Page 24 of Wes

9

MARIA

My six-bedroom Pacific Heights home has never felt this confining as I wait for Moira to arrive. Her plane landed over thirty minutes ago. Time I’ve spent in my room’s balcony gazing at the Golden Gate bridge as it plays hide and seek with the thick mist rolling in from the bay.

As I unfold from the chaise lounge, I toss aside the book I had on my lap. It lands on the white leather cushion with a thud. The latest novel by my favorite romance author failed to grasp my attention. Not for lack of a gripping plot but because I can’t focus my mind as emotions and thoughts whirl around like a fucking life-threatening twister.

Taking the stairs to the ground floor, two steps at a time, I pace the length of the foyer, peering out of the glass double door to check if Moira is on the other side. She isn’t. Unlocking the screen of my phone in search of her message to double check the timestamp, the newsfeed pops up, and I can’t avoid reading –Rock Star in Trouble. Again. Wes smiles at me and I halt mid-stride. The familiar pang in my chest when I remember him doubles its intensity now that I see an old photo of him. I weigh the wisdom of opening the article to learn more about whatever public relations crisis he’s cooked up for his band this time.

“I don’t want to know,” I whisper as my thumb hovers the tiny X that closes the notification and gets me out of the dilemma. “Oh, who am I kidding?” With a derisive chuckle, I press the headline.

The resounding chime of the doorbell makes me jump and snap my head up. Moira’s concerned expression, visible through the etched glass and the wrought iron spirals decorating the front door, spurs me into action. I pocket the phone, send a silent prayer to Fate, and rush to swing the door open. Standing on the white marble of the temple-like portico, my friend stretches her arms to welcome me into a tight embrace.

I wrap my arms around her waist, burying my face in her hair. “Thank you for doing this. Leaving your kids in L.A. with the nanny must have been tough. I appreciate you for coming to give us a hand more than I can say.”

We separate and I gesture for her to follow me inside.

As I lead us to the living room, Moira replies, “You kidding? As if the Voss & Berkfield situation were not fucked-up enough, you’ll have to deal with the extra spotlight, and I guess the paparazzi, that you always avoid. How are you holding up?”

I plop myself on the green overstuffed armchair like a stone disappearing in the middle of a lake as her words sink in. But I refuse to believe my interpretation of her meaning. I must be connecting it to Wes because I’ve just seen his picture. And that was a coincidence. Sometimes I get notifications for old articles.

“Extra spotlight? I’m already under the microscope with our daily protests. The local channels have been reporting them for the whole week since we’ve started.”

Moira takes the chair beside me instead of the couch opposite. She stretches out her hands to grab mine between them. Squeezing my fingers, she states, “Honey, not only the local channels. The whole world has their eyes on Welcoming Hills, you, and a certain drummer with a bad boy rep.”

I disentangle my fingers from hers to press them to my throbbing temples and squeeze my eyes shut for a beat. “I can’t deal with more shit right now.” Light-headed, I wait until the room stops spinning to drag my eyelids open and hold my friend’s questioning gaze. “What has Wes done this time?” I sigh.

“He was arrested in the beginning of the week. In fact, on the night you staged the first protest.”

I shake my head. “I had no idea. Between running the orphanage and the demonstrations I’ve been too busy to focus on anything else.” Which had finally gotten my mind away from the man until she brought him up just now. I rub the base of my neck. “I’m confused though. What does that have to do with me? Why the extra exposure?”

“Excuse me, ma’am,” my housekeeper says as she enters the living room before nodding to Moira. “Good morning, Ms. Romano. Glad to have you with us.”

“How are you doing, Mrs. Murphy?”

“Never better. Thanks for asking.” With a broad smile still lighting up her high cheeks, she turns to me. “The cook’s wrapping up lunch, but I can ask her assistant to bring you something to drink. With this scorching heat, that should soothe your throats.”

I grin at my efficient staff. “Thank you, Beth. That’d be much appreciated.”

She bobs her head in agreement and turns to leave us and take care of the task. I follow her retreating form for a beat or two. Not a strand of her dark brown hair escapes her perennial chignon.

I snap out of the momentary daze and return my stare to Moira’s. “So? What have I missed that, apparently, I shouldn’t have?”

She heaves a sigh. “I haven’t talked to Wes, but Aidan has. He went to a bar in the Castro district with Nick.” When I frown, she adds, “The guitar player with Muse of Darkness?”

“If you say so,” I mutter.

She scoffs. “How do you not know anything about this band? These guys are everywhere.”

“Guess I’m not looking at the right places.” I make a point of not following the rock and roll scene. But this information is irrelevant to our conversation. I shrug and try to lighten the mood. “You were saying that two musicians walked into a bar. Then what?”

Moira chuckles. “At some point, the news came on the TV. A reporter was interviewing you at the protest. Some random guy made a comment about you that infuriated Wes.” She pauses, darting her eyes around, tapping her manicured fingers on her knees. When I squint at her, she adds, “He punched the man and a free-for-all scuffle followed suit.”

A muscle ticks under the skin of my right cheek as I lock my jaws. I stretch my neck and roll my shoulders to alleviate the tension. Nothing works as my guts twist with a foreboding sensation.

“What did the man say?”

She gazes past me at the lamp standing in the corner. “Aidan didn’t elaborate, and I didn’t ask.”

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