JC

“Mail call! Chasez!”

A FedEx envelope flapped against JC’s shoulder, startling him. He looked up to find Rod’s manager, Dave, waving it at him, looking irritated at having to play delivery boy.  JC removed the buds plugged into his ears and peered, squinty-eyed, at the label of the envelope. The return address was a FedEx drop off in Hollywood, Florida.

Who would be mailing him something from Hollywood? To Rod’s studio?

He took the envelope, which appeared to be stuffed full, and shoved it in his bag. He’d open it later—at that moment he needed to finish the last part of the song he was working on. Constant interruptions were breaking his concentration over and over. He couldn’t get into a zone.

The interruptions weren’t the only culprit. He was more than a little concerned about Shelby, since her sudden burst of information about her ex three weeks before. She seemed quiet, lately and sullen, there but not there, and wouldn’t say another word about him. They didn’t have as much fun when they were together and she seemed to be pulling away from him just as suddenly as she was starting to open up.

JC invited her to come spend the Thanksgiving holiday with him and his family. It was low-key, just dinner and then laying around sleeping it off. She declined, saying her parents were coming to visit, but then wouldn’t say how the visit went. He suspected she stayed home, alone. They missed their date, that week. She didn’t seem concerned about making it up.

It was happening, again. He was falling for a woman who was ultimately unavailable. In love with someone who probably ‘loved him but wasn’t in love with him’. As much as he cared for Shelby—and that was a lot—and as much as he saw potential in her and with her, he wasn’t going through the ‘Kim thing’ again. It was time he started learning his lesson. He just had no idea how to let her go, when he wanted so badly to hang on.

Rehearsal droned on and on, boring and yet exciting at the same time. It wasn’t where he wanted to be, but it was where he needed to be. The album was nearly finished, tour plans were underway. He would have to fly to LA with Rod to mix the rough cut and then a blessed break before the drop date and tour announcement. He was looking forward to that, but for the meantime, it was work, work, work.

The usual 3 to 4am quitting time rolled around and there was so much grumbling about the late hour that JC called it a night. Tired musicians didn’t play well, anyway, including him. He shuffled out of the studio into the air, that time between night and morning that smelled like dew and was slightly breezy. It was incredibly dark and quiet, at that time. His favorite time, lately. He could hear his thoughts, then. They almost echoed back to him.

Home, finally.

JC stumbled into the house, tired to the bone. Flipped the lights on in the kitchen, waiting for all of the fluorescents to glow before walking to the refrigerator, opening it, and standing in front of it for a few minutes. He sifted through a few leftovers, some older than others. Grabbed an apple and a can of Pepsi and closed the door, leaned against the counter and rubbed the apple on his shirt, emitting a loud yawn.

JC and his Pepsi and his apple walked through the kitchen, past the counter. The edge of the sturdy white FedEx envelope jutted out of the front pocket of the satchel haphazardly tossed there. He grabbed it, shoved it under his arm, turned out the lights in the kitchen and headed up the stairs.

Upon reaching his bedroom, he turned on the lamp, set the apple with a few generous bite marks missing from it on the night stand, set the can of Pepsi next to it, and tossed the envelope onto the bed. He began to undress, bleary eyed and yawning nonstop. He tossed everything into the closet except the briefs he was wearing and slid into bed, Pepsi in one hand, remote in the other. The TV popped on, a random late night-early morning showing of Home Alone 2 coming through the speakers. 

He tossed the remote aside, picking up the envelope, flipping it over, zipping the strip across the top and pulling the stack of papers out of it. He was expecting a contract or a proposal, or some other random submission. Sometimes his manager sent him documents from wherever he could, whenever he could. Sometimes song writers and singers sent copies of songs and demos to him for consideration. Sometimes companies and corporations wanted him to endorse something or represent them, or were looking for a donation.

What JC pulled out of the envelope was not a contract or a proposal, was not a request for a handout or to endorse a shoe or a drink or a food. It was a haphazard stack of photocopies, newspaper clippings, article cutouts. Brow furrowed in confusion, he sifted through the stack without really looking at anything.  Clipped to the article on top was a handwritten note in neat, but tightly written penmanship, the letters very close to one another.

            Mr. Chasez;

            Please forgive this sudden intrusion into your life, but I fear that you may be in danger. A few weeks ago, I was up late one night, couldn’t sleep, and just as I was about to turn off the TV, a very brief clip of you, Rod Phillips, and an unidentified young woman aired. I can identify that young woman because I know her. She killed my father, Lucas Samuels.

JC’s eyes grew to the size of saucers as he read the sentence and again and again and again. Shelby killed, her ex? And this is why he was dead? As much as he didn’t want to know, really, he had to read on.

            I have enclosed copies of articles that were printed about them, from when he was alive and she hung on his arm like a prize, to the accident and the following investigation and the settlement. Ms. Coster (I believe you know her as Ms Morris—that is not her name) is a diabolical murderess that preys on wealthy, well known men.

            I’m sending you this letter in the hopes that it reaches you before she’s able to dig her claws into you, too. Be careful, very careful. I have reason to believe that she was about to lose everything my father provided for her. She found a way to get it anyway, and more.

            Thank you for your time. I assure you, this is no hoax. Ms Coster is no longer welcome in the city of Miami. I cannot imagine that she shared any of this with you. I fear, then, that this duty falls to me.

            Regards,

            Melina Samuels

Well… shit. He’d just found out a hell of a lot more than he really wanted to know about Shelby.

Shelby

The nightmare of a day had begun relatively peacefully. Shelby awoke easily after a night of the usual broken sleep, at the usual time, which was always quite early.  She turned on some music, allowing it to permeate the house with zest and pep—it helped to motivate her for the day. She showered and dressed for class, and was stuffing her books and notebook and pens into her school bag when the doorbell rang.

Shelby froze. Few people knew where she lived. Even fewer would be at her door at 7am.

She tiptoed through the house and peeked out of the kitchen window just in time to see a FedEx truck pulling away. Breathing a sigh of relief, she went to the front door and pulled it open. The sturdy white envelope had been leaning against the door, and now fell back into the house.

Shelby picked it up and started to open it, but happened to catch the shipping label and nearly dropped it. A tremble began to shake her, from the tips of her toes to the top of her head. It was addressed to Shelby Coster.

It was odd to even see that name, after not using it for so long. No one knew her as Shelby Coster except for people back in Miami. People she didn’t want to know, anymore. People she didn’t want to know her, or remember her, or send her FedEx packages. Apparently a name change wasn’t enough to keep the boogie monsters in Miami away.

She slowly made her way to the dining room, fingering the edge of the envelope, not sure if she even wanted to open it. There was definitely bad news inside. Shelby dug into her bag and pulled out her cell phone.

She paced as the line rang and rang. ‘You people are retired, what could you possibly be doing. Pick up!’

“Shelby???” Renee sounded panicked. “It’s so early! What’s wrong? What’s going on?”

“I don’t know,” she said, realizing for the first time that her voice was trembling, too. “I was on my way to class and-and-and the doorbell rang, and it was FedEx.  I just got this envelope, from Hollywood, and it’s totally freaking me out. It’s addressed to Shelby Coster.”

“What? Who would…send you… oh. Oh!”

“Yeah!”

“So… have you opened it?”

Shelby eyed the envelope on the table, stepping away from it. “No! I’m freaked out. There can only be bad news in there.”

“Well Shelby… open it, so you know what you’re dealing with.”

Shelby paced in front of the table, chewing on a finger nail. She sighed, then said, “Okay, hang on.”

Phone tucked between her ear and shoulder Shelby grabbed the envelope and ripped the strip across the top, reached in and pulled out the stack of pages that had been stuffed inside. “Okay, looks like a bunch of photocopies. Let me see what I have here.”

Shelby paid close attention to the first page of the package. Her knees nearly gave out on her and her heart hit the bottom of her stomach when she read the first line. “Oh my God! Mom! They sent this to JC!”

On top of the stack of pages was a photocopy of a handwritten note, addressed to JC. Clipped to that pages were pages and pages of photocopied articles and clippings and photos of Shelby and Lucas, some from the years they were together, quite a few from the accident that killed him, coverage of the suit against Firestone, the pending settlement, the disbursement of Lucas’ will and the final settlement. The past few years of her life were wrapped up in a neat little photocopied bow.

 “They what? Who? What did they send?”

“It’s… it’s a package of articles and news about Lucas and his death and the settlement and they sent him a note! Melina sent him a note. That fucking bitch actually hunted him down and sent him a note! He is none of her business.”

“What does it say?”

“Just that she feels he’s in danger because I killed her father… and I’m a…diabolical murderess?” Shelby felt like laughing, it was so incredibly unreal. “Okay, she needs to not read any more Nancy Drew novels, for fuck’s sake. How dare she! Then she says that I ‘make a habit of preying on wealthy well known men’.  I cannot believe this!”

Across the bottom of the photocopied note to JC, an additional note  had been written in tense scrawl.

            ‘I see you’ve found yourself another one. Try not to kill him, like you killed my dad.’

 Seething with anger, Shelby threw the stack of paper across the room. Pages flew everywhere, fluttering down around her, onto the floor and the table, some sifting into the hallway.

Melina was the culprit behind the evil coming from Lucas’ family. None of the family ever warmed to her, really, but Melina was always vocal. Melina was the one making threatening phone calls every day, calling her all manner of names from ‘whore’ to ‘murderer’ to ‘gold-digger’. Melina was the one who fought against Shelby receiving any amount of funds from Lucas’ estate, despite the fact that she was in the will. Melina was the money hungry one, salivating over what she thought she deserved from the lawsuit settlement.

The funny thing was… Melina wasn’t all that close to Lucas. They had a strained relationship at best—her early 20’s were no picnic. She may have forgotten, but Lucas never did. He kept his distance from her, because she seemed to be unusually interested in what money she was getting when he died. After his death, she was a vulture, storming into the house to take things she didn’t want Shelby to have. She railroaded over the rest of the family, claiming to ‘care more than anyone else about him’ or some shit. Shelby knew that was nowhere near a truth.

In the end, Shelby left with her clothing, her jewelry, a locket that Lucas always carried, which now hung from the rearview mirror in her car, and the Warhol painting. Everything else, she left for his family to fight over. It was no wonder Lucas had shunned them. Dysfunctional bunch of greedy morons, they were.

“How could she do this? I haven’t bothered her at all. I even moved away so we didn’t have to accidentally run into each other all the time.  And then she found JC!  And sent him a letter full of lies and told him my real name. He’s probably scared shitless!”

“Shelby Jean!” Renee’s voice cut through everything and she stopped cold. “Now just relax. Alright? Let’s figure this out one step at a time.”

“Okay. I mean… what do I do? I don’t care that they know who I am. I don’t care what they say about me, but I care about JC. I care what he thinks about me. I didn’t want him to know this stuff about me.”

“I thought you planned on breaking up with him before he found out.”

Yes, that was the plan. Don’t get close. Don’t get attached. Play with him for awhile, have some fun, let him go. JC didn’t turn out to be who she thought he would be. He was sweet and kind and fun, and they had a lot in common. The more time she spent with him, the more she wanted to be with him, until she her feelings were running too deep. She couldn’t let herself fall in love with him, and had already begun pulling away.

They’d missed a date during the Thanksgiving holiday. He invited her to meet his family, have dinner with them, hang out. Of course, she couldn’t do that. That wasn’t the arrangement. She told him that her parents were visiting from Miami. She spent the night on the couch in the den, staring at the TV, her loneliest night to date, tears falling and heart hurting.

Something about him soothed her and relaxed her. Made her forget this whole mess. Pulling away from him meant losing that comfort and sanity—she wasn’t even sleeping as well. The winds in the tornado that was her life were picking up. She could sure use his stability… but not while he thought she was a murderer. And she hadn’t been the one to tell him.

Shelby sank into a chair, her heart sinking with it. “I wanted to, but… I couldn’t let go. And now it’s all ruined anyway. She did it for me.”

“Well… you said he was nice. Maybe he’ll understand?”

“About this?” Frustrated, Shelby rose from her chair and paced the room, around and around and around the table.   “About this girl he was dating who’s being accused of killing her wealthy ex-fiance, and oh by the way, he happens to be wealthy, too, what a coincidence? I don’t think so. He probably thinks I’ll off him soon.”

“Oh, Shelby. You’re full of dramatics this morning,” Renee scolded. “So… what are you going to do?”

A fire engine red nail tip tapped the table. Shelby grew quiet, deep in thought. A plan. She needed a plan. A good one.

“I have to clear this up. Clear my name. I thought I could just disappear, but I can’t. I’m coming home. I’ll be in Miami tonight.”

“What about your classes?”

“I have an exam today, so I have to go, but I’ll email my assignments to a friend,” she said, digging her laptop out of her bag and booting it up. “They’re already done. I hope I don’t have to be in Miami long.”

“Well. I’ll be happy to see you. Dad, too. But I know what you mean. You seem to be doing well in Orlando. I’d hate to see you mess that up, over this Lucas thing.”

“Yeah, it’ll be nice to see you guys.” Shelby’s fingers tapped at the keyboard, quickly locating the next two assignments for the classes she shared with Anne-Marie. She shot off a quick email about an emergency trip out of town and attached the assignments for her to turn in, in Shelby’s absence. She signed off with a promise to call with news in a few days. This Lucas thing was about to be over, once and for all.

“Okay, mom. I have to run to take my test, and take care of some things and then I’ll be on the road. I’ll see you this afternoon.”

“Drive safely, Shelby. This will all work out. You’ll see.”

“I hope so, mom. I really do.” 

Shelby hung up the phone and looked around the dining room, now covered with paper. Evidence. True words, about her and about her past and the ugliness that she was trying so hard to get away from—it was now strewn about her house. And in a house 15 minutes away, the same pages, the same true words, the same revelations about the past were being read about her. Shelby shuddered to think what JC thought of her, now. He probably never wanted to see her again.

She didn’t blame him. Not one bit.

JC

He hadn’t slept. He couldn’t. His heart raced and his mind ran the scenarios over and over. He’d grabbed the stack of articles and clippings and the note and went downstairs, dumping it all on the kitchen table. He dug his laptop out of his bag and booted it up, and spent the hours until sunrise surfing the internet, reading everything he could find about Shelby Coster.

Not much of her existed online, until she met global real estate tycoon Lucas Samuels. There were society articles and photos of him and her. He was an older gentleman, late 40’s at least. Dark hair, rich complexion, handsome but much too old for Shelby, at least the Shelby he knew. He didn’t seem to be the kind to sit on the floor of her den and scarf down a homemade sandwich, or go to a salsa club and dance till his feet hurt and the muscles in his legs were tight. Lucas Samuels didn’t seem nearly as made for her as he did.

Shelby seemed subdued, in most of the photos. Modest and discreet, not the woman he knew—brazen and openly sexy. He liked his Shelby better.

He found hundreds of links to newspaper articles and editorials about the fiery crash that had killed Lucas Samuels. Speculation and conjecture, criticism and photographs. The mangled wreckage made front page news in Miami, an indistinguishable Mercedes twisted and burnt to a blackened crisp on a two lane highway. Onlookers standing around, gaping in shock, ambulances in the background. A black bag. Personal items strewn across the road. It must have been a nightmare.

After Shelby was released from the hospital, she made a single statement and then never spoke to the press again.

“Lucas Samuels was a kind, generous, thoughtful man. His loss has brought unimaginable pain. We were months from being married. I was on the edge of happily ever after. That life and my future has been taken from me. I intended to consult my attorneys and explore my options. Thank you for granting my privacy during this difficult time.”

 JC was confused, now—hadn’t she said she didn’t love him? And that she was dumping him?

More articles and editorials and opinion columns, some written by the same woman that had sent him the note. Melina Samuels played to the press, calling Shelby every name in the book - gold digging whore, black widow, praying mantis. Murderer. Killer. The words hurt him, physically. He clutched his chest reading them, feeling the pain Shelby must have felt, reading them herself.

The sun was up, a bright orange ball in the sky, heating up the city already. JC sat back and closed the lid of the laptop, gazing out of the dining room window to the view of the lake behind the house. He contemplated this situation. He had two choices, as he saw it: Run. Run far, far away, and let her fight her own battles on her own; or stay. Stick around, and not abandon her because she doesn’t have a rosy past, and make her let him help her.

He got up from the table, stretching out the kinks in his back and legs from sitting in the chair so long, and then slowly climbed the stairs, hoping the answer to what he should do would come to him, soon.

It was Thursday.