"He doesn't care about them," Casey says gently. "I doubt he even knows them."
I nod, completely numb. That doesn't make me feel any better as I'm torn between running over to either rescue him or smack him.
"He's completely wasted. He can barely stand."
Casey nods. "Yeah. Believe me, they wouldn't have a shot otherwise. He doesn't fool around like that anymore."
My gaze shoots to him in alarm. "Wait, what are you saying?"
He shrugs, but doesn't seem nearly as distressed as I am. "Huh? I'm not saying anything."
"Shouldn't we do something?" I cry.
Now, he's totally confused. "Do what?"
I glance back at the small circle and observe with concern that it's moving away from the crowd. I can't breathe. They're going back to his room.
"Casey! This isn't him! We can't just let him do this!"
"Do what? What are you so upset about?" Casey is clearly annoyed.
"That! They're taking him back to his room!"
"Taking him? You act like he doesn't want to be alone with three models. He's a big boy, Callie. He can handle himself."
Casey pops another bottle of champagne as if to prove how ridiculous I'm being. "Here, have another drink."
I shake my head in disbelief. "No, this isn't like him. Something's wrong!"
Casey laughs, and I glare at him. "This is exactly like him, sweetheart. That's what I tried to tell you at breakfast. You don't actually know him. The guy you know is very different than the real Luke Craven."
He softens when he sees my expression and sighs. "Look, you're a very sweet girl. I totally understand why Luke wants you in his life, and I'm sure you're really good for him, but he's not good for you."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
He shrugs. "Luke is a force. He's my brother and I love him, but you're lying to yourself if you think you're going to fix him before he destroys you."
I stare at him in shock, in anger. "You really think so little of your 'brother?'" I mock.
He raises his eyebrows before letting out an irritated laugh. "Whatever, hon. Good luck with that," he smirks, grabbing his bottle and leaving me to my craziness.
I glare after him, annoyed with myself more than anyone for not hating Casey as he retreats. He's not a bad guy, I can see that, he's just not used to fighting hard battles he doesn't have to. In his own way, he was just trying to help me, and I hurt his ego by refusing to let him.
I glance back down the hallway toward the bedrooms, but Luke and his models are long gone. Then, suddenly, I don't care anymore. I don't need to fit in here. I don't have to impress Casey Barrett, or that man with the fake glasses by the door, or the woman with the thousand dollar shoes. I'm not here for them.
I jump up from my stool and march down the hallway toward Luke's room. I can hear the sounds as I approach, the giggling, the purring, and it makes me sick, angry. I don't knock, I don't care if Luke's mad at me, and push through the door.
Three shocked faces greet me, then convert to a scowl.
"Occupied," one of them spits.
I ignore her and try to peer past them to the body beneath them. Luke is still conscious, but the look in his eyes is not one I recognize. In fact, I'm not sure he recognizes anything.
"He's obviously out of it. I think you're done here," I hiss.
"Really? I think you should mind your own business, hon," another woman barks.
"Hon? I'm not the one climbing all over a guy who's practically unconscious. What, he wouldn't touch you sober?"
She looks ready to explode, but clearly has no interest in wasting her highly valuable time fighting with a nobody like me.
"Who are you anyway?"
"I'm his cousin," I lie.
And they laugh. I expected as much, but I don't care. This isn't about me.
"Right. So are we."
I cross my arms, making it clear I'm not leaving. They can stand here and waste their night arguing, or go have fun with someone else. They glare at me as they climb off the bed and begin gathering their garments from around the room. Finally, they're dressed enough to return to the party and start filing out, each one shredding me with her eyes as she passes.
"He invited us back here. It was his idea," the last one mutters.
"I'm sure he did. Have a nice time. Enjoy the hors d-oeuvres," I reply evenly with mock politeness.
I close the door behind them and approach Luke slowly. He's completely naked, and has tried to push himself up on the bed with little success. He falls back to the sheets, eyes closed.
"Where … " There's some question in the string of sounds that follows, but I have no idea what it is.
"Do you even know their names, Luke?" I ask, more to myself than him, since I doubt he could answer me even if he did.
I don't think I can handle the intimate act of dressing him at the moment, so I simply pull the blanket up to his waist. He's sweating, and I can see he's already too warm to completely cover him. I move to his bathroom and return with a wet rag, placing it on his forehead. He flinches and his face contorts into a brief grimace before he fades completely from consciousness. Concerned, I lean close, but hear his steady breathing. My stomach starts to constrict when I wonder what his "guests" would have done at this point if I hadn't followed them. I think about what Casey had said. How could this really be what Luke wanted?
I study his face, so beautiful, so serene without the fear and grief in his eyes. Without the lines of ancient pain that make him look much older than he is. His body, marked with tattoos, perfectly sculpted for the consumption of the masses, now still against the silk sheets, held captive in its shell by a sickness no one will ever understand. A sickness no one wants to understand, I think, as I recall Casey's disappointing show of concern for his friend's state.
He's Luke Craven. A force. A god. He's not real. Just a fantasy outside the grasp of our own realities. A face. A body. A cover. A story. A goal for aspiring models.
I swipe at the hot liquid in my eyes and take his hand, tracing his palm with the other, wondering what it would be like to live in parallel with everyone around you. To know that they only see you for what they think you are. To not be able to truly connect with your own existence.
A knock at the door startles me, and I glance up to meet Casey's concerned look peeking through the crack. I'm suddenly flooded with warmth and swallow the odd sensation. He enters and closes the door.
"Is he ok?" he asks, eyeing Luke's motionless form.
I glance down at the patient as well. "I don't know. What are the different stages of substance abuse unconsciousness?"
He covers the distance between us and kneels beside his friend. I watch quietly, a new sensation coursing through me as I observe Casey's gentle evaluation. He's done this before, many times, and I'm amazed his expression doesn't hold an ounce of disdain or disgust. Just sadness. I start to regret my harsh critique of him a minute ago.
"He'll be ok. We need to try to wake him up in a bit and get some water in him. Has he thrown up, yet?"
I shake my head. "Not that I've seen."
Casey nods, concerned. "Ok. We'll have to do that, too. Let me get some water. Hang on."
He pushes himself to his feet and disappears into Luke's bathroom. I wonder why until he returns with a basin.
"It's for soaking feet, but in case you need this before I get back," he explains with an apologetic smile. "I'll be right back with the water as soon as I can."
He closes the door quietly, and I'm not sure my opinion of someone has ever changed so abruptly.
∞∞∞
Casey returns as promised, and I find a strange sense of relief settle over me as he moves through the door. His arms are full, and I notice he's brought more than just water for Luke.
"Gonna be a long night," he explains with another smile. He hands me a bottle of water, as well as, a plate full of snacks. "Sorry they didn't have French toast."
I laugh, grateful for his joke as much as the food. I shift on the bed so Casey can take a seat beside me. He does, and leans against the headboard like I am.
"I'm sorry about how I acted out there," he begins. "It hurts you know? Seeing him like this. Sometimes I'm not strong enough to deal with it the way I should. I try to pretend he's the same person now that he was then, but he's not."
"Messing around with supermodels?"
He offers a weak smile, and I can see the guilt in his eyes. "That wouldn't have been a cause for concern a year ago. But you were right to be worried. It doesn't mean now what it meant then. It's just … " He quiets and looks away, and something about his sad expression touches me. "I want to help him, I do, I just don't know how. At some point..." He meets my eyes again, almost pleading. "How can I help him if he won't even let me? You remember what happened at breakfast. He doesn't want to be helped. I'd be here every day if he let me."
I surprise both of us by taking his hand. I don't know why I do it, it just seems natural at that moment. He accepts the gesture and runs his thumb over mine. It's the best we can do to share our mutual struggle.