Notes: Again, huge thank-yous go to Midnight Cougar for her editing magic, and to Paige Edwards and Musica Daydreams for prereading. They help make my words shine. I'd also like to thank Lizzie Paige for the stunning story banner. I mean, wow. Have you seen it?
Trigger Warning: Chapter One is where we see the attempted suicide.
Blackbird
Chapter 1
. . . . .
It was pandemonium backstage at the Dolby Theater in Los Angeles as everyone jostled for position. Blue and silver lights from the stage painted the bodies of Pop Smoke, Dua Lipa, and Kesha as they stood just beyond the entrance, each of them clearly hoping to be this year's winner, and Bella really hoped one of them was. On stage, Nick Jonas was announcing each of them as short clips of their songs were played.
She was standing patiently at the back as Angela whipped out her makeup brush and ran it over Bella's nose and chin. Beside her, one of the members of Brockhampton was chatting with Kid Culprit–the two of them did a complicated handshake as the guy congratulated Kid on being nominated. All the while, stagehands wearing headsets were running around, looking harried, making adjustments to the sound and lighting equipment, and trying to hurry along anyone who didn't belong there.
"You guys are supposed to return to your seats after your performance," the large group was told, and one of the members flipped off the stagehand.
"Relax, dude," he said at the man's back. "We just want to congratulate Kid here."
Kid Culprit, a Bieber look-alike whose real name was James Cam, was dressed in usual rapper attire: baggy black pants hung low on his hip bones, red sleeveless shirt displaying full-arm tattoos, with several gold chains hanging around his neck. He looked good, if you liked the type. Bella was barely dressed at all in gold from head-to-toe, with bangles that connected to other bangles by chains. She clanked when she walked. Even her nails were gold, with gold and silver bows at the very tips. A new, thick weave with gold highlights made her head heavy; the new hair was long enough to brush the small of her waist.
Crass, sexualized, tattooed from head-to-toe, the people loved Kid Culprit. Bella was a fairly new entity, his protégé of sorts, his current flavor of the month. Unless she was in bed with him, he was blindly self-centered–well, even then, he was all about himself–but she guessed it wasn't entirely his fault because everyone on his team was a yes sir. It was sickening to witness, but her mom said he could help her career. Bella was honestly a bit scared when he first took notice of her, but her mom was thrilled, so here she was.
It was the popular opinion that she and Kid Culprit were the winners this year, and icy flickers of nerves raced up her back. In moments, Nick Jonas was going to call an act out there to accept the year's top song award, and she hoped to God it wasn't them. The song wasn't her; it was all Kid Culprit and his fascination with a perfect-looking shell of a woman–his masterpiece. He did the rapping, and Bella sang backup while posing crudely in sensationally skimpy outfits.
"Excuse me." Her mom, suddenly there, was pushing Angela and her brush aside. "Arms up," she said, and Bella obeyed, the chains around her arms hanging and brushing against the side of her face. Her mom started trying to tug the little breast hugger upward, but it wasn't budging because it was already held in place by the gold chains suspended from the rings around Bella's neck.
"Ma'am, I'm going to need you to clear the area please," one of the stagehands said.
"Hold on," her mother gritted.
Nick was announcing the winner. "And the Billboard Award for top song goes to . . . Kid Culprit and Isa, Masterpiece!"
Her mother hugged her tightly, then stepped back with a triumphant smile as their song began playing, and Bella was glad one of them was pleased because she was heartbroken to have won for a song that meant less than nothing to her. In German culture, her stage name of Isa meant "strong-willed" and Bella clung to that idea now.
Kid passed her, grabbing her arm along the way, tugging her playfully after him. He dropped her arm like a hot potato, though, as soon as they reached the stage entrance and the lights overhead. And then he was egging the audience on by raising his arms, inviting more of the cheers and applause. He'd been in the business for years and knew how to work a crowd. On five-inch platforms, Bella followed him like a trained dog, chains a-clanking, smiling widely for the cameras, waving at people she could barely see.
"This is Kid Culprit's third Billboard Award, and Isa's first win," Nick said as they walked to the podium.
Bella was surprised to see that Nick seemed to favor her over Kid, at least in the smile department, and she nodded at him. It was nice to be noticed.
Kid did all the talking, and Bella stood beside him like arm candy, still smiling and looking pleased that they'd won. Yet another performance that made her feel like a stranger to herself. Each minute in front of the camera felt like an eternity. Smile, smile, smile.
"What up, baby?" Kid asked later as they made their way through the hallway to the back exit. "You okay?"
Bella nodded, surprised he was asking. He was usually so self-centered that he didn't care or notice how quiet she was around him. He didn't care now, either; he was just riding a high and wanted her up there with him.
"You should come to Miami with me," he said, and chucked her under the chin.
She felt her mother's presence behind her, heavy as though she'd spoken. "I've got press tonight," Bella said, feeling drained already. "And a meeting with the label tomorrow."
"Baby, you just won a Billboard before your first album even dropped," he said with attitude. "They need to be kissing your ass, for real."
Bella wasn't in his position to call the shots, though. Not even close. Maybe not ever.
As they left the Dolby Center, she was regretting that she'd forgotten her sunglasses. Camera flashes at night were the very devil–they were blinding and could strand her in place if she happened to glance up at the wrong moment. If she tripped and fell on these shoes, she'd probably break an ankle.
"Isa! I love you!"
"Oh my God, it's Isa!"
"She's so pretty!"
Amid all the lights and screaming fans, Bella stopped to sign a photo. The girl looked up at her in wide-eyed awe, and Bella was taken aback by the hero-worship. She shook her head, dazed. If only that little girl knew the real truth.
If only she had.
When she was safe inside the limo, Angela handed her an open bottle of Veuve Clicquot. Since her mother wasn't around, Bella upended it into her mouth. Smooth and yet biting, she hoped it took the edge off.
"Isa!" Angela's assistant, Riley, exclaimed and laughed. "Our girl is imbibing! Angela, get a photo."
Damn straight. After tonight, she deserved the buzz and the calories. She took another long drink, welcoming the numbness. When she heard the beginning strains of one of her and Kid Culprit's songs come on, she smashed the button on the radio to turn it off.
Who was she? Surely more than just a face, just a body who happened to sing? When she was twelve, she used to dream about being where she was now, and it was the worst dream come true ever. She felt like a fraud. Most of the time, she felt ignored, which was crazy considering so many people knew who she was, and the fact that she was hardly ever left alone.
She had a whole box of songs that she'd written over the years, but the songs were on the opposite end of the spectrum from what she did now. Everyone thought she was doing well enough just being Kid's sidekick, and since they'd won tonight, she doubted she'd get to do her own songs. They were never going to let her do things her way if this way was succeeding. And if her mom wasn't going to fight for her, who would? Sometimes it was hard to breathe.
Which was another thing that hurt–the closest person to Bella in her life was her mother, and she didn't even feel like it anymore. She hadn't for years. Her mother was her manager, period. All she seemed to care about was Bella's image, or the label, or the buzz she was supposed to be creating. Like the Educe photoshoot when Bella had just turned seventeen and her song, "Colorblind," had reached #18 on the Pop Chart. The photographer had asked Bella to hike up her mini skirt and bend over, and when she'd looked at her mother to tell the man that request was not okay, her mother had simply nodded at her. Later, when Bella, in tears, had asked her mother why, she was told, "You're a hot, up-and-coming young property and you have to look the part."
Talking to her mother about anything real, about how Bella felt, had become impossible. Her mother would never understand, never want to hear that deep down, Bella felt lost and ignored. It would be a painful lesson in futility even to raise those thoughts. She didn't really hear anything Bella said anymore, and certainly nothing that conflicted with her own opinions. Although her mother was always just a room away, they were miles apart.
When they arrived at Sofitel, Bella was feeling exhaustively heartbroken. Juxtaposed with that was the excited crowd of fans and paparazzi waiting, camera flashes going off on both sides, all of them yelling at her. Isa, Isa, Isa. It was a circus at the worst time, and she just wanted to burst into tears. As she stood, she swayed dangerously. Jesus, don't fall. Don't look. Just move.
"Isa! Hey, beautiful!"
"You look beautiful, baby! Right here!"
"Isa, Isa, over here!"
Angela and Riley were in high spirits as they followed her inside the hotel. Angela was telling Riley that he had the worst taste in men as she dropped a jacket over Bella's shoulders, rubbing her like a prized calf at a fair. She'd tried to talk to Angela before, but Angela wasn't a friend. The Hollywood glitz and glam ruled her world. She loved her job as Bella's makeup artist and dresser, and she didn't even try to understand why Bella was unhappy. She didn't get it.
Bella was never alone–there was always someone with her–but she was alone. No one truly knew her. Her mother didn't let anyone close enough to her, anyway; she preferred hiring sycophants who answered to her, the manager, and not to Bella.
The elevator opened, and the hallway to the penthouse stretched before her. The platform heels were killing her feet, and she stumbled. Behind her, Angela and Riley exclaimed in horror, then laughter. They saw the worst in her every time, but kept Bella looking her best, regardless. Shiny and perfect on the outside. But the reason was why? Why did it even matter if it wasn't her?
Get to the room. Get away.
There was a new cop at the door of the penthouse, a serious-looking, russet-haired man who stood with hands gripping his belt. He might have been a fan; they might have all been fans, loving the phantom girl who barely existed, the girl living a lie. As Bella neared, he straightened from a comfortable slouch and produced the keycard to her room.
"Congratulations," he said, confirming her thoughts.
"No one walks in after me," she told him as she passed.
"Yes, ma'am," he answered.
Bella headed straight for the balcony. When she got out there, though, the dark night and the far away lights of the city, a reminder that people were living and going about their business, sent a shooting pang straight to her heart. It was the penthouse, the best the hotel had to offer, and she found it starkly cold up there. Instead of the respite she thought she'd find, she found hard loneliness.
Before she knew what she was doing, she was climbing onto the balcony rail and letting her legs hang over the side. Twelve floors up didn't look like that much. Would it be enough to kill her? No one was looking up; no one would see her until afterward.
"Bella? Bella! Bella, oh my God!"
Her mother's voice. Intruding as usual. For once, Bella ignored her. Maybe for the last time.
Suddenly, she became aware of someone else talking to her. The cop. ". . . going on, Isa? Can you look at me?"
Ignoring people was becoming easier. No one was going to tell her anything anymore. She looked down, all the way down, and no one could see her from below. Just like always–no one saw her, anyway. She was no one, going nowhere.
The voice continued talking to her, carefully soft and patient, yet fervent. "Please, Isa? Can you look at me for just a second please?"
Despite the fervor, his voice had a gentle note of pleading in it. He wanted something from her. Of course, it was the tone people used when they wanted something, a caring tone that was just another lie. People didn't care, not really, and what they wanted from her had nothing to do with her. No one saw that, though. No one saw her; they saw someone who didn't exist.
"Please, Isa? Can you look at me? Please? Please?"
Bella turned slowly to look at him. Between the strands of her hair and the tears in her eyes, she saw the cop in the black uniform reaching out to her with his arm extended. His face wore the usual expression you'd expect in a situation like this, when you were faced with a crazy person. But she wasn't crazy. Beyond him stood her mother, and she was wringing her hands as if she was at her wits' end. But her mother was blind and so was the cop. He saw crazy, he didn't see her.
"You still can't see me," she heard herself say, then she turned away and let herself fall.
He caught her arm on the way down. It wrenched her shoulder painfully, but she barely felt it.
"No! No-no-no!" he yelled, and she looked up at him in a dazed way, but the tears in her eyes blurred out everything but the lights around them.
"Let me go," she sobbed.
"No! Grab my hand," he said. "Grab my hand!"
She didn't know why it mattered to him. She was just another body. Another nobody. A stranger. Just let me go.
"Hey! Hey-hey-hey!" He wasn't giving up. "Look at me! Listen to me, Isa! Hey! Shit, Isa. Listen to me, listen to me."
She could feel her hand slipping out of his grasp, could hear the panic in his voice. "Look at me," he pleaded. "Isa, please! Look at me."
The tears in her eyes ran down her face, and she was able to see him clearly for the first time. Furrowed brows, eyes full of worry. Still seeing crazy, crazy, crazy.
"You still can't see me," she mumbled.
"No! Isa. Look at me, look at me. I see you, I see you!"
Something in his voice made her look back again. He seemed genuinely concerned now, concerned about her? Could he be? Did he care, really care?
"I see you," he repeated firmly, eyes intent on hers. Really looking at her, something no one else had done in a long time.
In a slow and painful motion, she stretched out her other hand to him. It was difficult. But he was finally able to reach it, and Bella felt the warmth and strength of his fingers as they wrapped around hers. He began pulling her up, dragging her body against the rail. It hurt. Everything hurt from the inside out.
And then he hauled her up and over the rail, and they both fell onto the balcony floor. Then, the two of them were trading glances. She couldn't let go of him. He was still holding on to her arms, breathing heavily, his eyes forceful, holding hers.
He sees me.
She couldn't look away. Didn't even want to.
Arms wrapped around her, gently trying to pull her up. "Bella?" Her mother's voice. "Bella, come on, let's go inside."
But Bella was frozen by his gaze. Couldn't move.
He sees me.
"Come on." Her mother tugged her up and out of his grasp, then began forcing her backward. "Come on, honey, let's go inside."
The more Bella resisted, the harder her mother's tugging became until Bella was finally turned away, turned around, and the spell between her and the cop was broken. She couldn't help glancing back at him. He was still looking, still deeply concerned and affected by what just happened, and Bella was torn between shock and fascination.
He saw her. She was ugly, a mess, sad and angry and lost, and he saw it all.
. . .
Rocked and still reeling, Edward remained on the balcony. His hands burned from where he'd touched Isa, and his stomach felt like it had been kicked in. Good God, he'd never lost his cool like he had tonight. He turned to look back at French doors where Isa–no, Bella–and her mother had disappeared, but the curtains had been drawn and they'd retreated to the suite's bedroom. My God, he hadn't even been addressing her by her given name.
His knock on the door was ignored. When he continued knocking, Bella's mother yelled at him to go away. Damned if he was going anywhere, though. Bella was his job tonight, and he needed to know she was okay.
A man in a white apron pushing a cart with a French press and porcelain white coffee cups was admitted into the room, and Edward retreated to the balcony, determined to wait them out. They'd probably have to bring out the chief for this one since it was a celebrity incident.
It wasn't long after that until he wasn't alone anymore. Beside him stood a tall blond man dressed in street clothing, his minimally-lined, still good-looking face projecting regret and apology: his father, the city's chief of police.
"Supposed to be easy money, babysitting these celebrities," his father commiserated. "Your first time, too?"
Edward raked his hands through his hair, then winced at the movement. "Emmett asked me to cover for him. Anniversary. Hey, do you think I could get a minute to talk to her? Her mom's blocking me."
"You need to get that looked at," his father nodded at his midsection.
He was deflecting. Why? "I'm okay. I just need to see her, you know?"
His father shook his head, then turned to look out at the city skyline. "There's going to be a press conference in about thirty minutes. She wants to publicly thank you."
Edward stared at him in disbelief. That girl had no business holding a press conference. "She needs to be in a hospital," he said slowly. "Not in front of cameras."
"She's okay. She just had a little too much to drink and she slipped."
She slipped? No. He'd been there. She'd tried to commit suicide.
As if he'd heard his thoughts, his father turned to give him a hard look. "That doesn't change what you did, Edward. And they are very . . . grateful."
Edward's eyes dropped to the piece of paper in his hands. It was a check for ten thousand dollars. Unbelievable.
"You're telling me to lie?"
"She's written her script," his father replied with a shrug. "She's playing her part. And so will you."
The words were an edict that sat in his gut like a rock. Edward found it almost impossible to believe that Bella–that her mother–would just carry on as if nothing happened. What kind of mother did that? What in God's name kind of people were they? While he knew very well the world he lived in was screwed up, this was a new level of insanity. He glared at the check in his hand, then tore it in half, and placed it in his pocket, fully intending to give it back to Bella's heartless mother.
. . .
Bella could tell the officer was pissed. Officer Cullen, who she'd learned was the chief of police's son. Talk about nepotism. His face was a blank slate, his eyes cool and distant, but his jaw was clenched and clenching. Unable to help herself, she kept glancing at him in fascination. Was he going to let the cat out of the bag? What would her mother do if he did? What would his father do?
"I was celebrating and things got a little out of hand," she told the group that made up the Hollywood press circuit. Familiar faces, all, but she couldn't remember a single name. They weren't worth remembering. All they wanted was a story, and the worse, the better. Fuck them. "So let this be a lesson to all of you," she drawled. "Never mix champagne, a balcony, and five-inch stilettos."
The guy with the goatee wasn't going to let that go, though. "Um, how does a person fall off a balcony with a four-and-a-half foot railing?"
Before Bella could answer, her mother spoke in a friendly yet firm tone. "Isa is only here to make a statement."
Goatee turned to the man who stood just to Bella's right. "Officer Cullen, was this a suicide attempt?"
Outwardly, Bella was calm. Inside, she shrank away and began crying with her hands over her eyes. Was he going to tell, was he, was he?
"Steve, you're not gonna hijack this press conference with your tabloid bullshit, all right?" her mother said, steel in her tone.
"What, he can't answer a simple question?" Steve asked, then turned to Officer Cullen beside her. "Answer the question. Just answer the question."
Bella saw her mother's anger as Steve's insistence began to carry weight with the rest of the press. It was, she knew, a simple question. Or should have been. . .
"He was there," someone said.
And yet, another comment. "People would want to know."
Damn it, it was no one's business.
At the continued insistence, Officer Cullen moved toward the podium, and Bella backed away as he approached. His gaze met hers briefly, but she couldn't read him and had no idea what he was going to say. Knowing how closely she was being scrutinized, she couldn't even plead with her eyes; she had to look as if it was business only. Fervently, she hoped he'd play along. This was a nightmare. She was sorry for what she'd done.
It was the alcohol, she wanted to tell him. If I could take it back, I would. I'm so sorry.
"I was summoned into the hotel room where I found Miss Swan holding on to the balcony railing," he began smoothly, calmly, and in spite of everything, Bella found she liked his voice. "As I pulled her to safety, it was clear she was inebriated." And with that brief statement, Officer Cullen stepped back, making it clear he had said what he'd wanted to say.
Bella's mind swam. He'd covered for her. He was saving her again.
"The truth is," Bella said and stepped forward, grabbing his heavily muscled arm, forcing him to move with her, "I wouldn't be standing here if it wasn't for Officer Cullen. He pulled me up—and here she slapped her own ass —"even with all this . . . extra."
The press wasn't done yet, though. "Are you saying you almost died?" a woman barked at her.
Bella was going to reply, but her mother beat her to it. "She's not out of control," her mother answered dryly. "She won a Billboard Award tonight and she was celebrating, okay?"
Then her mother shooed her away from the microphone. Apparently, she was going to handle the rest of the questions. Feeling angry yet relieved, Bella retreated from the conference room to a small lounge area. Officer Cullen followed. Bella walked straight to one of the chairs and sat, then studied him as he paced, panther-like, across the width of the room. He was surprisingly good-looking with his shiny, russet hair, cat-like green eyes, and a jaw that could have cut glass. But it was obvious that he disliked her, that he regretted this night, and she felt a pang.
"So," she heard herself say bitingly. "What are you gonna do with your fifteen minutes?"
Finally, he met her gaze, and her heart jumped in her chest.
"Excuse me?" he said.
"Of fame," she drawled. "I bet you're going to get a lot of chicks with this whole sexy, hero cop thing."
His face twisted. "Don't . . . do that." It took her by surprise; he definitely wasn't playing along with anything.
She straightened in the chair and gave him a look. "Do what?"
He gave her one back. "Two hours ago, you were trying to drop twelve floors."
It stung. The raw, open, and tender look he'd given her as he'd pulled her up from the railing, was long gone.
"And you were yelling I see you," she said lightly, mocking him. "So . . . just what do you see?"
Bella couldn't help it; she had to challenge him. As he processed her question, she tried not to squirm under his quiet, searching look. Couldn't he see her? She didn't know how to make him see her now that she wasn't in dire peril. But she was still here . . . always right here.
"Nothing," he answered, and she felt like she'd just been guillotined.
Thankfully, her mother chose that moment to come after her. Thankfully, her mother saved her from making a fool out of herself yet again. Although it was difficult, Bella didn't spare him another glance as they left him behind.
She was nobody.
He was nobody.
And they were nothing to each other.
. . .
"Can you make me understand, Bella?" her mother asked when they got back to the room that night.
Bella sighed and sat on the edge of the bed. She'd been trying to make her mother understand for years; it was a lost cause. "I told you, I was drunk," she said.
"You don't drink," her mother fired back.
"And now we know why!"
Her mother sank down to her knees in front of the bed where Bella sat, then undid one of Bella's shoe straps. "Was this some sort of . . . cry for help?"
Bella's eyes closed. Of course not. All she needed was a hug and a pat on the head. "No."
"Good, 'cause look around you. You ain't got nothing to cry about."
There she was–the woman she recognized. "I know. It was stupid."
"You can't afford to be stupid!" her mother yelled and jerked off the shoe. "Just tell me it was a mistake."
Bella studied the woman who gave birth to her. Nowhere was the mother she hoped for–it wasn't a maternal moment; it was more of the got to protect that image crap.
"It was a mistake."
And it was, Bella knew that now. Now that she was just beginning to feel the first stabs of horror that she'd almost succeeded, she knew she'd never try such a thing again. My God, she couldn't believe how close she'd come.
"Promise me it'll never happen again."
"Okay," Bella said, as she freed her other foot from the painful shoe. Leave me alone now.
Her mother wasn't satisfied with that. "I want to hear you say it," she insisted, and looked at Bella pleadingly. Please tell me you aren't really suicidal–it's not good for your image.
Bella complied with her wishes, as always. "It'll never happen again," she said in a sotto-voice, then stood to go take a bath.
Only when she was in the soothing comfort of the warm water did she allow the tears to fall.
. . .
