Four days until VMA hell

Getting to spend time with my friends, has probably been one of the better things I’ve gotten to do since I started my life over again. I’ve been hanging out with Jason and Marty a lot, working out and going over choreography for the tour and shit. It’s great, familiar, and every time I’m out with them I start to feel more like myself. Like that guy I left behind when the kidnapping took over. And they’re so cool about everything. Like, they know all about the kidnapping, but they don’t really treat me much differently because of it. Sure, they get cautious with what they say around me sometimes, but it’s not like I can blame them. They’re my friends, they care…and they want me to be happy. I couldn’t ask for anything more from either of them.

Rehearsals have been a bitch. I didn’t even realize how out of shape I was, until I started coming to Crunch and working out this choreography with Marty every day. Jason’s been giving me hell about it. He thought that I’ve been working out on my own all this time I’ve been on leave. But that’s hardly the case. Normally, I would have. Back before all this bullshit took over my life, I used to love getting up at five in the morning and running a few miles, before coming back home to do push ups and get some time in on my weight system. But I’ve been such a fucked up mess these days, I just haven’t had the drive to do any of that. It takes a lot of attention and dedication to get a good work out in, and I just can’t focus like that right now. Jason, of course, can’t understand. But why should he? I haven’t told him, or most of the other people involved with my career, any details about the kidnapping. Yeah, they know what went down in Tennessee with the ransom and crap, and that Kerri and I were scared shitless for three days. But they don’t know how far it really pushed me…us. They don’t know about how I was cutting, or that…I checked myself into rehab. And they certainly don’t know about Butt---rape.

And I don’t think I’ll ever be strong enough to break down and tell them all about that stuff. Of course, what happened between Shane and I is something I don’t think I’ll ever talk about with anybody else besides the few who already know. But the other things like, therapy, I mean, I should tell Marty and Jason where I was all that time. Hell, they think I was in Hawaii for a month with Cameron,. That’s what Trace fuckin told them, and I can’t believe they actually bought into that. Cam and I have been split up for awhile now, and it was hard for them to understand why I would spend a month away on vacation with her, come home, and then not be with her anymore. They haven’t really asked me too many questions about it though. I mean, they can tell I’ve been through a lot, and I think they’re going to wait awhile…at least until the tour is over, before they sit down and ask me what happened.

So that means, I have all the time in the world to make up a really good lie.

“Fuckin hell.” I stop dancing, and stretch a little, before turning off the little boom box in the corner. I plod over to Trace, and take a seat on the floor beside him. There is random paper work scattered around him and he’s scribbling something down in one of his many notebooks...most likely something to do with my schedule. “I gotta find lighter work man,” I huff and shoot him a tired smile, before taking a giant sip out of my water bottle.

“Yeah,” he chuckles lightly, looking up from his writing. “Well you shoulda known better than to slack off all this time,” he reminds me. “I heard Jason reamed your ass the other day.”

I shrug. “He wishes he reamed me,” I wink. “He couldn’t intimidate a fly.” I close my eyes and lean my head back against the wall, thankful that I’m finally getting a few minutes to myself today. We’ve been at Crunch since about seven thirty this morning, because I’ve been hell bent on perfecting my VMA routine before rehearsing for it in New York. I know it’s crazy, obsessive; but doing this…it really saves time. When I’m in New York, I don’t want to spend half the day in rehearsals. I want to do things, visit people I normally never get to see. And I can’t do any of that unless I’m a hundred percent confident in my performance. It’s funny, after everything that’s happened, I’m still the obsessive perfectionist I’ve always been. I refuse to have any noticeable flaws, be it physically or personality wise. But I guess that’s a good thing…

It’s the only way I’m going to get back into the swing of things.

It’s gonna be hot though…the performance. We’re doing a Senorita/ Rock Your Body mix, and the choreography is crazy. I love it, and it feels good to know that despite everything, I still get pleasure out of what I do. I can only hope that people still have the same respect for me that they did in the summer...before all this shit started. I guess I’ll find out. After the awards, I’m actually doing a show over at the Hammerstein Ballroom. My mom says the turn out is probably going to be a big one, but I’m not so sure. I think people view me as a freak now, and nobody wants to watch a freak perform . I don’t know though. Maybe I’m just paranoid. I made so much money this summer…sold out so many arenas and shit, that I couldn’t have faded out that quickly.

“You want me to go pick up lunch?,” Trace offers, beginning to gather up his paperwork. “I’m starving.”

I consider not eating for a moment. I mean, I had a big bowl of Special K for breakfast. That should have been enough. I really don’t want to gain any unnecessary weight before a televised performance. But I know that if I tell Trace that, he’s only going to yell at me for not taking care of myself. “Sure,” I say, as he pushes himself up from the floor. He holds his hand out to me and helps me up as well. “But I’ll come with you,” I nod. “I need some air.”

“Cool,” he agrees, and leads the way as we make our way out of the rehearsal room..

He’s been a little bit better lately. Not so dismal, not so secretive. Although, he still hasn’t gone into anything deep. Like, what Madison was referring to at our last session. I’ve wanted to confront him about that too, but I’ve just so been bombarded with rehearsals and work out time that I haven’t been able to sit down with him and just have a serious conversation with him. He’s been busy too. This week, he had to plan my agenda for the entire tour. No not like, the venue/date list. That’s already set. But it’s the other stuff he’s had to plan. Like the radio promo and the various interviews I’m going to have at each stop on the circuit. It’s a very time consuming process. Really, I don’t know how he manages to pull off half the shit he does for me. But he always does, he never complains, and I never have to ask him to do anything a second time. Sometimes I really wonder where the hell I’d be without him.

We tell Marty that we’re going to grab some lunch, and he laughs and tells us that ‘since we’re going, we might as well pick some food for everybody.’ Trace rolls his eyes, but takes his orders anyway. Then we finally manage to make our way out to the parking lot, and into Trace’s navy blue Z3 Roadster.

“What time do you think we’ll get done?,” he asks after several minutes, glancing at me slightly.

I laugh heartily. “Whenever Marty says he’s had enough.”

He seems let down by my answer. “Oh, all right.”

I stare at him. His expression is blank, but then I revert my gaze to his hands. They’re gripping the steering wheel tightly…too tightly. He’s stiff, tense, and I’m starting to get a little nervous; the conversation I had with Madison suddenly overwhelming me again. We’re alone now. Alone, and we both know something is horribly wrong. But will he tell me today? Will we park, eat our lunch, and talk about this stupid crap that’s wrecking our lives? Or will we just overlook the whole thing again, like we’ve been doing? Damn it, I don’t want to go to New York this way. I don’t want to have to smile, put on my happy face for millions of people, and have this shit plaguing me night and day. Hell, I’m enough of an emotional mess as it is. And Trace knows that.

“You think we can be a little late coming back then?” he speaks up, before I can think of a good way to confront him.

My mouth gapes a little. I can’t believe it. I can’t believe he’s actually willing to start talking to me about this. I find that I can’t hold back the slight smile that creeps across my face. “Sure,” I tell him, nodding a little. “Why, what’s up man?”

He focuses his gaze back on the road. “I need to talk to you,” he whispers.

***********

We get all the food, and run Marty’s half back to him. After, we drive…we drive for a good half hour before we find a scenic lookout point a few miles from Crunch. It’s one of those tourist spots. The kind that have the binoculars you put the quarters in, so you can see the big Hollywood lettering in the hills. I was afraid there were going to be people around, and I almost told Trace to turn around when I saw where it was that we were going. But once I realized that there wasn’t anybody around…I made myself relax. It’s empty here, peaceful, and I think that Trace knew it was going to be all along.

We unwrap our sandwiches in silence, and begin to chow down. It’s a little awkward, I figured he would want to get to the point. But that’s Trace…his stomach usually comes first.

“Got Lakers tickets,” he says in between chews. “For tomorrow night.”

My eyes widen, and I find that I can’t hide my smile. “Shit, for real?”

He smiles, only slightly. “Yeah,” he takes a sip of his soda, and clears his throat a little. “The guy that prints up reports for the ref panel hooked me up…courtside and all. You wanna go?”

Do I want to go? Hell, of course I want to. I can’t remember the last time I got the chance to go see my favorite team play, with my best friend. I think it’ll be good for us…give us a chance to have one last peaceful evening before the chaos of my career comes back to haunt us. “Yeah man,” I smile. “It’ll be the shit.”

“Great.” A new sense of hope fills his expression, and I think I’ve put him at ease a little. I know its weird, but I think he’s thought I’ve been angry with him recently. And I’m positive that it has something to do with what Madison won’t tell me.

“Trace.” I look down at my sandwich as I say his name. “I…I don’t want to ruin the mood but…”

“Yeah,” he interrupts me. “I need to talk to you still.” He takes a deep breath, and finally looks over at me. “I just…wanted to ask you about the game before I forgot.”

“Right,” I say, uncertain of what’s going to come next. I wait a moment or two and then, I decide to bring our lightened conversation to a crashing halt. “So man, tell me. What’s going on with you?”

He sits up a little, and gazes into the distance. A despondent expression has taken him over, and I know that any moment now, yes…any moment, it’s going to come. “I don’t…” he pauses, and lets out a nervous chuckle. “I don’t know how to tell you,” he whispers, finally meeting my gaze.

Seeing as how I’ve been coping so well lately, I decide to be the stronger person right now. I need to be…for him. He has to know that no matter what it is…what he’s going through, I’m still going to be here for him. I’ll stand by him, support him…just like he’s supported me. “Man, look,” I begin. “We’ve been through hell and back right?”

He nods.

“And you know, you were there for…all that stuff,“ I remind him. “You’re the best friend I have in the world Trace, so just know that no matter what it is…I’m not going to hold it against you. You can tell me okay?”

“I don’t know,” he says quietly. “I…it’s going to fuck everything up.”

“Trace please,” I persist. “Just tell me what’s going on. I‘m fuckin worried sick about you, man.”

He bites his bottom lip, and seems to battle with himself. In his mind his conscience is arguing with him, telling him that he needs to get whatever it is off his chest before it’s too late. But his pride…I realize that whatever this is, has hurt his pride so much. He’s been falling, spiraling downward in a whirlwind of secrets and lies. And it’s all been to protect me. “You remember Atlantic City,” he says suddenly.

Of course I remember Atlantic City. That day was a disaster waiting to happen. We woke up, Cameron and I smacked heads getting out of bed, but laughed of course. Breakfast had been worse. I spilled coffee all over my lap, and a few fans that had been up all night waiting for me laughed right in my face. To make matters worse, a few hours before show time, a huge lighting fixture fell from the rigging and landed on a few pieces of vital sound equipment, setting the tour back for two weeks. Thankfully, nobody was seriously hurt; but it did put a damper on things for a while. Thank god for Trace. He worked his ass off to get my show up and running again, doing a lot of major jobs for the tour that normally, he wouldn’t have anything to do with. It made me feel better to know that he cared that much, and I guess that’s why sitting on my ass for two weeks didn’t bother me as much as it would have otherwise. “Yeah,” I laugh. “But seriously man,” I sigh. “Stop avoiding the subject.”

He hesitates for a moment. “This is the subject.”

I look at him curiously. I have no idea what he’s getting at. All I know is, that was definitely not what I was expecting him to say. “What?,” I laugh a little. “Trace, you’re the most confusing mother fucker I know.”

He shrugs. “I tried to do the best job I could for you, J,” he says softly. “I rushed around. I did things on the set…I helped out all the tour production people. I…I did some hiring….”

“I know that,” I interrupt, flashing him a grateful smile. “Man I know all that. And you know how grateful I am to you. Is that what this is about…that you wont be able to do the job this time? Because I mean…if that’s the case--”

“That’s not the case!” he yells, banging his fist against the steering wheel. “Man Justin, would you just shut up and listen to me for five seconds!”

His sudden outburst causes me to lose my breath for a moment or two. I’m so confused. I mean, Trace never gets annoyed with me this way…not since the kidnapping anyway. What the hell is his problem? Why is he so angry? “Why are you yelling at me?,” I whimper. “I’m…I’m trying to talk to you.”

He lets out a long, miserable groan. “I’m…I didn’t mean to,” he tells me. “Justin, look…it’s probably better if I just get to the point.” He reaches across my lap, and opens the glove box. Reaching inside, he pulls out a folded piece of paper, and slams the door shut again. Once settled back into his seat, he stares at the paper in his hands for a moment, almost like he’s trying to send it some kind of message. Then…he hands it to me.

“What’s this?” I ask him. I can’t open it. I won’t open it. If I do…if I take that step, there’s no going back. I know something is wrong…very wrong, and whatever is on this paper is going to reveal the truth to me. The horrible, awful truth that’s going to leave us both more lost and confused than we are right now. And with the tour, and promotion and everything just days away, I don’t see how we won’t crack under the pressure.

“Please just open it.” His bottom lip trembles slightly, and he runs his hands through his hair. “I need…I need closure,” he tells me. “And this is the only way I’m going to get it…even if it’s the worst way to get it.”

I lick my lips, and thumb the corner of the paper. “No.” I shake my head roughly, and drop the page on my lap. “I can’t. I can‘t…take any more.”

“I know it’s hard,“ he whispers. He leans in towards me, a desperate look in his eyes. “But you have to,” he half sobs, half cracks. “Justin, please. I can’t, I can’t live like this anymore. Hell, Elisha left me,” he whispers. “I couldn’t tell her. So please, just open it so I can say that I at least did right by you.”

He’s done so much for me…been through so much with me these past couple of months, I guess I owe it to him to do as he’s asking. Hell, I practically owe him my life. So I do…I unfold the page, wincing as I do so. After a moment, I force myself to look down at it. And there, staring back at me with his cold, evil, black eyes…

Is Shane himself.

“Fuck,” I whimper, and throw the page away from me. I look at Trace like he’s gone crazy. What the hell? Why does he have a picture of Shane in his car, and why is he showing it to me? Is this some kind of sick joke? Has Trace turned into a drug addicted loser, who gets off seeing me helpless and vulnerable? “What…what the hell are you doing?,” I manage to ask him. “Why the hell would you show me that!”

“No…” he shakes his head roughly, and snatches the paper off of my lap. “You have to read it.”

He thrusts it in my face, and I close my eyes. But, I shouldn’t close my eyes. No…Open your eyes…they’re your best feature. I shake my head roughly, but still force myself to open them again, and this time…I take a good long look at the paper in Trace‘s grasp. Team Justin Employee File: Andrew Tomlinson-Road Crew Mother fucker. Fake name and all…“God…” I whine, and cover my face with my hands. “Put it away!,” I yell. “Why are you doing this!”

“I don’t know what the hell else to do!” He’s sobbing now. “Justin, look okay…I was rushing…I was rushing every day, because the show had to get up and running again. And I guess…look, he worked on the tour okay? I signed this paper…I gave him a job, and god I mean….Jesus fuckin’ Christ Justin. I’m so s-sorr-ry.”

I can hardly register in my mind what he’s just told me. I’m crying too, almost as hard as he is. The only thing I can think about is Shane, staring back at me from that fucking paper, mocking me. So you thought you were tough, he laughs. You ain’t so fuckin tough…and you’ll never be rid of me…

“Justin.”

“What about a background check?,” I moan. “What the hell were you doing?”

“…I didn’t have time,” he says pathetically. “There was just…so much I had to get done. And he seemed fine…god, I couldn‘t tell one from the next. Everything was a fuckin‘ blur between the tour and worrying about your schedule…” His voice trails off for a moment. “But…it happened.”

I can’t look at him. I can’t believe this. I won’t believe this. No, there’s no way…Trace isn’t that stupid. He’s always totally together…organized and trustworthy. This is Trace, my best friend; my brother. He couldn’t do this to me. Please God…tell me he didn’t do this to me. “Liar,” I moan. “Don’t tell me that shit, please. Tell me anything. Tell me you’re doing drugs, that you’re drinking too much. But don’t…don’t you even tell me that shit is true, Trace.” I finally manage to look him in the eye. “I don’t know what I’ll do.”

He stares back at me, a dumbfounded expression on his face. The tears are dribbling down his face in heavy, thick trails and I know I’ve never seen him this upset before. Trace never cries, ever. And so I guess that means this is all true…that he did this. He did this to me. He…he let Shane turn me into this broken down shell of the person I used to be. And Kerri…Kerri too. He fucked Kerri over in the worst way. God. He let this fucking happen to us…

“I wish I could…tell you differently.” He hiccups and sniffles, hanging his head low. “But I can’t change anything,” he whimpers. “It’s my fault.”

“Fuckin hell, of course it’s your fault,” I snap. My vision is blurred by my tears, and I rub at my eyes so I can see him more clearly. Although, I don’t know why. I don’t want to see him right now, don’t want to look at him. I don’t’ want to let it all sink in; that my best friend…the guy I slept in my crib with when we were in diapers…let it happen. He let that sick bastard walk into my life, watch me…my every move, until I was alone and vulnerable. He let him scare us, torture us…

Rape me.

“I’m sorry.” He doesn’t look at me, only down at the dash board. He’s still crying too, but I don’t care . Go on asshole…cry. Cry because you know it’s your fault he put his dick in my ass.

“Fuck, don’t tell me--” I shake my head roughly, and grit my teeth. “Don’t say you’re fuckin sorry because it’s not going to change shit!” I feel like punching him…I feel like pulling him out of this fucking car that I helped him…god…that I helped him to buy, so I can kick the crap out of him. Just like Shane kicked the crap out of me. I realize now, that somebody can still pay for this…Trace can pay for this, because Shane and Nathan aren’t alive to deal with it. I still have somebody that I can put the blame on. And its sick, psychotic, but it almost makes me feel better to know that.

“You’re looking at me like you want to kill me,” he whispers. “Justin…”

“I wish you were dead.” I hear the words come out of my mouth, and my eyes widen a little. But I wont take it back, because I realize that I meant it…every word of it.

He shrivels back in his seat, and starts to sob uncontrollably. God, why did I say that? I mean, I know I meant it but…I didn’t mean to just blurt it out. Jesus, I’m losing my mind. I can’t think, I can’t speak, I can barely breath. I just…I need to get away from him. Yes. That’s the best thing. But hell, he’s a fucking mess. He’s in no condition to take me anywhere, and I’m certainly not going to try to make him. I realize that I’ll have to drive, even though I’m still not supposed to.

“Forgive me,” he manages to get out through his sobs. “Please.”

But I can’t.
*************

I went for a run. I guess all this working out that Justin’s been doing has sort of inspired me to get up off my ass and do something with myself. Before…when I was more confident and less paranoid of the outside world, I used to go running all the time. Central Park was the best. Especially at five in the morning, running down the trail, seeing the sun rise up over the trees. I ran hard today, fast. It made me feel good, I managed to work out some of the aggressions that have been plaguing my mind for months, and I started to wonder why the hell I hadn’t tried doing this awhile ago. I think I’ll start doing it more, even though it’s going to be much harder now since I’ll be on the road. But hell, it’s not like I have an agenda. I’m sure I can go running in each city we visit. It’s not like I have to worry about screaming fans, or paparazzi like Justin does.

Man, sometimes it must suck being a pop star.

“Justin!” I say brightly, pushing my way into the house. I went out to Borders to pick up some books about stress relief, and coping and all that psychotic crap. I figured we could use some reading material on the tour. Since Justin isn’t having a shrink come out with us, I assumed he would need something to indulge himself with that would tell him he’s not completely nuts. Well…besides me anyway.

Once inside the house, I pause, and listen for him to tell me where he is. But I don’t hear anything. Funny, it’s way past four, and he said he’d be home around three. A small part of me starts to worry about him, but then I laugh it off. I know how much of a perfectionist Justin is, and chances are, he’s probably still at the dance studio with Marty. With a tired yawn, I make my way upstairs to change into non sweaty attire. I hear the shower running immediately, and I smile, knowing that Justin is probably in there. “I hear you!” I call out to him. “Hurry up so I can show you what I bought!”

But there is no response.

A wave of terror grabs hold of me almost immediately. It grips me by the shoulders, and shakes me…screams at me: something is very wrong. I don’t hesitate. Two seconds later, I thrust open the bathroom door, and when I glance over at the shower, I can make out a human figure through the tempered glass of the shower stall door. By the broad build and shaved head, I know it’s Justin. He’s sitting, his arms wrapped around his knees, and I don’t know what the hell happened. But then I think…Trace…Trace isn’t home.

Oh god.

“Justin.” I know he’s naked, and so I don’t open the door. I don’t know what he’d do, and I’m not going to risk hurting him any more than he already is. “Justin, it’s me.”

The door slides open, just a crack. I can’t really see his face, only his eyes. They are red, bloodshot. He’s probably been crying for a long time, and I wish like hell that I could make all of his pain go away. But I can’t. I can’t do anything. I lean in closer to the crack, expecting a warm burst of steam to hit me in the face, but I feel nothing. A few droplets of the water manage to escape and land on my face, and then…I feel it. The water, it’s freezing cold. So cold, that I know if I don’t get him out of there soon he’s going to get terribly sick. “Justin,” I whisper again. “Please…you have to come out of there.”

“It hurts.” It’s the first thing he says to me and all I can think is…god, he cut himself again?

“What happened?” I whisper. “Did you cut?”

“No,” he whimpers, like a small child. “I wanted to.”

I take a deep breath. “What happened to Trace?”

But he doesn’t seem to hear me. “It hurts, Kerri,” he whispers.

I’m really nervous about opening the door and seeing…everything. But I know I have to help him. He’s mental right now. He’s not thinking, and he needs my help. “I’m going to open the door,” I tell him. “Okay?”

“I don’t want you to see me,” he say quickly.

I bite my lip and sigh. “But Justin, you’re going to get sick. Look, it’ll only take a second. I’ll get you a towel…” I glance behind me, and see a large bath towel hanging over the bar on the wall. I yank it a little, and it falls to the ground. I hold it up to the crack so he can see it. “Here, look, I have a towel for you…I wont see anything.”, I reassure him.

A few heart wrenching minutes of silence pass, and then…the door slowly inches open. Little by little, the rest of him is revealed to me. He’s sitting directly under the downpour of water, arms wrapped around his knees, chin resting on his kneecaps. His skin is pink, shriveled. And I’m sure he’s been sitting here for a good couple of hours. “Come on,” I whisper, trying to keep my composure. I turn off the water, and I see him shiver a little. Then he looks up at me. His lips are blue…and his teeth are chattering. “God, look at you.” I hold the towel open to him. “Come on Justin,” I will him out of his position. “You can’t get sick right now.”

He sobs a little, but finally, he gives in. He untucks himself, and crawls out of the shower stall and into the towel. I do my best not to look at him…any part of him that might set him off, and I wrap the towel around him securely. Warm in my arms now, I guess he feels safe. He leans his head into the crook of my neck, and starts to cry. He starts to cry, like he cried the day he shot Shane and Nathan. He can’t stop. I force myself to look down at his hands…fearing the worst, and I see it. They’re shaking…so bad. I reach down and grab hold of one of them. “Shh.” I kiss the top of his head and rock him a little. I know exactly what happened, I don’t have to ask him questions…for once. “You’re okay.”

“It hurts so bad,” he cries into me, snorting and sniffling. “I told him…I told him I wished he was dead,” he says, hysterically.

I gasp a little. “God, Justin,” I whisper. “Tell me you didn’t.” I know how heart wrenching Trace’s secret must be to Justin. Knowing that…Trace interacted with the bastard one on one, must be doing a lot of damage to him. Enough damage to make him say crazy things. Like…what he just told me he said. God, I mean, I’m freaked out about all of this…I know I am. But I don’t think I could have told Trace something so…awful. He’s still my friend. A slightly estranged friend, yes. But still…a friend. I don’t know what to do, what to say…

“Did you know?” He looks up at me after a moment, a longing, desperate expression on his face. “Did you know what he did, Kerri?”

I suck in a long breath, and bite my lip. I should tell him. I need to tell him. But, if I do…if I tell him I’ve known all this time, what will it do to him…to our recently patched friendship? I know how he is, and because of the way things have been going between us lately, I know he’s been expecting me not to keep anything from him. Hell, I know I shouldn’t have kept this from him in the first place. I mean, he hasn’t been keeping anything from me. He’s been totally open, honest; and I feel like such a two timing ass for keeping something like this a secret. But I didn’t do it for me…

I did it for Trace.

But I guess that makes me just as guilty about the secret as Trace is. And because of this, I wish like hell that Justin wasn’t confiding in me right now. He has no idea…no idea that I’ve known, and what a horrible person that makes me for keeping it from him. After all, it’s Shane…and Shane is his business, because he got dealt the bulk of the pain that we received in that place. “I…” I try to tell him the truth. I really do. But…if I lose him…if I lose him I think I’ll die. I realize I love him. I’m in love with him as much as I used to be, even if we can’t be together right now. And call me selfish…call me anything, but I can’t just throw our relationship down the drain again. Not so soon after I’ve gotten him back. He makes me whole, he makes me stop caring about the liquor, about the dreams. I can be me when I’m with him…kissing or not kissing. And I just…I can’t let go of that. I can’t tell him the truth right now.

“Kerri,” he whispers, obviously upset that I’m not answering him. “Tell me.”

“No, I didn‘t know,” I force a believable tone. “What do you mean? I mean, what did he do?”

He forces himself to sit up a little, and pulls the towel tighter around his waist, so I wont be able to see past his navel. He sniffles, and coughs a little, but somehow…he manages to gain control of himself for me. He’s still cold, I can tell…but I know telling him to get dressed wont help him right now. He’s not in the mood to take orders, and I know that. “Kerri I…Jesus…” He rubs his face with his hands, and lets out a long sigh before continuing. “I don’t even know how to tell you this. I don’t want you to hate him. I…don’t even want to hate him. But my god, it’s just so fucked up…this whole thing.”

“Justin.” I take one of his hands and give it a reassuring squeeze. “You know you can tell me,” I whisper, trying not to break down in tears…trying not to give myself away.

He leans into me again, thankful that I’m here. Thankful that I want to listen. “You know…you know he…Shane, he worked for me.”

I start to think about Trace and where the hell he is right now. I’m worried as shit. Is he hurting himself? Is he drunk, and driving around like an idiot? I don’t have a solid answer, so it makes me worry, and in turn…I can force a fake sense of shock for Justin. Jesus. I’m such a conniving little bitch. “Oh my god,” I say, my eyes wide. “Wait…” I give my head a confused shake. “What?”

“He did,” Justin whimpers. “And today…Trace told me that he’s the one responsible for hiring him. I can’t fucking believe it Ker…” he pauses, and sobs a little more. “Trace caused this whole thing.”

I should defend my friend right now. It’s only right, because in reality…Trace never meant for anything bad to happen. Sure, I blame him…because I’m a fucked up mess that can’t handle anything. But I shouldn’t let Justin feel the same way. Justin needs Trace right now. He needs to be able to talk to him, confide in him about the rape and his career and everything. Hell, we’re leaving for New York in two days, and if Justin and Trace are having problems…Justin’s career is never going to get off on the right foot. “No.” I blurt out. “Justin…he couldn’t have known…it’s not his fault.”

“But if he didn’t’ hire Shane…”

“If Trace didn’t hire Shane, he would have gotten to you somehow,” I interrupt. “And I mean, who knows? Who knows how things would have turned out if they didn’t go down the way they did?”

He pulls away from me then, seemingly offended that I’m defending Trace right now. “I wouldn’t have been fucking…raped, Kerri. That’s how things would have turned out,” he seethes. “I would have…I would have been prepared. I would have fought back.”

“How!” I’m letting myself slip right now, and I know I shouldn’t be. If I say the wrong thing…if I let him find out I’ve known about this all along, he’ll hate me. I can’t let him hate me. “For all you know…if…if he didn’t get hired, he could have simply waited for you outside your hotel and taken you!” I start to sob, realizing how true my statement actually is. “And, what then Justin? What if he decided not to hold you for ransom? What if…you simply disappeared?”

He stands up, and looms over me; a cold, menacing look in his eyes. “What are you putting those thoughts in my head for?,” he grunts. “Don’t say that shit.”

“I wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t true,” I whisper, not understanding why I’m saying these things to him right now. If anything, I’m making him angry with me, when all I meant to do in the first place was cover my ass like a selfish little bitch. But I quickly realize that I’m not like that. I’m not all about myself, and deep inside of me…I know Justin is wrong to put the blame on Trace for this. Just like I’m wrong to blame him for it. I realize that I need to take it upon myself to apologize to Trace…for our friendships sake. And I will…I mean, if he’s okay…

Oh God.

“What the hell do you know!” he screams, pointing a finger at me. “You weren’t raped Kerri! You weren’t…beaten….your ribs weren’t broken okay? All he did was lock you in a shed! You act like…you act like it was something so fuckin horrible, and you know…I’m tired of worrying about it!” He points to his chest roughly. “Who cares if you were tied up! Who cares if it was dark! It doesn’t even compare okay?,” he sobs. “It doesn’t even fuckin compare to what happened to me.”

My mouth gapes, and I stare at him; truly shocked this time. In a million years, I never thought he would snap and turn back into the cold person he was before I left to go back to New York. Yes, I know he still has problems…and today I’m sure Trace pushed him to the brink of his sanity. But to stand here, scream at me…and tell me what I went through at that house isn‘t a big deal? Just…no. That’s just wrong. “How could say that,” I whisper, slowly rising off the cold bathroom floor. “You aren’t me,” I whimper. “You…you have no idea. I was locked in there for hours Justin! Fucking hours! I couldn’t breathe…I thought, I thought they were going to leave me in there to die on my own.” I back up against the wall and cover my face with my hands.

“I don’t care,” he tells me, sternly. “Try getting a dick shoved in your ass…and then tell me you wouldn’t rather be locked in a shed.”

I uncover my face, and stare at him. I realize I’m not going to get anywhere with him right now, because he’s too blinded by his rage to care. “Forget it,” I mutter, and try to shove past him…but he shoves me back into the bathroom. I gasp a little, but I don’t get another chance to get away from him. He shoves me against the wall, and I let out a frightened moan…but he doesn’t seem to care.

“So you’re siding with him,” he snaps, bringing his face close to mine. “After everything we’ve been through together…you’re going to side with that pathetic mother fucker?”

“He’s our best friend,” I manage, just above a whisper. I struggle against his grip, but then…he places both of his hands on my shoulders, pinning me against the wall. I’m terrified. I don’t know what he’s capable of. All I know is that I don’t trust the look in his eyes right now. It’s barbaric, cruel…and I don’t even know if he’s really seeing me at all right now. “Justin…please…you‘re being impossible. Trace couldn‘t have…”

“Just shut up!,” he barks at me. “Excuses! All you do is give me excuses! You‘re just fucking like him!”

Then he slaps me across the face, hard; and lets go of me. I let out a pained shriek, and I feel myself slide down the wall. I start to cry almost immediately, clutching the throbbing side of my face with my right hand, before I feel my butt hit the floor. I realize it’s the side that Nathan slapped that day in the car, and thinking about that…how scared I was then…it makes me cry even harder. “Oh my god….” I wail.

“Kerri.”

His voice is soft, weak, like he doesn’t know what he’s just done to me. Hell, maybe he doesn’t. Maybe he was in a blind rage, but still, that’s not an excuse. I find that I can’t even look at him. I don’t want to look at him. I don’t…I don’t even know him anymore. Justin…the wonderful Justin that I thought came back to me recently, is gone.; lost in his confusion and depression all over again. But I won’t blame Trace this time. I realize it’s not his fault. None of this was ever his fault, and I was totally wrong for thinking he was to blame. It’s Shane that made Justin this way. It’s Shane that was psycho and planned it all out and kidnapped us. Damn him…damn him for getting to die and not having to be here to deal with our misery.

“Oh god…god I’m sorry…,” Justin whimpers. He crouches down in front of me quickly, and reaches out to pull me close to him. I want to shove him away…tell him to go to hell, but fuck…I still love him. I still love him, and I know…I know he couldn’t’ have possibly meant to hit me like he just did. Maybe I’m in shock. Maybe I’m crazy. Hell, I don’t know. All I know is that I’m wrapped up in his strong arms, my head is resting against his bare chest, and I can’t say anything, because I don’t think there are any words for my feelings right now. His embrace…it’s helping. And that’s the only thing I know for sure. I feel myself start to cry again…long, hard, uncontrollably. And he lets me. He’s patient. He’s my Justin again…just like that.

“God, god I’m sorry,” he repeats. “Jesus Christ…I’m sorry.” He rocks me in his arms and kisses the top of my head. “Please don’t leave me…please Kerrigan…please.”

“I wont,” I somehow manage to say through my crying and sobbing. “I wont.” And I know it’s the truth. Because as far as my sorry ass goes, I don’t have the strength to leave Justin behind. Not again. Not after everything that’s gone on between us…and not after everything he’s done to help me through this aftermath. He lost it, that’s all. He just…lost it. He couldn’t think, he couldn’t see…it just happened. And I know I can forgive him. I can forgive him, and…and I can forgive Trace too. We’ll all sit down, and talk. Then we’ll start over, and life will change for the better. There won’t be any more nightmares. Justin and I…we won’t be paranoid anymore. We’ll move on…be happy…

I pull away from him. He did. He really did. “Why did you do that,” I say to him, after I regain a little more control of myself. “Why?”

He shakes his head roughly, and rubs at his eyes. “I didn’t mean to,” he sobs. “You gotta believe me, please. ‘Cause…‘cause she didn’t believe me and she left, and God…you can’t leave me, Ker. I swear, I couldn‘t take it.”

The realization that this has happened to Justin before, slaps me across the face like his hand did just moments ago. I think…Cameron. Right. That’s why they broke up. It wasn’t because of ‘differences’ as Trace told me originally. Somehow, some way…he hit her too. Only, she was strong. She wasn’t going to put up with that. He hit her and she walked out. It was the right thing to do. It’s what I should do…

But I’m so pathetic that I wouldn’t dream of it.

“You have to promise me…” I say sadly, taking one of his hands in mine. “You have to promise me that this won’t happen again.”

“I would never lay another hand on you,” he whimpers, running his hand down the side of my face he slapped. “Never.” He shakes he head, and plants a soft, loving kiss on my reddened cheek. “Kerri…”

“Shh,” I hiss. “Just…don’t okay?”

And he nods.

“One of us needs to find out where Trace is,” I tell him, as calmly as I can. “Okay?”

He clears his throat a little. “I’ll try his phone,” he rasps, and starts to get up from the floor. I can tell he’s trying to be calm too, but then…he starts to sob; and a moment later he’s crying all over again. “God. Kerri, really…I’m so sorry. I’m a fuckin monster okay? I don’t deserve to be around women…any women.”

“Justin.” I get up from the ground, and manage to make my way over to him. “It was a mistake.”

“Hitting you isn’t a mistake,” he says, putting a hand on either side of my face. “I love you okay? And…hitting you, God, I don’t have any fuckin place doing that. You should just get away from me…I should just…be locked away…”

“Stop.” I start to sob again. I’m so confused, and tired, and nauseated. I don’t want to think about what just happened anymore. But I can’t block it out. For one, Justin isn’t about to let it go, and I mean, I’m still in shock. It’s all going to seriously affect me later on…when I’m alone. I realize how awesome a drink would be right now. Really awesome. “I need to be alone,” I tell him.

But then…he pulls me close to him, and plants his lips against mine. I don’t stop him, partially because I’m too tired, and I guess also because…I don’t really mind it. I mean, he said it…he said he loves me. But hell, what am I thinking about? It’s not that kind of love, stupid. Thinking this, I quickly break the kiss. “No!” I whimper. “You want to confuse me more?”

He backs away, and looks down at the ground. “No.”

“Call Trace,” I whisper. “Okay?” I leave him alone in the bathroom after that. I know I shouldn’t. He shouldn’t be alone right now. But I mean, the house is still under lock and key. He’s not going to cut himself with anything that’s lying around in the bathroom. I need to be alone…and think. What does all this mean? Fuck…what the hell just happened?

I throw open the door to my bedroom, and slam it shut behind me forcefully. I stagger over to the big vanity mirror, and it’s only then…that I see the damage. The welt is big, noticeable on my right cheek. It’s a little purple right now, and I know in about an hour or so, it’s going to be as black and blue as the welt Nathan gave me that day in the car. I can’t believe this. That he would do this…hurt me like this. For a moment, I even consider it…leaving. But I know I can’t. I’m in way too deep now, and I can’t just give up on him…even if what he did was so horrible it makes me sick to think about it. I have to be strong, get through today. We have to find Trace, get him home…and we all have to talk things out. But can I even wait that long to talk to somebody about what just happened? No…I think I’ll lose my mind. But I just…I can’t even look at Justin anymore today. I need my space from him.

For the first time ever, I glance at the phone, and think about calling Madison. It’s crazy, insane…and hell, I don’t know what she’ll do to Justin if I tell her what he did. Will she throw him back in the clinic? God, I can’t let that happen. It will ruin him. Completely ruin him. But what other choice to I have? I have to do something, calm myself down by talking things out. And Madison seems to be the only person that I can trust at the moment. Without another moment of hesitation, I pick up the phone on the nightstand, and dial the familiar number.

“Orange Valley Psychiatric…”

But I can‘t even get the words out. I’m terrified. Terrified of talking to this woman about anything, because if I do…I know I‘m going to end up telling her a lot more than I want to. So…I don‘t say anything.

“Hello?”

I hang up.