Page 111 of Crimson Desires

“Are you at the hospital?” I asked, powerwalking through the airport.

“Yes. They took your father back about thirty minutes ago. Why?”

“Some... stuff happened with the tour. I don’t want to get into it, but basically, I’m back early.”

Melinda gasped. “Oh, dear! That’s awful. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, thanks. The point is, you don’t have to stay at the hospital if you don’t want to. I can come up and watch over Dad until it’s time to take him home.”

“No, no. Don’t worry about that,” Melinda said. “Go home. Unpack. Unwind. I’m sure you need some time to decompress after almost four weeks on the road.”

As much as I hated to admit it, she had a point.

“Okay, Mel. I’ll be home, then. But please don’t hesitate to let me know if there’s anything I can do to help with Dad.”

“I will, dear.”

As soon as I hung up with Melinda, I chartered an Uber back to my house.

After four weeks on the road with Wicked Crimson, seeing some of the biggest cities and venues that the East Coast had to offer, my house looked almost impossibly unextraordinary. I inhaled slowly as I took in the faded blue paint, the slightly dilapidated front porch, and the screen door held together with electrical tape.

Tossing my duffel bag over my shoulder, I headed into my house.

I expected the place to be a wreck. After all, I was the one who did most of its upkeep. With Dad’s illness, it was hard for him to do most chores—and since he’d never been the homesteading kind of guy, I was a little worried that if I let him clean on his own, he’d accidentally mix bleach and ammonia and fumigate the house with mustard gas.

But the house was surprisingly clean when I walked in. There were a few dishes in the kitchen sink—last night’s dinner—but the counters had been wiped, and the trash had been recently taken out. The living room was tidy. Perhaps even tidier than I had left it.

I scrunched my brow as I headed to my bedroom. I remembered leaving it a bit unkempt in my rush to join Wicked Crimson’s tour.

Except when I walked in, the room had been cleaned up. My bed was made, and my closet was organized. My oil diffuser, which had previously been left in a state of neglected rot, was sitting on my nightstand, spitting out gentle puffs of sweet-smelling mist.

Had Melinda done all this?

I bit the inside of my cheek. I’d have to compensate her somehow. She probably wouldn’t accept money—but there’s no way she could refuse if I brought her a gift of some kind.

I threw my duffel bag to the floor and flopped down on my bed. The feeling of my mattress under my back was heavenly. It wasn’t quite as luxurious as the hotel beds I’d shared with Jack, but somehow it was more comfortable.

Jack.

Just thinking of him made my stomach twist into knots.

I knew that abandoning the tour had been a dramatic move on my part. But in the heat of the moment, it felt like the only thing I could do. The only way to deal with the grief and realization that I had been used by the man that I had stupidly entrusted myself to.

And yet, that didn’t detract from the gift that Jack had given me. He had helped me get a job working for his tour. He had helped me learn to be open and vulnerable. He had written a song for me. He had paid my father’s medical bills.

And even if he had only done these things to fix his public image, I couldn’t deny that he had changed my life in a huge way.

Decidedly, I opened my phone. I pulled up my notetaking app and began to draft a brand-new public statement.

It took me an hour to finish re-writing my statement. Summarizing the events of the past four weeks into a single note seemed impossible, but somehow, I managed. Still, it didn’t feel right to just take a screenshot of the words that I had worked so hard to craft.

I sat up, reached under my bed, and found my laptop. The device was still plugged into its charger—just how I’d left it.

I pulled my laptop out and opened my webcam recording app.

I took a deep breath. And then, I spoke.

***

---