Night Shifts Black(15)

"Wow. I'm surprised in a place like this they can't afford better laundry service."

He laughs and shrugs. "You're very critical of my wardrobe. You would prefer me in polo shirts and khakis, I guess?"

I scrunch my nose, almost horrified at the thought. I can't think of a more ill-suited look for him. "I see your point. Although, I'm dying to know what your tattoos would look like with a pink polo shirt."

"Pink, even? Wow. You have the strangest fantasies."

"What, fantasies about rock stars in pink polo shirts? You've never encountered worse? Come on."

He grins and shrugs with a mischievous expression. "Not until I got famous," he comments cryptically.

"That's not fair! Come on, Luke! Give me something!" I cry, instinctively leaning toward him in my earnestness.

He laughs.

"At least tell me the weirdest gifts you've gotten from fans. That has to be safe, right?"

He squints and bites his lip, as if deep in thought. "Weirdest gifts, huh? Let's see." I wait, not about to interrupt him. "Ok, once a fan gave me a calendar she made of shirtless pictures of myself."

I burst out laughing, and he returns my amusement. "Of yourself? Why in the world would you ever want that?"

He shakes his head in disbelief. "I have no idea. The guys just about died when she presented it to me at the autograph table. She waited in line for over two hours for that."

"Wow. That's devotion right there. I'm going to guess it didn't have the intended effect on your heart."

"Unless she was trying to get me to double my security for the rest of the night, no." He gave me a sly look. "What about you?"

I glance back, startled. "What about me what?"

"What's the worst gift you ever got?"

I laugh. "I can't top that, believe me."

"That's ok. You must have gotten something you hated at some point in your life."

I think about his question and wonder if my face resembles his a moment ago. "Hmm … well, one time I got a stuffed cabbage."

His brows knit in confusion. "A stuffed cabbage? You mean a stuffed toy shaped like a cabbage or an actual cabbage."

I chuckle. "Does it really matter, given those options?"

He laughs. "I suppose not. Still, I have to know now."

I grin. "An actual cabbage. Well, cabbage leaves stuffed with some kind of meat."

"Was it good?"

"I didn't eat it!" I laugh.

"Why not? Maybe it was good."

"I had no idea where it came from or who made it. It was a door prize at some school event."

"They gave away a stuffed cabbage?"

I shrug. "Yes. Apparently."

He lets out his breath. "What kind of school did you go to? You weren't kidding about Sheltertown, were you."

"Shelteron."

"Whatever."

I shake my head in amusement and lean back against the cushions. After a long silence, I finally glance at him again. "You don't happen to still have the calendar do you?" I ask.

He glances at me in exasperation, and I laugh.





Day Sixteen.





I give Luke's door a gentle courtesy knock, but when he doesn't answer after two attempts, I let myself in. The room is dark, except for a small lamp on an end table, so I assume he is still in bed. Not wanting to disturb him, I grab the remote and plop on the couch, turning the volume low.



       
         
       
        

There isn't much on network TV that interests me so I try the movie channels. I find it strange that despite the six hundred options at my fingertips, there's not one thing I feel like sitting through. Maybe not so strange when I consider that I'm only here for Luke and he's absent.

Shortly after noon, it suddenly occurs to me that he may not even be in his room. I mute the TV and begin my self-tour of his suite. I'd never explored his accommodations apart from the main area, and figure now is as good of a time as any to satisfy my curiosity about how an ex-rock star lives.

I figured the place had to be large. After all, basic math skills illustrate that, given the huge structural dimensions of this hotel and the tiny number of doors on this floor, each door has to be hiding a massive space. I was always good at math, but I'm still not prepared for what I find as I venture from the enormous open room of the main living area. I don't understand why a hotel room needs a corridor, but it has one. Two, actually, I learn, as I reach the end of the first and realize another juts to the right. I count one bedroom in my journey, which contains an unexpected custom stall shower along one wall of the room. The random bedroom-shower throws me for a loop, and I stand staring at the floor-to-ceiling glass, intricate stonework, and multiple jets. I spend a long time wondering why one would want to shower in their bedroom rather than the attached bathroom, how many people it was intended to accommodate at one time, and what I'd have to do to convince Luke to let me test it out. I notice the bench and controls, and suddenly realize it's a sauna, as well as, a shower. I'm even more impressed, if not confused, about the floor plan. I see no sign of human occupation, however, so quickly determine this is a spare room, not Luke's. Clearly, a guest of a guest would need a private wall shower.

The next room is an office. Not the particleboard desk with a lamp and hospital waiting room chair I'm used to, but an actual office. I see a giant oak wall unit with matching hutch, a solid hand-carved workstation that would make a lawyer jealous, and an actual, honest-to-goodness, coordinating filing cabinet. Because every rock star needs a filing cabinet when they travel. I smirk, imagining Luke sifting through three-tab folders and hanging files with his ratty tee, ripped jeans, and glass of whiskey in hand. I'm not surprised that it appears I'm the first to even open the door to this room.

The next room is just another bathroom. There's a powder room off the main space for visitors, but this must be for those who get lost touring the suite and can't find their way back without a break. It's decorated in the same rustic stone style as the other bathing amenities I've seen, so I don't waste much time here.

Only one door remains, so I'm certain it must be the master suite. I hesitate as I approach the open doorway. It's dark inside, which leads me to believe it's probably vacant as well, but I'm still not totally comfortable about invading his space. The other rooms were easy. They didn't seem like his, for some reason, as though they still belonged to the hotel and he couldn't care less what happened to them. This room though …  

My curiosity wins out, and I move toward the darkness.

The stench of alcohol assaults me when I enter, and I almost cough. Despite everything I've witnessed so far, I'm still surprised by this. Luke seems so together most of the time. He laughs and jokes and makes his way around the city. I'm very familiar with the bar in the main space, but the idea that the bulk of his drinking occurs back here hits me harder than I expect.

"Oh, Luke," I mutter to myself, shaking my head.

"What?"

I freeze. "I … I'm sorry … I was worried."

By now my eyes have adjusted to the darkness enough that I can make out the lump on the massive king-sized bed centered against the wall.

The lump doesn't respond, and neither do I, not sure if I should apologize again and leave in shame or call an ambulance.

"I'm fine," he lies. I know he's lying. I can hear it in his voice.

"It's after noon."

"So?"

"So, you're still in bed. Have you eaten today? I'll order something for you."

"I'm not hungry."

"Are you sick?"

"No. Just tired. I don't want company today. Sorry."

"Luke … "

"Callie, I don't want to be a jerk, but I need you to leave me alone right now, ok?"

It's not ok. His voice is trembling. I know now he wasn't sleeping.

"Luke, please. Let me … "

"Just go!" he shouts, and the lump transforms into a half-man as the comforter reveals a head and torso.

I know I should, but I can't.

I pause, my mind racing furiously, and yet in no clear direction at all. I get the heavy sense that I'm standing at a crossroads, although I suspect it's not just one on my journey.

I choose a path and sit on the edge of the bed. I don't look at him because I know I won't like the anger and accusation in his eyes, so I face the wall instead, staring in silence, daring him to physically remove me from his presence. I am fairly confident he won't because I know where he is right now and it's a place that rarely has the energy for such things.

"It's a curtain," I say quietly.

He doesn't respond, but I know he's listening. I turn and glance at him briefly so he knows it, and has to accept the fact that I'm not leaving until I've finished my speech.

"Depression, that is," I continue. "People who've never experienced it think it's a mask, but it's not. It's a curtain. And when it falls, it shuts you off from your life, plunging you into complete darkness. There you stand, arms flailing around you, reaching for anything to find your way back. But after exhausting yourself, grasping at only more darkness, you give up and drop to the floor in resignation.

"And so you sit. You and the blackness. You and the accusations. You and the self-hatred, the lies that become truth, the failure and pain and hopelessness and black thoughts that twist through you, impaling you to the floor. There you bleed, alone in your black hole, convinced the audience on the other side of the curtain has given up and gone home. The show is over.