Physical (on hold)

Chapter 7: Malibu, California

"Is Mr Friday expecting you?"

Jun shed his shades to flash a smirk at the guard on the other side of his car window. It wouldn't work on this solid block of beef, but it fuelled his infallible self-confidence regardless.

"Oh, I'm sure he's been expecting me," the dancer replied. "Just... maybe not necessarily today?" An innocent shrug.

The guard remained unimpressed. "Wait here."

"Got nowhere to go, buddy," Jun mumbled into his chin as the guy walked back to his little security hut.

Sighing, Jun gazed out at the mansion beyond the forged iron front gates. Vincent Friday's Malibu villa might not have been the grandest on the block, but the fond memories of once feeling at home within those walls made Jun choke on his breath. He coughed out the discomfort and gulped.

Men in black milled about as if they were protecting the president. Vince must have upped his security since Vegas, and it paid off – Jun hadn't come across a single journo on his drive here. Or maybe the combined power of the neighbourhood's famous residents kept the paparazzi at arm's length.

Either way, Jun was glad of it. It meant the quicksand of cameras and microphones didn't swallow his quest. After all, he came here to do the questioning, not get questioned.

"I'm sorry, Mr Yang," the guard said when he returned to the car. "I can't let you in."

"What?" Jun frowned. "But... Listen, Vince and I go way back, he owes me at least a chat."

"I'm sorry, sir, but – Please, stay in the car – Sir – "

Four burly bodyguards had their guns pointed at him by the time Jun made it out of his car. At least half a dozen more rushed into position across the property.

"Seriously? Do I really look like that big of a threat?" Jun slowly raised his hands. "I just wanna talk, okay? I'm not armed. Come feel me up. Or should I strip down?"

"Sir, get back in the car and drive away. This is a private property."

"What's all this ruckus about?" Vince's voice, loud enough to carry through beyond the gates, added a new layer to the tension.

"Vince!" Jun exclaimed and exhaled obvious relief. "Thank fuck, you're just in time. Do you welcome all your guests with Mexican stand-offs?"

"You're not a guest, I never invited you."

"Come on, man. I just wanna talk. Or would you rather I talked to the press first?"

A tumbleweed almost rolled past. Vince gritted his teeth, or maybe shadows flitted across his jaw. Whatever the case, he bit the bait and fell right into Jun's trap.

"Talk, huh? What about?"

Hook, line and sinker.

"Odette."

The singer narrowed his eyes. He had a stiffness about him that spoke of hidden insecurities and strengthened Jun's suspicions.

"Let him in," Vincent commanded. "But check him for weapons and mobile devices first."

*

Jun didn't mind leaving his phone in the car, although he would have liked to record their conversation just to make sure his brain wouldn't misremember it later. He'd take what he could get, though, and followed Vince in silence down to the beach. Neither of them said a word until they were out of the earshot of the bodyguards who shadowed them.

"Guess you're spending your Vegas-made money on security now," Jun quipped.

Vince snorted. "If you got as many death threats as I'm currently receiving, I'm sure you would, too."

"Shit, man, I'm so sorry. That sucks."

"Yeah, but not as bad as – "

The salty breeze filled that quiet like seawater filling the dent of Jun's footprint. He had taken off his shoes and the soft, wet sand caressed his soles.

Vince cleared his throat. "You wanted to talk," the singer reminded his guest. He'd opted for a pair of silver sunglasses, which hid his eyes and reflected Jun's.

The dancer nodded. "Yeah. About Odette."

The briefest beat. "What about her?"

"I want you to tell me what happened to her five years ago."

"What do you mean?" An uneasy chuckle. "She... died, that's what happened to her, Jun. And... you know it." The wrinkles on Vince's forehead gave away his unseen frown. "I don't understand what you want from me."

"Did she, though?" Jun countered.

"Uh... yeah... we were both at the funeral?..."

"But there was no funeral. Just a box of ashes, they could've been anyone's."

"Oh, I see..." Vince's amusement turned dark. "Stages of grief."

"I'm sorry?"

"There's like... five of them, right? And one of them is denial."

Jun quirked an eyebrow.

"Yeah, you're in denial about Odile's death," Vince carried on, "and scrambling to find an... an excuse, a justification that it didn't happen."

"Because it didn't."

The singer's laughter now rang exasperated. "I was on that stage, too, for fuck's sake. I was on that floor, watching her bleed out. Hell, I still have nightmares about those dead fucking eyes staring into my fucking soul. What the fuck, man?"

"You haven't answered my question," Jun pointed out. "I never asked about Odile, I asked about Odette."

"The girl was a cokehead, what more do you need to know? It kept her skinny, happy, focused... pain-free. Until her heart couldn't take it anymore."

"Pain-free?"

"Yeah, you should know how it is better than me. Dancing prodigy dedicated to her craft can't let pain get in the way."

"I don't believe you," Jun blurted.

"No, I don't really expect anyone to believe me anymore."

"So, everyone else is wrong and poor Vincent is a victim?"

Vincent smiled like a wise teacher. "I can only control my own thoughts and beliefs. What anyone else chooses to think or believe about me, well... that's outside of my jurisdiction."

"Yeah..."

Jun stopped to survey the glittering waves, squinting. A myriad of diamonds, woven into a fluid veil of gilded sunlight, rising and falling as it concealed unknown depths. Underneath that shining surface... darkness lurked.

The epitome of the California-dreamin' gold rush which Odile had warned him against from day one.

"Yeah, I suppose that's true," Jun said as a maid approached with a tray of iced coffees. "I can't expect you to believe me, either, Vince. But I know I'm right."