[ - ]
Table of Contents [Report This]
Printer Chapter or Story Microsoft Word Chapter or Story
- Text Size +
Chapter Thirty-One


I feel like I wake up to a cell phone vibrating every morning. Well, the morning after Cora and Addison's dramatic display in my dining room was no different. At least it was Nick's phone that time. It was vibrating so hard it moved in a semi-circle and dropped off the end table. Nick groaned, "No," he said, "Too early... go to hell..." he rolled over and smashed his face into the pillows. The phone vibrated from the floor pitifully.

Finally it stopped.

Nick sighed in relief. I cuddled closer to him. He snaked his arm around me.

I kissed his chin.

The phone started vibrating again. "What the hell," Nick muttered.

"Maybe it's important?" I guessed.

"Ugh. Nothing important happens before noon, everyone should know that." He rolled over and grabbed the phone from the floor. He stared at the display.

"What is it?" I asked.

"It's... Kevin..." he answered the phone, "'Lo?" He squinted up at the ceiling, the light from the window streaming in his eyes. "No, dude, I ain't seen the TV, I'm in the only house in Los Angeles that doesn't have a TV in it... Why?" Nick covered his eyes with his hand. Then he uncovered them and sat up. "What? You're shitting me. You've gotta be shitting me." He swung his legs out of the bed and stood up quickly, "Tell me you're shitting me."

"What's the matter?" I asked.

Nick bolted out the door of the room, though.

"Ugh." I followed him, pulling on my robe as I went. I padded down the hall after him. He was turning on my lap top, which I'd left sitting on a desk in the living room. "Nick?" I said, "What's wrong?"

He'd hung up his phone. He looked at me, hair all messed up, his eyes wild with surprise. "Z's dead."

"What?"

"Z? My producer? He's dead. It's on the news."

"Z, Cora's Z?"

"Yes Cora's Z, my Z, the Z."

The computer came to life and Nick double clicked to pull open the Internet. He typed Z's name into Google and up popped breaking news stories. My breath caught in my throat. "Fuck," I whispered. A picture of the house I'd cased popped up, a news reporter standing in front of it.

"Justin Platt - better known as Z - was famous for producing hit singles in the pop music industry. The 36 year old artist was found dead in his Hollywood home this morning. Although the official cause of death has not been found, authorities seem to be treating this as a suicide situation..." Nick shook his head as he read. "Fucking hell," he whispered.

"I'm sorry," I said, because I wasn't sure what else to say.

Nick was just staring at the computer screen.

I rubbed his shoulders.

He looked up at me, "I was supposed to go record with him today," he said thickly. "I was supposed to be working with him all week. I don't know what to do... I don't know what to think..." He squeezed the bridge of his nose. "God damn, he was one of my best friends in the industry. I don't have a lot of friends... We used to play golf together... He's a terrible golfer."

"I'm sorry," I repeated, still at a loss.

"I hope they give golfing lessons in Heaven," Nick commented. He bit his fist and turned back to the computer screen. He scrolled until a picture of Z filled the screen. It was a picture of him from yesterday, standing in front of his studio, Cora and Addison were in the background surrounded by security. Z looked happy and healthy and his eyes twinkled. The photo was captioned Producer Justin "Z" Platt stopped to talk to several reporters yesterday who had gathered outside of Z Productions studio to inquire about Cora Walters' latest efforts. Z revealed he was working with Cora's new protoge, Addison Mueller, a "firecracker" up and coming singer who he described, saying, "She may even end up being a bigger deal than Cora herself." "He looked so happy there," Nick said, staring at the picture.

I stared at it, too. Something about it was bugging me, but I couldn't quite figure out what it was...

"I can't believe he's dead," Nick mumbled.

Nick's phone didn't stop ringing the rest of the day. Every time that he hung up someone else was calling to talk to him about Z - everyone from reporters to radio DJs to all four other Backstreet Boys. I sat on the couch and read a book while he fielded phone call after phone call. Finally, after pretty much everyone and their mother had called him, he dropped on the couch with me and laid his head in my lap. He stared up at me. "I'm so tired," he mumbled.

I ran my fingers through his hair.

His cell phone rang again.

"For the love of God," he muttered. He started to answer it.

I reached out my hand, "Let me. I'm your assistant. I'll take a message and tell them to call again at some point." He handed me his phone and I answered it, "Carter," I said cooly.

There was a long pause, then a click, and the dial tone.

I pulled the phone from my ear and looked to see who it'd been.

Cora.

I sighed, "The dragon lady was calling you."

Nick closed his eyes. "So much for if I walk away," he muttered. But he didn't take the phone and call her back or anything either. I put the phone down on the arm rest of the couch and continued running my fingers through his hair... "I can't wrap my mind around it," he said. "I just can't imagine Z killing himself."