Page 14 of Chase
“It’s no problem at all.”
He escorts me to the elevator and pushes the button. Once we’re upstairs at my room, he leaves, but something about the gorgeous, spacious hotel suite feels too claustrophobic right now, too.
I just need to be outside, and alone.
I need air. Badly.
I grab my own bottle of Scotch from my room, leave, and walk down the hall, because I’m sick of my suite.
There’s a door over at the end of the main hall.
Yesterday, I found out that this door leads to the rooftop. I saw a maintenance guy walk out through it last night. I ignore the sign that says “no exit,” and the door opens easily with a firm shove.
No alarm.
Thank God.
I walk out onto the rooftop and exhale.
A gust of wind hits my face, a burst of fresh air on my hot skin. All of the city lights twinkle below the inky night sky. I heard that a windstorm is blowing through tonight, but the whip of the air doesn’t bother me.
New York is vast and tall, nothing like my palm-tree lined home in LA.
But right now I’m glad for the difference.
I look up at the cloudy sky, trying to will the adrenaline out of my blood, but it doesn’t take.
“Fuck,” I say out loud, and it comes out breathless.
It’s not just my work schedule.
It’s not just the mobs of fans, either.
I’ve known all week that it’s more than that.
On top of everything, this week holds the ten-year anniversary of Daniel’s death, a night I’ve probably been dreading all week, and likely the reason I’ve been drinking Scotch like a fish every night alone.
My childhood best friend’s been gone so long now that my whole life is unrecognizable from what it was like when he died. He passed when we were 19, and now I’m 29.Ten whole years.
His fame was nothing close to this… and it still ate him alive. He starred in a couple of teen movies, started getting recognized, and got a little bit too much money too young.
Fame drained the life from him. Took him from me.
At first, just his friendship. And then all of him.
I normally keep all of that in a sealed black box inside me… but it’s harder right now. Knowing that it’s been a full decade makes it hurt in a new, sharp sort of way.
Being thrust into the same public eye that destroyed my friend’s life, and ended up killing him, also doesn’t help much.
I pull in a long, slow breath, trying to steady myself.
“To everything being different,” I say softly into the air to nobody, holding up the bottle of liquor before I take a swig.
I’m only alone for ten minutes, taking small sips from the bottle, when I see a flash of movement.
Someone storms outside.
The glossy black door swings open fast, and I see a figure in the dark.
