The Devil and the Deep Blue Sea (The Devils #2)(20)
“Well, I’m in the middle of booking your apology press tour,” he continues, “and you need to watch how things look. The last fucking thing I need right now is you out acting like you aren’t even sorry.”
“First of all, apology tour? To whom do I even owe an apology?”
“All the teenage fans who just watched their role model plunge off a stage? All the ticket holders in Paris and Berlin who didn’t get to see you perform? All the parents who supported their teen daughters’ obsession with you, only to have you wind up as the before picture for the Betty Ford clinic? Do I need to go on, or have I made my point?”
“I wasn’t drunk, and you know it.”
“I don’t care what you were,” Davis says. “If I’m trying to fix this for you, the least you can do, the absolute bare minimum, is not start more fires I will have to put out.”
I stare at Diamond Head, and think once more of escape. Perhaps Davis needs a little reminder that he’s not the one of us who’s vital to the operation.
“Maybe I should just go live off the land,” I tell him. “Quit while I’m ahead.”
“You just made an ass of yourself in public,” he replies, missing the threat or ignoring it. “I’d hardly say you’re ahead.”
I hang up and slide the screen door open only to find Josh sitting outside. He glances at me with his lips pinched tight, guilty and worried at once. “You just heard all that, didn’t you?” I ask.
He shrugs. “It was hard to miss. You’re extremely loud.”
I sink into the chair on my side of the balcony. “Of course I am,” I mutter. I’m too tired to fight on my own behalf anymore.
It’s silent for a moment before he turns toward me. “Why do you let him talk to you like that?” He sounds pissed and also appalled, reminding me just how bad it must seem to someone on the outside, someone not accustomed to it.
I shield my eyes from the sun to look over at him. “Well, he’s under contract, first of all. I’d have to pay out the ass to get rid of him, and he hired everyone else who works for me, so untangling it would be a mess.” Saying this out loud makes my situation seem even more hopeless.
“Except you weren’t drunk,” he says. “When you fell. It was a panic attack, right? So why are you allowing him and everyone else to act like you’re a problem?”
I hitch a shoulder in lieu of answering. I don’t mind that he knows, but the whole thing is embarrassing. “I’d rather let everyone think I’m a drunk than a complete nutcase. At least drunks can be cured.”
“Having panic attacks doesn’t make you a nutcase,” he says. “There are worse ways to cope with stress. And, by the way, I’m really curious to hear what you think the expression live off the land means. Because I doubt there are hot stone massages or mai tais.”
“Stones are from the land and I could build a fire to heat them,” I reply with a grin. “Stop killing my dream in its infancy. To clarify, though, I’m not talking some kind of Castaway scenario where a volleyball is my only friend. I’d rely on my money a little.”
He raises a brow. “While living off the land. Land like…this? A nice hotel with room service?”
“It’s on land, isn’t it?” I ask, grinning.
He laughs, his blue eyes bright and completely free of contempt, his smile wide and almost affectionate. I wonder what he’d do if I woke him at four AM, telling him my world is falling apart. I’m not sure anyone can make it better, but I suspect he’d really do his best.
At ten-thirty, I meet the Baileys down at the valet stand to ride to Diamond Head. Jim has rented an oversized Jeep that manages to fit all of us, but that’s pretty much the only part of the trip that goes according to plan.
At the convenience store, we are mobbed by teenage girls wanting autographs. Josh winds up pulling me out, barreling through the crowd like a lineman. We get to Diamond Head, which—disappointingly—is not a dormant volcano, but a volcanic crater, meaning there’s not even a chance it will explode. And we haven’t even started to head up the path before I’m posing for pics and signing things again, listening patiently while one chick lists the songs on my last album she didn’t care for.
“Your face looks thinner on camera,” someone else says. “Is it contour? Or are they using Photoshop?”
“Can we go?” barks Josh, stepping between us. He successfully separates me from the crowd, and shepherds me up the trail away from them before walking ahead with Sloane.
I’m in back with Beth, who’s moving slowly, while Jim trails behind us, slower still, when I see a group of teens coming down the trail, and feel that too-familiar panic in my chest. At the entrance, I could still escape. But up on that trail, which is about to narrow, anything can go wrong. Sweat dots my brow, slides between my shoulder blades.
“I can’t,” I whisper.
I can’t handle being surrounded, not being able to get away. I can’t handle having a panic attack with everyone watching.
Beth stops. “What’s wrong?”
“I can’t deal with this,” I whisper. “Finish the hike, okay? I’ll be fine. I’m just going to meet you at the hotel.”