Page 12 of Code Word (The Atrous #3)

EIGHT

I wasn’t any clearer on my current situation, but it helped me forget, at least.

When I was talking to Becca earlier, I was thinking maybe she had a point.

Maybe.

But on my own again, I wasn’t so sure.

Whether Luke did have feelings for me was unknown, to me, at least. Because until I heard it from him, I wouldn’t let myself believe it.

What I felt for him . . .

Was unclear.

I missed him, yes. I needed him in my life, yes. I loved him, sure. Of course I did. Was I in love with him? Romantically?

I wasn’t sure.

How could I be ?

How I felt about him in that moment was mixed up because I was hurting and missing him.

It was all in my head.

Too much in my head.

I needed to not think about him, not rely on him, center my whole freaking world around him, and see what was left in the ruins.

God, I fucking hated this.

I managed to find a parking spot, pulled my baseball cap down low and my hood up to give me as much anonymity as possible.

Not that I got recognized much anymore.

Not that I went out in public much anymore.

The thing about fame, even on a world stage level, is that if you’re not in the spotlight every other minute, people soon forget.

That wasn’t a bad thing.

After all, it was the fame that unraveled us.

The craziness, the burden of it. The strain on our bodies. The pressure, the fans.

The threats. The hate.

It got to the point where we had little choice but to call it quits. All the toxic fan shit aside, we were exhausted, rundown, and stretched far too thin.

Jeremy and Maddox were done, and I didn’t blame them. Well, maybe a little bit. But Wes wanted out—he had a life outside of Atrous—like Jeremy had Steve and Maddox had Roscoe. But Luke and I kinda felt like we really didn’t have a choice.

We’d made a pact years before that if one of us wanted out, we were done. It was five of us or none.

My knee was fucked, and Luke was in physio for a few strain injuries.

It was time.

But now, two years later, I missed it .

I felt a little cheated, if I was being honest.

Did I miss the hordes of fans screaming at us and pushing and trying to stampede to get close to us?

Sometimes.

Like now, when I could walk down Venice Beach and barely get a second look.

The hoodie, cap, and sunglasses did their job, I guess.

But it was a strange detachment, an odd feeling, missing something I used to detest.

The truth was, being forgotten stung.

Being a has-been at the age of twenty-eight was not for the weak. Being cast aside by fans, by media, by my friends, by Luke...

Fuck.

Maybe being in public wasn’t such a great idea.

I found a vintage record store and went inside, flipping through old vinyls before the sales guy spoke to me.

“Hey,” he said generically. Then he gave me a second look. “Oh, hey. Atrous, right?”

Other people in the store turned to face me and I gave them a bit of a smile.

The jolt of excitement, familiar but somehow new, was nice. It was nice to be recognized, to be liked, even.

And that struck me, right there in the middle of the damn store, just how miserably sad that was.

I was losing my damned mind.

“Anything I can help you with?” the sales guy said, standing next to me now. “Looking for anything in particular?”

And I had two choices. I could mumble something and get the hell out of there, or I could try to be fucking normal.

It was harder than I thought it’d be.

“Uh, yeah. Do you have any record players? Doesn’t need to be anything new. Actually, the older the better. Vintage.”

He brightened. “Sure, man. This way. Blake, isn’t it? ”

I managed a nod, and I did feel a sense of normalcy while he showed me the three players they had. Pretty sure my grandparents had one in particular, so I pretended to be interested in it, lifting the arm and switching between 45 and 33.

It felt nice to be doing something normal.

Mundane.

To have this guy’s undivided attention, to have him excited to be around me.

How fucked up was that?

“I’ll take it,” I said. “What kind of seventies stuff have you got?”

His eyes lit up, his smile widened, and he went to one corner of his store in particular and began pulling out sleeves. “What vibe you after? We have some Kiss, Deep Purple, The Eagles, Fleetwood Mac, Pink Floyd...”

“Perfect. I’ll take them. And whatever else you think is good.”

By this time, a few more people had entered the store, and I knew some of them were trying to film me discreetly. Two girls asked if they could have a photo with me, then a couple of guys, and I figured, why not?

It felt good to be wanted.

Even if I felt the complete opposite.

The guy rang up my sale and I couldn’t even remember how much he’d said the total came to. It didn’t matter.

“So, can I ask,” he said as he handed me the receipt. “Working on anything new?”

“No comment,” I replied with a smirk, and everyone there seemed to take that for a yes. There were some excited faces and a “Yessss” and a quiet squeal from the girls I’d taken the photo with.

The sales guy stacked up my vinyls on top of the record player, and I hadn’t really considered how I was gonna get it back to my Range Rover.

“We’ll help you carry it,” the girls said, and as they took half the vinyls each, I could hear our old manager Amber’s voice in the back of my head.

Bad idea, bad idea, bad idea.

Don’t put yourself in any stupid situations with fans. Don’t get caught alone with them unless NDAs were part of the agreement. Don’t do anything risky.

Was this risky?

Did I even care at this point?

The two girls were in their early twenties at least, dressed a bit goth-indie. One had green hair and a nose ring; the other wore a Ramones T-shirt and had black ribbons through her braids.

My years of media training and security protocols told me this was a bad idea.

But I reminded myself it was broad daylight, and my Range Rover was parked in public. I could imagine Steve’s security team having a meltdown and Amber losing her shit at me...

But then I remembered I didn’t have them anymore either.

I wasn’t that guy anymore.

I wasn’t anyone special anymore.

The two girls beamed as they walked with me, and as I unlocked the back of the Range Rover, they waited for me to slide the player in first. “Thanks so much,” I said, taking the albums. “I really appreciate it.”

“You’re welcome,” one said.

“So welcome,” the other agreed. “Say hello to Luke for us,” she added, and my heart wrenched painfully in my chest and my breath caught. Such a visceral reaction and I hated it.

“Absolutely,” I managed to say.

Then they stepped back and waved as I got in behind the wheel. And still trying to act completely normal, I started the engine, backed out, and drove away.

Looking in the rearview mirror, I saw them do a happy jump, delighted .

I felt worse.

Becca was right.

I was not in a good headspace. I felt detached and lost and really fucking angry.

And scared.

But mostly I felt alone.

I needed to talk to Luke.

When I was stopped at some lights, I shot him another text.

We need to talk

Call me

Please

I didn’t expect a reply. All my other messages were still unread.

Maybe he was still up at the cabins. Though it had been, what? Four days?

I wanted him to know I wasn’t the one walking away. I thumbed out another quick line.

I know you asked for space and I’m sorry

The car behind me honked, so I drove on.

And drove.

Until I was pulling up to a familiar set of gates.

This place had been my home for the last four years, and a stab of panic shot through me.

What if he’d changed my access code?

What if I got in there and all my stuff was packed up?

What if he told me to leave for good?

I figured, then I’d know how he truly felt...

And maybe then I could walk into the fucking ocean .

I pressed in my access code and the click of the gate as it began to slide open startled me.

The nervous dread of what awaited me bubbled in my gut.

I was about to see him. I needed to see him, like I needed freaking air.

I wasn’t entirely sure of what I was about to say, but at least we’d be face-to-face and we could talk this out.

Get past this radio silence that’d been fucking killing me.

I drove slowly up to the house, parking at the front door instead of pulling into the garage.

I wasn’t sure how welcome I’d be, and I didn’t want to overstep by assuming I still had the right to park in the garage...

The front door had a security pad, but just walking in didn’t feel right either.

Because I didn’t technically live here anymore.

Well, my stuff is still here.

But he asked you to give him space.

And that dread in my belly began to boil and roll.

Fuck, I hate this.

I considered getting back in my car and leaving. I wasn’t ready to face this. I wasn’t ready to hear him tell me to go.

But I had to do something. I had to get this over with.

I had to know . . .

So I rang the doorbell. And waited. And waited.

Nothing.

So I pressed the intercom.

“Luke,” I said, having to push the air out. I cleared my throat and tried again. “Luke, it’s me. I know you said you needed some time away from me, but I need to talk to you.”

Fuck, I sounded so pitiful.

I was pitiful.

“Please.”

Nothing .

Not a word. Not even to tell me to fuck off.

Was he still not back from the cabins?

Was he okay?

Was he hurt or injured? Was he sick?

Worry and panic replaced the dread in my belly, and with shaking fingers, I quickly pressed in my access code. The light turned green, and I pushed the handle and swung the door in.

“Luke?” I yelled out. “Luke, are you here? You okay?”

Silence.

So much fucking silence.

It was a big house. No, that was a lie. It was a massive house. Too many bedrooms, separate wings, a half-basketball court, pool house, cinema...

The kitchen and main living area were empty and cold. The curtains were drawn, and it looked like no one had been here for a while. “Luke?” I yelled, heading outside. The pool house, the basketball court, his music studio.

Nothing.