Flower(20)

“Call me if you need anything!” she shouts after me.

The car is still idling at the curb, its engine purring. Without thinking, I dart into the street in front of it. The headlights cast over me, a wash of whitish blue, and I can just make out the outline of Tate’s body in the driver’s seat through the tinted windows. I pause for a moment, remembering Goth girl and her strange warning. I consider what I’m about to do, then decide to put it out of my thoughts. Maybe I’m crazy, but I want to hear what he has to say.

I open the passenger door and swing into the seat. The car is low to the ground, and I glance around as I pull the door closed, not yet brave enough to look at him. The interior is black leather and pristinely clean: no fast-food wrappers or dirty sneakers, not even a water bottle out of place.

The breath stalls in my lungs. He waits for me to speak.

“Ask me again,” I say after a few seconds have passed. I bring my gaze to his, and draw in a sharp breath at the look on his face.

“Ask you what?” His eyes cut through me, making it hard to think clearly.

“Ask me out again.”

A glimmer of a smile reaches his lips. “Will you go out with me, Charlotte?”

“Yes.” The word slips out easily now.

He reaches across my waist, grabbing my seat belt and buckling it into place. His fingers graze my arms and blood roars in my ears. I ignore it, staring straight ahead.

“I still want to know why you never told me the truth about who you are,” I say. “So don’t think I’m letting you off the hook yet. I need an explanation.”

“You’ll get one,” he says, the corner of his mouth lifting as he revs the engine.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“My house.”

He pops the shifter into gear and releases the clutch. The car bolts away from the curb, zipping up Sunset and heading north. He drives aggressively, confidently, and even though I should be scared, I find myself smiling as we climb the Hollywood Hills. Then the car turns suddenly into a driveway and slows. I look ahead to see a gate blocking our way, but Tate hits a button on the dash of the car and the gate automatically swings open.

The driveway twists down a slope, and his house comes into view just beyond a tangle of broad trees. I lean forward, stifling a gasp. Stone and concrete and glass windows rise up three floors, and the roof swoops upward like it might touch the thin wisps of clouds in the darkness overhead.

Tate pulls the car around the circle drive in a swift loop, and stops beside two massive metal front doors. I glance over at him but he’s already stepping out of the car and coming around to my side. He opens my door and takes my hand to help me out. The warmth of his touch sends a flood of nerves straight through me. It was only a few days ago when his fingers last threaded through mine, but for some reason it feels like a lifetime ago.

“Do you live here by yourself?” I ask.

He leads me up the white gravel walkway. “Yeah. There used to be other people... Now it’s just Hank, but he lives in the guest house.”

“Who’s Hank?”

On cue, one of the impressive front doors swings wide, and standing just inside the house is a wide-shouldered hulk of a man. “What’s up, T?” the man says, extending a hand and giving Tate a casual fist bump. Hank is tall and thick, with a shaved head and a neck as broad as a tree trunk. But his smile is easy and affable.

“Charlotte,” Tate says. “This is Hank, my bodyguard.”

“Except lately T’s been leaving the house without me,” Hank points out, looking over at me. “Said he wanted anonymity, and a bodyguard draws too much attention. I suspect it has something to do with you.” He smiles, belying his harsh words, and reaches out for my hand, kissing the top of it. “So this is the Charlotte who’s been torturing my boy,” he adds. “I like that you haven’t made it easy on him. He needs to be kept in check from time to time.”

I smile up at Hank, trying not to dwell on the fact that I know someone who has his own bodyguard. “I do what I can.”

“I don’t think I like you two conspiring against me,” Tate says, tugging on my hand.

“You done for the night, T?” Hank asks as we step into the foyer.

“I think so,” Tate answers, and his eyes brush over me.

“I’ll park the car in the garage, then. Let me know if you need it later.”

“Thanks, Hank.”

“And it was nice to meet you, Charlotte,” Hank adds.

“You, too.”

Hank closes the door behind him when he steps outside, and I’m startled by the expanse of the house before me. Dramatic concrete walls rise above us like a museum of modern art. Windows start at the floor, then sweep up to touch the ceiling. The whole place is lit by a soft golden light that seems to spring forth from every crevice and alcove, as if coming from the walls themselves.

We pass through the living room, where a large white piano sits in the corner, so shiny that it reflects the overhead light. Everything is clean and starched and perfect. Almost too perfect. There are no framed photographs of family and friends, no signs that this house is truly lived in.

Along one wall hangs a series of gold and platinum records—the titles of his hit songs and albums stamped below each one. It’s surreal. It hits me again, all at once—I’m here.