly, pieces overlapping one another, and folders spread beside her.
A single word escaped her mouth, and although it was only one word, it seemed to sum up the whole situation. "Shit," she muttered, before slamming back in her chair. Nothing was coming. The usual haziness that seemed to come before her eyes, the feeling that she had almost left her body, the pure pleasure...only pleasure in her life that she got...of losing herself in a long string of words, formed into sentences and paragraphs, wasn't coming.
Maybe the computer was the problem, she thought to herself. But she knew that the thought was nothing but bullshit. She had tried longhand for the first time in six years, and it hadn't worked. She had tried the old fashioned typewriter in one of the guest rooms, and it hadn't worked. She had tried dictating a simple scene into her ever present mini tape recorder that she used for sudden ideas, but it didn't work. Nothing did.
The only thing that she could do that associated herself with the literature industry was reading. At least that hadn't been taken away from her. A wry smile appeared on her face as she got up from the table, slamming the lid down on the laptop computer before stalking into the living room and standing before the large wall of books she had created. A ladder led to the very top shelf, looking much like a piece of an old fashioned library.
With a sigh, she climbed a few steps on the ladder, and reached for one of her favorite, a hard cover book that was still in perfect condition. Her fingers grasped the Lawrence Sanders book as she climbed back down and walked to the kitchen to grab a snack. Of course, that couldn't work out, because nothing was working out in her life recently. It wasn't a surprise that she had forgotten to go grocery shopping, but the fact that she had run out of her favorite crackers...that was almost a crime in her eyes. "Damn it, can't my life go right for once? No interruptions, no mistakes, no problems...nothing?" she asked herself loudly, her hands hitting the counter top with a smack before she picked up her keys and a pair of sunglasses, heading out the door.
Bounding down the driveway, she unlocked the door to the massive black gleaming truck, and pulled herself in. The engine started, and she pulled out, mumbling to herself, like she was going to do during the ride. Every now and then, her hand would reach out, and she would change the radio station, looking for something that she would actually like to listen to. She faltered on one station and listened for a moment.
"Nobody wants to-"
"Hear you sing, damn it." She pressed the seek button again, cutting Ricky Martin and Christina Aguilera off in mid sentence before she just completely gave up and slipped a disc in, turning it up. One hand tapped to the beat on the steering wheel as she pulled into the parking lot of the local super market.
All she needed was crackers, she reminded herself. Just some wheat crackers, and then she could leave. And she almost finished her task. The crackers were in her hand, but immediately, her feet moved so that she could make a detour through the book and magazine area. Her eyes rolled when she realized where she was going, but she didn't stop herself. She couldn't just walk by her favorite aisle, the one where she felt at home.
The books were first, and she spent more time there than usual when she heard two giggling teenaged girls at the end of the aisle. "Dear Lord, I hope I was never like that," she muttered to herself, picking an Anne Rice book off the shelf before reading the back and sighing. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed that they were moving, and she started to pass them with a forced smile.
One of the girls must have recognized her from around town, she realized, because she stopped excitedly. "Are you going to get it, too? Oh, they look so cute. You better hurry, though, because those are going to sell out," she said, with another laugh that almost made Alex reach out and wipe that stupid little smile off her face.
"Get what?" she asked bluntly, her eyes practically drooping with boredom.
Her question was answered, though, when she lifted a brightly colored magazine with what looked like two smiling idiots. Alex narrowed her eyes when she saw the title of the magazine. Did the girl think that she was THAT young that she would buy Seventeen, she wondered. She was eleven years older than the title of the magazine, and she was asking if she was going to buy it? This girl obviously needed to get her eyes checked, Alex thought to herself, a smile of amusement covered her usual rigid features. "Oh, yeah, I was just going to go look for it," she said sarcastically.
The sarcasm, however, was lost on the girl, as she widened her eyes and grabbed Alex by the arm, pulling her down the aisle. "Here, I'll show you where they are." She dimly recognized the younger girl as one of her neighbors and stifled a groan as she dropped down in front of a lower rack, one that Alex never dared to look at. She had never read teen magazines when she was younger, and she had always thought that they were nothing but little pieces of fluff that the cheerleaders in her high school carried around with them. Two magazines appeared in front of her. "They did two different covers. Which one do you want?" she asked.
Dear Lord, she was going to smack this girl if she so much as started a giggle. She could hear it in her voice, but thankfully, it never erupted. "Hm, why don't I just get both," she told her dryly, taking both of them.
Her eyes widened and she reached out for the same magazine with the over cover. "I knew I should have done that." Alex simply nodded, not trusting herself. Her mouth would open, and a long string of words would come out that would most likely offend the teenager, and then she would offend her parents. For the longest time, Alex had lived in peace by keeping to herself in her neighborhood for that reason, alone.
"Thanks for the help."
"No problem." The girl stood up and waved, heading back to her friend. Alex watched them for a moment, before sitting down hard, her mind racing. In every one of her novels, the characters had always been dark and complex. Never once had she had a simple character. It could completely change the pace of the book...and she hadn't tried it yet. It could be the one thing that could snap her out of the rut she was in, she thought, as she watched until the girls were out of her vision. Almost blindly, she turned back to the magazine rack she was looking at. "What's more simple than a teenage girl?" she whispered, pulling magazines out of their places, not even bothering to look at who was on the cover. It didn't really matter. All she had to find out was what normal teenage girls (and she was never one) liked and was interested in.
As she stood up, possible storylines flew through her head in a rush, and she almost tripped in her haste to get out to the truck, where one of her tape recorders were waiting. Her items slammed down for one of the cashiers, and she opened her wallet, wincing when she saw the prices of the magazines in bright green numbers on the screen.
The cashier looked at her curiously when the third of the teen magazines went through. Alex shrugged and forced a smile. "College project on teenaged psychology," she told her, trying to look as innocent as possible. Everyone around town knew that Alex was supposedly going to college, her excuse as to why she couldn't be Alex M. Colwell, the author. The cashier nodded and quoted the price to her, making Alex roll her eyes and hand over a few bills. Too large in her opinion when she was just coming in for crackers.
She accepted the bag handed to her, and she almost ran out of the grocery store, and unlocked her truck as soon as she was close enough, before opening up the door, and turning on the tape recorder before the door even shut. Hopefully, this could get her out of the funk, get her out of the block she had. Besides, this was pretty well her last chance.
"Is there a reason that I'm in here with you, and your mop haired boyfriend isn't?" Chris asked, as he stretched out on the bed in the back of the tour bus beside Brooklyn. A bag of popcorn was in between them, as she flipped through the channels on her television.
Her head moved in a nod. "Yup, because that mop haired boyfriend in question thinks he's too much of a manly man to come and watch the movie with me." Her eyes rolled. "Even though he cried during Armageddon," she mumbled under her breath, stopping, and leaning back against the pillows.
His eyes narrowed. Something wasn't right with what she was saying. "Wait, what exactly are we watching," he asked as the movie started. She just pointed to the screen and sighed longingly. He kept quiet, until the title of the movie scrolled sideways. "Wait, no way. Uh uh. I'm going to go get Jace, because there is no way in hell that I'm going to watch this. You must be crazy," he complained. Brooklyn grabbed his arm and forced him back onto the bed. "No, no, no. I'm not watching Gone with the Wind. You're going to end up crying, and then I'm going to feel like shit, because I could have avoided this. Not only that, but it's...it's...Gone with the Wind. It's a chick movie."
"I always said that you had too many Waiting to Exhale moments, so you might as well stay and watch it with me. It's funny, I swear," she said, eating a kernel of popcorn slowly. "Actually, there's another reason that I brought you in here with me. I wanted to ask you something."
Chris raised his hands with a sigh. "I already explained the hair fiasco," he told her, reaching over to pull on one of her curls. He stretched it out and watched as it bounced back into place. "I didn't make him get that...that thing on his head, so don't ask me to apologize."
Her head shook. "No, I'm getting used to it, unfortunately. Give me three months, and I'm sure that I can convince him to dye it back to his regular color and chop off that God awful layering. I wonder if he would let me play around with it. I'm sure that I could make the Farrah Fawcett eighties wings."
With a laugh, he turned towards her and raised himself up on his elbow. "I'm not sure he'd go for it, but if you ask him nicely, he might let you." With a smile, he traced the pattern on her comforter, his eyes following every move that his fingers made. He was almost sure of what she was going to ask him, and he wanted to avoid that at all costs. How was he supposed to explain to her that he was jealous of her. Hopefully, he would be able to change the subject enough to make her forget what she was going to ask.
"It's not going to work," she told him.
His eyes shot back up to hers. "What are you, a mind reader or something?"
"No, but I know you too well by now to know that you're trying to change the subject." She moved so that she was sitting cross legged and facing him. "What's wrong, Chris. I can tell that there is something that's wrong, so don't tell me that there isn't. You've been rather quiet lately, and you've never been quiet around me."
Turning away, he took a deep breath. So she had noticed. It was only a matter of time before she did. He could do the exact same thing to her, and had on a number of occasions, but there was nothing wrong with her. No, he was the one that had the problem, for once. "It's nothing big, Brooke. I just need to get away for awhile. That's all. The schedule's getting worse and worse, and I need some time to relax."
He felt a pressure on his shoulder, and she pushed him hard enough to turn him back towards her. "Are you sure that's it? You don't look like you've been sleeping, either. I know how hard it is to sleep on the road, but there's something else..."
"That's it. Don't worry about it. I'll be fine." He forced a smile on his face and reached for the popcorn bag. "I just didn't sleep well last night, that's all." The lie slipped out so effortlessly, he realized, as he chewed on a handful of popcorn. "I just need a vacation where no one can bother me."
He watched as she bit her lip before nodding. "I'll accept that for now, but you will tell me eventually. You know that, right?"
No nodding of the head. No acknowledgment, because he knew that eventually, he would spill everything, and tell her. Just not now. He rolled back over, and tried to focus on the television. For an hour, they laid there in silence, before the bus suddenly rolled to a stop. "Hey, Brooke!" a faint voice called from the front.
Chris got up and opened up the door. "Yeah, what do you want, Justin?"
"You don't sound like Brooke."
"Ha ha."
"We're at the car rental place. Can you pull her away long enough to go and get a car or something for us?" he asked. Chris turned back to look at Brooklyn, who was reaching for her wallet beside the bed. "You're coming with me," she said with a smile. "Grab a hat or something, but you're coming."
He reached over obligingly, and took the plain black ball cap off of the small table in the corner, situating it on his head before reaching for his jacket. "Is there a reason why we're going to Colorado in November? It's probably freezing out there. Not one of your smarter plans."
Her shoulders moved in a shrug as she pulled on a heavy coat. "Hey, you're the one that invited yourself to the cabin. I was planning on going with JC ALONE, but no, his four best friends had to find out and tell me that they were coming. You didn't ask, you TOLD me. Don't blame this all on me."
The two of them walked out of the bedroom towards the front of the bus, where the door was already open. Chris leaned against the wall and waited for Brooklyn to kiss JC as she walked by. "And no, I'm not getting a convertible, so don't ask," she shot at him as she walked down the stairs. Her feet immediately crunched onto some ice, and Chris grabbed her arm to keep her from falling.
"Nice move," he told her, keeping a loose hold on her as they walked into the rental place. Brooklyn immediately dug out her credit card, but before she could put it on the counter, Chris had his in the hand of the person behind the desk. "We're staying at your place. The least I can do is pay for the car."
She smiled and leaned against the counter, slipping her card back in her wallet. Why wasn't she putting up a fight, he wondered. She always fought with anyone who tried to pay for her. "Fine with me, but it's CARS. As in plural. We need more than one. Six people, enough luggage for ten people to stay a year, plus my guitar, skis, and Christmas decorations...I'd say we need about five cars, but, after all, you're paying."
His head shook, as he pulled up the reservation that Brooklyn had made beforehand, running his card through. Chris signed the slip, grumbling at the price as he passed back one copy of the form. "Now, I can see why she didn't fight me. I should have made your boy toy come in with you. This is so not fair," he complained, folding the receipt and tucking it in his wallet.
Four sets of keys appeared on the counter, two for each vehicle. "Both vehicles have the mud and snow tires, as you've requested. Enjoy your stay, Miss Turner, Mr. Kirkpatrick."
Brooklyn led him outside. "How did he know my name?" he asked, readjusting the bill of the cap, as the driver of the bus opened up the luggage compartment on the bottom.
A sharp slap rocked his head forward. "Oh, gee, I don't know. Could it be that your credit card had something to do with it?" she asked him, rolling her eyes. "Come on, we've got the two Explorers over there. We need to get everything loaded in before two, because that's when the bus goes to the shop."
He watched as she walked ahead, and he looked down at two of the sets of keys in his hand. "Yeah, sure," he mumbled. "This better be worth it."
Chapter Two
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