Skygods (Hydraulic #2) (42 page)

She vaguely remembers him crawling into bed sometime around five and wrapping his arms around her waist. But the fruity drinks he bought her at the bar and sound-system overkill made her head throb, so she pressed her face into her pillow and went back to sleep. Earlier this morning, her mouth was so mucky she questioned whether she’d been throwing back sours or sewer water. Even now, her hangover lingers like a barfly who can’t take a hint. As she gargles mouthwash, she hears quiet chords and his even softer baritone drift from the couch.

“Caulfield?” He doesn’t answer. Aspen glances at her watch—eleven forty. She has to hurry or she’ll be late for her internship.
Strum…strum…strum
…Nothing short of kneeing him in the balls will get his attention, so she just leaves.

She grabs a can of instant soup from the cupboard and scribbles a quick “don’t forget mail & stamps” for Caulfield on a Post-it note. Then she drags her bike downstairs and pedals into the Boulder sunshine.

Her tires skid around a smashed and rotting jack-o’-lantern, splattering orange gunk on her sneakers. It is miserable October days like this that make her restless to run away from home. Fortunately, this is all limbo until the grown-up phase of their lives begins. By this time next year they’ll do some apartment hunting in New York over fall break, if nothing screws up her five-year plan:

Year one: campus internship (scored one in the Alumni Office).

Year two: graduate, land paid New York internship while Caulfield attends NYU.

Year three: find entry-level job and get two years’ experience.

Year four: save money.

Year five: move back to Colorado and start business with Molly.

Most college students didn’t think of their futures past graduation, but Aspen is not one of them. She has goals. No one can accuse her of being rash and naïve, not anymore. She is twenty now. She is an
adult
.

She hopes Caulfield remembers to buy stamps.

Later that afternoon, her phone rings as she rummages through stacks of old alumni pictures.

“Hey, Caulfield.”

“Hey, I’m at the post office. Do you want a book of stamps or just a sheet?”

She frowns and glances at the clock—four fifty. “You’re just now mailing those? That means they won’t get to New York before Friday.”

“Well next time, mail them yourself,” he grumbles.

“I barely had time to get home between classes and work, let alone go to the post office. The
only
thing you had to do was mail that stuff for me.” She doesn’t know how the frick he is going to manage grad school.

“It won’t kill anyone to wait a day. I just didn’t feel well. Sorry.” He exhales and the raspy, tired sound loosens the anger knotted in her chest.

“Listen. I know everything feels really temporary right now. When we find our footing, it will get better.”

“Firecracker.” She hears the frown in his voice. “Yeah, it’s temporary, but it’s still life, here and now. Case in point—look at the attacks last month in New York and DC. The Towers, the Pentagon, all those people with the photographs, hunting for the people they love. If you’re always looking ahead, saying it will be better if this happens, or if that happens, you’ll never actually
live
your life.”

“Hangovers and playing your guitar until noon isn’t living.”

She wants fire from him, but he doesn’t take the bait. There is a long pause, then a resigned, “I’ll see you tonight. I love you.”

“Caulfield?” She shoves a file of old photos into the cabinet and presses her aching head against the cool metal. “We only need a sheet of stamps. It will take too long to use a book and who knows when postage will go up again.”

After Aspen hangs up, she realizes she forgot to say “I love you” back.

Sam—I’ve often wondered what kind of person I’d have become if our (and when I say “our,” I mean “my”) New York plans had come to fruition. I don’t think I would have liked her very much. Just one of those “looking on the bright side” moments, I guess. ~Kaye

“Happy Birthday, Kaye.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

My mother’s voice was a welcome sound early Monday morning as I dropped two slices of bread into the toaster. I’d already been up for an hour, having called Samuel’s psychiatrist before the sun rose. By some miracle, Samuel was still asleep.

I remembered it was five in the morning in Colorado. “Why on earth are you awake so early?”

“Putting a batch of tomatoes in the pressure cooker for canning. Wish you were here, but it’s a relief not to worry about a party this year.”

“Mom, we go to the Cabrals every year for my birthday. Sofia always takes care of the cake.” My heart twinged at the thought of Sofia’s spicy chocolate cake.

“Well then, I don’t have to buy a birthday hat.”

We chatted for a while. My arms ached to hug her neck when we said our good-byes, even though we rarely embraced.

“You take care of yourself, Aspen Kaye. Only carry a little cash when you go out.”

“I will, Mom.”

I hung up the phone then jumped when Samuel’s arms snaked around my waist. Still warm with sleep, his scruff tickled my cheek as he nuzzled it.

“Happy Birthday.” He yawned. “Any news from Gail?”

I peered up at him with wary eyes. “Other than Hector getting busted for doing fifty down Main Street? No.”

“Sounds like business as usual.”

“Yeah, the big lug asked the sheriff if he’d hold his six-pack while he pulled his license from his wallet.”

His eyes crinkled in laughter. Well. Now he seemed completely normal. Still, Samuel had behaved normally yesterday morning, too, and look how he’d deteriorated by evening. “Hey,” I said gently, “how are you feeling?”

“Fine. Rested. Hungry. I was going to make you breakfast, Birthday Girl, but you beat me to it.”

I pecked him on the cheek. “You can play me ‘Happy Birthday’ on your guitar. I’m sure you were exhausted after last night.”

“Last night?”

“Yes. It was…” I froze when I saw bewilderment, then blatant fear seep into his eyes. His arms tightened. A single shudder raced through his body and slackened. He kissed my neck with trembling lips and released me.

“Last night was great,” he lied. “Do you want coffee?”

“No, thanks.”

Crap crap crap. He didn’t remember. I could see it in his face, even though he tried to hide it. How could he possibly not remember something so important? A dreadful weight settled in every joint of my body, threatening to press me into the floor with pain and guilt as I grasped the far-reaching hurt my rash choice last night brought down on both our heads. Tears pricked my eyes. I had to get him to a doctor.

“Toast’s up.” I sniffled. “Jelly?”

“Just butter’s good.” He grabbed a slice and took a big bite, then fled down the hallway. Moments later, I heard the shower run. My thoughts strayed to the old Moleskine notebook in my messenger bag—the one he didn’t know existed. I’d have to show it to him, and it would suck worse than scraping my knuckles on concrete. This would complete Caroline’s betrayal and he’d feel it keenly.

Licking the jam from my fingers, I pattered down the hall and knocked on the bathroom door. “Samuel?”

“Come in,” he called. “Did you need something?” he asked when I still hadn’t spoken.

“I collected a box of hard copies from Caroline. It’s your earlier writing.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. It might send you into a tailspin when you read it. And I, um, scheduled a doctor’s appointment for you this morning.”

A pause. The shampoo bottle snapped open. “I can’t. I have press interviews.”

“We can reschedule them.”

“No, we can’t—not after the LA debacle. Kaye, I’m fine, truly.” Nothing but the quiet plopping of suds. Then he stuck out a wet head from behind the shower curtain. “Will it really make you feel better if I go?”

“Yes.”

“I propose a compromise: I’ll go tomorrow, first thing. Just one more day.”

“I don’t know…”

He used that disarming crooked smile, darn it. I hungrily watched water drip from his hair and trickle down his neck. “I’m much better than yesterday, and I know I can make it through today without any issues. We’ll get the interviews out of the way, Jerome’s disgusting display of opulence tonight, then the doctor tomorrow. Okay?”

“Okay,” I relented, because I very well couldn’t hog-tie him and drag him to his psychiatrist. “First thing tomorrow.”

He began to whistle—he was actually whistling in the shower—and that boded well for the rest of the day. But I knew better. I’d read the notebook. I heard him confuse my names. I’d seen too much to turn off the lights on last night.

I hadn’t needed a babysitter since I was ten. (Save for an unfortunate introduction to Gospodin Vodka and his jiggly mistress, Jell-O, at a freshmen mixer. Molly had to peel me off the floor.) I got why Jerome wanted to micromanage Samuel’s interviews: the behind-the-curtain world of celeb PR was abuzz over Caroline Ortega’s departure. But after the third interview in which the smarmy man shut me down when fielding questions, I itched to pummel his shiny bald head.

I decided not to fight him on this. Soon, with luck and a little tap-dancing, I’d make sure he and the rest of his self-important crew no longer represented Samuel.

The silver lining was that Jerome’s micromanagement left me with time to ponder. The last instance when Samuel had large chunks of time wiped from his memory was his cocaine spree in Raleigh. Cocaine had also exacerbated his illness that night in New York, causing a memory lapse. The only conclusion I reached was that he was using again. I hoped to God he wasn’t. But then, what if there was something dreadfully wrong—something out of his control, like a brain tumor—that caused the black out?

I wound my arms around my torso. Tomorrow morning’s doctor visit couldn’t come soon enough.

I stared out a window of the Standard Hotel at the mini-circus below, just beyond the railroad tracks. Paparazzi paced like a pride of lions and waited for Indigo Kingsley’s arrival. The camera-happy photogs had hoped for a money shot of Samuel handing Indigo out of car. I could feel waves of disappointment when I’d climbed out of the car instead of Indigo.

Just beyond the hotel was the Meatpacking District, an area once known for its slaughterhouses, drugs, and prostitutes. Rotting packing plants gave way to dens of hipsters and trendy hotels like the Standard, which catered to celebs seeking low-key visits. The hotel was so futuristically retro, I half expected George Jetson to fly in and say “get out of my chair, you big strata-jerk.” Justin called it
Le Corbusier
. I called it awesome.

Samuel sat on an uncomfortable-looking sofa, absently twisting a cocktail napkin.

“Lastly, Mr. Cabral, do you prefer boxers or briefs?”

“Seriously?” Justin whispered. “What an unimaginative question. The poor girl works for
You Magazine
, though, so I shouldn’t expect any less.”

“Your claws are showing, kitty.”

At least Samuel could respond to this stuff in his sleep. “Unless you catch me at the Laundromat, I’m afraid you’ll never know the answer.” He winked robotically.