The Devil and the Deep Blue Sea (The Devils #2)(74)
He looks at me hard, that assessing look of his, the one I used to misinterpret. I know he's trying to find the truth in my lies, but this isn't the time to let him succeed because I feel like I'm about to cry. "Someone's at the door," I lie, "I'd better go."
"I miss you, Drew," he says and then the line goes dead before I even have a chance to say it back.
"I miss you too," I reply to no one at all.
And maybe it’s hearing him say he misses me or maybe it’s just straight-up jealousy of pretty French nurses, but I decide it’s time to pull the trigger.
That night after the show I tell Davis I need a week off. We are supposed to be returning to California in two days. I’m sure there are things planned but I’m just done. I need a break.
A break I plan to enjoy in Somalia.
His face barely moves as he shakes his head no, like a father ignoring an unreasonable toddler. “You’ve got interviews.”
“I really need some time off,” I reply.
“Yeah,” he says, “so do we all. That’s life. And I’ve booked the studio to start work on the next album after the interviews, so deal with it.”
“The next album? We don’t have a single decent song.”
“That’s part of what you’ll do in the studio. Play with those demos I sent you. Make them your own.”
“So let me get this straight,” I reply, channeling Josh. “You’ve got me booked for interviews I never agreed to, followed by studio time on demos I didn’t agree to.”
He rolls his eyes. “If I was going to wait for you to lead the way, you’d still be serving burgers to tourists at Planet Hollywood, Drew. I’m not sure how long it’s going to take for you to realize a little hustle is necessary to stay afloat in this industry. And a few hard decisions, also.”
“Well, here’s a hard decision for you, Davis,” I reply, “figure out what happens when I don’t show up, because I’m not showing up.”
He’s still yelling about breach of contract when I walk out the door.
42
DREW
Two days later, I leave Dubai for Mogadishu, the capital of Somalia. I have the best armed guards money can buy, a tourist visa that required a small fortune in bribes, and a backpack that holds a few changes of clothes—and lingerie.
I know Josh won’t have a ton of time for me, but I’ve already allowed my imagination to run wild. He’ll perform dramatic surgeries all day and I’ll find some way to make myself useful. Given my stunning lack of skills—I doubt they need a great deal of singing or posing—I have no idea what I’ll do, but there must be something. I can hold babies. I can play with children. I can apply a Band-Aid over a scrape, as long as the scrape is small and not super gross. I’ll find a way to stay out of his hair, but the nights will be ours, and we will, I’m sure, make the most of them. Especially once he sees the La Perla bustier I bought in NYC.
It’s nearly an eight-hour flight but the airport is surprisingly nice, and I’m starting to think Jonathan’s warnings were overly dramatic when I see a line of guys with machine guns against the wall.
My tour guide, Simon, also carries a machine gun. He is ostensibly the best money can buy. “Welcome to Somalia,” he says. “I hope you’re wearing a bulletproof vest.”
I stare at him and then he laughs. “Just a joke,” he says. “But also not. Make no mistake. Nothing about Mogadishu is like the United States. Remember that, please. It might save your life.”
I dismiss my nerves. I don’t care what I have to endure today as long as it ends in Josh’s tent when it’s all said and done.
I’m led to a series of armored SUVs. He nods toward the one in the center where four guards with AK-47s stand waiting. “All this is for me?” I ask.
He gives me a small nod. “Anything is possible in Somalia,” he says. “You have to be prepared for all circumstances.” I take a deep breath, pop a Dramamine in my mouth since I’m not allowed to ride up front, and climb aboard.
For twenty minutes, we bounce over the streets of Mogadishu, which doesn’t seem that different from other African cities aside from the stunning number of buildings that are missing half their facades. “Bombs,” says Simon.
At a checkpoint, we stop. Money is exchanged and I see the guards looking back toward the vehicle. “It’s okay,” Simon assures me. “They won’t do anything. They just want to see who’s here.”
I’m relieved when we finally leave the city behind, whether or not I should be. The rubble turns into dirt and shrubbery, desolate under the rapidly dimming sky.
We’re driving fast it seems to me, given the state of the roads. When we hit a pot hole the entire truck bounces so hard my head hits the roof. “We don’t like to be out this late,” Simon explains. “If you think this is fast, you should see us on the way back.”
There is only one moment when I am truly scared: another roadblock, but this time there is a great deal of yelling between the first car and the guards. Slowly, the men in the first car climb out and each has his finger on the trigger of a gun. “Get down, lady,” says the guard behind me and I do.