Break It Up Part 20

"It's not a bad idea," says Zach. "Come on."

"I'm not interested in playacting anymore."

"Oh, so what?" says Logan. "You really are a worthless junkie with no goals in life?"

"Not that we're judgmental or anything," says Ben.

"Guys, hold up," I say. "Don't call each other names."

Zach and Logan both look chastened.

"So am I about to get locked up again?" asks Ben. "Back to curfews and no meals if I jeopardize a show?"

"You said that without someone riding you, you'd be better," says Zach. "You said the only reason you rebelled was because you felt so constrained."

"So we got a manager who promised to respect our boundaries, and what do you do?" Logan chimes in.

"It wasn't the schedule and all that c.r.a.p that was restrictive," says Ben. "It's this stupid band. It's the lame good-guy image. It's the loads of BS we shovel at our fans every night."

"It's not BS!" shouts Zach. "You think you're so cool, partying and doing drugs and frying your brain and blowing your money? That's sad, okay? That's you acting like a teenager still."

"Sorry to cut in," says Aidan, "but this is golden. Ben's right. There is a segment of the population that sees you guys as juvenile and fake and pure vanilla. Moments like this allow you to speak to them. Address these issues. So if I can sort of guide things here, why don't you guys talk about what you feel you can and can't do as members of Triple Cross."

"We can't do anything," says Ben. "We have to just live in our gilded cages."

"Pretty sure you got that phrase from a book or something," says Zach. "There's a difference between responsibility and being caged."

"I can't be seen with a beer in my hand until I'm twenty-one," says Ben. "Even though it's legal here in Europe. I can't be seen with girls who dress 'immodestly' when that's how girls at our concerts dress. I can't be seen acting the least bit out of it or else rumors spread that I'm stoned."

"No, I hear that," says Zach. "So let's talk about what we can do. We can do a lot of good. A lot of charity work. We can have great interaction with our fans, and we wouldn't be the first to have a kind of dress code."

"Your mom's plan was to have us advertise for upscale alcohol brands and men's cologne and fas.h.i.+on," says Ben.

"And what's wrong with that?"

"It's all fake."

"Wait," says Logan. "What's that even mean? Is there someone who advertises men's cologne in a more 'genuine' manner? I mean, it's advertising..."

"I'd like to just live my life and not worry about my image all the time."

I can't help it. I cut in again. "Everyone has to worry about what other people will think. I get what you mean, but even regular people worry about gossip and stuff. Everyone's got some kind of image to maintain."

"Not like ours," says Ben.

I nod. "True."

"And you're one to talk about image."

"Ben," I say, "enough."

"Acting like you're too good for me."

"She is too good for you," says Zach.

"No," I say, "don't. Everyone calm down."

"Kyra Armijo is a s.l.u.t," shouts Ben. "She's a s.k.a.n.k and a wh.o.r.e who screwed everything with a Y chromosome in Alb-"

In a flash, Zach is out of his chair and the two cousins. .h.i.t the carpet.

"Stop it!" I yell. "Now! Break it up. Come on, break it up, guys!" I don't dare try to insert myself physically. Zach knees Ben in the stomach and Ben claps him on the ear. It looks like an almost playful gesture, but it's not. Ben's trying to damage Zach's hearing. This is for real.

The two roll until they hit the wall and Ben gets the upper hand. He pins Zach down and punches him in the nose hard enough that blood spurts.

I scream.

Logan looks like he's watching a horror movie.

"Ben! Stop it now," I shout.

But I may as well be in a soundproof enclosure. Ben won't stop. He punches Zach again and again until Zach manages to shove him off and give as good as he's gotten. The first punch connects with Ben's eye.

It's only then that it hits me-Aidan's not intervening. I look up, incredulous, as he stands back and watches every moment "How are you going to deal with this?" I ask. To the fighting cousins, I yell, "Break it up! Both of you." I lunge forward.

For a moment, I have my hand on Zach's shoulder and am reaching for Ben's chest. Then something solid connects with my cheek and the world goes black save for a starburst of light.

I COME to in a sterile hospital room, my head throbbing to the beat of my pulse.

"Kyra?" says a familiar voice.

I lift my head off my pillow and feel the room spin. I'm delirious, though. I could swear that the woman sitting beside my bed is Mrs. Wechsler. She has her graying blond hair cut in a bob that makes her jaw look even more severe and the usual makeup that's way too young for her face. It's like her crystal clear publicity vision only works on teens.

"Do you know where you are? What's your name?" she asks.

"Kyra Armijo," I mutter. "I a.s.sume I got taken to the hospital after either Zach or Ben punched me in the face."

"Your father is on his way. He's still ten hours out or so, but he's coming."

"Okay..."

"Listen, I just wanted to be here to let you know that you aren't to have any more contact with either of my sons."

"Who are you to decide that?" I say. "They've got a restraining order against you."

"This is Switzerland. Different court system. It's got no effect here. I've been following the tour, watching it fall apart, and I hold you responsible."

"Huh?"

Her smile is cold as ice. "The band's broken up. Triple Cross is no more. You took one of the most successful music franchises in history and ran it into the ground. Congratulations."

"I didn't break them up."

"It's just coincidence it happened the day after you slept with Zach and turned down Ben's request in the airport to give him some?"

I let my head flop back on my pillow. "I didn't sleep with Zach." Not in the way she thinks, though I know this argument won't get me anywhere.

"I've done a bit of research on you," she goes on. "Contacted people claiming to be ex-boyfriends and, well, one-night affairs. I'm on the trail of a possible s.e.x tape."

I shut my eyes, my whole chest cavity feeling like it's about to implode with dread. "I didn't break up the band."

"We'll see what the public has to say about that."

"You're scapegoating me."

"Mmm. Perhaps. Or perhaps it's time you grew up and came to understand a thing or two about accountability. When I showed what I'd found out about you to Zach, he was devastated. You lied to him. He's a good man and you toyed with his heart and led him on."

"It wasn't like that."

"Hurt me, and I can forgive you," Mrs. Wechsler says. "Hurt one of my boys, and h.e.l.l hath no fury." She gets to her feet. "Goodbye, and good luck." She chuckles at that last one and leaves the room.

Yeah, the pounding in my head is only the beginning of my headaches, I'm sure. I shut my eyes and try to ignore the fact that I've just riled up one of the most powerful people in the entertainment industry. I remember Zach's claims about her skills with the media. I'm not just going to look bad. She's going to obliterate any chance I might ever have to make a good impression on anyone. I'm going to be the s.l.u.t who destroyed Triple Cross.

THE FIRST hint I get of the media fallout is the nurses in the hall laughing and joking. French is close enough to Spanish that I get the gist. "The girl in that room is the wh.o.r.e," is the translation I come up with. To their credit, whenever they come in to wait on me, they have their game faces on and treat me with impeccable courtesy. In fact, they're a little too nice, as if even they have some idea of what I'll be in for.

My father shows up half the day later, and from his grim expression, I can see that the media blitz is in full swing. By this time, I've had some painkillers and can sit up. The reason I was given for why I'm still in the hospital, though, is because I have a mild concussion, and they've kept me here for observation to see if I have a brain injury. It's plausible, but I suspect the real reason is that I'm safer here, away from paparazzi cameras.

My father is in a plain t-s.h.i.+rt and jeans, a baseball cap on his head, a duffel bag over his shoulder. It's clear he came straight here from his flight. I doubt he even stopped at a hotel first.

"How bad is it?" I ask.

He drops into the chair by the bed, takes my hand in his, and squeezes it. "I'll say the same thing to you now that I said the first time I ever saw you." He says this in Spanish. Our language. The one he once spoke over my cradle.

"What's that?" I ask.

"Papa's here, and he loves you always. I'll take care of you, no matter what it takes."

"When was that?"

He pats my wrist, above our clasped hands. "The day after you were born. Your mother wouldn't let me in to see you and I wasn't on your birth certificate. I had to go get an injunction from a court in order to see you."

"What?"

"I guess I never did tell you that story. You had enough drama in your life that I didn't see the need to pile it on, but when you were born, your mother wouldn't let me see you, and she wouldn't hold you or even look at you. Her mother was there to help a little, but I wasn't able to get in to see you until I got an injunction. Took the better part of a day."

"Only one day?" That sounds fast to me for anything to do with the court system.

"Well, in the neighborhood I was in at the time, a man wanting to claim his child is rare. It made an impression on the judge, who was himself an involved father of four. Judge Gonzalez, not that that's a distinctive name in New Mexico."

"So, he helped you come get me?"

"Yep. I didn't sleep a wink the night before. I was thinking of you there all alone, without a parent to hold you. As soon as I had that injunction in hand, I was in the maternity ward."

"You rescued me."

"I did my duty, not that I thought of it that way. When I arrived at the hospital, there were babies crying and wailing, but there was this one voice, this one baby cry, that stabbed me through the heart. I knew at once it was you. The nurses had to chase me I was in the nursery so fast, but I picked you up and held you and told you, 'Papa is here, and he loves you always. I'll take care of you, no matter what it takes.'"

"So you took me home?"

"Not right then. I needed more help from the court for that, but I didn't leave your side until I had the custody order. It was temporary at first, but I got it made permanent."

"I never knew that story."

My father shrugs. "That's how you got the name Kyra. I put it on your birth certificate. Your mother hadn't even filled out that part, but I wanted you to have some way to know you were mine, even if we got separated." My father's name, given to him by his Anglo mother, is Kyle. "Your mother's parents wanted you, and in New Mexico, that's who'd usually win a custody battle like that. I took my name and changed two letters and put that on your birth certificate along with my last name. And your mother's, but you know, mine first."

Spanish tradition allows both last names to be pa.s.sed down, but a lot of people who never knew their fathers don't carry their names.

"So that's why I'm with you? It wasn't because Mom dumped me on you."

"No. If she'd wanted to raise you, she'd have had a fight on her hands. You're my little girl." He smiles.

"And now you might miss the birth of your other two kids because you're here with me." All this time I've been thinking of myself, I forgot all about Jen and the twins. How awful am I? My father's endured so much from me over the years, and here I am again, robbing him of another well deserved happy moment.

"You needed me. I'll never say no to that. Jen will be fine even if she does go into labor. It's a very different situation from the last time around."

That's an understatement. "Is there any way we can get home right now?" I ask.

"I just need to get an all clear from the doctors to take you, but then yes. Let's go home. And avoid all televisions, newspapers, magazines..." His voice trails off.

"Yeah..."

"So far Ben's been doing all the talking. Zach hasn't released a statement."

"He hasn't?"

"What is he likely to say? Or...well...you don't have to tell me."

"If he tells the truth, nothing much. We kissed. We never slept together. I mean, we were only together less than a day." If he wanted to talk to me, he would have by now. I take his silence to mean we are over.

"All right. The only men worthy of you are ones who treasure you and fight for you. I keep trying to tell you this, but you never listen." He waves his hand, as if dismissing an imaginary Zach Wechsler without a second glance.

After everything I've done and all the mistakes I've made, here's my toughest critic telling me I'm too good for one of the most sought-after men on the planet. And now I finally do get it. All the times he grounded me and scolded me and begged and pleaded with me, that really was what he was saying, in every way he knew how.

THREE DAYS later, we're in New Mexico, and the airwaves are still blowing up. My being a s.l.u.t isn't worthy of that kind of attention, but the end of Triple Cross totally is. And Aidan Greer is feeding the frenzy with clips and snippets of incriminating footage. The beast that is the media is more powerful and nasty than ever before. Court action to get my image supressed is powerless against videos going viral.

Reporters surround our house, despite APD's best efforts to get them away. Short of locking our property down with a SWAT team, there's no way to prevent the media sneaking back once they've been evicted.

Jason and Steve and Jen's parents are supportive from a distance. Everyone's in hunker-down mode, waiting for it to blow over. "Because it always does," Jen a.s.sures and rea.s.sures me.