Suddenly Famous (4 page)

“Hello?”

“Leah? It’s… it’s Ryker. How have you been?”

“Ry?” Her voice is raspy, like she’s been crying. My heart starts to speed up, anxiety punching me in the gut and almost doubling me over.

“Are you okay? What’s wrong?” Holy shit, something terrible happened. That’s why she hasn’t called me.

“My friend, Sydney…” she sniffs.

“Yes, your friend. What about her?”

“Have you been watching the news the last few days?”

“News? No, I don’t watch a lot of T.V. I’m too busy.”

“What about the Internet, did… did you hear anything about… about Sydney Tannen?”

“That name sounds so familiar, why?” I ask Leah, wracking my brain to make the connection.

“Her parents were actors, Reid Tannen and Evangeline Allen.”

“Right!” I interrupt. “I remember. Yes, I did read about her. She was gone for a long time after a car accident and just recently resurfaced.”

“Yes. That’s right,” Leah says. “Remember my friend Sydney, the designer from the party at the Warren?”

“Yeah, how could I forget? She looks just like Evang… wait. What? Are you telling me that your friend Sydney is Sydney Tannen?” My mind is racing to play catch up and connect all the dots so I can see the whole picture.

“Yes, she is. I’ve always known. That she was Sydney Tannen, that is.” Leah’s voice cracks and she stifles a sob.

“Why are you so sad then? I don’t understand.”

“Ry, her parents split and took her out of L.A. because she had a stalker. She… she went to a movie premiere this past weekend with her boyfriend, Drew Forrester, and…”

“Hold on. Her boyfriend, Drew Forrester? You mean Andrew Forrester?
He’s
her boyfriend?”

Jesus, this story gets weirder and weirder.

“Yes. And she went to his premiere and…”

“Holy shit,” I whisper. “I saw that on the news. She was attacked by a psycho. Stabbed.” The story that’s been giving me nightmares because it hit so close to home, it happened to Leah’s friend, the panicked girl from the party. “Oh my God, Leah. Is she okay?”

“Ry, I don’t know. She’s healing. I’m in L.A. with her mom and with Drew while she’s in the hospital. It’s just so…” Leah finally cracks and starts sobbing.

“Shhhh, honey. She’s okay and she’ll get better. Please don’t cry.”

Fuck!
I’m all the way across the country from her. There’s absolutely nothing I can do. I’m so fucking sick of feeling powerless against all this shit.

Leah’s sobs cut off. I can tell she’s trying to collect herself. “I’m so sorry, Ryker. I didn’t mean to fall apart.”

“Leah, if there’s one thing I know a lot about, it’s falling the fuck apart. If you need to fall apart, I’ll put you back together. I promise.”

Now I just have to fix myself. I’m more broken than she could ever imagine.

“So Ryker, I have to say I’m surprised to see you here.”

I shift uncomfortably on the leather armchair, trying not to meet the therapist’s questioning stare.

“No more surprised than me, Dr. Burton.”

“Well, why don’t you tell me what prompted you to come back? Last time you were here you said therapy wouldn’t work. You weren’t really interested in discussing anything.” Dr. Burton sets her notebook and pen down on a side table and leans towards me in a gesture meant to be friendly.

I clear my throat and shift again. Shit, I hate talking about feelings and crap. And talking about the incident? The thought gives me chills all over. That damn iron band snakes around my chest again, threatening to cut off my air supply at any second.

“I met someone,” I say quietly. “I want to be better, for her. She deserves more than this.” I make a sweeping gesture to myself.

“More than what, Ryker? What are you?”

“Broken. Fucked up.” I let out a barking laugh. “Why else would I be here? Because I’m perfect and just want you to confirm it?”

Dr. Burton smiles. “You’re not broken. You went through something very traumatic. It’s completely natural to suffer after an event like that. We’ve discussed the possibility that you have PTSD. What do you think about that?”

What
do
I think about that? What happened was most definitely traumatic. I’ve been stressed ever since. I guess that fits the definition of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.

“I think I have that. PTSD, I mean.”

“That’s the first time you’ve admitted it out loud. It’s good that you can finally acknowledge it.”

I shrug. I don’t need platitudes, I need to be fixed.

“How are you sleeping?”

“I’m not. Not really. Just a few hours a night. I have nightmares.” My face flushes with heat. It’s one thing to have bad dreams, it’s another to be twenty-one and admit to a therapist that you have them and they keep you awake at night.

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Ryker. I can give you some medication to help you sleep.” I start to interrupt, but Dr. Benton holds up her hand. “Just to get you through the hard part, not for forever. Taking medication to sleep doesn’t make you weak, in fact, you’ll be able to cope with everything else much better once you get some actual sleep at night.”

Scowling, I grudgingly agree to the pills. “Fine.”

“Now, tell me about the dreams.” She picks up her notebook and pen and gets ready.

A lump forms in my throat that I can’t swallow down. That damn steel band wraps around my chest and squeezes, keeping air from getting to my starving lungs.

“Ryker, it’s okay.” Dr. Benton puts a hand on my shoulder. “Breathe.”

I start counting like she showed me when I first came to therapy. By the time I get to six, the band has loosened. By eight, I can breathe again.

“Shit.” I hang my head and curse myself. I’ll never get past this.

“Ryker, it’s fine. Let’s try again tomorrow.” She grabs a pad from her pocket and scribbles out a prescription. “Here. Get this and get some sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow at the same time.”

I nod and take the prescription, shoving it into my pocket. “Thanks Dr. Benton.”

On my third session, Dr. Benton brings up my dreams again. “You look much better, Ryker. Sleep is obviously agreeing with you.”

“Yeah, I do feel better.”

“How about we talk about your nightmares?”

The band threatens to tighten, but I close my eyes and start counting. It’s gone before I can start. “Okay,” I tell her, my eyes still squeezed shut.

“Tell me what happens, what you see.”

“Red. It’s all red.”

“Blood?”

I nod my head. “Yeah, and the carpet. It’s a movie premiere, so there’s always a red carpet.”

“Right, what else?”

My heart slams against my ribcage, my pulse flying off the scale. I can feel the icy fingers trying to wrap around my neck and choke off my air. One, two, three…. The fingers recede. I take a deep, desperately needed breath.

“Then… then there’s more red, on the sidewalk. It’s white so you can see how much blood there is. It’s… it’s a lot. Too much.”

God it’s hot in here. Or is it cold?

“Okay Ryker, you’re doing great. What next?”

“The girl. Her name was Brooke.” I stop to wipe the sweat off my forehead with my sleeve, making sure to keep my eyes shut. Dragging in a ragged breath, I continue, “She’s there, in front of me. Too close, so very close. The lights are flashing from the cameras, but… no one sees her but me. It’s loud too, from the screaming. Girls, screaming for me… I’m the only one that hears her.”

“What does she say?”

“She… she says, she…”

“It’s okay, go slow. I know it’s hard.” Dr. Benton waits patiently for me to continue.

“She says, ‘you didn’t love me, Ryker. Look what you did’. It was my fault. That girl killed herself right in front of me. It was my fault.”

“Ryker, stop. Open your eyes.” Dr. Benton is gently shaking my shoulder. “Sit up slowly.”

I open my eyes and feel the wetness from my tears trailing down my cheeks. Embarrassed, I yank a tissue out of a nearby box and wipe my face. “Shit, sorry.”

“How do you feel?”

“Exhausted.” I run my hand through my hair and slump over in the seat. Who would think that talking would be physically draining?

Dr. Benton smiles. “You’re doing great. Today has been a huge step forward for you.”

“Thanks doc.”

I sit on my bed, thinking about my discussion with Dr. Benton. The nightmares aren’t real, but they sure as fuck feel like they’re real.

A girl, Brooke Kowalski, actually did send emails to my fan club and to the studio, threatening to kill herself if I didn’t love her back as much as she loved me. She sent dozens, all discussing suicide and how much I failed her, but no one thought it was real and no one bothered to tell me.

Brooke showed up at the L.A. premiere for
Quantum Stranger
and slit her wrists in the crowd. No one noticed her until after we were all inside. Nearly a thousand people jammed the sidewalks and street in front of the theater, and not one of them saw a fifteen year-old girl bleed to death.

It’s crazy to blame myself, I know that, but the conscious is a temperamental thing. It can allow you to let go of your greatest sins and force you to hold onto your smallest mistakes. You have no control over which ones are discarded and which will give you nightmares that keep you awake every single fucking night.

A buzz from my phone alerts me that I have a new text message. Swiping it off of the nightstand, I check it, hoping it’s from Leah.

Leah

Relief floods through me. Leah called earlier and said she was coming home today. Sydney was discharged this morning so they all came back on Evangeline Allen’s private jet. I laugh to myself. Evangeline Allen, Reid Tannen, Andrew Forrester… who the hell is this girl I’m seeing? She knows more celebrities than I do.

I hold my hands steady while I type out a response.

Me

Leah

The phone slides out of my hand and onto the bed next to me, a smile spreads across my face. I feel hopeful for the first time since that horrible premiere.

A soft knock on my door jolts me to my feet, which get tangled in the bedspread. I nearly take out my eye on the corner of the nightstand. Somehow, I get a hand out and save myself from wearing an eye patch for the rest of my life.

Smooth, Bancroft. That’s how you’ll win her over, with your extreme clumsiness and your similarities to pirates.

Scrambling to my feet, I hurry through the great room and over to the front door. Like a giddy teenager, I throw it open and see Leah standing on my doorstep. All of my anxieties and stress melt away at the sight of her.

“Get in here.” I grab her hand and tug her forward until she’s pressed against my chest with my arms are around her. “God I missed you. Is that strange? We hardly know each other.” My words are murmured softly into her hair as she burrows further into my chest.

“No.” Leah’s soft response is muffled, but I can hear it.

Her head tilts back so she can look up at me. She looks as tired and beat up as I felt before I got the sleeping pills. Her bright blue eyes are dull and red-rimmed, the skin underneath each one swollen. Her face is less vibrant than it was the last time I saw her, but she’s still gorgeous enough to make your heart stop.

“Let’s sit on the couch. Do you want anything? Water, beer?”

“Do you have anything we could mix?” Leah’s tired eyes sparkle with a hint of mischief and my mouth pulls up in a reluctant smile.

“I believe I do.” I drop a kiss on the top of her head and lead her over to my well stocked bar to make her selection.

“This is sooooo nice.” Leah stretches out on my big sectional sofa, careful not to spill the margarita she’s holding in one hand.

“Yes, it is.” Her feet are in my lap and since I can’t keep my hands off of her. I rub them firmly, trying my best to ignore the grunts and groans of pleasure that keep coming from Leah’s mouth.

“Mmmmm, you are the best at foot rubs,” she moans.

I dig my thumb into one of her arches and she practically purrs. Jesus, she’s so fucking amazing. Being around her, even the laid back, slightly sad version of Leah, does incredible things to me. The steel band around my chest is gone, my head isn’t filled with anxious thoughts, and my body is relaxed and calm for the first time in ages. I’m so used to being strung tighter than a drum that having my muscles loose and flexible is nearly enough to put me to sleep. If I didn’t have a hard on digging painfully into the front of my jeans, that is.