Unplugged Chapter Twenty-Seven


"I don't want trouble," Maggie tells Jack.

It's the third time since he'd approached her that she's uttered the phrase.

The first had been after he'd introduced himself and asked if she knows Victoria. "N…no! I don't want any trouble," she'd stammered then.

"If you don't know her, why would you think she's trouble?" Jack had challenged, and, before she could respond, he'd asked about the night she'd attended Masen's concert. "Maggie, your cousin Ben's already said he let you in and that you boasted about meeting Victoria. I want to know what you two had planned and exactly what happened in that dressing room," he'd demanded.

"I don't…nothing happened," she'd protested, but her expression had betrayed her lie.

"You can talk to me or to the police," Jack had delivered the ultimatum, and after again stating that she didn't want trouble, Maggie had accompanied him to a nearby coffee shop. There, he'd stressed the uselessness of lying. "Victoria confessed that she drugged Masen, and several witnesses will confirm you were there that night," he'd informed her. Ashen-faced by then, she'd revealed how, when hanging around the tour buses hoping to see Masen, Victoria had approached her and how, when she'd confessed to being his 'biggest fan', Victoria had promised an introduction.

"There must have been dozens of fans hanging around. Why'd you think she singled you out?" he'd asked.

"I thought she was being nice," Maggie had responded, explaining how Victoria had shown interest in her life, especially Maggie's troubles with her ex. "I thought she liked me," she'd said, and Jack had scoffed inwardly because, by all accounts, Victoria is incapable of liking another female.

"Victoria's already admitted her part. How did she get you to help her?" he'd prodded, and Maggie had explained how Victoria had arranged to meet her backstage at ten that night and how they'd watched the rest of the concert from the wings. Then, when Maggie had thanked her, Victoria had suggested she show her gratitude by helping her and Masen with a problem.

"Problem?" Jack questioned.

"Yes. Victoria said his ex-girlfriend wouldn't stop bothering him; that she turns up everywhere, embarrassing Masen, and, because they grew up together, he felt guilty that he couldn't be hard on her like he should. Victoria said I could help, but it would be better if he didn't know about the plan until after. She said he'd be grateful and promised to make it worth my while."

"Worth your while? How?"

"She said she'd pay me and make sure Masen spends time with me."

"She offered you money?"

"Yes."

"How much?"

"A thousand dollars."

"Didn't you wonder why she'd pay that much?"

"I didn't think it was a lot—not for someone like Victoria."

"Did she pay you then?"

"No; after Masen's girlfriend left." Maggie squirms under Jack's withering gaze.

"Did you know Victoria was going to drug him?" he demands.

"No!" She shakes her head emphatically.

"Why did you think he passed out?"

"Victoria said he was probably drunk."

"Did he look or act drunk when he came off stage?"

"No."

"How long was he in the dressing room before he passed out?"

"An hour, maybe less."

"Did he drink a lot in that time?"

"Not really; not as much as the others." Maggie had looked pleadingly at Jack. "I didn't know she was going to drug him," she'd said, and when he'd remained silent, she'd again whined about not wanting trouble.

"I have a son. I don't want trouble, "she'd added a few seconds ago.

He waits for a beat to pass and then another, watching her squirm. "You should've remembered Bobby when you agreed to help Victoria commit a crime," he answers coolly.

"Yes, I know about Bobby. I also know about his father's threats to take him away. I know almost everything about you, Maggie, and what I don't know, I'll find out. So, if you're serious about not wanting trouble, you'll tell me everything about that night, and maybe if Masen decides to press charges, he'll put in a good word for you."

"I didn't know. Victoria said—" Maggie protests, but Jack cuts in.

"It doesn't matter what Victoria said. And I don't care how many times you say you didn't know she was going to drug him. You must've suspected something was wrong! Why else would she offer you a thousand dollars?"

" I…I just wanted to meet him, and I needed the money." Maggie's lip quivers, but Jack ignores her distress.

"What happened when Masen entered the dressing room," he asks, and she tells how, when Edward had started his last set, Victoria had led the way to their dressing room, and when he'd announced the last song, she'd directed Maggie to help open beers for the band. "I asked if Masen would have one too, but she said she'd take care of him."

"Bottles or cans?" he asks.

"Bottles. Saison, I think."

"Did you see her doing anything suspicious to Masen's drink?"

Maggie shrugs. "I was watching the door, not her."

"Was anyone else in the dressing room?"

"No, just me and her."

"Did you see Victoria give Masen the beer?"

"Yes, when he came in."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes," Maggie answers confidently, and then, when Jack questions her certainty, explains that, with the audience still clapping and yelling, Edward and the band had entered the dressing room. "They were high-fiving one another. Victoria told Masen he'd been amazing and gave him the beer." She describes how security had let fans in, and how, while Edward and the band had signed autographs, Victoria had changed the bottle in his hand with another.

"Did anyone else give him drinks?" Jack asks.

"Just James. He poured bourbon for Masen and the band," Maggie answers.

"Where did he get the glasses?"

"The drinks table."

"Did Masen drink the bourbon?"

Maggie nods, and Jack pauses, contemplating the possibility of James and not Victoria drugging Edward. He wonders what he could he have gained by destroying Edward and Bella's relationship. 'Not much but something to consider,' he decides. "Go on," he urges Maggie, who says that, when security had cleared all but a handful of fans from the room, James, drinking straight from the bottle, had pulled a female onto his lap and announced it was time for the 'real party' to start. She explains how, after a signal from Victoria, she'd jostled aside another fan to sit next to Edward and how, eventually, she'd straddled his lap and pretended to kiss him.

"Pretend?"

"Victoria said not to kiss him on the mouth or touch under his clothes," she reveals, sounding petulant.

"Did Masen object or stop you?"

"No. He was mostly passed out by then." Maggie fidgets, and Jack reminds her that he expects her to tell him everything. "If you don't want trouble," he warns.

"He mumbled something."

"What?"

"Bella," Maggie confesses, and Jack's expression hardens. He prides himself on being just, and, as an LAPD detective, he'd gained a reputation for being' a hard ass' but fair. 'Work the case, not the perp,' and 'nothing's fact until proven,' had been his mantras. As a private investigator, he still adheres to them. So, despite Maggie's role in Dallas, he'd been determined to reserve judgment because, unlike with Victoria, Jack hadn't questioned anyone about her other than her cousin—and he'd disclosed only basic facts.

Maggie's inability to acknowledge any responsibility for her actions and lack of remorse except for any trouble it could cause her had tested that resolve.

The excuse, 'Victoria said,' had started to grate on his nerves, and the absence of regret, in any form, had, for Jack, become more and more obvious. Experience and an innate sense of fair-mindedness had compelled him to accept how she, a single mother at barely seventeen, forced to sacrifice her young adult years, would crave excitement—how, on a night out, she'd jump at the chance of meeting a famous rock star. He'd even understood how, struggling on a minimum wage, she'd accept a thousand dollars. 'Who, in her position, wouldn't?' he'd rationalized. Victoria would have realized those things too, and she would, no doubt, have exploited them and manipulated the younger woman. Still, in Jack's estimation, that didn't absolve Maggie from blame, and, with her last confession, her lack of concern about the impact of her actions on either Bella or Edward, the last of his impartiality evaporates.

"Did you know he was talking about his girlfriend?" he demands.

"Yes, Victoria told me her name."

"Didn't you question her story then? Didn't you wonder why Masen would mumble his girlfriend's name if he wanted to get rid of her?"

"No; Victoria said—" she repeats, but Jack dismisses the excuse.

"I know what Victoria said. Tell me what happened next?" he snaps and listens, stone-faced, as she describes how, when the band and their hangers-on had left, Victoria, had detailed how and where she'd wanted Maggie positioned between Edward's legs, how she'd repeated what she expected Maggie to do and not to do. Victoria, she says, warned her that she'd be watching and then hid in a storage room next door. Jack pushes, and she explains that Edward, comatose had slumped on the sofa with his head thrown back and how, when Bella had entered as planned, she'd been on her knees with her back to the door, faking oral sex.

"I smiled at her like Victoria said," Maggie explains with still no hint of remorse.

"Did Bella say or do anything—to you or to Masen?" Jack only barely hides his disgust.

"No; she ran out."

"Did you undress Masen—put your hands in his pants—touch him at all?" he questions, pinning her with a glacial stare.

"No," she answers, her voice wavering, but she holds his gaze. Satisfied that she's telling the truth, Jack continues.

"What did you do then?"

"Victoria came back and paid me."

"Did she say anything?"

"She told me not to tell anyone what we'd done, or I'd be sorry. "Fans make up stories about Masen all the time. Do think anyone would believe you?" she said and that Masen would probably sue me; that he'd sued women before."

"Then what?"

"We left."

"You left Masen there?"

"Yes. Victoria said someone would find him."

"Did you see or speak to Victoria or Masen again?"

"I tried to see him the next time they played in Dallas, but Victoria stopped me," she says, explaining that Victoria had, again, caught her near the tour buses, and how she'd threatened to tell Bobby's father about what she'd done. "She knew his mother wanted to take Bobby away from me. She said she'd make sure I lose my job. I only wanted what she'd promised, you know? To spend time with Masen, but she said I'd never come near him again; that she'd destroy me. I believed her," Maggie tells.

"Is that all? Is there anything you didn't tell me?"

"That's all. Promise," Maggie adds, seeing Jack's stern expression.

"And you haven't heard from her since?"

"No. Do you think I will?" she asks nervously.

"Victoria's in a lot of trouble. I don't know what she'll do," he answers honestly.

"You'll help me, won't you? Tell Masen it was Victoria, not me?"

"I can't do that."

"You promised!" Maggie protests.

"I didn't promise anything. I advised you to tell the truth, and I said that if Masen presses charges, he might put in a good word for you. Besides, it wasn't just Victoria was it? You helped her."

"You could've refused," he interrupts when she protests. "And you could've warned Masen. You made choices, Maggie. You took advantage of a man when he was drugged, and you deliberately hurt him and his girlfriend. Like Victoria, you'll have to pay for your decisions," he tells her, and then, while she's still professing innocence, Jack gets up and leaves.

In his rental car, returning to the airport, he tries to shake off disappointment. He'd hoped that, by interviewing Maggie Johnson, to uncover new evidence, something tangible enough to guarantee Victoria being charged and, hopefully, convicted, but that didn't happen. He'd hoped, also, that, if they did end up in court, Maggie would prove a credible witness. That, he now believes, won't happen because, inevitably, her and Victoria's testimonies would come down to 'she said, she said,' and, based on what he's learned about Victoria, even without having met her, he knows she'd win that contest. Victoria had chosen her accomplice well. There is no record and no witness to their agreement, and no trace of the alleged one-thousand-dollar payment because she'd paid in cash.

The woman, Jack concedes, is as cunning and manipulative as everyone he'd interviewed about her had stated. He doesn't know how much luck or planning had played a part in Victoria choosing Maggie, or how much her vague resemblance to Bella had influenced her decision to single her out. Whatever her reasons, Jack believes she couldn't have chosen an easier or and better target. Victoria, he believes, must have thought all her Christmases had come at once when discovering Maggie's circumstances and then realizing that she was almost as selfish and uncaring about others' feelings as she is.

He consoles himself with two thoughts—that he can, at least, reassure Edward that neither woman had molested him and that he has yet to interview Victoria and James.

. . . . .

In Los Angeles, Victoria gapes at the blonde in James' doorway. The shock that had struck her momentarily dumb evaporates when her eyes land on the t-shirt that only just covers the woman's crotch.

"Who the hell are you?" she spits, her eyes narrowing when, seemingly unconcerned by her hostility, the woman leans casually against the doorjamb.

"I'm Abby. What do you want Victoria?"

"Good; you know who I am. Now, get out!" Victoria brushes past her to search for James. She finds him naked and reclining against his headboard.

"Missing this?" He grins while stroking his very obvious erection.

"Put some fucking clothes on!" she snaps just as Abby enters and, sashaying across the room, slides onto the bed, drapes herself over James' chest, and, in the process, exposes herself. Victoria grimaces. "Didn't I tell you to leave?" she asks, her lips thinning into an angry sneer when Abby, ignoring her, plants an open-mouthed kiss on James.

"Get rid of the slut, or I will!" Victoria threatens, and James, clearly enjoying her reaction, unhurriedly untangles himself from Abby, and smirking at Victoria, palms her breast.

"Give me ten minutes," he tells her, and when she pouts, roughly tweaks a nipple. "Ten minutes!" he says, authoritatively this time. She gets up, making sure she gives him an eyeful. James rewards her with a resounding slap on her bare cheek. "When I'm done here, that ass is mine!" he announces, slapping it again. Abby shoots him a seductive smile over her shoulder and walks away with an exaggerated sway her hips. She stops in front of Victoria. "I'm not his slut," she informs her, "I'm the next Mrs. Nelson," and then, deliberately bumping Victoria's arm, departs.

Victoria glares at James, who still hasn't covered himself. Snatching a pillow from the floor, she hurls it into his lap.

"Don't trust yourself?" he goads.

"Get over yourself!" she returns. "What are you doing letting that slut wear a t-shirt I gave you—one you wouldn't even let me wear? And why the hell do you let her think you'll marry her?" she demands.

"That shirt's five years old, Vic. Why the fuck would you care about who wears it? You stopped caring about me years ago, and we're divorced, remember? I'm finally moving on, and I am marrying Abby."

"Bullshit! You're just saying that to spite me."

"I'm done playing games with you, Vic. What're you doing here, anyway? You can't just come and go as you please anymore."

"We'll discuss your supposed marriage later. Right now, we need to talk about Masen—"

"Leave it alone. Leave him alone, Victoria. You're fucking lucky he didn't go to the cops."

"I need a job, James. I just need to talk to him, ask if he could get Aro—"

"Why the hell would Masen want to help you? Because you fucked a few times? You need to get over yourself. He only touched you when he couldn't think straight—"

Trembling with rage, Victoria yells. "Screw you. You're just jealous."

"I'm over being jealous. I'm over our fucked up relationship, and I'm over being used. I'm over you."

"I didn't use you. You'd still be playing shitty pubs if I didn't help you. And, for the record, you'll never be over me. You've chased after me since I was thirteen!"

"Keep thinking that if it makes you feel better. You forget I was in this business before you even thought about getting into it, and I've been doing okay— good even—without you. And yes, I chased you. We both had fucked up childhoods. We understood each other, and we helped each other. I loved you, Vic, and I thought you loved me too, even though we showed it in fucked up ways. But the way you went after Masen? I realized then that you didn't love me. I wondered if you'd ever loved me, but it doesn't matter now. I've moved on. You should too."

Victoria argues, but James interrupts. "You know, he and I argued about lots of shit, and I was jealous, I admit, but I liked and respected him. I should've told him what you did."

"Should've, would've, could've," Victoria mocks. "You haven't moved on, James. You're still the same! No ambition. I motivated you; I got you the good gigs, and I gave you a chance to record your songs. You screwed that up, not me!" she snipes, before softening her tone. "But I can still help you if I can get Aro off my back. Masen probably won't listen to me, but if you contact him; ask him to let me explain—"

"Victoria…" James gets up and grabs a pair of jeans from the floor. He slips them on, leaving his pants half undone. "I'm not contacting Masen, and I don't need or want your help. I've got a gig in Europe, and I'm leaving in a month. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a fiancée to fuck," he tells her and, grasping her elbow, escorts her from the room.

"I'll tell Masen you helped me," she threatens.

"I've always had your back, Vic, but fuck with me, and the gloves come off. Trust me, you don't want that to happen. I know all the shit you got up to, remember? If that gets around, you'd have more to worry about than Aro and Masen. Now leave, before I let Abby kick your ass like she's dying to."

"She can try!" Victoria, bristling, shrugs out of his hold.

James laughs. "Oh, she'll do more than try," he promises. "She's a hellcat. A lot like you—except younger, of course," he adds and, with that cutting remark, wanders off, leaving Victoria in the living room, fuming with rage.

Desperate to retaliate, her eyes dart around and then, spotting his Stratocaster—the one he just had to have when Edward bought his—she picks it up and carries it to her car. There, she carefully positions it behind the driver's rear wheel, gets in, starts the engine, and reverses over it. Her mouth lifts at the sound of the satisfying crunch, the one she'd specifically lowered her window to hear. She changes gear, drives forward and then back, twice for good measure, before she collects what's left of the instrument. Returning to James' apartment, she drops the pieces on the doorstep. "How's that for hellcat?" she mutters and walks away.

That night, while Victoria alternates between cursing James and her fuming about her destroyed career, Edward lands at LAX. A short while later, carrying his Martin case and travel bag, with his eyes downcast and a baseball cap pulled low, he runs the gauntlet of ever-present paparazzi. He looks up when, over their shouted questions, a rumbling voice calls his name. "Bout time you got here," Chez greets him with a broad grin.

Edward's face lights up with pleasure. "Hey! I didn't expect you to meet me," he returns as they share a one-armed hug.

"Daphne woulda kicked my ass if I didn't," Chez chuckles, and then, scowling at the paps, suggests they 'get outa here.' Edward nods, eager to comply.

Outside, Chez leads him to a limo, which, when Edward stops and frowns, he quickly explains belongs to a friend and not to Arrius. Relieved to know that he's not beholden to Arrius or that his friend won't get into trouble, he relaxes in the front passenger seat, leans back and lets out a long, audible sigh.

"You could skip all that back there if you use the VIP lounge," Chez says, referring to the relatively new addition of a VIP arrivals facilities.

"I want to live my life as normally as possible," Edward responds.

"That sure as hell don't seem normal to me," Chez counters, pointing a thumb over his shoulder.

"It isn't, and thank fuck I don't get a lot of that in Brooklyn or Philly."

"So, you done with LA? Plan on selling your place?"

"I haven't really thought about it, but I probably should."

"Me an' Daph miss you Mase, but this town ain't good for you."

Edward turns to face his friend. "I miss you both too, and I'm grateful to you for keeping an eye on my place," he says, referring to the fact that Chez and Daphne pop into his penthouse occasionally to ensure the property management company maintains it well.

"I can't blame LA for the shit I did, but you're right, I shouldn't live here," he says after a moment's silence. "It wasn't meant to be permanent, anyway. I always planned on going back to Philly, but…." he stops, not wanting to get into his and Bella's relationship, past or present; at least, not now. "I love being in Brooklyn. It feels like home, you know?" he says instead.

"That's how I feel about Mississipi, but Daph's here." Chez shrugs as if saying 'what can a man do?' and Edward smiles at both at the gesture and hearing his friend refer to his home state as 'Miss-ippi.' His rich, deep voice and his Southern accent had been the first things that struck Edward when they'd first met. He'd found both strangely reassuring when arriving in a strange city, and, despite their many differences—their Mississipi and Harlem accents being the most notable—there'd been something about Chez that had then and still reminds Edward of Lou. He still can't articulate what it is, but much like Lou had done for him a child, the man beside him has become somewhat of a father-figure to the adult he is now. Silently, Edward acknowledges that he hadn't realized how much he'd missed him until he'd heard his voice and seen his smiling face inside the terminal.

"How is Daph?" he asks.

"Been drivin' me crazy askin' when you getting' here."

"Well, I can't wait to see her too. How about dinner tomorrow?" Edward suggests, listing the names of a few restaurants.

"I'll ask Daph, but you know how she loves feedin' you."

"And I'm a sucker for her cooking, but I wanted to thank you both for taking care of things for me."

"Like I said; I'll check, but that woman's stubborn as hell, so be ready to come to our place."

Edward laughs, reminding Chez that Daphne calls herself determined. "Alice'll be jealous. She still talks about Daph's fried chicken."

"Daph'll make sure she don't miss out. When's she get here?" Chez asks.

"Saturday and leaves with me on Tuesday. She wants to see you both too, so why don't we go out on Sunday?"

"Sounds good," Chez instantly agrees, and the pair spends the rest of the drive catching up on events in their lives. They touch, briefly, on the happenings at Arrius with Chez describing how Aro had torn up the place after hearing about Victoria's confession. "Even Mitch got his ass handed to him," he says.

"Does everyone know what happened?"

"Nah. I heard Aro tell Mitch he didn' want the real story gettin' round; just to say she messed up and can't be trusted. People are sayin' all kinds of things about her; not just at Arrius but other labels too, and no one'll speak to her. She tried to see Mitch and Aro, but security wouldn't let her in. She only stopped showin' up when they called the cops.

"You better watch out while you here. She can't find a job, and she's desperate. Ain't no tellin' what her crazy ass will do," Chez warns.

"She better stay the hell away from me, or she will end up in jail," Edward responds.

"You change your mind about layin' charges?"

"No." Edward's frustration shows. "Unless Jack…the PI," he clarifies, seeing Chez frown. "Unless he learns something new when talking to this Maggie."

"Does it change things if she says Victoria drugged you?"

"Maybe, especially with the tape, but my lawyers believe that, in court, it could end up being one woman's word against another, both of them involved in the same crime. And about the tape, Victoria could easily say she lied just to upset Bella."

Edward explains again how, in Vince's opinion, only a positive drug test would guarantee a conviction. "I didn't even consider the possibility that someone drugged me. Why the hell would I? And even if I had realized it, I would've had to get tested within twenty-four hours because the drug she supposedly used can't be detected after that time," he says through clenched teeth.

"You did nuthin' wrong, Mase. You were right to trust Victoria and Eclipse—they were supposed to be your people."

Edward, huffing out a breath, thanks Chez. "I only just cleaned up the shit I caused, and then this happens. Don't get me wrong; it's good to finally know what happened in Dallas, but I want to forget it and get on with my life." He pauses, taking a calming breath before continuing. "If Jack doesn't find anything that my lawyers believe will get Victoria and, hopefully, Maggie convicted, I'd rather just move on."

Chez nods and, taking those words literally, changes the subject by asking about the new album. Edward visibly relaxes as he shares details of final mixing sessions, the songs he's especially proud of, and the four singles that will be released before his tour kicks off in Philadelphia.

"You and Daph should come as my guests," he invites, and Chez, beaming, says he'll check but that he's sure Daphne, like him, would love to. He says he can't wait to hear the album and is delighted when Edward says he's brought him a CD.

"You still releasin' discs?" Chez asks.

"A limited number for promotional purposes mostly."

"I like browsin' in a store; that's what appreciatin' music's about. First vinyl, now CD's—don't know what's happen' to the business," Chez complains.

"Relax, old man," Edward says, grinning when his friend scowls at him. "The business is evolving with technology like it always has. These days, people want to listen to music wherever they go and now, thanks to streaming, they can."

When Chez grumbles about kids not knowing good sound Edward points out that vinyls are making a comeback, citing both Sony and Panasonic's recent reintroduction. That comment sparks a discussion about sound quality and the simplicity of vinyl technology and ends with them comparing collections. By the time they arrive in West Hollywood Chez appears to have forgotten his gripe about the younger generation's taste in sound. He declines Edward's invitation to come up, explaining that his friend's expecting his car back, and then, after eagerly accepting the promised CD, departs.

Upstairs, Edward drops his bags in the living room before he pulls out his phone and then, sinking into a sofa, checks his messages. Unexpected relief and a good dose of pleasure flood him when reading Bella's name. He'd expected her to respond, but he hadn't realized just how anxious he'd been about how she'd answer his text until reading her words; Thanks for letting me know. Have a great trip. I hope to hear all about it when you return.

He reads it several times before typing You're welcome. I'm sorry you learned about LA the way you did. I wanted to tell you personally, but my day got out of hand. And yes, I'll share details when I'm back. Take care.

Deciding to leave his other messages until later, he drops his bag and jacket in his bedroom before wandering through the rest of the apartment. He lingers in the studio, where he runs a hand over the equipment, recalling how, with Steve and Jason's help, he'd planned and supervised every aspect of its creation. He remembers how excited and proud he'd been to be able to afford his own recording studio—more, in fact, than he'd been about buying the apartment that the realtor had assured him many celebrities would envy. He makes his way the kitchen next and forages through the fridge, where his face splits into a wide grin when seeing the dish of mac 'n cheese, Daphne's calls her special soul style recipe. Still too full from his airline dinner, he resists the temptation by promising himself a large bowlful later. He grabs a Coke, thanks also to Daphne's care, and returns to the living room. There, he lounges on a sofa and then, opening the remote-controlled drapes, stares out at the spectacular skyline, wondering how the place that had been home for so long lacks any sense of belonging. The reality, he concedes, is that neither LA nor the apartment, with the notable exception of the studio, had ever given him real pleasure or comfort. He decides, then, to sell the place and makes a mental note to get Patrick onto it.

His phone rings, and Edward smiles when recognizing the number. "I was going to call," he greets Alex.

"Well, I beat you to it. How was your flight? When did you get in?"

"Good. Chez picked me up, and I got here about forty minutes ago."

"That was nice of him. Is he still there?"

"No, but I'm seeing him and Daphne tomorrow. Are you still on for Friday?"

"I'm looking forward to it. Have you booked anywhere?

"Not yet. I was thinking about Fig and Olive, Casa Vega, or Chateau Marmont as there'd be less chance of running into paps. You will be in Beverley Hills, won't you?"

"I'd planned on working from home on Friday, but that's not a problem. Any of those would be great."

"The drive to LA and back would be too much. I'll find somewhere closer or arrange a limo—"

"Edward," Alex stops him." I make the trip all the time. San Marino isn't the end of the world," she jokes.

"I'll book somewhere local," he says determinedly.

"Then you'll be traveling there and back."

"That's different. I might have been a fuck-up for a time, but I haven't forgotten my manners. Eva's arranged a car, so I might even drive."

"Stop bringing up your past. You know I don't hold it against you. Look, if you insist on traveling all this way, why don't I cook? You won't have to worry about the paparazzi then," Alex suggests.

"You can cook?" Edward pretends to be shocked.

"Yes; I can cook," she returns, pretending to be insulted.

" I hope you're good because Daphne'll probably cook tomorrow, so you'll have a lot to live up to."

"I think I can hold my own."

"I can hardly resist the chance to test your skills, now can I? Don't think I'll go easy on you, though."

"Do your worst," Alex challenges, and Edward laughs, saying, "We'll see," before asking if she's sure it isn't too much trouble.

"I'm sure," she assures him, and they agree on a time, and Alex promises to text her address. They discuss Edward's plans for the next two days before he mentions Alice's arrival on Saturday.

"I know she'd like to meet you. Maybe we can go to dinner on Saturday or even on Monday if you're in LA."

"I'd like to meet her too," Alex assures him, and, after chatting for a while, they end their conversation, and Edward makes two calls. The first is to Eva, who, once they've exchanged pleasantries, confirms that a driver will collect him at six-thirty the next morning, in time for his first radio interview at seven. "I could've made it earlier. The DJ's start at five," she says when he groans.

"You'd never do that to me. You value our friendship too much."

"Maybe, but don't ever forget that I can!" she mock-threatens. " You're due at KLOS at eight-thirty. From there, you'll go home, and I'll pick you up and we can drive to Burbank together," Eva says, referring to the studio where he's due to appear on a talk show.

"What car did you get?"

"You can have either an Audi R8 Spyder or a Q8."

"I'd love the R8, but it'll draw too much attention."

"Edward, you're in Hollywood, the home of flashy cars. Besides, the windows are tinted; no one will recognize you. "

"Until I get out or in. The Q8 will do," he decides. "When will you pick me up?

"Around eleven. That will give you and Ellen time to catch up before taping starts."

"Great. See you then," Edward hangs up and calls Alice, who tells him repeatedly how excited she about their time together. "Me too, Shrimp. I'll see you at the airport," he promises before telling her that Daphne's mac 'n cheese is calling his name.

"Save me some!" she demands.

"I'm not promising anything," he responds.

"You'd better," she threatens, and she's still promising bodily harm when Edward, laughing, disconnects their call.

The following day, he—and Eva when she joins him—race from one interview to another, stopping only for a brief lunch. Just after five, while driving her home, Edward declares himself 'talked out' but pleased by the response to news of the album and Lost, the single aired today. "I hope the others are as well received," he says about the three other singles scheduled for release in the weeks leading up to his tour. Eva, equally delighted, is especially impressed that the stations' switchboards had lit up even while Edward had still been on air. "I think this may be your best album yet," she predicts.

"We'll see," Edward responds noncommittally. In reality, he's as nervous as hell about this, his fourth album—perhaps even more nervous than he'd been about his first. Then, he'd had nothing to lose, other than yet another 'I told you so' from his father when and if he failed and returned to his stalled medical career. Now, he has both his self-esteem and musical reputation to re-establish. Aptly titled Full Circle, he sees this album as a chance, perhaps his only one, to remedy both his personal and professional mistakes.

Eva, who's grown close to Edward since becoming his manager, knows and understands his emotions, pats his shoulder. "Everyone will see," she confidently states.

At home, he checks his messages. The first text he finds is from Bella, wishing him a great day. My day was successful—we think. Hope yours was too. I'm seeing Chez and Daphne for dinner, he tells her, and, in the middle of responding to another message, receives a reply. Say hi to them from me. What a coincidence, I'm at dinner now at Talula's Garden with Mom and Dad. He took us there, remember?

Edward does remember that night, all too well. He'd been shocked and thrilled when Charlie, who treasured his 'alone time' with his wife and daughter, invited him to join them to celebrate Renee's birthday. For him, the gesture had, finally, been a sign of the approval he'd longed for from his girlfriend's father and also a much-wanted acceptance into the heart of the Swan family. He remembers how, then, he'd dreamed about eventually, through marriage, becoming a permanent member of the family.

Edward dismisses the bittersweet memory, concentrating instead on answering Bella. I will, and I do. Hope the food's still as good. Enjoy! Say hi to your parents too. Talk soon, he tells her and then, after answering a few more messages, including one confirming lunch with Patrick the following day, wanders into his suite to shower and change for dinner.

An hour later, he arrives at Chez and Daphne's and has barely locked the car door when they appear on the porch. Daphne throws her arms around Edward the moment he ascends the last step. "You look so damn good! I missed you, and I want to hear everything you've been doing since you left," she says, and then, still clutching his arm, leads him into the house.

"You gonna let me greet him, woman?" Chez, trailing behind, demands.

"Quit whining and get the drinks," she returns, and Edward can't help smiling as Chez, muttering under his breath, ambles away to the kitchen and returns with a laden tray. "Sweet tea or fresca," he offers, referring to the pineapple and coconut concoction Daphne had introduced him to before and which he'd thoroughly enjoyed. "Or, you can have a beer, if you want?"

"No thanks. I don't care what the Sanctuary's doctors say; I'm not ready to take that step. Besides, I've missed Daphne's fresca. Don't let me stop you from having one, though," he tells them both.

"I'm okay with this, and Chez doesn't need a beer. Just look at that gut!"

"You love this, woman." Chez pats his belly with both hands, and Daphne rolls her eyes. Edward's grin widens as he soaks it all up— their banter and cozy home, settling over him like a comforting blanket. He remembers the happy times he'd spent in this place, listening to their interaction and basking in their friendship while sitting around Daphne's kitchen table, gorging on delicious Southern and Latino foods that, like the drinks, reflects the couple's backgrounds. The night lives up to his fond memories, and, when Edward announces that it's time to leave, Daphne produces a container of fried chicken and another of potato salad. She waves off his thanks, telling him to make sure he saves Alice some.

On Friday morning, between radio interviews, Jack calls, wanting to update Edward on his meeting with Maggie. "I can't talk now, but I'm meeting Patrick at Wolfgang Puck's at the Bel-Air at one. Why don't you join us? I'll text him to see if Vince can make it too," he suggests, saying, that way, everyone who needs to, will be in the loop.

Jack instantly agrees. "One thing I'd like to confirm now, though. Neither of them touched you in the way you worried about. It doesn't excuse what they did, but I hope knowing that helps," he adds, and Edward, sounding relieved, thanks him.

"It does," he assures Jack, who before saying goodbye, offers to call Vince, saying that he'd intended to update him anyway.

Vince does make the meeting, and he, Patrick, and Jack are seated at a secluded table when Edward, who, thanks to having to drive across town, arrives nearly fifteen minutes late. With apologies and greetings out of the way, they waste no time in ordering, and, as soon the food's been served, he asks Jack to fill them in. He starts by recapping what he'd learned about Maggie's background before traveling to Dallas and then relates, in detail, his conversation with her. Vince and, occasionally, Patrick ask questions. Edward, however, is quiet throughout, his clenched jaw the only outward sign of his growing anger.

"Do you think she was telling the truth?" Vince asks when Jack finishes.

"I do. She's a piece of work, though."

"What do you mean?" Edward finally speaks, and Jack shares how Maggie hadn't once expressed remorse for her actions or how they'd impacted either Edward or Bella. "She's only worried about herself," he says, expressing the view that, should they end up in court, any halfway-decent defense lawyer would realize that and use it to his advantage. "He'll show her up for what she is— not that smart, flighty, and selfish. I haven't met Victoria, but, from what I've learned about her, I'd bet if it came down to her word against Maggie's, she'd run rings around her," he concludes.

"I believe you, but even if that weren't true, we still don't have a watertight case; especially, if, as you say, James Nelson could've drugged Edward, "Vince answers before turning to Edward.

"We'd be pushing it uphill to convince a prosecutor let alone a jury, but, if you want to pursue the matter, I will."

Edward scrapes his fingers through his hair, a clear sign of his agitation. "I'm finding it hard to give a fuck anymore. I'd love to see them pay, but it doesn't look like that will happen. James, too, if he was involved, but, somehow, I don't think he was. He's an asshole, who's into drugs, and we've had our differences, but that's not his style. Either way, I don't want to deal with this shit or wallow in it any longer—not if we don't have a chance of putting them away. I have an album to release and a tour coming up, so thank you all for trying, but I think it's time to move on. " he says, looking around the table.

"I'm happy to push this, Edward, but I don't want you to have unrealistic expectations," Vince counters, but Edward shakes his head, saying the negative publicity a trial would bring isn't worth a fine and a slap on the wrist.

"I'd still like to interview Victoria and James and do some more digging and maybe keep an eye on her. Who knows what I'll find," Jack suggests. "It's worth a shot," he says when Patrick expresses doubt.

"She's desperate, and when Victoria's pushed into a corner, she lashes out," Edward intervenes, and relates Chez' feedback, including the warning about Victoria trying to contact him while he's in town.

"Does she know you're here?" Jack asks.

"If she didn't before, she does now. Photos of him arriving were splashed all over the tabloids and the internet, and he's been doing interviews," Patrick informs him.

"If she causes trouble, let me know, and I'll talk to my friends at LAPD. Arresting her for stalking would be a good start," Jack tells Edward.

. . . . .

Just after seven that night, Edward pulls into Alex's driveway. He stops when exiting his car to appreciate the Spanish-style architecture and the lush garden before striding to the front door and ringing the bell. Dressed in a long casual, flowing dress and flat, barely-there sandals with her hair loose and framing her face, the woman who opens the door is a far cry from the stitched-up professional he'd grown accustomed to seeing.

"You look great," he greets her and, after she invites him in, hands over the flowers he'd stopped to pick up. "Esme says it's better to send flowers the next day, but she also says it's rude to arrive empty-handed." He shrugs half apologetically.

"It's a sweet gesture, Edward, and they're gorgeous. Thank you. I should put them in water. Want to see the kitchen?" she offers, and Edward follows eagerly, admiring the whitewashed walls, high arches, dark timber floors, and the relaxed yet elegant décor on the way. "This place is terrific. How long have you lived here?"

"About six years. It's been updated in that time."

"I like what you did," he responds just as they enter an impressively equipped kitchen. "Maybe you can cook," he teases Alex, and then, sniffing the air appreciatively, admits that whatever's she's making smells good.

"I hope it tastes as good. You have a lot to live up to, you know."

"What did Daphne cook yesterday?" Alex questions as she opens the fridge and produces a jug. "Virgin margaritas. I assume you're still avoiding alcohol?" she asks and when Edward confirms the assumption, she offers a list of other non-alcoholic choices including water and white or red wine.

"The margaritas look great," he decides.

"Sit," she motions to the row of stools at the central island before delving into the fridge again, this time to retrieve two salt-rimmed glasses and a bowl of sliced limes. She hands him his drink, takes a sip of her own, and quirks a playful brow. "Daphne?" she prods, and Edward describes empanadas filled with chicken, black beans, peppers, and cheese and what Daphne had called her grandmother's 'stovetop ribs.' He practically drools at the memory of those, and when Alex rolls her eyes, tells her that Daphne had made fresh churros while he and Chez had sat at the kitchen table. He details the three dipping sauces she'd served with the pastries; two chocolate, one spiced with cayenne pepper, and the third, caramel.

"Still confident?" he challenges, and Alex, busy arranging flowers, pauses with a stem poised mid-air.

"Very!" she asserts before nestling the bloom amid the others and smiling in admiration. "They really are beautiful," she says and thanks him again as she places the vase in pride of place on the island. "I spend most of my time in here. I even work from here instead of my office when I'm home," she explains. While Alex finishes her cooking, they chat, catching up on the past two days. That discussion naturally leads to Edward's tour. "How do you feel about being on the road again?" Alex asks.

"I'm excited about performing live again, but that's not what you're asking is it?"

"I am interested in your music, Edward. I think it's brilliant, but you're right, I'm also asking if you feel strong enough to cope with the stresses and temptations of touring. I'm asking as your friend, not a therapist."

"I know, and you know I value your friendship." He sighs, running a hand through his hair before continuing. "Alice worried about the same thing…probably still does," he adds wryly. "So I'll tell you what I told her.

"I survived my first and most of the second tours without doing drugs or getting blind drunk. I fucked up after Dallas; I don't have to tell you how badly, but things are different now. I'm different. I have my head and life together, and I've surrounded myself with responsible people, so no bad influences there—not that I blame anyone else for my stupidity. I haven't taken drugs, and I haven't smoked a joint. Hell, these days, I won't even take a headache tablet, and, as you know, I haven't touched alcohol since entering rehab. I've been out for ten months, and I honestly haven't wanted either. Talking to Dan regularly helps, and I'll keep doing that while on the road. I think… I know as long as I stick to what I've been doing, I'll be okay.

"Eva's also helped by making sure we have enough breaks in our schedule, including a week off before starting our international tour. She'll also travel a few legs with me, and Alice is joining me in London. That'll help with the boredom, and I'll keep in touch with Dan."

Alex nods. "Just remember I'm also in your corner. You can call me anytime."

"Edward thanks her sincerely, and then, tired of talking about himself, asks what he'd believed to be an innocuous question— how she, a single person with a thriving practice in LA, ended up living in a five-bedroomed house in a city popular with families. He regrets it instantly when Alex's smile drops.

"I didn't mean to upset you. Forget I asked," he tells her.

"No, it's okay. It's time I told you anyway," she assures him and then, taking a shuddering breath, starts talking and, with her very first words, shocks him.

"My fiancé and I bought the house."

Edward hadn't known what to expect, but that had been the farthest thing from his mind. Questions, so many, rattle around in his head but Alex is still speaking, and so he listens as she explains that her fiancé, Gabe, had just gained an associate professorship in Caltech's engineering department; how they'd looked in Pasadena but that he'd liked San Marino, and how, when seeing the house, he'd fallen in love with it. She describes their excitement and plans to renovate, and how Gabe, thirty-two, nearly six years older, had wanted, eventually, to fill the house with children.

"We planned on renovating before getting married. We'd only just finished the living room and the kitchen when it happened.

"He started getting headaches that just got worse and worse." Alex takes another deep breath, and Edward, sensing her next revelation, leans across the counter to grasp her hand. "He died two weeks after the day we'd planned on getting married."

"I'm sorry—so sorry." He squeezes, wanting to show his sadness at her loss and wanting, somehow, to convey the comfort that, from experience, he knows mere words can't.

Alex returns the pressure, her accompanying smile weak but grateful. " I…I should've sold the place," she continues. "But I couldn't even though I hated going upstairs.

"Too many sad memories," she answers Edward's unspoken question. "So I lived down here and buried myself in further study. It took me ages, two years to be exact, before I decided to finish the renovations. I wanted to make, at least, part of his dream a reality."

"How long ago—"

"Since I decided?" Alex cuts in. He hadn't meant that, but sensing that she doesn't want to dwell on her fiancé's death, agrees, knowing that her answer would reveal when he'd died.

"Two and a half years ago. The work took a year," she relates and, suddenly, laughs. "I'm sure that, wherever Gabe is, he laughs each time he sees how many of his ideas I ignored."

"Like what?" Edward probes, pleased to see humor and light return to her eyes.

"We disagreed on many things about the house—about decorating mostly; nothing major like which wall to remove or how big the rooms should be. He wanted brown leather sofas, and I wanted grey linen. He wanted black countertops, and I wanted white. I think he was always going to give in; he just liked a good argument."

"Well, he was a professor."

"He was." Alex smiles, nostalgic and accepting, and Edward, wanting to ease her sadness, changes the subject.

They eat on the patio at a tastefully set table for two. Alex's shrimp, scallop, avocado, and cilantro ceviche, followed by roast beef served with a salsa verde sauce, crisp, baked potatoes, and sautéed green beans, do, indeed, prove delicious. So does her pecan pie, and Edward offers praise throughout dinner.

Later, after he helps clear the table and they've settled on an outdoor sofa with coffee, he compliments her again. "That was a truly delicious meal. I always forget how much I miss a home cooked meal until I experience it again."

"Don't you cook?"

"Only the basics like grilling, and I make a mean grilled cheese but that's about it."

"No wonder Daphne spoils you."

"Maybe, and it's probably a good part of why, whenever she visits, Alice feels the need to feed me."

"Is she a good cook?"

"Pretty good, but she doesn't really enjoy it—probably because Esme didn't have a lot of time to cook. Diane, our housekeeper, did most of it. Her food was great."

"But not as good as Daphne, right? I mean, no one's food can possibly compare to hers," Alex jokes.

"I told you, dinner was fantastic, so I guess you're a good cook?"

"Guess?" she pretends to be offended.

"Well, I've only tasted one meal. You may be a one-trick pony."

"Are you suggesting I have limited talent?" Alex shifts to face him, and as she does, the split in her skirt opens to reveal a shapely thigh; something Edward can't help noticing. He stares, and then, catching himself, averts his gaze and clears his throat. "You have many talents, Alex," he admits when, a moment later, he meets her eyes.

"Thank you," she says, her voice hitching while holding his gaze. The air stirs, swirling with palpable tension as Alex lays an open palm on his chest and leans forward, bringing her mouth within a hair's breadth of his.

Edward freezes, his mind and body locked in battle. The part that's fast depleting the blood from his brain jumps, literally, when her breath fans across his lips. His eyes and jaw clench at the images the sensation evokes. It takes every ounce of willpower he can muster for Edward to pull back, but he does, again clearing his throat. "I should go," he tells a now mortified looking Alex.

"Edward—" she murmurs, her eyes pleading.

"I don't want to do something either of us would regret, Alex. I'll call you, okay?" he says and then, before his body betrays him, leaves.

In his car, Edward spends at least ten minutes calling himself every kind of an idiot imaginable. A part of his mind screams at him for hurting a friend; demands to know why he wouldn't take the chance to build something with a smart, beautiful woman—one who knows about his fuck ups but still wants him. Another curses him for not, right now, being buried balls-deep in Alex. Breaking through the cacophony, a whisper, 'you know why,' grows insistently louder.

"Fuck!" He pounds the steering wheel several times before, forcing himself to calm, he inhales several deep, cleansing breaths that do little to ease his frustration or confusion but focus him enough that he starts the car.

For the thirty-minute drive home and for hours after as he agonizes over choosing certain acceptance and potential rejection, Edward's emotions run the gamut from uncertainty, to hope, and then fear and back again. Finally, as dawn breaks, he reaches for his phone.

Back in Philadelphia, where Bella is sound asleep, her phone lights up with a message. I'm ready to talk.


Thank you for reading.

I apologize for the long delay in updating. I got sucked back into the corporate world for a specific project but, thankfully, I've extricated myself again.

I thank you for your patience and welcome any new readers who've joined the Unplugged journey since the last posting.

A special thank you to Coppertop :)

And last, but most definitely not least—I'm sure many of you already know, but I couldn't on this, my first time back for over two months, not honor and acknowledge Judy (JudyBlue). Judy tragically lost her life in September. She was an exceptional person, who I had the good fortune to meet in 2016 while visiting the US. She was warm, passionate, gutsy, articulate, funny, and an excellent conversationalist as I discovered over lunch that day. I miss her, and I miss her eloquent words. I will continue to miss her positive presence in my life.

Take care everyone,

Shenda x