Ransom Page 17

  “I used to cut myself,” she says. “I was really messed up back in high school. I was pissed at my parents, so I acted out by sleeping around. I felt bad about the sleeping around, so I cut myself. Oh, and I threw up ninety-five percent of what I ate.”

  I stare up at her, unable to resolve the image she’s painted with the gorgeous, confident person standing in front of me.

  “My point, Daisy, is that people have fucked-up stuff in their past. It doesn’t make them weak, and it doesn’t make them unlovable. The fact that you went through that and came out on the other side makes you strong. The opposite of weak.”

  “She’s right,” Paige says.

  “And if he disagrees,” Karen goes on, “then he was never worthy of being your friend in the first place, let alone worth giving your heart to.”

  I smile up at her, my eyes watering. “You know, I always wondered what this would be like.”

  “What?”

  “Having girlfriends.”

  She laughs and leans down to hug me. “You’ve got them now, lady.”

  “You guys,” Paige cries, jumping up to join our hug. “You’ll make me cry.”

  “Oh, like that would be any different than usual,” Karen scoffs.

  I close my eyes, letting myself enjoy the moment without worry or anxiousness. Maybe Karen is right. Maybe everyone has messed-up stuff in their past. Maybe it doesn’t make me weak. Maybe the point is that I got through it.

  And if getting through all of that made me stronger, maybe it also made me strong enough to finally put my heart on the line and tell Daltrey how I feel.

  Chapter Twenty

  Daisy

  If I wasn’t already excited about our day out, Daltrey’s good mood certainly would have gotten me there. “You look like a kid on Christmas morning,” I say as I join him in the lobby. “Seriously, you have a goofy-ass grin on your face. Is my company that exciting?”

  “Dream on,” he says. “I’m just excited about having a day off. I could be spending it with Cash, and I’d still be this happy.” He pauses. “Scratch that. I can’t even pretend that I would be this excited to hang out with Cash.”

  I laugh. “Well, who would?”

  “You mean besides half the female population of the United States?”

  “So what’s the plan?” I ask. “Or are we going to stand here in the lobby making fun of your brothers all day?”

  “Oh, there’s a plan, miss. Just you wait and see.”

  He holds his arm out, and I take it, enjoying the silliness. We walk through the lobby, and I can’t help but notice the number of eyes on him. The word has definitely gotten out that the band is staying here. The hotel security has done a great job so far of ensuring the band’s privacy, but there’s been a pretty steady stream of photographers camped out on the sidewalk outside the main doors. We head to the back of the lobby, where one of the band’s security guys is waiting for us at the entrance to the underground parking garage.

  “Hey, Benny,” Daltrey says, bumping fists with the much taller man. “Thanks for doing this, man.”

  “No problem, Daltrey. Morning, Daisy.”

  I give him a little wave, feeling shy. Benny and Frank intimidate the crap out of me. They’re both very nice and professional, but they’re also both gigantic, towering over everyone else, their muscly arms barely contained in tight black T-shirts. Of course, intimidating is a pretty important characteristic for a security guard, but I still feel as if I’m standing in the shadow of a giant whenever I talk to one of them.

  “Benny’s going to drive for us today,” Daltrey tells me. “I was kind of hoping we could get away with using public transportation because that would be way more fun, but I just don’t think it would be possible.”

  “I don’t know,” I say, as we descend into the stairwell. “I think being chauffeured around town sounds like fun enough.”

  In the garage, instead of a van, Benny leads us to a sleek black town car.

  “Swanky,” I say as he opens the door to reveal a roomy leather bench seat. “Thanks, Benny.” Once we’re settled in our seats, I look around and shake my head. “We so do not fit the surroundings.”

  Daltrey looks down at his clothes. “You think we’re not posh enough?”

  He’s dressed in classic rock star jeans—tight, riddled with holes, and held up by a studded belt. His black Led Zeppelin T-shirt is about a million years old, and his grey hoodie and beanie add to the general unkempt impression.

  I’m not much better. My dark pencil jeans and black Chucks have seen better days, and my hoodie is plenty baggy and faded. “Yeah, ‘not posh’ is kind of an understatement.”

  Benny pulls out of the garage, and we’re immersed in bright morning sunshine. It’s only just past nine, but the sky is already a clear, bright blue, no clouds in sight. I wonder if we’re finally going to get some summer weather, and I’m relieved I remembered to put my cuff bracelets on under my hoodie, in case I need to take it off.

  “So where are we going?” I ask. “Or are you going to keep me in suspense all day?”

  “I thought we’d get some breakfast first.”

  “Oh, are we getting bagels?” I had my first taste of bagels and lox from the hotel restaurant earlier in the week, and I was hooked.

  Daltrey shakes his head. “Nope. Something better.”

  I raise an eyebrow, but he doesn’t say anything else. Traffic is pretty heavy, but Benny is a pro at navigating through it. I wonder again how anyone manages to drive in a big city like this.

  “So this place is kind of out of the way,” Daltrey says. “We’re going to need to come back up this same way when we’re done. But I thought it would be worth it.”

  “What’s so great about it?”

  “It just so happens to take your favorite food in the entire world and turn it into a breakfast food.”

  My eyes widen. “Mac and Cheese?”

  He laughs. “Yeah. They do mac and cheese pancakes. I figured there was no way we could be in New York and not eat that.”

  “Holy shit.” I’ve been known to live on macaroni and cheese for weeks on end. The very thought of eating it in pancake form makes my mouth water.

  “This place has a reputation. Very good food, like, a ridiculous amount of menu choices, and very strict rules.”

  “Rules?”

  “Yeah. Your party can’t be any bigger than four. They will straight up kick you out. You also can’t request to share your meal. Everyone has to order something. And they do not make exceptions for people in fairly famous rock bands, F.Y.I.”

  “Do you know this from experience?”

  He nods. “Yeah. We had heard the thing about no large parties, so we split into two groups. But then dumbass Cash tried to pull a chair up to our table because he was pissed at Reed about something and didn’t want to eat with him.”

  “Did you guys get kicked out?”

  “Cash did. We told the waiter we had no idea who he was.”

  I burst into laughter. “He had to leave? All by himself?”

  Daltrey grins. “Yup. The rest of us enjoyed our food and let him wait outside for us.”

  “You’re mean,” I say, laughing.

  He shrugs. “It was good for him. He thinks he can get away with whatever he wants just because girls think he’s hot.”

  “Well, to be fair, he usually can.”

  Daltrey shakes his head. “Yeah, when we went out to meet him, he was totally hitting on some girl in the parking lot. So he still got a number out of it.”

  We get to the restaurant and manage not to break any of the rules. Daltrey was absolutely right about the food. It’s incredible.

  “There needs to be a way for me to eat this every day,” I say.

  “I don’t think your cholesterol levels would like that much.”

  Afterward, Benny drives us back uptown so we can see Central Park. We wander down the paths, pausing to look up the buildings that surround the vast green spaces.

/>   “It’s so weird. When I turn my back and just look out over this”—I wave my hands to encompass the lawns and stones around us—”it feels like we’re a million miles away from the city. But then you turn around and it’s all around us.”

  “That’s the beauty of Central Park.”

  We make our way around to Strawberry Fields, the John Lennon memorial. There’s a small crowd taking pictures and milling around the Imagine mosaic. A man sits on a bench, playing “In My Life” on his guitar. We pause to listen; he’s very good. When the guy finishes the song, Daltrey pulls two twenties from his pocket and tosses them into the open case. Their eyes meet, and I get the sense the man recognizes him. Guitar man nods slightly in thanks, and we move on.

  “You sure like throwing your money around,” I tease.

  “That’s the most fun part,” he says, his tone serious, “being able to brighten someone’s day a little bit. To leave a nice tip just for the hell of it. To pay someone’s bill without telling them. It’s seriously the best perk of this entire experience.”

  I shake my head, marveling at this boy. He just spent the night in one of the swankiest, most expensive hotels in New York City. He drives from city to city on a luxurious tour bus that puts most middle-class houses to shame. He spends the day sightseeing with a private driver. But tipping a busker in Central Park is the highlight of his day.

  I love him so much.

  I’ve had to push those feelings down for such a long time. When we were teenagers, Daltrey always had a girlfriend. Few of them were ever serious, horrid Joanie lasting longer than most, but there was generally always someone. After the band recorded their first demo in a local studio the summer before our junior year, he seemed to get a lot more serious about things in his life. He stopped flirting and going through girlfriends as if they were candy and started focusing more on the band and where they were headed.

  But still, even with the endless string of girls out of the picture, I couldn’t tell him. A lot of it was cowardice, pure and simple. The idea of laying my heart bare to him scared the hell out of me. But I also didn’t want to do anything that would mess up the opportunities that were starting to come his way. The band was getting interest from record producers and managers. He didn’t need complications.

  So holding in my feelings has become second nature. I’m used to being around Daltrey and wishing we were more, wishing we were holding hands instead of walking side by side, wishing I could brush his hair from his face, touch his lips, bury my head into the little dip of his shoulder. I’m used to wanting those things, but doing nothing about it. I’ve had years of practice.

  So why is it getting so much harder all of a sudden?

  Maybe it’s the absence, the being without him, that has dulled my abilities to cover my desire. My heart feels like a desperate thing. I’m like a person who has been denied water so long that her thirst has become overwhelming.

  We eat lunch in a Midtown deli, a little place Daltrey heard about from one of the venue staff before the first show. Walking around all morning has made me ravenously hungry, and the thick cuts of turkey and ham on soft-baked white bread are heavenly.

  “What now?” I ask, wiping my hands on my napkin.

  “I have an idea,” he says, giving me an appraising look. “But I’m not one hundred percent sure you’ll be into it.”

  “No strip clubs,” I say automatically.

  He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, ’cause that was what I was going to suggest.”

  “What then?”

  “What would you think about getting your tattoo today?”

  My mouth drops open. That was the last thing I was expecting.

  “Come on, Daisy. We always said we would go right after graduation, right? That it would be a rite of passage. But we never did it. I think now would be a great time.”

  It was true. We had plans to get tattoos together for ages. Daltrey already had several, along with his eyebrow piercing and several holes in his ears. My dad, however, was always strict about it, telling me in no uncertain times that I wouldn’t have one while living under his roof. Daltrey promised me that we’d get it done before I went to college. Once the supporting tour had been lined up and we agreed that I’d come along to work for them, we changed the plan to right after graduation. The tattoo was supposed to represent my independence, my taking control of my own life from my overly strict dad.

  “What do you think?” he eventually asks.

  Am I at a point now that should be celebrated? Do I want to mark the journey of the last several months? A rite of passage, I think to myself. A celebration. “Hell yeah!”

  Daltrey grins his old child-like, free smile that lights up my insides. “I was hoping you’d say that. I booked us both an appointment at a shop I know.”

  I laugh. “That’s awesome. Oh, my God! I’m so excited. I have no idea what I should get. What are you going to get?”

  I know I’m babbling, but I can’t help it, and Daltrey doesn’t seem to mind. We’re like kids again, wild and getting into trouble. It feels great.

  “They have idea books, and the guy we’re going to see is phenomenal. He can help you choose.”

  “When’s the appointment? Can we go now?”

  “Of course we can.” He stands and holds out his arm. “After you.”

  I jump from the booth and head to the car with Daltrey, my brain spinning with the possibilities.

  “You always said you wanted your first one on your shoulder, right? Is that still what you’re thinking?” he asks.

  “I don’t know. I thought that was what I wanted, but I won’t be able to see it there, you know? Not without looking in the mirror. Maybe my hip? But then no one else would be able to see it either.”

  “My first one was one was on my shoulder. But on the front side, where I could see it.”

  He has the lyrics to “Baba O’Riley”—his favorite song by The Who, sung by his namesake—on his shoulder. Three lines of print, a simple, clean font. It’s my favorite of his half-dozen tattoos.

  I realize, immediately, what I want and where. “I got it.”

  He raises his eyebrows. “That was fast. You know, this is going to be on your body for the rest of your life.”

  “When you know, you know.”

  “Yes, you do.” His eyes stay on mine just a beat longer than necessary.

  The tattoo parlor is in Brooklyn, and we have to fight heavy traffic to get there. But it gives us time to search for tattoo designs on our phones. The more I see, the more I feel confident in my decision. Daltrey is going back and forth between song lyrics and adding some tribal designs to his sleeve. He asks me several times what I’m going to do, but I only smile and tap the side of my nose.

  I feel comfortable in the tattoo parlor the moment we step through the door. We’re greeted by a short, bald guy who appears to be in his late twenties. He and Daltrey do that half-hug, bro-back-slap that guys do. When Daltrey introduces me, Carlos’s eyes widen a bit.

  “So this is Daisy, huh? I’ve heard so much about you.” He leans forward to kiss my cheek, and I give Daltrey a questioning look over Carlos’s shoulder. Daltrey only smiles.

  “Hello,” I say, trying not to feel awkward over a stranger touching me. I’m still not great with the human-contact thing. I hope it doesn’t make this more difficult. I really want the tattoo now.

  As it turns out, I have nothing to worry about. Carlos is easy to be comfortable around. He seems to know Daltrey pretty well for someone who lives so far away, a mystery that is cleared up within minutes of us sitting down at his station to look through his books.

  “You’ll see one I did for Dalt right there, Daisy,” Carlos says, pointing at a cluster of music notes and swirling clouds in the lower corner of the book.

  I look up, surprised. “Really? I’ve never seen it!”

  Daltrey’s face seems to pinch slightly. “I have a few you haven’t seen. That I got in the last year.”

  “Oh.” I look dow
n, feeling shitty. Of course he would have gotten tattoos this year. He loves body art and has a tendency to get something new every time he has something to celebrate. And there’s been a lot of that in the past year. I just haven’t been around to see it.

  “I did that one for him the first time they came out here, back when they were still opening for Grey Skies,” Carlos explains, ignoring the awkwardness. “He came back again a few months later. What was that for? When you guys were recording?”

  Daltrey nods, his eyes on me.

  “Well, after that, he realized how he couldn’t live without me and started flying me out to meet them on the road whenever he wanted more ink.”

  “He’s done all the guys,” Daltrey says. “Even Lennon.”

  “Lennon has a tattoo?” I ask, shocked. I cannot for the life of me picture it.

  “Barely,” Daltrey says. “We all got one of the album title when it went gold. We kind of bullied him into getting one. Cash said we’d kick him out of the band otherwise.”

  I shake my head. “Mean brothers.”

  “So what are we doing today?” Carlos asks. “Who’s first?”

  Daltrey looks at me. “Want me to go first, so you can watch? See what it’s like?”

  I shake my head. “No, I think that will scare me more. I just want to get it started.”

  “I like that,” Carlos says. “You’re brave. Just jump in and go for it.”

  I smile, liking the sound of being called brave.

  “So what can I do for you?”

  I try to ignore Daltrey’s eyes. “I want some words. I like this font, here.” I point at the book.

  Carlos peers at where my finger rests on the page. “No problem. Why don’t you tell me what the words are, and I’ll practice the print.”

  I swallow and look up at Daltrey, meeting his eyes, before reciting the lyrics of the chorus of “Heartache.” As I speak, I see his eyes get bigger.

  “Wow,” he whispers when I’m through. “Daisy that’s… that’s pretty cool.”