Her hands are deep into her hair, clutching handfuls as though holding herself up is the only way she can remain standing. Why would they do that?
"Why would they do that?" she repeats, aloud this time. "Why would they go bother my parents? Who does that? Why would they do that?!?"
Keanu steps behind his step-father's bar, reaching underneath for two crystal tumblers. From the shelf behind him, he grabs a bottle of Lagavulin, Paul's favorite sixteen-year-old whiskey. He pours the golden liquid into each glass. Two fingers. Neat.
Sandra makes her way to the stool in front of the bar, propping herself up with her elbows now.
He sets the brown bottle down and picks the tumblers up. "I know it may feel impossible, but it'll get easier."
She looks up at him with a pained stare. "I don't know how you ever got used to this."
"I don't know if anyone ever really gets used to it, Sandy, but you learn to live your life anyway." He places one glass in front of her and raises his own, the smooth amber crossing his lips.
Glancing down at her own glass, she grabs the bottle, instead, and shoves it into her mouth.
Gulp. Gulp.
She's standing now, prancing on her toes with watery eyes. She fans herself while she pours more whiskey down her throat.
"AGAHHH!!" The strange noise escapes her when she pulls her mouth off the bottle for a second. "This is really strong," she exclaims in a gravelly voice, shoving the whiskey back into her mouth.
He watches in awe as she forces another swallow.
With a loud thud, she slams the bottle down on the bar, then wipes her mouth with her sleeve. "This is a disaster."
He chuckles, despite himself, moving around to her side of the bar and drawing her into his arms. "I'll try not to take that personally."
Dammit if the warmth of his neck against her cheek didn't ease her mind for just a second, until the black-and-white image of her kissing him outside of the club comes flooding back to her. She pounds her forehead with her palm once, twice, three times until he can bear it no longer and grabs her wrist to stop her.
She wriggles out of his arms, wringing her hands before covering him in a surprisingly alert gaze. "We gotta work on our story."
"What?"
"We gotta work on our story!" She's wearing a path on the floor as she blazes a trail back and forth in front of him. "It was dark," she stops to stare for a moment. "The footage was fuzzy," she meets his eyes again. Every few seconds she punctuates her words with a focused look, searching for conspiratorial agreement. "We can spin this somehow, right? We have to spin this."
"Maybe we don't."
His words stop her on a dime and she wonders if she misunderstood him. "Wh-what do you mean?"
She digs her nails into her palms, waiting for an explanation. When it doesn't immediately come, she paces maniacally in small circles, muttering to herself. "They're gonna follow me in Chicago, wait for me to screw up. I'll be skewered."
He knows he isn't responding the way she'd expected, but he doesn't care. He cares about her, of course. He can't stand to see her so distraught, and he is thoroughly livid that these paparazzi guys crossed a line with her and her parents, but he's not upset. Not at the idea of "the world" knowing they've taken their relationship offscreen. This surprises even him after years of maintaining a tight leash on his private life, but right now, with her, he doesn't care.
YOU ARE READING
The Beginning
Fanfiction"Come here," his voice is gentle again. She gives in, placing her small hand in his. Lifting the cloth, he sees her blood spill out from her palm. He inhales sharply through his teeth and presses the rag back down. They sit there like that for abo...
