Part 8 (1/2)

Pictures of her with him and Shera.

She needed to do something about this, she realized... Of course, she needed to go to the party, but- ”No. Now, before I change my mind,” she whispered. Grabbing a plastic crate, she dumped the CDs into it, pictures, everything that had anything to do with Marc. She had to cut this out of her, out of her heart, out of her soul, out of her life. It was going to be kind of like lancing a wound. It would hurt like h.e.l.l, but she was already hurting. Once she did it and suffered through the initial pain, it would get better.

She kept pieces of Marc around her because it made it easier to pretend. She lost herself in fantasies, or just let herself think about him more than she should. Even though she knew it was foolishness.

There wasn't ever going to be a them. Ever. And she'd known that. Really. She'd never expected them to have a night, much less anything more. She'd screwed up by trying to grab for a chance to have a real memory of just them. Only them. Like a pretend them. If she hadn't done that, she could have happily existed forever in her little make-believe world, but she'd done it and now she had to deal with the consequences.

The crate was overflowing as she pushed into Shera's house. She dealt with the alarm and grabbed a piece of paper, jotted a note.

I'm clearing this stuff out. If you want the pictures, take them. I figured you could give the CDs and s.h.i.+t to the shelter. They probably need the music. Although maybe they can auction off the signed ones...I don't know. Whatever you want to do with it. Was invited to a party @ J. Pratt's house. Supposed to mingle, maybe make some more contacts for work. Later.

Without letting herself look back at the bits and pieces of a dead dream, she reset the alarm and left. She needed to change. Figure out what she had in her wardrobe that would work for a summer ”get together” for a rich, arrogant, son-of-a-b.i.t.c.h.

Staring at the note, Marc called his sister. As soon as she came on the line, he demanded, ”Who in the h.e.l.l is J. Pratt?”

”Ah...Marc?”

”No. It's the Easter Bunny. I heard you were good and I wanted to leave a present at your house. Hope you don't mind I'm a few months late,” he said, staring at the crate in front of him. Normally, it made him feel d.a.m.ned weird to see s.h.i.+t in like in the house of somebody he knew.

But this wasn't just his career.

He saw a stub from a show they'd all gone to see in high school. Springsteen. They'd snuck out, even though their folks would have killed them. Well, Marc and Shera's mom would have. Chaili's mom...she might have cared if she could have pulled herself out of a bottle.

A poster from his first tour.

A couple of T-s.h.i.+rts with the band's logo on them.

There was a strip of pictures, the kind where you had to wedge yourself into a photo booth. He remembered that. They'd taken it up on the pier, right before everything took off.

She'd kept all of this.

”J. Pratt, sis,” he said as he lifted the crate.

”h.e.l.l, I don't know. Probably Prattle Enterprises. That disc jockey guy who decided he'd start his own radio show after the station laid him off...? I think. And why are you asking?”

J. Pratt.

Disconnecting the phone, he headed to the front door. He only barely remembered to reset the alarm on his way out and he had to juggle to do it.

Yep. J. Pratt was a disc jockey. A search on his phone showed him that.

And down at the bottom of his website, he saw the discreet little line indicating who'd designed the guy's site.

Glory Daze Designs.

He put the crate into his trunk, although that strip of pictures he slid into his s.h.i.+rt pocket. Once he was in the car, he called his a.s.sistant. ”I need an address...a local disc jockey. J. Pratt.”

Ilona was quiet for a minute and then asked, ”J. Pratt. As in Jumping Jack Pratt? Big radio hotshot?”

”h.e.l.l if I know. All I know is the guy is a disc jockey and I think he's having a party today. I need to know where he lives.”

”He lives about a mile away from us. And yes, he's a disc jockey. He's also one of the biggest a.s.sholes known to man and yes...he's having a party. I know this because he's made sure to call the house about three times this week to invite Miguel.”

Miguel... Marc ran his tongue along his teeth. ”So...what's my favorite drummer up to?”

”Don't, Marc. He'll kick your a.s.s if you even ask him. We can't stand that guy.” Ilona snorted, her voice thick with disgust. ”He can't look at a woman without checking out her t.i.ts. He can't talk to a woman without checking out her t.i.ts. The only reason he even invites us over there to check out my rack and grill us about you, anyway.”

”What do I have to do with your rack? I never even noticed you have one.”

”Gee, thanks.” Ilona sighed.

In the background, Marc heard Miguel's voice. ”Are you talking to Marc about your rack?”

”Now you're going to get me in trouble,” Marc muttered.

”Relax. You're more interested in my brains than my b.o.o.bs. That's a good thing. Hold on. If you're serious, you can talk to your favorite drummer. But leave me out of it. Completely.”

Marc drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, staring off down the street. A car rolled by and he automatically turned his head, staring toward Shera's house.

”What's this about your favorite drummer? I'm the only drummer who's ever been dumb enough to work with your dumb a.s.s,” Miguel said, his voice amused. ”And why were you talking about my girl's b.o.o.bs?”

”She was talking about them. Not me. I heard you were invited to a party.”

Miguel's sneer was evident in his voice. ”Jumping Jackhole's thing? Not my idea of a party. All he does is kiss a.s.s and wheedle.”

”We deal with that on a daily basis.”

”Not when we're on break.” Miguel muttered under his breath and finally asked, ”What's up, buddy?”

”I need to go to that party.”

”And you want me to take you. You got any idea how annoying that f.u.c.ker is?”

Another car drove by and this one slowed down, took a longer look. Marc could feel the guy's gaze resting on him, despite the fact that Marc had his head turned, a pair of sungla.s.ses on and a hat. s.h.i.+t. Time to go. Starting the car, he tossed the phone down and switched it to speaker. He hated headsets. ”I don't care about the DJ. There's a...” He blew out a breath and tried to figure out what to say. His closest friends had developed this insane protective streak over him and although part of him understood, he wasn't some idiot kid.