Page 184 of The Comedown

“What about you? What about Julian?”

It doesn’t escape my notice that neither of my son’s top concerns are his own father. Unfortunately, it doesn’t escape Jack’s either.

“Hey, Holter. I apologize we’re only just now meeting. Your dad speaks very highly of you, and he’d want me to see to it that you’re taken care of when he can’t do it himself.” Jack puts his hand out to shake Holter’s, and I suck in my already labored breath.

“Don’t touch him,” I warn.

Holter eyes Jack’s hand, asking, “Who are you?”

“I work for your father,” is all he says since his name and title were just exposed to the world.

Bending backward, I tug the white legging free of my calf-high, skintight boot to reach inside. My fingers graze the tactical pen knife I stuffed in there earlier, then I carefully slide it out, trying not to drop it. It’s sleek like a pen—because it is an actual pen, too—and fits in tight spaces I wouldn’t be able to store a regular knife. Since I’ve never had to use it, I’m not even sure if it’s strong enough to accomplish what I’m thinking. Immediately, I uncap it to start sawing at the strap anyway, not once considering it’s the only thing currently keeping me from free-falling sideways eight feet down.

“Holter, go find Bare.”

Holter ignores me, asking, “You’re John Davies, aren’t you?” before crossing his arms over his chest and looking Jack in the eyes. “What’d you do to my mom?”

“Your father and I have only ever tried to help your mom. She’s a tortured soul in need of—”

Holter steps closer to Jack, trying to make himself look twice as big. “What’d you do to her?”

Regardless how fast I saw back and forth, the blade cuts through only one or two fibers at a time, getting me absolutely nowhere, and the noise picks up as the stage becomes more congested, some people working to separate the fight, some scrambling to figure out how to get me down safely. Several people with headsets call up for me to stay where I am until they can lower me down themselves, but I’m not doing that.

The chaos drowns out Jack’s words to Holter, but my son’s voice floats up to me clear as a whistle. “Then how’d you get that scar?”

Again, Jack’s response is muted.

“You fell?” Holter questions, glancing up at me. I can see the wheels in his head turning, and he scoffs, telling Jack, “The only thing you fell on was my mom’s knife. You did something to her.”

The second Jack’s hand touches my son’s shoulder, I lose all sense of propriety. I’m literally hanging by a thread over Hollywood elite, and honestly, I couldn’t care less. All I care about is getting Holter away from Jack.

And so, I use the name I vowed to never let leave my lips again because of how disgusting it feels and tastes and sounds, shouting, “John Davies, you rapist pig bastard! Get your fucking hand off my son!”

I catch the strap above me flat in my palm, then pull with all my might, lifting myself up enough to unhook the remaining carabiner. Holding my weight one-handed, I flick my other wrist out quickly, throwing the sleek cylinder-shaped knife like a dagger. On its swift descent, the sharpest side slices Jack’s knuckle, the one still on my child’s shoulder, and he hisses, watching as the tip stabs into the stage.

In the next breath, I’m falling to the floor, too. My left ankle makes an awful snap of a sound, but I don’t feel a break. I’m running on adrenaline and the need to protect my child…I don’t feel anything.

Glaring at me while I retrieve my knife, Jack taunts, “You missed.”

With my free hand, I swipe at Holter, shoving him behind me.

I tell Jack’s scarred face, “I don’t miss,” which Holter confirms, saying, “She doesn’t miss.”

“That was a warning. Don’t touch my son again.”

“Or what?” His bottomless pits of pupils shift all around us.

He’s baiting me because even though the cameras broadcasting The Mousais are off, every other type of camera is still in full use right now, aimed at the debacle this stage has become. Anything I say right now can and will be held against me, so I better make sure my words are digging someone else’s grave, instead of my own.

I’ve chosen to stay silent about my time with Bodee for so long, and now that I’m faced with my past, I don’t know where to start. There’s so much inside me waiting to get out. I’m scared if I let out even the smallest amount, it’ll all come crashing down like a fifty-foot wave carrying a fifteen-second swell. I can’t let that happen right now. I have to choose carefully not only what I say, but how I say it.

Julian crawls over Bodee, kicking him off as he stands, and with his black shirt now in tatters, he pushes through the crowd, asking, “This the guy?” blood spraying out from between his lips.

Without waiting for an answer, Julian throws a punch across the bridge of Jack’s nose, going down on top of him as Bodee’s manager crumples to the floor.

“You’re fucking dead.”

Julian obviously doesn’t share the same reservations about choosing his words wisely…now. He certainly did earlier.