Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 82474 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 412(@200wpm)___ 330(@250wpm)___ 275(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82474 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 412(@200wpm)___ 330(@250wpm)___ 275(@300wpm)
Or maybe it is, whispers a nasty voice at the back of my head. The one I can’t get to shut up these days. Maybe Sheryl found out about you two, and she’s here to tell him off for sleeping with a client behind her back. Maybe you did all that, finally walked away from him, only to ruin their marriage after all.
The hard knot in my stomach calcifies into guilt.
“Um, excuse me for a minute?” I whisper, sotto voce, to Marcel.
He nods, barely even noticing me at his shoulder. He gets like this as soon as the cameras click on and the action starts: totally focused on his work.
Or… perhaps not entirely his work, I realize as I notice who’s on stage at the moment. The model Marcel kissed earlier.
I stifle a fleeting smile and leave him to it. Then I skirt around the stage the long way, toward the bathrooms. My plan is to hide in there, catch my breath, and hope either Sheryl leaves or her and Lark’s conversation calms down in the meantime. Any way I can avoid a confrontation with the pair of them, the better.
But I’m only halfway there when I glance toward the coffee stand to make sure they haven’t spotted me, and I freeze. They’re not backstage anymore. At least, not anywhere I can see.
I hesitate, torn. This is what I wanted, for them to leave. Or at least to have their fight somewhere I didn’t need to witness. Now, though…
My nerves prick at me. Something doesn’t seem right. Lark’s posture earlier, maybe, or the way Sheryl totally blanked me. If this is about me… If this is all my fault… shouldn’t I be trying to make it right, if I can?
Maybe I can talk to Sheryl. Tell her I came onto Lark, that I pursued him, and it was a temporary thing, it’s over now. I won’t stand between them anymore.
I pace behind the stage, eyes and ears peeled for any signs of the couple. It doesn’t take long before I hear the rumble of raised voices, muffled by a door. I trail the sound until I find an office with Marcel’s name on it, the door shut tight. But the lights are on inside, and the door is made of a foggy, tinted glass. Through it, I can see the outline of two figures, standing close by.
I pause just on the other side of the door, my breath held.
I shouldn’t do this. I should leave them alone. Or else knock and walk in there to announce my presence. But the raised voice is feminine—it’s Sheryl, yelling, in a way I’ve never heard before, and so I pause outside the door, my hand on the knob, torn.
“—get your act together,” Sheryl’s shouting, now that I’m close enough to hear through the glass panel. “Between the red eyes and the whiskey-sweat stench, you could pass for a homeless addict right now.”
My eyebrows shoot up my forehead. My stomach clenches. I’ve never heard her talk like that before, to anyone, let alone Lark. Maybe she’s really angry about something—potentially about me—but still…
Also, it hits me. Why is he bleary eyed… and does he really smell like alcohol? I didn’t notice it earlier when I said good morning to him—and I always notice how Lark smells. Maybe Sheryl’s just guessing, because he looks like he didn’t sleep last night.
Why didn’t he sleep last night? Was he thinking of me, tossing and turning, the same way I was the whole rest of this week?
My guilt feels like a compound, snaky thing, constantly twisting and finding new soft places where it can bite me, take out chunks, eat away at me.
Lark says something back to Sheryl, too quietly for me to hear more than the comforting rumble of his baritone. I wish I could hear what he’s saying. I wish I knew what was going on here.
“We had an agreement.” Sheryl’s voice drops lower, furious now, and I’m forced to lean closer to the door to hear the rest, which only sets my heartbeat rabbiting in my eardrums. If they catch me out here, it will be obvious what I’m doing. I have no excuse for this. “And this… whatever the hell this is?” Through the glass, I watch the shorter shadow gesture a hand at the taller one. Sheryl, waving off Lark as if he’s nothing. “This is not part of our agreement. So I want you to stop moping about whatever sleazy whore you’re moaning over—yes, don’t act like I’m an idiot, Lark, I’ve known you for years—and get your shit together. Is that clear?”
Another soft reply from him. I still can’t hear it, can’t hear what he’s saying at all, but through the glass, his shadow straightens, shoulders back, arms stiff at his sides. It looks like he’s standing up for himself, or at the very least, not cowing before her.