One Night Only (Season 1: Deni's Story)

Chapter Nine

The house where Bowie lives with his parents and older brother is only two miles away from mine. Either one of us could have easily dropped by the other's home during the last couple of weeks to talk or check in, but we haven't. We both share the blame for that. The distance between us feels as though we're worlds apart, and what I'm about to confirm for Bowie won't do anything to bridge that gap.

Sawyer and I pull up to the iron gates separating the Nelson's driveway from the street. Like other houses in this area, tall hedges designed for maximum privacy border their yard. Attaining financial success can buy you a mansion in a beautiful neighborhood here, but when that prosperity is tied to fame or mega-millionaire status, freedom to live in it without intrusion often means hiding behind fortress walls.

A gate-access remote or keypad code are needed to get past the Nelson's front gate. Bowie gave me my own code a month after we started dating. Him not having to buzz me in means he doesn't have to stop what he's doing when I come over, which is usually playing video games or working on a song. He also once suggested I use the code to sneak in for a late-night hookup, even if he claimed to be kidding when I gave him a look.

After Sawyer's car comes to a complete stop, I open the passenger door and get out. My nerves and dislike of confrontation result in quivering limbs, something I try to keep under control as I walk around the car to the gate's keypad and punch in a series of numbers. The gate clicks, then inches open. I get back in the car. Sawyer waits until the gates have finished opening and then shifts the car out of park. We creep up the driveway.

Bowie's Maserati is in the driveway, and so is a blue Ferrari convertible I don't recognize. It appears he has company, something I didn't factor in when trying to pre-plan our conversation in my head on the drive over.

"Someone is here with him," I say. "It might not be a good time to talk."

"You won't know that until you see who's here," Sawyer points out. "Maybe his parents got a new car, or maybe Jackson did."

"His parents aren't the Ferrari type. Neither is Jackson, as far as I know." Bowie might be all flash and rock-star style, but his parents and brother are complete opposites. All three of them own hybrid crossovers, something Bowie ribs them about all the time. While Bowie is all about the celebrity life, Jackson is a studious brainiac who is set on being a neurosurgeon. He just finished his freshman year at Harvard and is home for the summer.

We exit the car and amble up to the front door, where I jab my finger at the doorbell before I change my mind. Faint echoes of the doorbell's chimes ringing inside the house carry outside to where Sawyer and I stand, waiting. There's no sign of life from inside after a couple of minutes pass.

"I don't think anyone's home." I'm seeking any excuse to escape now that we're here, and Sawyer knows it.

"Give it another minute." He tries ringing the doorbell this time. Footsteps approach the door from inside, and then the handle turns.

When I see Bowie, I can guess what took him so long. I don't know that he's drunk, exactly, but his glassy eyes and rumpled appearance are clues he isn't sober.

"Hey." He leans against the doorframe but doesn't invite us in. His gaze bounces from me to Sawyer and back to me again. "What are you doing here?"

I smell vodka on his breath. This is the worst-case scenario. Alcohol-influenced Bowie can be sharp-tongued, belligerent, and crude. He can also be loud, which means the best place for this conversation is in the house so there's no risk of paparazzi overhearing us.

"We're here to talk to you, or I am. Can we do this inside? Paps have been tailing us." I duck past him and enter the house.

"This isn't a good time." Bowie gets in front of me before I make it past the foyer. "Could we do this later, like maybe tonight?"