I'm Sorry (Sequel to "No Feeling")

Chapter 3

Scott POV

I sighed indignantly at my manager, Ben Braum, who was staring at me with clear disdain.

Wanting to defend myself, I opened my mouth, but he just held a hand up to silence me before I even began.

For a few moments, my mouth bobbed open and closed as I fished for something, anything to break the silence. 

Finally, I turned to him, ignoring his wishes of my silence. "I didn't know I'd knock him out..."

He just stared at me tiredly, probably waiting for me to realize how insensitive that sounded, which I did.

I huffed defensively, shrugging and rolling my eyes. He was too uptight about everything.

"Scott-" he began. "I know you probably didn't mean to, but here's the thing. I've managed celebs before you, you know that." I nodded.

"I've managed younger people, like you. And I'm sick of seeing talent go to waste, even if you're a CEO right now, you can be so much more. That's why I'm here. But not if you act like this. You can't throw all of this away," he said, gesturing about him.

I nodded, knowing he was right, but not really caring. I really just wanted out of here, but Ben was making me stay to "clean up my mess" and "learn responsibility for my actions."

"Any minute, Kevin's emergency contacts will be arriving. You're going to have to explain."

I whipped around to stare at Ben. "What?!" 

He shrugged. "It's like 'you break it, you buy it.' You're the reason the poor guy is in the hospital."

"But-" 

"But nothing. Look Scott, just because you're rich and famous does not make you entitled." He arose from his chair. "Learn that."

He checked his phone hurriedly, sighing when he saw a notification.

He slid his finger and his phone called a number. He gestured for me to stay put as he went off to go talk to someone he referred to as "Marleah".

Waiting for him to round the corner of the waiting room, I flew out of my seat and headed straight for the vending machines.

Pressing the correct order of numbers and sliding in a dollar bill, I proudly collected myself a Cherry Coke. Anything to liven up the white, dead waiting room.

As I sat down, I thought about my actions. Apparently, Kevin wasn't actually paparazzi, but a co-manager of an up-and-coming singer.

This made me feel a little badly, because apparently, the whole interaction was supposedly arranged beforehand. I may or may not have been drunk when Ben told me the plans.

Either way, he got too close to me, which was his fault. Granted, most people wouldn't consider 3 feet "too close," but I'm telling you, it was entirely his fault.

Looking back on the events of my life, nothing was really my fault. It was the other person reacting badly, or approaching me wrong, or doing something that I didn't like. 

This incident was no different.

I sighed, sipping my Coke. 

Apparently, I was being too loud because the receptionist glared at me from across the room.

"Don't you know who I am?" I asked. She should know better than to look at me like that.

"Uh... no," she replied flatly, sliding the window shut. Her blonde ponytail swished as she walked to the backroom behind the reception desk.

I gaped after her in shock, my mouth open. How could someone not know who I was?

Grumbling, I pulled out my phone and checked my Twitter.

Not surprisingly, the trending hashtags were #HurricaneHoying #OuchScott #ScottytheHottie and #ScottHoying.

Suddenly, I was brought back to reality as I heard a sharp knock on the window. 

I ignored it, thinking it was an impatient Ben again.

However, this time, I was surprised to hear a pretty, clear female voice say, "Hi, I'm Marleah Freed. My friend and I are here to see a Kevin Olusola. I believe he was admitted about an hour ago?"

The receptionist replied with a question.

"Yes, yes, we should be his emergency contacts."

This got my attention. I was supposed to meet with her.

Cautiously, I rose from my seat and approached the girl.

Her skin was a warm brown and her hair was pulled back in a tight, professional bun that collided weirdly with her oversized sweatshirt and shorts. I stifled a chuckle at her One Direction Converse.

The other thing I noticed about her was that she was short. And not short as in 5'7". I'm talking she was 5 nothing. This only added the comicalness of her appearance.

I was about to approach her when the receptionist returned with some papers for her to sign. She did, returning them. 

"Thank you, Miss Freed," the receptionist said. "Mr. Olusola's room is B24. It's down the hall to your right."

"All right, thanks so much," the girl said, and she strutted off. Even her walk was weird, very hurried and business-like.

Just before she was out of earshot, I heard her distinctly call, "Mitch!"

My heart constricted. Memories flooded my head as I remembered the boy I left back home in a small, homophobic community. The one who gave all of himself, but never got anything in return.

I shook my head, clearing the thoughts of the love I'd left behind.

It couldn't be him. That Mitch promised he'd never write to me again, that he didn't want to be a burden, and that I wasn't good for him.

That Mitch, he'd written me off a year ago. He couldn't be in L.A. Not to mention a singer on the rise.

No, this was a different Mitch.

I went back to my seat and plopped down, finishing my Cherry Coke.

Ben reappeared in the waiting room, heading straight for me.

He beckoned for me to follow him, his expression somber. I complied.

Traipsing over to him, he gestured down the hallway. 

"B24." He stated, staring at me seriously. "Time to clean up your mess."

My heart rate picked up a little. "But-"

"But nothing. Go." He ordered, pushing me slightly.

I sighed, resigned.

Slowly, I approached the door and stuck my head in. 

Two figures were crowded around Kevin, lying on the bed. I recognized one as the Marleah girl from the waiting room.

She turned, sensing me. When she spotted me, her smile visibly dimmed, but she beckoned me in. 

The second figure turned to me, realizing Marleah's attention was elsewhere.

It took me a moment, but the recognition hit me like a freight truck.

"Mitch, this is Scott. Scott Hoying."

My eyes brimmed with tears, not because this was the boy whose life I'd stolen, whose heart I'd broken. 

I didn't tear up because the boy I hadn't loved enough was now grown up, with purple hair, oversized sunglasses, and designer clothing.

I was distraught, because the boy that was constantly on my mind, showed absolutely no sign of recognizing me.