Badd Boy Page 17

  Harlow had somehow gotten herself under control and stepped out from behind me. "I'm sorry, but I'm on vacation. No photographs tonight."

  Several cell phones clicked, photos snapped.

  I noticed Harlow tense at the sound. "Please don't post those," Harlow begged. "Please."

  "Too late!" one girl said in a singsong voice. "It's a good one, though. You look amazing for someone who was just making out."

  "And crying," another said. "Look how puffy and red her eyes are."

  There was a commotion outside, voices shouting and laughing. One of the guys in the group shouted, "Hey assholes, get in here! Harlow Grace is in here! Legit, I swear!"

  "No, please, no," Harlow breathed, so quietly only I heard her. "I can't do this right now."

  "Get them out," I barked. "Now."

  Bast hopped the bar, and Zane wasn't far behind him, and the three oldest moved toward the door, Brock joining them to form a wall between us and the crowd.

  Too little, too late; the crowd was surging, swelling to at least thirty people, all pushing to get in, cell phones lifted to snap photos.

  I twisted to put my back to the shouting, pushing, photographing crowd, Harlow buried in my chest. A new kind of panic hit me--this time a need to protect her, and a violent overstimulation from the noise and commotion.

  "Come on," I murmured to her. "This way."

  I led her to the stairs, trying to ignore the shouts and questions, the photographs. The noise physically hurt, making my head swell and slam and throb, making my skin feel too tight, making panic swirl in my head like a fireball.

  Away, away--I had to get away.

  Low was in my arms, shaking, and I yanked open the door, ushered her through, and closed the door behind us. Not realizing we were in a staircase, Low tripped on the first step, and I caught her, my hands on her hips, pulling her upright. She jogged up the steps, eager to get as far from the din as possible.

  I didn't stop, but led her to my room, closing the door behind us and locking it. Low crossed to my bed and sank down onto it, leaning over her knees, burying her face in her hands, and heaving a shuddering sigh.

  "That's why I came to Alaska," she muttered, "to get away from that."

  "You go through that often?" I asked, incredulous.

  She barked a laugh. "That's nothing. I get swarms of hundreds of people on a daily basis. If I go out in public in LA, I need security and a getaway driver to deal with the crowds."

  My heart flipped. "That must be awful."

  She shrugged. "It's part of the job. Usually I'll stop and take a few selfies and sign a few autographs, but today I just...I couldn't."

  "You really are famous," I breathed. "Those people knew you by sight. They were...crazy. Rabid, almost."

  She laughed again. "That's how it is, Xavier. Welcome to my life."

  "Those men...they acted like you should want to date them simply because...I don't even know. I cannot fathom their thought processes."

  "They think because they saw me in a movie, I'll just...I don't know, fall in love with them and bring them into my glamorous movie star life and buy them sports cars and service their sexual desires day and night."

  "That is patently absurd," I said.

  "Yes. But that's how most men treat me." She sighed. "That's not true. The vast majority of my male fans are content with a selfie or an autograph. Sometimes guys will cop a feel, or make a bad joke, but I've got security for that. But guys like that, back there?" She shook her head, her eyes going to mine. "That's why I didn't tell you who I was, Xavier. Because I was afraid of that."

  "I would never treat you like that--or anyone for that matter."

  She nodded, tearing up again. "I know. I know that now." She breathed out shakily. "And then it was just...it was so...so amazing, so wonderful to just be Low, to be no one special, just a girl with a guy she liked, and I just couldn't...I couldn't tell you."

  "You are someone special," I said. "But not because you're famous--just because of who you are."

  She laughed through tears. "There you go again with that shit."

  "It's not shit, Low, it's the truth."

  "I know, I know." She smiled at me as I stood facing her, hands shoved into my pockets to keep them from ticking or spasming or flapping or patting. "I only call it shit because I get so melty and weak when you talk to me like that."

  "Like what?" I asked. "Like I care?"

  "Yes," she laughed, through a quiet sob. "Exactly. Like you care."

  "But I do."

  "And so do I."

  The silence between us was no longer easy or comfortable but filled with a million questions, none of which seemed to have an answer. For me, at least.

  "You're still going to go back to Hollywood," I said, eventually, sitting on the bed next to her.

  "Yes."

  "So what are we supposed to do? What can this be?"

  She didn't answer. Instead, she toed off her sneakers and lay back on the bed, horizontally across the width. "I'm exhausted, Xavier. I hate crying."

  "Sleep, then," I said, standing up. "I can sleep on the couch."

  She sat up abruptly, catching at my sleeve. "Don't. Please--don't leave."

  "Then I will sleep on the floor."

  She stared at me. "Sleep with me."

  "I--we--" I stammered.

  "I mean just sleep."

  "Won't that only serve to confuse the issue of our emotions?"

  "Probably. But I don't want to be alone." She lay down on the bed, on the far side, against the wall, on top of the blankets. "Please? Just...be here with me. Just for tonight."

  Has anyone ever been so torn as I was in that moment? Half of me wanted nothing more than to climb into that bed with her, to know what it felt like to simply hold her in my arms, to smell her lush, comforting, feminine scent and feel her warmth and the weight of her body against me; the other half wanted to run and hide, because that half knew if I got into that bed, I would become even more attached than I already was, which would make her departure all the more agonizing for me.

  My hesitation was obvious, and Low's face fell. "If you don't want to, I'll understand," she said, sitting up again.

  "It isn't that I don't want to," I said.

  She inhaled deeply, closing her eyes and holding her breath, and then sliding forward to rise up from my bed. "I'll just go." She moved across the room, grabbing her sneakers and pausing to stand beside me in the middle of the room, reaching up to lay her palm on my cheek. "I never meant to hurt you, Xavier. And I certainly don't want to hurt you, or confuse you, more than I already have."

  She made it to the door, her hand on the knob, before I found my voice.

  "Wait," I whispered, my voice rasping. "Stay."

  I sat on my bed, unlaced my shoes, slipped them off and set them aside, I removed my socks and tossed them into my hamper, and then rose again, returning to where Low was still hesitating by the door.

  I took her by the hand and led her to the bed, turned back the blankets, and sat down on the edge.

  Low resisted my tug, standing by the bed in front of me. "It was a bad idea. I should go."

  "I would like you to stay. As you said, only for sleep. Nothing sexual, only mutual comfort."

  She hesitated a moment more, and then sighed as if she'd just let down a heavy weight. "Mutual comfort."

  Low sat beside me. "You want the inside or the outside?"

  I wrinkled my brow. "I do not know. I have never shared a bed before."

  "Well, where on the bed do you usually sleep?"

  "The middle."

  She laughed. "Oh. Well, it's not a very big bed, so I'm not sure we'll both fit in the middle."

  "I will take the outside," I said. "I do not think being between a body and the wall would be restful for me."

  Low nodded, smiling. "That's fine with me. I actually tend to prefer the right side of the bed anyway. It's where I always end up even when I'm alone."

  My mind supplied unhelp
ful images of her in bed with other men, and those images made my stomach roil and my heart contract painfully. "Have you shared a bed frequently?"

  Low frowned. "Um...I mean, just for sleep?"

  "Yes." I studied the floorboards under my feet.

  "No...actually." She glanced at me; I felt her gaze, but avoided looking at her, until she ducked so I had to meet her eyes. "Does the idea of me sharing a bed with someone else upset you?"

  I left the bed and went to my desk, where I had a handful of robot creations I had recently finished, which only needed a few finishing touches; I sat down, opened a crate of parts, and began tinkering.

  "Yes," I said, after a moment.

  "You feel jealous?"

  I added a few little LED lights to one robot, creating the impression of a face. "I feel jealous of you, yes. My understanding of social boundaries informs me that to feel this jealousy of you when we have known each other for such a short time, and have not committed to any kind of relationship...is probably not acceptable."

  I felt her watching me work. "I've only ever had one other serious relationship, with a guy named Harrison. We dated for a couple years while I was at NYU, but we never lived together, and rarely spent the night together." She hesitated. "And...none of my other relationships, such as they have been, were of a kind that we would sleep together."

  "They were based on a physical relationship, you mean."

  "Yeah." A pause. "Does that upset you?"

  "It causes an uncomfortable amount of jealousy, yes. But I cannot logically feel jealousy in relation to your life before you knew me. And even now, I do not think jealousy is appropriate, considering the inherently temporary nature of our relationship...such as it is."

  I heard her leave the bed; felt her beside me, kneeling on the floor next to my desk chair. "You're back to talking to me in the Spock voice."

  I finished adding the last pieces to my creation, plugged it into my desktop computer and tested the programming. "Which is upsetting to you."

  "Yes, it is," she said. "I like it when you look at me and talk to me like yourself."

  "The Spock voice, as you call it, is me. It's just..." I trailed off.

  "A way of expressing yourself when you're uncomfortable with a situation, don't know how to connect to someone, or don't understand a social situation."

  I eyed her with interest. "Yes. Precisely."

  "After you left, I spent several hours researching Autism Spectrum Disorder, high-functioning autism, and tips for dealing with and forming relationships with someone on the spectrum." She sat down cross-legged on the floor beside my crates of parts, picking up a piece and examining it.

  "Why?" I asked.

  "To try and understand you better." She rose up on her knees, peering over the surface of my desk at the little robot. "What is this thing? What's it do?"

  It was a prototype of a new model I'd been working on, with slightly more complex movements and programming; this one featured four appendages, which had hinges in the middle. It was a small box approximately four inches to a side, with the legs at the four corners on two axes, and LED lights in the front to give it a facsimile of a face, making it look, when perched on all fours, somewhat like a very tiny dog.

  I unplugged the cord, set it on the floor, and pressed the power button, which activated its simple programming loop. The four-legged box sank back on its "hind" legs, the hinges folding, and it paused, then sprang forward so the "front" legs rotated at the hinge, essentially performing a flip so it was upside down and on all fours again. It hopped forward a few steps, flipped again back the other way, and then repeated the loop.

  Low watched, mesmerized, giggling. "Oh my god, Xavier! That thing is adorable!" She lay down on her stomach to watch it go through the loop again. "You made it?"

  "Yes. I create them and sell them. I have a website." I plucked one of my business cards from a pile on my desk and handed it to her.

  "Procrastination Creations: robotic diversions, distractions, and eccentricities," Low read, "A bespoke robotics boutique by Xavier Badd."

  I had never felt embarrassed by my little business before--indeed, I have always been proud of it. But now, knowing Low was a world-famous movie star, it felt a little silly.

  "It's just something I do in my spare time, for fun."

  She fiddled with the other unfinished bots on the desk. "I think it's amazing. So they're meant to just be fun, for a quick distraction?"

  "Yes," I said. "Most of my clients keep them on their desks, and when they need a break from work, they turn it on and watch it go, and just let their minds relax."

  I began finishing another prototype, this one a gimbal-based creation--it was a hollow disc about three inches across, thicker at the middle than the edges, like an old-timey representation of a UFO. It had been tricky to engineer, and I was rather proud of it. I added LED lights in strips of alternating colors in a concentric ring on the top and bottom, with the lights programmed to sync to the speed of its rotation, so the faster it spun, the faster the lights blinked, creating what I hoped would be a fairly mesmerizing spectacle. Once the programming was checked and tested, I unplugged it and turned it on to begin rotating on my desk.

  "This is a brand-new model as well, and very different from anything else I've created. Assuming the sync between the lights and movement is correct, it should prove somewhat hypnotic. An electronic, automatic version of a light-up fidget spinner, sort of."

  Low watched the thing spin faster and faster, the lights swirling. "I love this thing so much," she breathed. "It really is hypnotic."

  I took several photographs of the bot as it spun, and then a few more of it on my desk, uploaded the photos to my website, marking the new creation as prototype only and not for sale.

  I then handed the bot to Low. "You may have it," I said.

  She took it, blinking up at me. "I'll buy it."

  I shook my head. "It's a gift. If you enjoy it, send your friends to my website, and that will be thanks enough."

  "Thank you."

  I set my tools aside, keeping my gaze away from her again. "Something to remember me by, that's all."

  Low's breath caught. "Xavier..." She sank back to sit on the floor. "That's not...I never wanted to--"

  "Why would you want to understand me better?" I asked, cutting her off. "To what purpose?"

  "I don't know," she answered. "I don't understand what I'm feeling here any more than you do. I just know that after you left...what you'd said, what you'd told me, everything that had happened...it was all running through my head. I realized how selfishly I'd treated you. That I'd...that I had overlooked all the hints you'd given me about being different. I didn't realize what you meant until you told me, and...and I hated how you left, so upset, so--I don't know. I wanted to know more. I had to know more." She paused. " But...why? To what purpose? I really don't know."

  I examined her face, trying to read her expression. "I think you are lying about that. I think you do know, but you don't want to say, either to me or at all."

  She sniffed a sad laugh. "You're not supposed to be that perceptive, Xavier."

  "I'm not perceptive. But for some reason, I'm more able to correctly interpret your facial expressions than I am other people."

  "I wanted to know more because I like you, and I care about you--probably more than I should. And that scares me."

  "Intense emotions are very difficult for me. It is much easier for me to live my life avoiding them. It's easier to lose myself in robots and textbooks than to let myself get mixed up with people, because people mean emotions, and emotions confuse me and scare me and overwhelm me." I looked at her, searching her blue eyes, and finding a wealth of emotions in her expression. "I can't escape you, Low. You throw my whole world into chaos. You create feelings and thoughts and desires I have no experience with, no capacity to understand, and no mechanisms for dealing with. Being around you, being with you--it sometimes feels like being thrown from an airplane and told to fl
y. And I do not know how to fly, nor do I have wings or a parachute."

  "I don't know how to fly either, Xavier."

  "But you have wings," I said. "You understand emotions. You understand people."

  "That doesn't make dealing with something this new and this...this strong any easier for me." She reached for my hands, and I let her take them.

  I searched her face again, saw tear tracks on her cheeks, sadness in her eyes, exhaustion. "Do you still want to share my bed for sleeping, Low?"

  "Yes," she whispered. "Very much so."

  I went to my bed and lay down, fully clothed in jeans and a T-shirt. Low stayed on the floor, a puzzled expression on her face.

  "You sleep fully clothed?" she asked.

  I laughed. "No. I typically do not wear anything to bed. But to be naked with you would be to invite temptation I do not think I am strong enough to deny, and I think we are not emotionally prepared for...anything physical."

  She moved to sit on the bed near my feet. "I sleep naked too. But I think you're right." She paused, and then glanced at me. "I don't know if I can sleep fully clothed, though. What if we compromised on partially clothed?"

  I nodded. "That is an agreeable idea."

  "So can you sleep in a pair of shorts, and I'll sleep in a T-shirt?"

  I nodded, leaving the bed to find a pair of running shorts. I hesitated, then chastised myself for being shy when Low had already seen all of me. The chastisement didn't stop me from blushing, or my heart from hammering as I stepped out of my jeans and tossed my T-shirt aside, and then slid the shorts on. Low's eyes raked over me as I changed, and I wondered what it meant when her tongue slid along her lower lip, or when her teeth caught at that lip and her nostrils flared, and her fingers tangled together and tightened into a white-knuckled knot.

  "You have a T-shirt I could borrow?" she asked, her voice strangely hoarse.

  I opened a drawer, hesitating, and then gave her my second-favorite shirt--a faded gray one of thin, worn cotton, with the logo of a servomotor manufacturer on the right breast--the company had gifted it to me as a thank you for ordering so many parts from them, and it was the most comfortable shirt I owned, only second favorite because my first favorite was a Badd's Bar and Grill T-shirt of Dad's, which I'd stolen from his drawer immediately following his death. That shirt, however, I never wore, and kept out of sentiment.