ChapterThirty-Two
Oliver
“Incoming,” Carson calls right as my inbox chimes with a message.
It’s a press release. Blake Bonham and Rebel Records both released statements. Blake publicly admitted to crossing a line and stated that it was not with Piper Fox but with a mutual acquaintance. His comment also included the obligatory, I am deeply sorry for my irresponsible and selfish behavior. Jeanette and I are committed to moving forward and ask for kindness and sensitivity for our privacy during this trying time.
The Rebel Records statement is more circumspect, detailing only an ongoing investigation of the allegations, including criminal charges and civil suits being slung at one Ben Simon for stalking, nonconsensual pornography, libel, and defamation among other things.
I’ll have to see if I can get in on some of that legal action. I rub my hands together. “Has he been arrested yet?” I call.
Carson materializes in the doorway. “No. According to the NYPD and every media source I have, Ben’s in the wind. No one can find him. Cops are trying to issue a warrant. They’re being pressured by Rebel Records’ lawyers.”
I nod. “Make sure we add our own pressure.”
“Already on it.”
It nearly kills me not to call or text Piper again, but I must respect her wishes.
The next night, I get a text: Will you meet me in my studio at 11 tomorrow morning?
As if she even has to ask. As if I could offer her anything other than an affirmation.
Yes, I reply.
At ten thirty, I’m pacing in my office. I can’t think straight. I couldn’t eat breakfast. My stomach is in knots. I haven’t slept in a week. I haven’t shaved in three days.
“Don’t go down there yet,” Carson calls from his desk.
“Don’t tell me what to do.”
“You have to play it somewhat cool.”
I pass him, heading for the elevator. “I don’t have to play it anything.”
He sighs.
The elevator ride downstairs lasts fourteen years. By the time I get to the door of her studio, it’s 10:33. I can’t possibly wait until eleven. I key in the code and open the door.
She’s working on a tall structure. Her back is to me. She’s crouched down, mask on, torch in hand, welding something along the bottom of the figure.
The piece is only partially finished, and I’m already awestruck. I can envision what it will be because it’s exactly what she described when she passionately defended the topic on our first date. Hope.
The disjointed figure is distinctly feminine. The face and arms are scarred and bedraggled. Ropes and chains attempt to drag her down, the bottom part of the structure filled with jagged pieces, yet she’s rising. Fighting. Persisting against all odds.
Some of the metal pieces are familiar, though they have been melted and fused to form the body. They are from the box we brought back from Whitby.
The first time I saw Piper, she was emotionally wrecked and exhausted, a frail shadow of the woman before me. Even then, I recognized her inner core of strength. She’s a fighter. She’s incredible.
The torch dies. She stands, pushing the welding mask up on her head. “Oliver.” She licks her lips. “You’re early.”
“Hi.” Brilliant. Hi. That’s the best I could come up with?
The corner of her mouth kicks up, but then her gaze flickers to something over my shoulder, and she freezes. Panic fills her eyes. Her mouth opens, but no sound emerges.
My heart pumps, the throbbing almost loud enough to override the scuffle of footsteps behind me.
Something hard and cold presses into the back of my neck. “You think you can have everything that’s rightfully mine, but look at you now. I’m the one who can take it all away.” The voice is low and trembling with bitterness. The gun jabs harder into my neck.