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between his lips as he looked over his shoulder.  Hey, guys,
c mere.
Jeremy glanced beyond him to the gang. Chains dangled
from some pockets, glinting in the streetlights. Footfalls pounded
as the herd thundered toward him. The cell phone in his pocket
ceased to exist as did everything Kit had ever taught him about
ceased to exist as did everything Kit had ever taught him about
fame and tight situations.
He tensed, his fingers curling toward his sleeves, as
memories of a life not too long past hammered on the door of his
fight-or-flight reflex. Don t let them scent your fear, he reminded
himself as he turned his flank and braced his feet so he d be
harder to shove down. If they got him on the ground, he was
fucked.
The guys circled him now, their sneakers shuffling against
loose gravel on the pavement. Sweat and stale cigarette smoke,
the tang of cheap booze, and sour breath fouled the air. Jeremy s
intestines roiled. The stink recalled nights sharing piss-stained
mattresses on cement warehouse floors, the acrid scent of a
crack pipe never far away. Fear opened a bolt-hole to his soul
as he turned, trying to keep everyone in his sight, his back to the
wall. A stupid tactic, he knew, unless you had no hope of running
in the first place.
 Hi, guys. His voice shook. He cleared his throat.  What s
up?
 Man, you don t look that big in person. The kid sounded
disappointed.
Jeremy s brows shot up.  Sorry?
 In Man Up you was a giant motha.
 Oh. He shook his head, trying to clear it of the lingering
adrenaline.  That was mostly, you know, camera work and body
doubles.
doubles.
 Aw, man&  The kid who d asked him the question
waved his hand, disgusted, and walked away. Most of the group
muttered a little, losing interest as well.
Waiting for the autograph requests that never came, Jeremy
frowned, totally confused. They weren t going to beat him up,
and they weren t going to hound him for his signature. The guy
he d initially run into laughed. Jeremy took him in with streetwise
eyes. All wild hair and out-of-joint features, he looked like
something out of a comic book.
 You don t want an autograph? he asked finally.
 We don have paper an pens. No autographs. The kid
frowned, screwing his face into almost normal alignment.   Sides,
where would we keep  em?
 You could sell it, Jeremy said, then blushed.
He sounded like an asshole. A rich, famous, fucktard
who d never known exactly what this kid was going through. He
knew precisely why autographs and fame were nothing in the
face of brutal violence at home, scrounging for your next meal,
and looking for a warm place to sleep at night. He d just chosen
to forget because remembering was too hard.
Reaching into his back pocket, he took out his wallet, then
removed all the cash, and pressed the wad into the kid s hand.
 For your trouble, he said, meaning more than the bruise he d
caused.
The kid s gaze held his for a moment. All the years of
abuse and fear formed a connection between them in heartbeats.
The kid blinked. Connection broken, he turned and walked back
toward his friends. Jeremy watched him go and sagged against
the wall. Across the street, a bookstore sign blinked yellow and
green. After minutes of staring at its flickering, he shoved himself
away from the wall and walked toward the shop window s
beckoning warmth.
Hands jammed in his pockets, forehead leaned against the
cool glass, he stared without really seeing the display. Each new
film, every press appearance, and even Kit s fame gave him a
shiny new brick with which to wall off his past. More addictive
than crack or heroine, rarified air gave you a contact high so
pure it obliterated the nightmarish past and allowed you to forget
where you came from or how you got where you were now.
 So you can become the asshole you re running away
from. Remembering how he d landed that punch at Kit, how
he d shoved him away tonight in anger, sent a chill of
premonition to each scar on Jeremy s back. Connecting them
like so many dots to form a picture of the person he d become if
he continued much further down the road of isolation and self-
idolatry. Kit was right not to trust him now. He d become part of
the establishment, putting his career and self-interest before
everything, even and maybe especially, Kit s.
Greg had called him a shallow little fuck, and though he d
had a smile on his face when he said it, he d meant it. Jeremy
blushed at the memory and pushed away from the window to
examine the book display more closely. Books on celebrities,
examine the book display more closely. Books on celebrities,
decorating, and tourism predominated. One slightly dog-eared
cover hosted a smiling woman with her husband. The title, The
Happy Couple, hung over their heads.
Needing distance from his internal pity party, he went
inside. The shopkeeper barely looked up as Jeremy went to the
window and lifted the book from the wire stand. Thumbing
through the pages, he caught the word responsibility and read a
few paragraphs. They said a relationship broke two ways with
no one person responsible for the fracture when a breakup [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]