Page 53

In London, it’s almost two in the morning.

The Lewis sisters are varying levels of buzzed off the wine and brownies, and effusive with their hugs and cheek-kisses goodbye.

You get the sense that Sterling is only half-joking when he tells them not to trash his plane on the way back to Edinburgh.

Personally, you bet that they all sleep.

Alis, especially, looks dead on her feet.

Somewhere during the descent, Sterling went decidedly wobbly. Now, his eyes are glassy, and his gait is unsteady. Cal meets the plane.

“Are you okay, Mister Grayson?” he asks within three seconds of laying eyes on Sterling. There is the faintest note of concern coloring his voice.

“A-okay, Cal,” Sterling mumbles.

Cal raises an eyebrow in your direction.

“He’s just tired,” you say hurriedly.

Cal is not convinced. His brow stays cocked, his brown eyes boring lasers into you.

The man is like fucking Santa Claus: he knows if you’ve been bad or good, so be good, for goodness’s sake!

Okay, so you are more than a little high.

That brownie hit like a Mack truck. Whoever baked it was diabolical.

“To be completely honest, umm, he’s had a little bit. Probably too much,” you utter guiltily in Cal’s direction.

“A little bit too much what ?” In contrast to yours, Cal’s voice is very, very clear.

“Nothing bad!” you are quick to reassure him. “Just some wine and an edible.”

“One ‘n a half edibles,” Sterling elides. “Alis gave me another piece while you were in the bathroom.”

“ What ?” You and Cal say it at the same time, which would be funny if you didn’t have that he’s-gonna-kill-me pit in your gut again.

To Cal’s credit, he doesn’t condemn you for letting this happen. Not verbally. The tight knots of his clasped fingers tell a story, though, along with his stony silence.

He insists on personally driving you two back to Kensington.

“Maybe I should walk you up, Mister Grayson,” he suggests. Sterling shakes his head .

“I’ve got Kai,” he says. And then, after a moment, “Kai will be my bodyguard for the night. Morning. Whatever.”

There’s a lot to unpack there: you clearly have done an insufficient job guarding Sterling from bad influences tonight; Cal is a goddamn professional, and you could never do this job; your boyfriend is a high dumbass and probably offended the most loyal member of his staff…

But, again, Cal restrains himself.

“I’m technically off the clock,” he says tightly. “Levitt is down the block. He’s off in three hours, then Eric’s taking over. I won’t be here tomorrow, Mister Grayson. Are you going to be all right?”

It’s on the tip of your tongue to comment that nobody ever died from getting too stoned, even if they maybe wanted to, but self-preservation kicks in.

You think that kind of talk could be what finally gets Cal to beat you down.

The man worked overtime on his overtime and stayed around to see Sterling off the plane.

He deserves a bonus, not a smart-assed remark.

Sterling doesn’t answer, so you incline your head at Cal.

“I’ve got him,” you say, trying to imbue every syllable with trustworthiness. “I promise that I’ll call if there’s a problem. Try to enjoy your day off, man.”

Cal looks dubious, but he squares his impossibly-massive shoulders and nods his goodnight.

You have your doubts that Sterling is going to make it from the mews street to the door of the house, which requires climbing to the porch, but he does… only to stagger through the foyer and lie down on the hardwood like a rug when he gets to the living room.

“What are you doing?” you ask.

It’s dark. There are no streetlights on the mews, which the room faces, and the moon is nowhere to be found in the middle of the night. It’s awkward, but you step over Sterling to click on one of the little vintage lamps. Artemis comes padding into the room, her ears perked up.

“Go to sleep, girl,” you croon at her. “Your daddy’s a mess. He’ll love you up when he’s feeling better.”

You’re not sure if dogs can understand language like that, but Artemis gazes down at Sterling with an expression that you could swear is sympathetic. She deigns to allow you to scratch her between the ears, then leaves the room. You can hear her nails on the stairs.

“I don’t like the way I feel, Kai.” On the floor, Sterling scrubs his face. “That ride home from the airport lasted hours. I was scared it was never going to end.”

You sink down onto one of the overstuffed couches. “The ride home from the airport was less than thirty minutes,” you say. “You’re just too high, Ster. That, plus the wine. Got you messed up.”

For a moment, he’s still. You look around the living room.

The grandfather clock is ticking quietly; the portraits of white ladies in hats gaze benignly down from the walls.

How much shit has this room seen over the years?

Did the people who built it, back when they were still burning candles for light, think that there would ever be a cross-faded superstar on his back in front of the fireplace?

(Your stoned brain isn’t helping things.)

“What can I do to make it stop?” he asks pathetically.

The question seems a little beyond your processing at the moment, and you need to ruminate really hard.

You think back to college, to the lightweights that you have known in your time.

What did they do for Santiago, that kid in the dorms who was 135 soaking wet and started puking and crying after his first joint?

Lemons! They made him suck a lemon. You aren’t sure if there are lemons in the kitchen, honestly—you didn’t ask Muriel for any, and you sure haven’t bought them—and, besides, it just seems mean to make Sterling suck a lemon when he’s feeling anxious.

On top of that, you don’t recall the lemons helping Santiago; he had to sleep it off.

That’s it!

“You need to sleep, baby.” You extend a hand toward the floor. “C’mon. I’ll get you up and put you to bed.”

He shakes his head. “No-o-o. I don’t want to get off the floor.”

Patiently, you wave your hand in his face, so he can’t help but notice it and, hopefully, take it. “Can’t leave you on the floor. You’ll get dust in your hair, and you won’t be happy. Fuck your back all up.”

As if he didn’t hear you, Sterling cranes his neck. The braid in his hair, which has dried, is a messy brown coil on the floor. “Just leave me here. Maybe I’ll die.” His voice sounds hopeful.

“Oh, no, you don’t.” You sigh, realizing that this situation has officially gotten out of hand.

“You’re not allowed to die; are you crazy?

In London ? Those Graylings would make Princess Diana’s memorial look like one of the little traffic-accident crosses on the side of the highway.

They’d bury this whole block in ugly flowers and teddy bears.

You ever hear of them wailing and gnashing their teeth in the Bible?

It would be like that. You want to make all your fans sad? ”

“ I’m sad,” he declares dramatically, throwing an arm over his face like the scant light is offending him. “I hate this. I can’t handle it.”

He’s clearly not getting off the floor on his own volition, so you bend down and scoop him up.

Into your arms, like a princess in a story.

He huffs a cute little breath through his nose and sags against your chest. God, you should get, like, boyfriend hazard pay for this.

You examine the first floor. There’s a bedroom on this level.

Maeve used it a couple of weeks ago when she flew in to discuss business with Sterling and catch some West End shows.

The housekeeper aired it out, and nobody’s been in it since.

Wishing you’d had the forethought to turn a light on, you carry Sterling through the darkness to the bedroom and push the door open with your foot. There’s a light switch on the wall that you are able to nudge with the back of your hand without jolting him too much.

Like all the rooms in the house, this one is also a little funky and long on historic character.

The walls are a yellowy-tan, and the headboard of the bed is a ferny blue.

Behind the bed is a big tapestry in cobalt and gold: a family of peafowl in a swooping thicket of greenery and flowers.

It must be ten by ten feet. There’s a pair of chairs against the wall that are lighter blue, and heavy flaxen curtains that brush the floor.

The only concession to the 21st century is a large, flat-screen TV mounted opposite the bed.

You deposit Sterling on the mattress, and he curls up like a pill bug while you make quick work of locking the door, setting the alarm, and turning off the living room light.

In the bedroom, you close the curtains tight.

He’s wide awake and staring at a fixed point on the wall, looking like he’s bugging out.

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” you say in a soothing voice, the kind that you use on your little nieces when they skin their knees. “We’re going to get ready for bed, and we’re gonna watch some TV. Take your mind off the world ending. Sound good?”

You’ve steeled yourself for protests, but you don’t get any.

In the hall bathroom, you brush your teeth and splash some water on your face.

Returning to Sterling, you see that he still has his damn shoes on.

What a mess. You start with the shoes and strip him down, with very little cooperation on his part, to just his briefs.

He’s usually got a multistep Korean skincare routine at bedtime, plus lotioning his skin, doing his teeth and his retainer, and repeating grounding affirmations in the mirror while he drinks some chamomile tea, but none of that is happening tonight.

Maneuvering around his body, you get the bed unmade .

“Covers or no covers?” you ask.

He groans. “I’m so hot.”