Chapter Eighteen - Scott
Pain. So much pain. Pounding. Whether it was in his head or it was Jules’s fist on Kat’s door, he wasn’t sure.
Kat. In a T-shirt and pajama pants. He only noticed because they had Marvin the Martian on them. His favorite Loony Toons character. And one of the most underrated.
“Scott, I have to lift your pants leg,” Kat said.
He wanted to protest. Wanted to tell her that it hurt too much, but he didn’t have the energy. She tried to be careful—he could tell she was trying—but that didn’t seem to make it any better. Scott cried out, the pain too much.
Kat’s hands were soft. Gentle. Still too much pain.
“We have to take you to the ER,” she said. Did this place even have a hospital?
Blueberries. What Scott wouldn’t do for some blueberries at that moment. They reminded him of home. His mom put blueberries on everything.
Better yet, blueberry pancakes.
Would the hospital have blueberry pancakes?
Scott heard a man’s voice. Sounded familiar. But then they lifted him, and it was too much.
Blackness.
* * * * *
Scott’s eyes fluttered open. An empty room. Uncomfortable bed. Beeping.
“Oh, thank goodness.”
Kat. She looked like she hadn’t slept, her eyes puffy. Next to her was a sleeping pile of dirt. Jules. A couple branches of sagebrush still stuck out of her hair.
“We couldn’t sleep,” Scott murmured. “Went up to the paintball field. Didn’t think to bring a headlamp.” He felt himself drifting back to sleep. “That’s my problem. I never think.”
Kat stood and approached the bed. “Never mind that. You two aren’t the first ones to wander around in the middle of the night at the ranch, and you won’t be the last. I’m just grateful you’re okay.”
Scott’s gaze found Jules again.
Kat smiled. “She stayed awake all night but finally gave in to exhaustion about fifteen minutes ago.”
Scott noticed the sun was up, and probably had been for a while, judging by the amount of light in the room. His gaze returned to Kat.
“I don’t remember much.”
“You were stung by a scorpion. Did you know you’re allergic?”
He shook his head, but it made his vision swim. Scott closed his eyes. “No. Never had the opportunity to find out.”
He heard Kat chuckle. “Maybe stick to daytime wanderings for the time being.” She paused. “I managed to keep this from the press, or at least for now. Once other people at the ranch catch wind of what happened, I’m not sure there’s much I can do. With any luck, we can pass this off as you needing to leave to take care of some stuff for your upcoming tour, and they won’t push it further. I’ve already spoken with your parents. They’ll be on a flight that leaves in about an hour. You’ll be going home with them.”
Scott’s eyes shot open. “What?”
“I don’t blame them,” Kat said, lifting one shoulder. “Apparently you’re deathly allergic to the Arizona bark scorpion, and they don’t want to take chances.”
“We’re in Utah, not Arizona.”
Kat’s lips twitched up. “I guess no one told the scorpions, because they haven’t seemed to care much about state lines.”
Scott released a long breath. “Do I get a say in this?”
This was where it was going to get complicated. He could tell by the way Kat hesitated. “You’re eighteen. You signed the paperwork. Technically, yes, it is your decision.”
“But…not technically?”
Kat played with a ring on her index finger, spinning it around. “Yours is an unusual situation. Keeping you here puts you at risk. There are a lot of people who have been calling me this morning—a lot of pressure from people who have an interest in you not dying.”
“My manager,” Scott said.
“And your parents.”
The thought of leaving the ranch—leaving Jules—it felt like rocks had settled in his stomach. But at the same time, this had been what he’d wanted from the beginning. Not the getting stung by a scorpion and nearly dying part.
But this was it. Scott’s way out.
He was going home.
* * * * *
Scott snuggled under his covers, the familiar scent of his mom’s usual laundry detergent washing over him. It was good to be home. No bunk beds. No hiking up a hill just to take a shower. No prying off dirt-encased socks at the end of the day. No telling people not to swing guns in the direction of other people.
No scorpions.
His best friends were so excited to have him back that they were throwing him a party later that night. They had just returned from the trip that Scott was supposed to be on, but they said they wouldn’t mind squeezing in another one before the end of the summer. Any excuse to get back to those beaches and waves and girls.
Scott was just the excuse they needed to get them there.
He smiled. This was how life was supposed to be. Impromptu trips. Parties. Unlimited food that didn’t come from a cafeteria in a lodge.
His smile dipped, but he forced it back into place.
Scott had gotten really good at shoving down any feelings of regret that seemed to surface any time his thoughts remained on the ranch for too long—how things might have been if he hadn’t been stung by that scorpion. Because when he let his thoughts wander back there, they inevitably landed on Jules. And that was one place he couldn’t allow himself to go. It had been fun while it had lasted, but he’d known it was temporary. So had she.
He liked to think of that scorpion sting as a sign from the universe, or God, or whatever was out there. The ranch was not where Scott was meant to be.
Scott’s parents didn’t agree with this assessment. Even after his near-death experience, their stance on parties hadn’t changed, and they weren’t thrilled that he was jumping back into his former lifestyle so quickly. They had hoped at least a little bit of the ranch had rubbed off on him.
For a moment he’d thought it had. Thank goodness it hadn’t been a permanent change. Scott hadn’t realized how close he’d been to losing his edge when he’d been in the thick of things. A sensitive country boy had no place on a stage. What was he going to do, become the ballad singer he’d been reduced to out there in Utah?
Not if he could help it. Tonight, he was going to make up for lost time and party like his career depended on it. Because, really, it did.
* * * * *
“This is off the hook,” Scott yelled, attempting to be heard above the music. The bass was turned up so high that it was making ripples in the water of the swimming pool. His friends had spared no expense with the open bar and steady stream of scantily clad fans.
“It’s not every day your bandmate and best friend comes back from the dead,” Jordan yelled back. “No more running off to hicktown for you. It’s bad for your health.”
“I couldn’t agree more.”
At least, that was what he told everyone else—what he’d almost convinced himself of. But when Scott’s phone exploded into song an hour later, and it came up as a Utah number, he held the phone in his hands, staring at the screen. Hesitating.
Memories of starlit nights washed over him. Jules’s laugh and the way she looked holding a gun—like she was meant to take over the world. And the way she felt in his arms. It all came back—told him that had been the universe telling him where he was meant to be.
At the one place—with the one person—who had made him happy.
Jordan snatched the phone from Scott’s hands and ended the call for him. Disappointment settled in Scott’s stomach. It must have showed in his expression, because his friend raised an eyebrow, like he wanted an explanation of who had been on the other end of that phone call. Scott merely shot him a goofy grin. “The ranch wants me back. I was good publicity.”
It hadn’t been the first time someone had called from that number, and he always wondered if it was Jules. But he’d always ended up just staring—like that evening—until the phone had gone quiet, and the notification popped up that he’d missed a call.
Things were back to normal now. The way it should be. And there was no reason to mess all that up.
Right?
Jordan clapped him on the back and handed Scott his phone. “Way to stick it to the man. Now belly-flop from the top of the diving board and show everyone who the real Scott Dallenforth is.” He started chanting, “Belly-flop. Belly-flop.” It didn’t take long for dozens of people to join in the chant.
Ouch. That sounded painful. Was that really who Scott Dallenforth was? Someone who would cause himself crazy amounts of pain just because everyone else wanted him to? Judging from the pictures that had ended up in the tabloids, yes, it was. Everyone wanted their rock stars a little on the crazy side, and Scott had delivered.
Scott hadn’t felt the need to be that guy when he was on the ranch. No crazy stunts. It had been refreshing.
And now?
Scott tossed his phone onto the nearest pool chair as he stripped off his shirt. It burst into song again, vibrating, the same Utah number appearing on the screen, but it was drowned out by the cheers that exploded from the crowd as Scott climbed to the top of the diving board.
He still loved the sound of his name coming from a crowd, loved the attention. But a twinge of guilt now accompanied it. An unease.
The chants pushed him forward, and he threw the crowd a grin.
And jumped.