Page 14 of Code Word (The Atrous #3)

NINE

The room was dark, only one curtain letting in any kind of light. The frames of platinum albums were untouched, and the trophies still lined the shelves like silent guards to the lives we no longer lived.

Or maybe tombstones was more apt.

But the floor . . .

The floor was covered in papers, folders, clippings, photographs. Archive boxes—some on their sides, the contents spilling out.

What the fucking hell?

Had someone ransacked these?

Had someone broken in?

I hit the lights and was about to call the cops when I saw what the clippings were of.

Or more to the point, who .

It was Luke and me.

Photographs and news articles, magazines, clippings, and what looked like screenshots.

What the fuck?

Most of the writing was in English, but not all. Some were entire music magazines, pop magazines. Some were just torn-out pages.

But they were all of Luke and me.

Most all of the headings were some kind of tribute to BLUKE, the shipping name our fans had given us.

They’d always paired us together. It’d been a joke at first, but the fans loved it, and we’d played into it a lot. Just to drive them crazy, to amp up online excitement and sales.

Photographs of us together.

Sometimes with the whole group but focused on Luke and me.

Close-ups of us.

Had he kept these?

Or was he sent these?

Had some crazy motherfucker sent him every single documented photograph of me and him together?

And he was now missing?

My heart came to a screeching halt and the room swayed and pulsed in my ears. I had to put my hand on a table to steady myself, and that’s when I noticed some photos in particular.

The white borders and stamp across the front, the studio setting. I remembered those suits... we’d joked about being in Reservoir Dogs, and we’d even sung some lines about putting the lime with the coconut, and we’d joked around like idiots, and my god, we’d laughed...

These were photos no one else had access to.

They’d used one for the article in Vogue , along with others from the outside shoot by the pool. As far as I knew, no one else had even seen those images, and these had the photographer’s set stamp on them...

I picked them up off the floor. There must have been twelve photos, all originals, all focused on Luke and me.

Us laughing. My arm around his waist, my head thrown back as I’d laughed and him looking at me .

My god, how he was looking at me.

The next image: this time he was smiling at the floor, and I was looking at him.

Did I really look at him like that? Like he hung the fucking moon.

Clearly I did look at him like that because there I was, caught on camera...

And the next one, it was a group shot, all five of us, and I had my arm draped around his shoulder. Why were Luke and I standing closer than the others were? Why did I notice that now and not before?

There were dozens upon dozens of photographs, newspaper clippings, magazine pages. At concerts, on tour, walking downtown in Sao Paulo, on the train in Japan, in a limo in Paris...

Me and him.

It was always me and him.

Sitting together, sitting on top of each other, asleep on each other—on a plane, backstage, in bed.

In bed.

Sound asleep, my arm across his chest.

Headline after headline, Bluke, Bluke, Bluke .

And what Jeremy said came back to me.

Think back to all the hype around the whole Bluke-shipping thing and ask yourself why every person on the planet thought you were a couple.

Why did our fans ship us so hard? Why was the world convinced we were together?

Because it certainly fucking looked like it. Not the things we did in front of fans for a reaction, but the quiet moments the fans weren’t privy to.

Why... why didn’t I see that until now?

We’d always played into the whole Bluke thing; we’d joked about it, laughed, and hammed it up.

But it was only ever a joke .

Right?

When Luke would take my hand in public, or how he’d put his arm around me on stage. The fans would go crazy, and Luke would lean into me more and laugh.

There was a photo of that. God, I remembered that night. Wembley Stadium, London. It was just before the last song of the concert. Our hair was drenched, our shirts clinging to us with sweat, and Luke’s arm was around me. He was laughing.

We looked so young.

We looked so happy.

My god, his smile. His smile in that photo as he leaned into me, his arm around my waist, my arm around his shoulder.

His hair was blonder then.

His smile was brighter too.

He hadn’t smiled like that in a long time. Not at me. Not at all.

He’d been so unhappy these last two years, and I’d been oblivious.

Fucking hell.

God, I’d been so blind.

Luke . . .

Fuck, I missed him.

I wanted to see his smile, see that dimple.

Hear him laugh.

I wanted to hold him, to make sure he was okay.

And I’d never let him go.

My heart hurt so fucking bad—like heartache was an actual physical pain—and I couldn’t stop the stupid tears from falling. And when I wiped my cheek with the back of my hand, I noticed some writing on the back of the photo.

Wembley, London. Beacon tour.

It was Luke’s handwriting.

So I turned over another photograph, and there was more writing.

Luke had written on every photo, as if he’d recorded these memories of me and him.

No fan had sent these. He’d collected them. He’d even requested the studio shots, from what I could tell.

I found myself sitting on the floor, rifling through the photographs, the newspaper clippings, the articles.

Bluke on show for all to see

If Bluke isn’t real, what is this?

Bluke in Rio

Blake and Luke; love in plain sight

Bluke

Bluke

Bluke

Photos from when we were sixteen, at our first concert in LA, and our first concert in Tokyo. In the London music studio. In Prague. In Sydney.

Me with my banged-up knee, Luke helping me walk. Luke shirtless with his taped-up shoulder, me by his side.

Me backstage, lying on the floor with my knee iced, my legs over Luke’s lap, his hand on my thigh.

Both of us suited up in tuxes for the Grammies. On stage with the win, the five us of at the mic, but Luke’s arm around my back.

Photos of him looking at me.

My god, the way he was looking at me.

It made my heart burn.

Fucking hell, how did I never notice that?

I couldn’t remember seeing that light in his eyes for so long.

For, like, two years . . .

Since Becca and I . . .

Oh fuck.

He’d been so against me dating his sister in the beginning. He wasn’t happy with the idea, and all this time, I’d assumed it was because of her.

I never thought for one minute it was because of me.

I’d been so fucking blind.

And stupid.

My god, I fucking missed him.

Then among the clippings, I found a piece of paper, torn down one side, as if it had been ripped from a notebook, crumpled up, and then flattened out.

I turned it over. It was Luke’s handwriting. Lyrics, with my name scribbled out down the side.

I wish you could see me

And all the possibilities

But I can’t risk you

God, I’m about to risk it all

I wish there was a way

For all the things I need to say

Without saying it loud

Without this being so hard

A code word that only I know

A code word for love. A code word for you

I need a code word to tell you

All the things I cannot say

A code word so you won’t know

I’m saying I love you

Cause I can’t risk you

I wanna risk it all

I wish there was a way

For all the things I need to say

Without saying it loud

Without this being so hard

A code word that only I know

A code word for love

I’d say it to you every day

And you’d never know

I’d tell you in every way

Without saying the words

A code word that only I know

A code word for love

A word that has no meaning

A word with no weight

A word that means you won’t leave me, and

A word for love, a word for fate

A code word that I only know

So I could tell you

I want to tell you

Holy fuck.

He wrote that for me.

Because of me.

My phone buzzing startled me, my heart hoping it was Luke. I needed it to be him.

It was Maddox.

I was not in the fucking mood for him. I hit Answer, and he sounded so fucking normal, I couldn’t stand it. “Hey, had a missed call. Everything okay?”

Rage seared through me, burning my eyes and nose with tears. “Is everything okay?” I said with a bitter cry. “Fuck you. Fuck. You.”

I ended the call and dropped my phone, digging the heels of my hands into my eyes and letting myself cry.

I was losing my damned mind. I was very much alone, and I was beginning to think I was in love with Luke, but it was too late because Luke didn’t want me.

And Maddox asked if I was okay.

Fuck him.

My phone buzzed again, and this time I assumed it was Maddox again, or maybe Roscoe. But nope.

Mom.

Her name on the screen hurt to see, and I almost didn’t answer. But fucking hell, I needed to hear her voice.

“Hey, love,” she said gently.

I burst into more tears, trying to keep it quiet. “Hey.”

“What’s wrong?” she asked, concerned. “Blake, darling?”

I scrubbed at my face, my nose. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just . . . just . . . you know. Things are . . .”

“Oh, love. Do you need to come home for a day or two? I’ll cook you whatever you want, and you can sleep.”

It just made me cry more. It took me a second to get my shit together.

“Where are you, love?”

I held the song lyrics and sobbed, trying to talk through it. “I’m okay, Mom. I just... I think I fucked up so bad.”

“Oh, Blake. Is this about you and Rebecca? I heard, I’m sorry. I was talking to her mom.”

I barked out a laugh because she had the right mom, just the wrong child. “No, it’s not about Becca. It’s... I dunno. When you spoke to Mrs. Dougherty, did she mention Luke? Like where he is?”

There was a beat of silence, and I regretted asking the second it was out of my mouth. “No. Not to me. What do you mean? Why don’t you know where he is? Blake, what happened?”

I bit back another sob and tried to sound as normal as I could. “It’s okay, Mom. I’m sorry. I’ll call you later tonight, okay? I’m fine. Don’t worry.”