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Abby Road
by Ophelia London

Copyright © 2013 by Ophelia London. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

Chapter One

“a day in the life”

“Yellow Submarine” was playing from my jeans. I knew who was calling by the ringtone, but I didn’t answer right away. It couldn’t be too important; we’d already spoken five times.

By the second chorus, I moved to a corner of the bookstore and fished out my cell. “Hi, Molly,” I half whispered. “What’s happening on the home front?”

“Hold on, Abby. Just a tick.” Behind her voice I heard traffic, the radio, and a single horn honking: Molly’s. “Bloody move it, Tiny Tim!”

I bit my lip in amused pity, imagining some poor waif on crutches trying to cross the street without being mowed down by the beautiful, impatient brunette in the convertible Mini Coop with the Union Jack paintjob. Despite the British accent, Molly’s creative potty mouth was legendarily dirty.

“Move your bloomin’ arse!” she called out, probably while stopped at a red light on Hollywood Boulevard, reminding me of Eliza Doolittle’s similar outburst.

The urge to crack up tickled my throat. I stifled it, stood on my toes, and reached for a biography about Janis Joplin on a top shelf. Sure, Molly could be abrasive, but I happened to find it hilarious. She knew her colorful Cockney swearing was known to make me laugh at highly inappropriate moments. She claimed that part of her job as my personal assistant/best mate was to treat me to ten belly laughs in each twenty-four-hour period, even on a day like today when we were on two different sides of the country.

But that was “before.” These days, it took a lot to get me to laugh.

My life had changed since the shooting. It had been a year, and there I was, chopped into bits, organized and separated like items on the dinner plate of a finicky eater. Nothing touching, no overlapping. Compartmentalized survival mode at its most dysfunctional. Doctor Robert would’ve been so proud.

“Anyhoo,” Molly finally said to me, “Where was I?”

“We hadn’t gotten past hello.” I replaced the Joplin book and grabbed one about Julie Andrews. Snowcapped mountains were on the cover. I liked that.

“Hello, Abby, darling.” Molly chimed, bright and sparkly, exactly the way I’d needed her the past five years. “Where are you now? Still at your sister’s place, yeah?”

“No. Pensacola, at a bookstore.” Hearing whispers on the other side of the bookshelf, I quickly moved to the end of the biography aisle, getting that hot-and-prickly feeling up the back of my neck. I couldn’t see anyone, but I knew I was being watched. I guess my cover was blown.

After a beat, Molly asked, “You’re out in public? And are you out-out,” she continued, using our very ingenious code language, “or just out?”

“Just out,” I reported, adjusting the dark aviator sunglasses that covered practically half my face. My long hair was pulled back, too, tucked inside a baseball cap. I tried, but I’d never been very creative at the whole disguise thing.

“You’re out in public,” Molly repeated. “On your own?”

“Doctor’s orders,” I sing-songed. “He said if I took this trip to Florida alone, I couldn’t just hide in Lindsey’s house all summer. He made me promise to get out among the people.”

“He’s a quack,” Molly muttered.

I nodded in private concurrence and then dropped the Julie Andrews book in my shopping bag. “It was the right decision, though, to stay away from L.A.,” I conceded aloud, knowing that Molly’s protective/venomous dislike of Dr. Robert was for my benefit.

“It was impulsive,” Molly admitted slowly. “Less than a week ago, you were onstage in Paris.”

“True.” I lowered my voice. “But for the past year, you know how everyone’s been saying I need support—the familial, unconditional kind.” I paused to roll my eyes, wondering if Molly would disagree with this diagnosis as well. When she didn’t, I jumped back in. “I suppose they’re right. Or maybe I got tired of arguing. I don’t want to even think about . . . it . . . anyway.” I paused again, stuffing down the sick feeling that came every time I thought about Christian.

“I’ve been here only one day,” I continued, after quickly crossing from behind one bookshelf to another, “but Lindsey kept watching me with those big eyes, so I called her a bad word, grabbed her car keys, and started driving.”

“What word?” Molly asked, a wicked smile in her voice.

“You don’t want to know. But let’s just say I won’t be given any sister-of-the-year awards.”

When I heard another sound behind me, I glanced over my shoulder. But again, no one was there, only whispers from around the corner. I heard my name more than once. I sighed.

“What’s wrong?” Molly asked.

“Cockroaches,” I answered. “The lights came on, and everyone scattered.” Of course I should’ve been happy about it—that no one was pawing at me for a change. But for some reason, knowing that I was being watched was worse than being approached. Since my public meltdown on the street two days ago, I suppose people were afraid to venture near.

“Start flapping your arms around, then,” Molly suggested. “And scream like a banshee. See what happens.”

“Nothing will happen. They’ll be too stunned to speak, or they’ll say, ‘Isn’t that her? Didn’t she used to be that famous singer? Such a shame.’”

I paused, staring blankly at the shelf in front of me, listening to the sounds of the bookstore: shoppers, clerks, background music. “An hour ago, the place was pretty much empty. Now it’s packed. I’m afraid to come out of the fortress of books I constructed in the back corner.”

“That bloody stinks, babe,” Molly said sympathetically.

I smiled, but it hurt my face. Frowning felt more natural. Evidently my mood-altering happy pills weren’t doing their intended job.

“But how clever of you. A whole book fortress? Aww, and the tabloids claim you’re a one-trick pony. Ha! One trick, indeed,” she muttered. “You should give an impromptu concert, right now, in the middle of the store. Rock their socks off.”

“Now there’s a thought,” I joked, positioning myself in front of a row of thick books with glossy black covers.

“Seriously, though,” Molly said after a moment, “do you want me to have Max send in some muscle men to pull you out of there? He has connections everywhere. Like the mob.”

“No!” I exclaimed, then dropped my voice. “We promised each other I would be manager-free this summer.” I slid the hot-vampire-meets-socially-awkward-teenager book back into its place on the shelf and glanced down the aisle. “It’s not like I’m being assaulted by psychos jumping out of corners, so why cause a scene?”

“I’m your biggest fan, Abigail Kelly,” Molly quoted in her best Kathy Bates stalker voice.

“I’ll leave soon,” I promised, mostly to myself. “I’m just not ready to go back to Lindsey’s yet. She’ll have questions I don’t want to answer.”

There was a silent beat before Molly exhaled a noncommittal, “Yeah.”

I immediately felt the vibe of our conversation darken. I bit my lip, hating how disconnected and gray my life had become.

After another stretch of silence, Molly said, “So, Abby? I called you for a reason this time, actually . . . b-because . . .” After some uncharacteristic stammering, her comments changed direction. “Well, anyway.” She exhaled. “I have to ask, you still taking your meds?”

My stomach dropped. I knew she was just doing her job, but I hated being treated like a mental patient. “Yes, Molly,” I reported, busying myself with the growing stack of books in my bag. “Every morning,” I practically cheered. “Every morning for three hundred and sixty-three days—” The last word caught in my throat.

I had no idea why I tried to make a joke out of it. Reciting the exact number of days since Christian died was not totally hilarious. And suddenly, I couldn’t breathe. That year-old noose, that long, slippery snake was slithering up my throat, coiling around my insides, choking me until I couldn’t—

“Well!” Molly cut in brightly. “You’ll be happy to hear that the stalkerazzi are still ’round your house here. And you haven’t even been up in Malibu for, like, what? A year?” She scoffed. “So completely stupid.”

I caught my breath, listening to her complain unintelligibly for a while, her slurry Eliza Doolittle lost on me again. Since Molly and I were practically joined at the hip, the paparazzi pissed her off as much as me.

“Any guys around?” she asked, veering us toward a more pleasant distraction subject. “Describe them, please. It’s high time you got a little action.”

I shook my head but played along. “There’s a tall gangster wannabe behind the computer games,” I reported in a low voice while leaning against the end of the bookshelf. “He’s holding his hand over half his face trying to make it look like he’s not totally ogling.” I whipped off my sunglasses and made a point of holding direct eye contact with the guy. His face went beet red before he backed up and disappeared.

“How ugly is he?” This was always Molly’s first question about anybody.

My reply to her was always the same. “Butt,” I answered. “Gold chains, wife beater, fedora. He looks like 2003’s Justin Timberlake puked on him.”

“Hot.”

When I moved my phone to the other ear and turned around, I noticed him, standing alone, right across the aisle at the end of Sports & Outdoors. I did a double take, which didn’t happen often, because except for the ones with wicked-tall blue hair or an exceptionally nice posterior, I hardly noticed the existence of guys anymore. Occupational hazard of living in L.A., where everyone was perfect, plastic, and beautiful.

But I did notice this guy. He was laughing out loud at whatever he was reading.

That’s what hooked my attention, the laugh. I wished it were contagious. Before I fully realized that we were staring at each other and that maybe I should have, I don’t know, smiled or something similarly human, he tucked the book into the crook of his arm and walked away.

“Listen.” Molly broke into my thoughts. “I’ll pay ya ten bucks to walk over and kiss him. Right now. Chop-chop.”

“What?” I gasped, feeling a little fluttery. “No way, Molly.” As I spoke, I couldn’t help standing on my tiptoes to see where Laughing Guy had gone.

“Go on, then,” Molly continued. “March up, tear off his stupid fedora and gold chains, close your eyes, and think of England.”

That’s when I realized who she was talking about. “Oh. Har har. Here I go. Alert the media.” It was a joke, but even back in the day when I was milking my celebrity for all it was worth, I never would have sauntered up to a stranger and attacked. After another quick glance around, I realized Laughing Guy had left my section of the store. I sighed, a bit disappointed.

“You’ve been out of the VIP scene for too long,” Molly said.

“He’s gone, anyway. So much for all men fainting into a heap at my feet.”

When I heard Molly’s chuckles turn to snorts, I started laughing, too. I absolutely adored her—she was as close to me as my sister, Lindsey. While running my fingers along the skinny spines of Dr. Seuss, I calculated how long it had been since Molly and I hit those VIP clubs on our rare nights off.

Not long enough.

“The very idea of the club scene is exhausting, it’n it?” Molly said, continuing my thought.

I answered with one confirming chuckle.

“At twenty-four,” she went on, “your partying days are over.”

I chuckled again, only bleaker. Another confirmation.

“So, what books have you collected so far?” she asked, probably realizing that my thoughts had strayed toward the dark again.

“Well . . .” I sat down on the long bench in front of the magazines, pulling from the tote bag my potential purchases one at a time. “A coffee table book about Maui,” I reported.

“For Hal?” Molly exhaled one humorless laugh. “At least it will give him something to read besides Rolling Stone or Lead Guitarists’ Worst Hair Weekly.” I could almost hear the roll of her eyes. Then she beeped her horn at something—probably a mother pushing a baby in a stroller. “He’s been tweeting every few minutes,” she continued. “The boy needs a hobby. It doesn’t sound like the band is up to anything useful this summer.”

With one finger, I traced the line of breaking waves on the cover of the Maui book. “The guys are never productive when I’m not around,” I mumbled. Then I bit my lip, considering something else. “Molly?” I looked up. “What if fans lose interest because we’re taking the summer off? What if we never sell another record? That kind of thing’s happened before. I’ve seen those shows on VH1.” I clutched my phone, allowing myself two seconds to imagine the consequences. Then I sprang to my feet. “I need to come home. Today. Right now. Can you get me on the next flight?”

“Abby? Abby!”

In a panic, I swung to grab my purse, nearly knocking over my shopping bag of books.

“Abby? Listen to me. Abby—stop!”

Molly’s voice had the stern tone she saved for emergencies. Hearing it grounded me in place, and I didn’t dare move.

“We talked about this. You deserve this vacation, okay?” she said, speaking much calmer. “We all do.”

I exhaled, but my heart was still pounding in my chest.

“And don’t worry about the lads; it’s not your fault they bought that gigantic mansion up in the hills. Your fans aren’t going anywhere, either. They can’t wait to buy the next record, okay?”

I nodded, blinking back sudden tears.

“Are you all right, then?” she asked. “Abby?”

“Can’t you hear me nodding?”

Molly laughed approvingly. I wouldn’t have survived this without her. She held me together, above and beyond her job description.

“Doctor Robert said this summer needs to be about me,” I said in a small voice. “Like a test to see how I survive without a crew of people telling me what to do and where to go and what to wear.” When I took in a deep inhale, my lungs shook. “So far . . . I’m failing.”

“Give it time, sweetie,” Molly soothed. “Collect your things, yeah? It’s time to leave the store.”

I nodded once more and then obeyed her gentle command.

“Leave the magazine area. Do it straightaway, okay?”

“Why?” I asked, knowing Molly was excellent at steering me from tab rags with bad press or pictures that made me look fat. “Is there something new?”

“No,” she said immediately. “Well, yes and no. It’s not new, per se.”

I was already on my feet in front of the rack, scanning the covers for what she was warning me about.

Then I saw it. It wasn’t my face on the cover, but it might as well have been.

“Are you talking about Recognise?” I tore the magazine from its stack and then stared at the picture on the cover. “Huh. I haven’t seen his face in almost a year.”

Molly huffed. “Your ex is a moron,” she uttered flatly. “Why is it that the more symmetrical the face and perfect the abs, the more idiotic the personality? Look at the title of the cover story.”

I read it aloud: “‘Miles Carlisle’s Tortured Heart.’” Now that was a laugh. “Still tortured after almost a year? Maybe he needs to write a song about cheating on his girlfriend and then swear it isn’t autobiographical. That used to make him happy.”

“He needs to be castrated,” Molly stated. “Don’t call him.”

“Like I would.” I sat down, crossed my legs, and opened the magazine. “I’m on dating ice, anyway. Until I find a combination of Clark Kent and a young Paul McCartney, I’m out of the game.”

“You’ll be single for a while, chica.”

I chuckled, mindlessly flipping through the magazine. That’s when I noticed the large, ice-blue eyes of the girl on page five stared back like I was gazing into a mirror. I remembered this photo shoot. It was five years ago, right at the beginning of my new life. Against my better judgment, I flipped to the center.

There she was again.

I leaned forward. “I’m in it, too.”

“I know,” Molly said. “The article is total crap, though. Taking that idiot Miles’s side. Horrid cow of a writer.”

I rubbed a fist into my forehead, massaging away a new headache. “Ya know, a year ago, Christian would have bought up every copy in the store and hidden them in the trunk of his car.”

“I know.” I heard a sad smile in Molly’s voice.

I was smiling, too.

“I never knew what he did with all those,” she said, “but I’m sure he recycled.”

I started to laugh but choked instead as reality resurfaced: Christian isn’t here now. He’ll never be here again. I felt the magazine shaking between my trembling hands.

“Grab the stack,” Molly ordered, almost as if she’d heard my thoughts. “Grab them, Abby.”

I walked toward the magazine rack, quickly looked around me—no one was close by, of course—and snagged the few mags that were left.

“Drop them on the floor.”

I did.

“Now kick the lot of them under the rack.”

I paused for a moment, then obeyed. As I stepped back, I wiped my hands on my jeans like I’d just been touching something dirty.

e

I’d driven almost ten miles toward Seagrove Beach when Molly announced that she had arrived at her apartment. This was the same moment that my cell beeped, warning me of the low battery. Molly had surely been talking to me the whole time, but my mind hadn’t been on our conversation.

“I’m FedExing a new charger straightaway.”

I told her I had one with me.

“Do you know exactly where it is, Abby?”

I frowned, picturing my still unpacked heap of suitcases in Lindsey’s guest bedroom.

“It’ll be at your sister’s house by tomorrow. Plug it in—I need to be able to contact you via mobile.”

“Thanks,” I said.

When I didn’t say anything more for a few minutes, Molly suddenly asked, “Do you want me out there?” I heard forced enthusiasm in her voice. “I’ll fly out tonight if you want. We’ll veg on the beach all summer. Just you and me. You know, since your brother—”

“No.” I cut her off.

But then I didn’t know how to continue.

After I fell silent again, Molly said, “Okay, Abby, okay.” Her upbeat tone turned defeated. “But please, call if you need me. Please.”

The touch of pleading in her voice made my throat feel tight and snaky again.

“Day or night. Promise me?”

I promised, then quickly ended the call.