Then Things Went Dark, page 30
“Are you all right? What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”
Araminta stares at him, lips fumbling for words she doesn’t know how to say.
“Araminta,” he says, reaching his hand out. Hesitantly she takes it and rises back to her feet. Rhys seems to take this as permission to speak, and as erratically as his frenzy appeared, it vanishes. “Araminta, I don’t really know what to say. I know I messed up, I know I’m hard to love, but god, please, I couldn’t live with myself if you believed for one moment I didn’t love you as much as I do. To be honest, I’ll struggle to live with myself without you anyway, but I need you to know: I love you. You’re all that I’ve ever wanted. You’re incredible, you’re iconic. You deserve everything.”
His words are fierce and slurring; he’s leaning ever closer. Everything he ever was is made clumsy and crystal clear.
But it doesn’t stop the fear in Araminta’s chest.
She should have shoved him in the dark, thrown him onto those glass shards and hoped it hurt like hell.
Why didn’t she think to do that?
“That’s enough,” Isko says, stepping closer, placing his hand on Rhys’s shoulder. “You’ve made your point.”
“I can’t do this,” Araminta says, stepping back—then turning and bolting.
Araminta: I’m packing. Send a boat. Send the quickest one you have because I’m getting out of here. I quit.
Kalpana hesitates a moment, glancing between Isko and Rhys, then swears and goes chasing after her.
Rhys laughs, though there’s something sour about it. Isko doesn’t know what sort of performance Rhys is aiming for, but he’s sick of it already. “Enough of what, Isko—just jealous I’m flattering her instead of you?”
“I don’t need your fucking love bombing, and neither does she.”
Rhys grabs him as he goes to move past him, sloppily pulling at his arm.
“How drunk are you?” Isko hisses, pulling free of his grip. “You know, you nearly had me fooled. That the glass was an accident, but it wasn’t, was it. You—”
“Stop, stop,” Rhys says, shushing him. He even puts his finger over Isko’s lips, and Isko could kill him.
Isko shoves him off, hard.
“Isko.” Theo takes a hesitant step forward, hands raised to either side like he might have to intervene.
Rhys’s face falls, his nostrils flaring, and this, this must have been what Araminta saw. He staggers forward, straightening up to his full height.
“You’re an idiot, Isko,” Rhys shouts. “That’s what you’re angry about. You don’t hate me for playing the game; you’re angry at yourself because you thought I wasn’t.” He punctuates his words with sharp taps to Isko’s chest.
“Rhys!” Theo shouts, taking another step forward but not sure how to help. Jerome just watches, sipping his drink and unable to stop a grin from slipping onto his face.
“Don’t try to physically intimidate me, Rhys,” Isko says, struggling to stay calm. This is all too familiar. He has never been in a fight before, but he’s been here, at its precipice. He’s just always managed to stop the situation from escalating.
“And if I do? You’re pathetic. What are you going to do about it?” Rhys asks, giving his shoulder another shove. “Glare from a corner? Go crying off to Alex? Your dodgy little account—”
Isko hits him. He’s not sure he even decided to. His hand just reaches out and strikes his chest.
Rhys laughs and that grin falls back into place. “Oh, you do fight back. Tired of being walked all over? Some people are just meant to be used, Isko.”
And this time he does decide to, because there’s nothing he can say right now that will feel better than his hand colliding with Rhys’s face.
Isko flinches as sharp pain lances up his arm from the fist he didn’t know how to curl.
Rhys’s head cracks to the side, and Isko isn’t even sure he’s hurt him because this is all so theatrical.
But then Rhys turns and his eyebrow is slit, caught on Isko’s engagement ring, and even in the dim torchlight, Isko can see the crooked lilt of his nose, the blood trickling in a thick swell, and the bruise blossoming beneath his eye. It’ll be black within the hour.
Rhys’s pupils are huge, staring at him in shock.
Isko gasps, pulls his hands to his mouth. He can’t believe he did that. Nor can Theo or Jerome, stunned into silence.
Rhys touches his face, pulls his fingers away, sticky with blood that he stares at with amazement. There’s not a lot of it, but it’s enough.
He looks up at him and grins. Why does he always smile? Is it just to unnerve them all? Or is it simply a reflex?
“You know,” he says, “I never actually hit Araminta.”
“You need to shut the fuck up, Sutton,” Theo says, fuming, stepping in front of Isko as though he were the one hurt.
“Going to hit me too, Newman?”
“I should.”
“Go on then.” Rhys opens his arms out wide.
Theo could. It would be so easy. He’s never been in a fight before—arguments, yes, many of those, but not a fight.
“Whoa, this is a bit much,” Jerome protests, feeling like he should probably say something before he becomes complicit.
Theo plows on. “You need to leave this island.”
Rhys’s expression darkens. “No.”
“This competition isn’t more important than all you’ve done.”
“And you really want to finish this competition without me?” he says, cocking an eyebrow and staring him down.
And Theo’s anger rises because no, he doesn’t. He’s not even the biggest threat, nowhere near, but he’s the one Theo wants to beat.
“This isn’t about the fucking competition,” Isko shouts, staring up from his bruised hands. “You think we still care about that?”
“I think Newman does,” Rhys says, smiling, and there’s blood on his teeth. “I think he’s the most malicious person here. He came onto this competition to deflect, isn’t that right? You’re conniving. Selfish.”
Theo grabs him by the collar, fist curling into his shirt, and steps forward with menace.
He’s shocked to find himself in such a position.
But Rhys isn’t—he just smiles. “That’s exactly what I thought.”
Theo stares at his own hand like he doesn’t recognize it.
He lets go.
“Doesn’t fit with your image, does it? You’re supposed to be the nice one of the band,” Rhys smiles, his eyebrow arched. “But you know what I think?”
They’re just words, but they’re lacking the usual hollow bravado—they’re heavy and firm and solid. Theo’s hair stands on end, and he doesn’t want to know, though he already does.
“I don’t give a shit what you think,” he says, turning to walk away.
Rhys can’t stand that, someone walking away from him. His face falls and it’s livid, eyebrows drawn, eyes hateful. This is what he has always wanted from Theo: his attention. And he’ll go to any lengths to get it.
“I think you were at that party, Newman.”
Theo freezes and Rhys laughs.
“Oh shit,” Isko says, glancing between the two of them.
“I’m right, aren’t I? You didn’t just come on here to avoid the scandal but to slice your name from it. You were at that party with the rest of the band, but unlike them, you didn’t get caught. Underage girls, Newman? Now that I think about it, I’d say you’re even worse than I am.”
“Children, Theo?” Jerome asks, aiming for aghast and ending up at elated. “Children?” he repeats, like he was not the one making jokes about fifteen-year-olds mere days ago.
“Of course not,” Theo snarls. “I wasn’t there.”
There is no evidence.
But that doesn’t matter. The seeds have been planted.
Rumor can kill a career before it even starts.
Rhys turns to Jerome. “Do you want to get a hit in too, or am I free to go look for my girlfriend?”
Jerome arches an eyebrow. “I think you’d better have another cigarette first, think things over.”
Rhys points at Jerome, shirt crooked, eye rapidly swelling. Blood splattered. “I knew you were the only one here with a lick of sense.”
Rhys does not bother with the smoking area. He heads to the beach instead, where the waves hurl loud and angry onto the sand, the waters rough and turbulent. The wind whips with a ferocity that has the skies themselves roiling, clouds tumbling tumultuously like the slightest whim might entice them to storm again. It all feels too close, the deafening noise, the resentful waves and bitter sky pressing nearer, trapping them on this tiny rock in its center.
The camera shows a dim red speck in the harsh darkness. Slowly it fades and another takes its place, Rhys lighting a new cigarette whenever the last one burns away.
He makes it through two and a half before he sees Kalpana, up by the cliffs.
She’d been planning on following Araminta. But when she ran into the confession booths, slamming the door so firmly behind her, Kalpana had needed a moment to herself.
And the sharp edge of the island seemed like the perfect place, at once violent and peaceful, like the raging anger and aching sorrow inside her.
He stomps heavily up behind her and she scrambles to her feet, confused more than scared until the moment he opens his mouth.
“You! You’re a fucking bitch.”
She’s so confused by the outright anger that it throws her. She has no comeback, though later she’ll think of several. She is too shocked to respond, does not do anything other than turn to face him.
“A fucking bitch,” he repeats. “You’ve been trying to take Araminta from me for weeks.”
“I didn’t take her, Rhys. She left you because you scared her. Because you’ve spent weeks hurting her. And now she’s leaving the competition.”
“Things were fine with us before you got involved. You kept trying to stick your nose where it didn’t belong. You turned her against me.”
His words roll into each other, and she doesn’t think he’s blinked this entire time.
“Rhys, you’re drunk,” she says, biting back the tirade she wants to give. She can berate him later, when he’s sober. “Let’s go back inside.”
She eyes the edge of the cliffs warily. They aren’t close, and they’re lit up more than other parts of the path. They’ll be fine. Then she eyes the darkness on her other side, the thicket of trees between her and the house. The fact she’s stuck out here in the dark with an angry man.
Her pulse jumps, eyes locked on the camera hovering nearby in a desperate plea for help. The lights of the boats have never looked so distant.
“You had it out for me from the start,” he snarls, staggering toward her, and she takes an instinctive step back, closer to that edge. She realizes it’s not a shadow clinging to his face but blood arcing down it.
“We can discuss this inside,” she says firmly.
The light catches him and she clocks his red eyes, the manic gleam.
He’s high.
Which means he’s not rational. Which means he’s even more dangerous.
He points an accusatory finger at her, his other hand clutching at something she can’t see on his chest.
A drone hovers nearby, a moth to a light.
“You’re just a bitch.”
“Guys!” she screams, terrified, and now even more so, scared her shouts might startle Rhys into doing something stupid. “Theo!”
The waves are so loud, she doesn’t know how anyone will hear.
“Oh, are you scared of me, Kalpana? Does that fit your fucking narrative that I’m some terrifying, abusive monster? And not a man so fucking in love it hurts—a love you fucking fucked you…” He trails off with more mumbling insults. He takes a breath and tries again. “Araminta is just confused. She thinks you—”
“I am not the reason your relationship fell apart. And frankly, Rhys, I don’t think you actually care about that at all. You’re just upset it fell apart on television, and you weren’t even the one to do the dumping. You’re angry the world knows exactly what you are: a horrible, cruel little boy.”
Rhys staggers forward again. “You need to stay away from me.”
“You came to me.”
“You need to stay away or I’ll…”
“What, throw a glass at me?”
He stares at her, eyes catching the flame of the lanterns driven into the edges of the island.
“Rhys! Mate, can you come here a second!” Theo appears from somewhere and Kalpana can’t even see him, but she’s so relieved she could cry.
Rhys scowls and looks around, and the rage seems to fall from him. “She hates me. They all hate me. Everyone in the world.”
“Probably,” Kalpana confirms. She has no sympathy for this.
“Maybe I should just step off the edge.” He nods to the cliff.
“I don’t think that’s going to solve anything,” Kalpana says, something tightening in her stomach. Would she stop him if he tried?
“Hey, Rhys, come on—let’s talk,” Theo comes into view, walking slowly like he’s approaching a wild animal.
“How far down do you think it is?” Rhys takes a step closer to it, his movements jerky, and he careens forward, like he has no idea just how close he is.
“Rhys, get away from there.”
She can barely see the edge, where the sharp line of cliff meets the night. Rhys staggers like it does not exist at all, like the sudden drop is luring him closer with siren song.
“Relax,” he shouts again. “God, you’re always so uptight.”
“Rhys, please,” Kalpana screeches as he takes yet another step. He’s so close.
She does nothing, reaches out an instinctive hand to steady him.
He flinches back.
He’s still a step from the edge, but he’s high out of his detestable mind, his movements are too much, too big, too off kilter.
He doesn’t even need something to trip over.
Kalpana leaps forward as he tips, manages to clasp her hand onto his and it’s hot and slippery with sweat.
Everything happens so quickly. Isn’t time supposed to slow?
A stumble, a lurch, a clasped hand, wide eyes locked onto hers.
And a decision to let go.
The slightest movement as her hand opens and he slips free.
Rhys falls.
He doesn’t make a noise at all. That’s the worst part. Maybe he didn’t even know he was falling. Maybe he didn’t care. Maybe he thought it was funny, thought he was invulnerable, and this would all be a story to tell one day.
That hand in hers, and she does not think of it as a self-righteous good or as a sacrifice she makes for the rest of the world. As she uncurls her fingers, she thinks that if she’s going down then so is he.
But when he hits the water, the horror of it all washes over her and she screams.
She leans as close as she dares, ripping the torch from the ground. She can’t see a thing.
She turns to Theo but he’s already gone, running down the cliffs, pulling his shoes off.
“You can’t go down there!” Kalpana shouts, her voice panicky like it’s never been before. “It’s too dangerous—you could drown.”
“But he will if I don’t!”
He runs.
Theo gets halfway down the cliffs before he dives into the water. It’s freezing, so cold that it calms his heart, which began racing the moment he heard Kalpana scream.
He pulls himself through the water, rough waves hitting his face, rocks catching at his legs.
He can hardly see at all. Once or twice, he finds the cliff edge worryingly close, has to propel himself farther. The water is always dangerous—heavy waves and turbulent currents, and now it’s churning all the more from the earlier storm.
Rhys.
Rhys could die, might already be dead.
He could die too.
He glances up, hoping to see Kalpana standing at the point where he fell, but he can’t see the land, just straight up the rocky edge to the indifferent stars.
He can barely see his own hands pulling him through the water. The cameras can’t even make them out. How is he going to find a body—Rhys, find Rhys in this?
But then the moonlight hits something pale and Theo springs toward it.
He clutches Rhys without thinking, starts to sink beneath the waves, and has to let go and hold him again.
He finds his face, his eyes closed, a nasty cut down one side of his head and the barest traces of blood. That’s good, right? He can’t be that hurt if there is that little blood.
Unless he’s already dead. Do dead men bleed?
He’s struggling with him in the water, needs to get him out, but there’s no way he can do that here. So he cups his chin and starts swimming, positioning himself beneath him to pull him through the water toward the beach.
He can’t die. Men like Rhys don’t die. The world would be too kind a place if they did.
Theo’s teeth start chattering, and his limbs feel so heavy as he kicks through the water.
“If I die for you…” he says angrily.
“Theo.”
He freezes. Did he hear that right—is Rhys alive? It was the barest whisper; maybe he imagined it? The microphones certainly don’t pick it up.
All at once, it flashes through his mind. All the sympathy Rhys will get from this, enough to move past what he’s done to Araminta, what he’s done to all of them. The times he made Theo doubt himself, told him he was nothing special. The constant barrage of it all.
Hate. So much hate.
Not least because there’s something else lingering there, something he hates more than anything. Something about how forgivable it all is, how he’s willing to let it all go, all of Rhys’s worst behavior, for the right line in a song.
That feeling of kinship he’s never been able to shake. Like he might be just as awful. Everything Theo has been trying to save—his passion, his career, his future. And Rhys destroyed it all with a single line: “I think you were at that party, Newman.”
He hears a glass shattering. A screen. A camera.
He doesn’t realize he’s holding him under the waves. At least, that’s what he’ll mutter to himself over whisky at 4 a.m. That he didn’t know. That he didn’t mean to do it. That he wasn’t as bad as Rhys, wasn’t as bad as his bandmates, who knew how old those girls were when he didn’t because he was already in a room with one of them before anyone thought to ask. He was in a room when they took photos. In a room before they could even see him there. It was just a mistake. He’s still a good person. Rhys’s body going still in his arms. He didn’t know.
