Chapter Two

Circa 11:00 PM

A long, stressful day is over, and I'm in Mira-Me's hotel suite watching a rugby game on a living room couch while she sips a third margarita and scrolls through her notifications in a connecting bedroom. Although she didn't make a personal performance today since it was more of a have-you-seen-me gathering of celebrities before the film première, she got her fill of camera flattery and, I quote, "super cool" response from fellow artists before she ended the evening celebrations by herself here at the hotel. By herself but not alone, as she keeps her zillion-something Instagram followers updated about important details such as dresses, hairstyles, shoes, purses, earrings, handsome young men, and the scandals everyone's going to talk about in the next few days.

She's in her happy place now, but she's not happy with me. After the annoying situation on the street earlier, she has seized every chance to criticize my "bullyish behavior" and call me "the worst person ever." She literally regrets employing me. I've got to hand it to her, for someone so fake and self-centered, she can offer great empathy and compassion to a stranger when she wants. Why? Because the clown charmed the crowd, because she thought he was funny? I have no idea. Young people nowadays only do or say certain things if they see a profit.

Her constant criticism bothers me. One, because she's been nagging me like an old hooker and I've had enough harassment for a day, and two, because deep inside I know she's right. She argues that the clown was only doing his job and it's not his fault we were late for the première or happened to be in the line of cars passing through that street. It's true. It wasn't anybody's fault and yet the situation happened. Do I regret it? Kind of. I don't like to think of myself as a bully. I don't want to be that man. Maybe I should take an anger management course. Or stop drinking.

Yeah, but first, the bad memories need to fade.

Every evening, a fierce and merciless thirst for alcohol takes place in my gut and won't let go unless I feed it. I don't even need to think about the stuff that happened in the past for the thirst to show its ugly face. It's an automatic urge, and tonight is no exception. I've already emptied the selection of Spanish beers in the minibar and I'm debating whether to go for a scotch or a gin next. Mira-Me doesn't mind me drinking as long as she's got what she needs and I can interfere if her own consumption gets out of hand. I'm never so drunk I can't take care of her. She's my boss and protégée.

Okay, tonight is an exception. I'm restless and uptight and I'm downing more liquor than usual. It's the damn clown, he continues to irritate me even after so many hours. I can't get him off my mind. On one hand, I want to apologize, don't want to be seen as an asshole who can't admit his faults and weaknesses. We live in the unforgiving age of the soft man, and if you can't talk about feelings with the opposite sex, you're in deep shit.

On the other hand, he intrigues me. Just the touch of his strong muscles beneath his clothes has me wondering who the hell he is and what he does when he's not being the clown. And the way he rubbed his ass against my crotch! Oh, man, that was hot. Way hot. You'd think he knew I was gay (well, bi to be precise) and took advantage of it … but of course, there's no way he could know.

During a pause in the game, I grab my phone and lazily thumb through my Facebook feed. I'm far from being as social media savvy as my young boss and have no intention to be "connected" at all hours of the day, but I do have an account to keep somewhat in touch with family and friends back in the US.

A symbol announces I have a new message. From a certain Joe Keane. I don't recognize him from my friends list. What's odd is sometimes I get new friendship requests from people I know remotely, but this guy sent me a message without requesting to be friends. Hmm. The name rings a bell, but my brain is mushy and I can't locate him in time or place. An ex-colleague? Someone I went to school with? A distant cousin?

I thumb the message open. It starts with, Hi, Zane, how are you?

Mira-Me squeals from the other room, interrupting my read. The cry is more a sound of joy than fear, but it still causes a shiver to creep up my spine.

I put my phone on the coffee table, get up trying to ignore my tired body's complaints, and go stand in her doorframe. She's in bed propped up against a mass of pillows wearing pink and yellow PJs, likely inspired by the latest Barbie movie, and donning the happiest girlie smile.

Across her room hangs a vanity mirror on the wall, and it reflects the image of my torso. It's not a pretty sight. Ruffled blond hair, baggy eyes of undefinable color, and deep lines traced into my skin revealing my years. Not exactly going to make me feel better. The only thing I'm pleased about is my strong build. I run and work out every day to stay fit for the job. Cut out cigarettes years ago, too. The booze, on the other hand…

Something moves in my side vision. "I know who he is," she says.

I focus on the girl in the bed. "Who?"

Blue gaze sparkling, she waves her phone at me. "Robin the clown. He's not a clown, by the way, he's a harlequin. A street art harlequin , according to the description on his website."

"I can't believe you Googled him." The fact she thought about him at the same time as me and actually did something about it is baffling, but I conceal my excitement behind a yawn. "It's getting late, chica. We have a long day tomorrow. Do you even know the difference between a clown and a harlequin?"

Of course, she doesn't. Today's youth are illiterate and don't care for a minimum of general cultural knowledge. Ignorance and superficiality are the new norm.

To my surprise, she taps something on her phone and reads, squinting, "A clown is a mischievous buffoon that performs comedy, usually at a circus, and typically wears flamboyant clothes and exaggerated makeup with a big, red nose."

I conceal a smile. I'm not sure she knows the words "buffoon" or "flamboyant," but I'm impressed she bothered to look this subject up—and even spelled the words right.

"A harlequin," she continues reading, "is a more sophisticated and romantic pantomime that wears checkered clothes." She looks up. "What's ‘checkered'?"

A small grin escapes me. For someone so invested in the fashion industry, her question comes across as odd. "You ever seen a chess game?"

"Maybe?"

"Imagine a diamond-shaped pattern of black and white."

"Oooh!" Her face lights up like she just discovered a new, cool gadget on her phone. "But that's what the clothes he wore looked like. Black-and-white diamonds."

"Duh," I say with a small laugh, mocking her generation's favorite word.

"Duh." She sticks her tongue out at me. "I'm not stupid, you know."

"No, just ignorant. I've never seen you open a book. What are you going to do when you're in your thirties and start putting on weight and your influencer career is over?"

A bag of jalape?o -flavored potato crisps sits by her side looking very alone. I lean down and snatch it before she can protest. It's funny—and nice—how she and I have managed to develop a sort of father-daughter dynamic during our year-long professional relationship, despite our age and cultural differences. Sometimes we can't stand each other and stick strictly to the job (her being bossy like a Nazi officer), and other times we silently agree to play the roles of close family members bantering and sharing everyday-life issues and pleasures.

"Huh, ignorant," she huffs. "Even you called him a clown."

I heave a shoulder. At the peak of my irritation earlier, I honestly didn't care what the heck he was, I just wanted the obstruction out of my way. A potato chip finds its way into my mouth, then another. Once I get started, there's no stopping me. My teeth crush the chips to mush, a fatty but delicious jalape?o -flavored juice spreading over my tongue.

She looks down again and uses her finger to scroll. "Gawd, he's hot!" she exclaims. "There's a pic of him without the makeup."

"Oh? Sh—" I was about to say, "Show me," but that would reveal a certain interest, and I can't let her know I have any thoughts whatsoever about this guy. Instead, I say, "Shut up, you're too young for that stuff."

"Hey, you're not my father. Besides, I can have any guy I want." She purses her lips and reads on. "I think I can find out where he is, there's a phone number for his management."

I blink. She's pushing this too far. "Why on earth would you want to find out where he is?"

She rolls her eyes. "It would be your chance to apologize! Duh."

A chill traverses me. That girl is capable of doing the craziest things when she sets her mind to it, and she'll drag me through the most troublesome situations. Unfortunately, I signed a contract clause stating I can't refuse a direct order.

She jumps out of bed faster than I can blink again. Not the least shy, she turns to the wall and strips out of her pajamas.

I look away, set the bag of crisps on the bed—suddenly lost my appetite—and cross my arms. "Would you care to explain what the hell you're doing? At this hour?"

The sound of ruffling clothes behind me tells me the damn girl is getting dressed to go out, I'm sure of it, and I'm not liking it. She's set to doing something I don't want to be part of, cruising through town at night and looking for someone I don't want to meet.

Although Robin the harlequin—I'll call him that from now on—did intrigue me on some level, and if she does manage to find him, it might give me the chance to redeem myself. I'd hate to look back on this day for the rest of my life reminding me I'm an asshole.

Then again, I'm not sure I'm up to it. Nope, I'm exhausted and would rather have a good night's sleep between now and the moment I face that guy again to offer my apologies. It would suck if I showed up feeling and looking like a cadaver.

Quick as a whirlwind, she passes me by with a whiff of watermelon-bubblegum scent and heads to the main door. She's put white jeans and a Tina Turner-tribute tee on and styles them with a turquoise Aimee Song purse. "There's a program on his website, says he's doing an indoor show with another harlequin this evening. Let's go."

Fuck. I hold out an arm. "You're forgetting something, Boss. "

"What?" She swivels and stands in my face with a raised eyebrow.

Up close, her eyes are a startling blue, and they stand out in the dark tan of her skin like two shiny opals. You'd think she was wearing lenses, but she's not. Her eyes are the only parts of her body that are real yet look fake, sadly. They remind me of the harlequin's green-colored eyes and how they stood out in his white facial paint, full of humor and mischief.

Ugh, why does he keep coming to my mind? I am so not ready to see him again. "I can't drive," I explain, glad to have an excuse. "I've had a couple beers."

Her inquisitive gaze wanders over my shoulder, at the couch behind me. "More, it seems."

I take a deep, calming breath. "And in Spain, you can't drink and dr—"

She waves a hand. "Oh, that's not a problem. The venue is a few blocks down the road."

"You mean you want to walk? You, who had to be driven in a limo earlier? Which is the reason why I got into all that trouble in the first place?"

She gives me a shrug that says, " Whatever ."

I shake my head. "Seriously, I'd rather go tomorrow. I'm super tired." I stress that adverb in the hopes she'll hear the misery in my voice and relent.

A frown. "No, tomorrow they're going to another town. They're on tour."