Chasing Stardust: A Novel By Erica Lucke Dean - 26

Fame

“Oh no. Forget it.” A shudder runs through me as I gape down at the fuzzy image on Dash’s phone display.

After making his mysterious call, Dash went to work searching for a cheap motel within walking distance of the parking garage.

“Can’t we just take a bus around the city all night long? Or find a Walmart to wander through? We can grab a nap in a changing room. Either choice would be infinitely more sanitary than that .”

“Come on.” Dash chuffs. “I seem to recall one of us leaping from a rusty train trestle yesterday.”

“So?” I steal another peek and shudder at the image on his screen. My skin crawls at the thought of staying anywhere that charges by the hour.

“I didn’t hear you freaking out about bacteria or tetanus shots then. But now you’re afraid of a little hotel room?” Dash stretches the image to its full, horrifying glory. “See, it’s not that—”

“Look! Right there.” I tap the lumpy blue bedspread in the center of the photo. “I can totally see the bedbugs from here.”

“You can’t—” Dash squints. “We can lay on top.”

“Forget it. I’d need to disinfect my entire soul. And that’s if we survived the night. I’ve seen this movie. I know how it ends.”

As if proving my point, a bloodcurdling scream dissolves into loud cackles, and a rowdy group of drunken twentysomethings bursts out of the shadows.

A shudder cuts through me. “Walmart’s looking better every minute.”

“We’d spend all our money getting an Uber to the closest store.”

My chest tightens as I consider bailing on the photo at Heidelberg. “Let’s just go to Chicago tonight. It can’t be more than four hours away, how much could a pair of bus tickets cost?”

“Zoey, no.” Dash’s eyes search mine. “You wouldn’t get your picture.”

“Really. It’s fine.” The lie catches in my throat, but I force a smile and swallow it down. “Mom would forgive me for skipping this one, given the circumstances.”

“You’ve re-created her picture at every other stop.”

“What does one picture matter in the grand scheme?” Fighting the urge to cry, I drop my gaze to the sticky garage floor.

“It matters to me.” Dash hooks a finger under my chin, lifting my face until our eyes meet. “I wouldn’t forgive myself if you missed a single moment because of me.”

My stomach flips at the intensity of his gaze. “What about the all-night laundromat we passed on the way here? We could go there.”

A smile tugs at his lips, and he pulls me to my feet. “I guess that’s as good a place as any at this point. We can at least bleach the funk out of our clothes.”

With my tote tucked under my arm, I squeeze Dash’s hand and lead him out of the dark parking garage and down the block to the blissfully well-lit laundromat.

A far cry from the Saint Regis, but other than the burned-out light in the back corner, it’s bright. And aside from an old woman with her nose buried in a book, the place is empty and relatively clean.

“See?” I nudge him with my shoulder. “Isn’t this much better than some nasty hotel room?”

His dark eyebrows peek over the top of his black frames, sizing me up like a snack. “If you don’t count the lack of a bed . . . or a shower . . . or—”

“I’m willing to make the sacrifice just this once.” I spread out across a row of blue hard-plastic chairs attached to a single frame. “Besides, who needs a bed when we have these?”

After digging up enough quarters to wash and dry a giant load, Dash and I use what’s left of my loose change to split a nasty potted-meat sandwich from the vending machine and settle into a quiet corner to eat.

I do a sniff test before taking a tentative bite, chewing and swallowing before I change my mind. Who the hell decided putting meat in a blender would make for a good sandwich spread? “Jeanie would totally lose it if she saw me eating this.”

Dash devours his half in just a few bites. “It’s better than starving.”

“If you say so.” I snicker. “Wouldn’t it be ironic if, after all the wild shit I’ve done on this trip, I die from a vending machine sandwich?”

Dash laughs and reaches for Mom’s diary. “May I?”

I nod.

He flips through the pages, studying the photos in each section until he comes to the picture of Mom in front of the Dotty Wotty House. “Were you really considering skipping this photo?”

I shrug, unwilling to admit how close I’d been to bailing on Detroit.

“I can really see the resemblance here,” he says.

Heat rushes to my cheeks. “I still think Jeanie looks more like her than I do.”

“I didn’t mean you.” Dash lifts his head. “I see a resemblance between your mom and Bowie.”

I rest my chin on his shoulder and squint down at the photo. With her head tilted to the side, and her wet hair plastered to her face, Mom doesn’t look like herself, much less a famous rock star. “You can’t even see her face.”

“But look at that smile.”

I shift my focus to Mom’s mischievous grin. As far-fetched as the idea may be, I can almost see what Dash means. “Maybe a little. But that doesn’t mean anything.”

“She never told you the story?” Dash hands me the diary and pulls a knee to his chest. “About your grandma and the Ziggy tour?”

“Nope, never said a word. I mean, I always knew she liked Bowie. But I had no idea how much until the day he died.” A thick lump forms in my throat, and I swallow it down.

“What do you mean?”

Memories rush back, and my eyes sting with unshed tears. Dash squeezes my hand as if he knows my heart is breaking all over again. He nods for me to continue.

I clear my throat. “I still can’t get the look on her face out of my head. I’d never seen my mom cry so hard in my entire life. Not even three weeks later when she was diagnosed with cancer. I never got around to asking her why David Bowie’s death hit her so hard. The topic never came up again, and she was so sick, it never seemed to be the right time.” I lower my eyes to the pink-and-gray-speckled linoleum floor. “Then she died, and my grandma Lola rolled up in front of the church in her butt-ugly Cutlass—over an hour late for Mom’s funeral—and the pieces started falling into place like a giant puzzle.”

“That’s . . .” Dash lets out a long breath. “Wow.”

“I don’t believe a single word of it. My best guess is that my grandma came up with the story back in the day to cover her shame. It was the pre-Roe seventies, and she was young, pregnant, and probably didn’t even know who the guy was. I’m guessing she told the lie so many times she started to believe it herself.”

“It’s a stretch, but not entirely impossible.” Dash opens the diary again and flips to the picture of my mom in front of the junk house.

I chuckle under my breath. “I love my grandmother, but she’s the original wild child. And definitely not firing on all cylinders.”

“But your mom believed it?”

“She must have.” I snatch the diary from his hands, close it, and slide it into my tote, hoping to close the subject along with it. “Why else would she send me on this crazy mission?”

“Come on.” Excitement oozes from Dash’s pores. “You can’t tell me some small part of you doesn’t think it’s possible.”

“Sure.” I heave out a breath. “I still believe in Santa and the Easter Bunny, too.”

“Listen.” Dash rakes a hand through his hair. “Bowie did a lot of interviews where he talked about all the indiscriminate sex he had back in the day. So it’s not impossible.”

“Maybe not.” I stand and stretch, putting some distance between us. “But it is highly improbable. I really don’t care either way. This trip isn’t about who was or wasn’t my mom’s sperm donor, it’s about honoring the promise I made her.”

“You’ve got to admit, it would make for a great story.”

“Right. Because I’d love the whole world to think my mom and my grandma were crazy . . . or liars.” A nervous laugh rolls up my throat. “No thanks.”

Dash jumps up and follows me across the room as I check on the clothes. “But you must be curious, at the very least.”

“Maybe, in the beginning. But now, I’m just glad I get to connect with Mom this one last time.” I reach into the dryer and drag out the still-damp clothes, stuffing them into a wire laundry cart. They need at least ten more minutes, but quarters aren’t the only things I’m out of. “In my head, I know she’s gone. But in my heart, I swear she’s been right beside me this whole time.” I glance around the dingy laundromat and snicker. “Maybe not here .”

Dash fishes his things from the cart, folding them before placing them in his bag. “You know you could probably make a fortune selling your story.”

“To who?” I snort.

“I don’t know. People ?”

“What people? The bottom-dwellers of Tattle Tale magazine? No thanks, I’m not interested.” I shove my clothes into my backpack with more force than necessary. The idea of exposing my family secrets to a bunch of strangers turns my stomach. “All I want is to get back on the road and finish what I started.”

“About that . . .” Dash leans against the block wall and fidgets with his glasses.

I study him out of the corner of my eye.

“I, uh . . . came up with a plan to get money.”

“I told you.” Abandoning my laundry, I drape my arms over his shoulders. “I’m gonna call G-Lo and Jeanie, and have them send—”

He presses a finger to my lips. “This one’s on me. It’s my fault we’re in this situation.”

“I’m a big girl, Dash.” I let out a breath. “I don’t need—”

He pulls me into a tight embrace. “I got us into this mess, please let me get us out?”

I reluctantly nod, and his smile lights up the room.

“Okay, then.” He presses his lips to my temple. “By the time we finish getting your picture at Heidelberg, I should have enough to get us to Chicago. From there, we can head to Hicksville to pick up your grandma’s car.”

Curious, I tilt my head to look at him sideways. “How’d you pull that off?”

“Oh, you know.” He shrugs. “Sold my soul to the devil.”

Warm arms wrap around me, and Dash’s voice rumbles beneath my ear. I sit up and wipe drool from my chin. The flowery aroma of fabric softener and laundry detergent fills the air. “What time is it?”

“Just after seven.” He tucks a few napkins and a pen into his back pocket, then brushes his lips across my bare shoulder.

Dappled sunlight streams through the dirty windows, highlighting an army of dust motes floating in the air. Across the room, a pair of old women steal glances at us as they unload their baskets into open washers. “I can’t believe we slept here.”

“ We didn’t. You did.” As if he can’t stop touching me, Dash presses another kiss to the top of my head. “I was busy standing guard.”

“Oh. Thank you.” Memories from the night before race around my head like rats in a maze. I drifted off to the sound of Dash’s voice as he shared his hopes and dreams for the future. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep on you.”

“I really didn’t mind.” He gives my hand a squeeze and nods toward the open restroom in the corner. “But you should probably clean up so we can head out. It’s a long walk to Heidelberg from here.”

Nodding, I climb to my feet and grab my tote.

When Dash said it would be a long walk, he wasn’t kidding. Over an hour after leaving the laundromat, loaded down with our bags like a pair of refugees, we finally reach the whimsical art displays on Heidelberg Street.

The entire block is one large evolving, open-air gallery, attracting tourists from all over. The actual houses look as though someone passed out paintbrushes, glitter, and glue sticks to the neighborhood kids and said, “Go wild!”

Ignoring the growing swarm of people, I focus on the main house. It looks like it’s evolved since Mom was here. The paint looks fresher, the dots bigger and brighter.

“Do you think . . . ?” I turn toward Dash, but he’s lost in his own thoughts, eyes riveted on the crowd.

The color drains from his face.

“Dash?”

My voice snaps him out of it. He locks his gaze on me and cups my face in both hands. “Do you trust me?”

“Of course. Why?” Confusion turns to concern as Dash slips his fingers through mine and pulls me forward. “What’s wrong?”

His grip tightens as he steers me away from the throng. “I’ll tell you as soon as—”

“There she is!” A woman’s excited shriek cracks the air. “Zoey!”

It never fails to surprise me when I hear my name in the wild. Curiosity gets the best of me, and I search the crowd for the other Zoey.

“Zoey, over here!” another voice—a man this time—shouts.

Startled, I whip my head toward the sound and lock eyes with a tall, silver-haired man. With a prickle of anxiety zipping down my spine, I turn to Dash. “He can’t be talking to me, can he?”

Gripping my hand, Dash freezes, his mismatched eyes as wide as stop signs. He moves to step between me and the strangers, but there are too many of them.

A petite brunette rushes toward me, a recording device in her outstretched hand. “When did you first find out? How did that make you feel?”

“Find out about what?” Beside me, Dash pales, and my heart skips a beat. “I think you have the wrong person.”

“How much did your mother tell you about her father?” The woman takes another step forward until she’s within the bubble of my safe zone.

Before I can process what’s happening, a stampede of people armed with cameras, microphones, and selfie sticks descend upon us. Questions come at me from all sides, the voices blending into one, like a swarm of locusts buzzing around me.

“Did your mother talk about Bowie?”

“Did Bowie know?”

“Is that why he didn’t leave you anything in his will?”

“Where’s the proof?”

“Did you get a DNA test?”

“Do you really believe your mother was Bowie’s love child?”

“Why spread her ashes along the tour?”

“Did your mother really die of cancer?”

My heart stills, my next breath frozen in my lungs. They know. About Mom. About Bowie. About everything .

Dread seeps into my bones as I whip around to face Dash. “How did they know we’d be here ?”

Dash scrubs a hand over his face. “I—”

“Dash Hammond?” A stocky man in an orange-and-pink Hawaiian shirt shoves his cell phone camera in Dash’s face. “Aren’t you supposed to be working on the Hill with your dad?”

“Over here, Dash.” Cameras click and flashes go off as the mob moves in on Dash.

“Does Daniel know you’re slumming it with a gold digger?”

I tear my gaze from the stranger and gape at Dash again. “What did he just call me?”

“Where’s your mother, Dash?” Hawaiian Shirt Guy pushes his way to the front of the pack. “Did Lauren send you?”

“Your mother?” My head spins from the constant barrage of questions, the contents of my stomach churning. “Why would she—”

“She doesn’t know?” Hawaiian Shirt Guy barks out a laugh.

My mouth goes dry as I gaze up at Dash, probing his eyes for answers. “You said your mother was a writer.”

“Oh, she’s a writer, all right.” One of the circling sharks, a petite woman with a spiky pink pixie cut, smirks at Dash. “His mother is only the Lauren Michaels. Editor of Tattle Tale magazine.”

Dash points a trembling finger at Pink Hair. “This has nothing to do with my mother.”

“Did you scoop her, Dash? I’ll bet Lauren’s beaming with pride!” Hawaiian Shirt Guy raises his hand for a high five, but Dash glares at him.

My chest tightens, and I gape at Dash as if seeing him for the first time. A light gust ruffles my hair, my last shred of hope desiccating and blowing away with it. “Is that who you called last night?”

Dash rakes a hand through his hair, his eyes wild. “I know what you’re thinking, but you’re wrong.”

For the first time since we met, I don’t believe him.

“If I’m wrong, explain how all these people knew where to find us.” The remains of my breakfast threaten to make a reappearance as his words from last night rush back to me. You could probably make a fortune selling your story. “Is this how you’re getting the money?”

“No!” Dash’s eyes widen behind his dark frames. “I wouldn’t! You know me better than that!” His anguished gaze locks on mine, and he reaches for me.

Yesterday, I would have latched on to his hand and never let go. Yesterday, I didn’t know any better.

Heart thundering in my ears, I step back out of his reach. “Do I? Really?”

I’d trusted him. More than that, I’d shared intimate details with him that I’d never shared with anyone. I willingly gave myself to him, body and soul. And he—

Sold my soul to the devil. His words replay in my mind.

Every fiber of my being yearns to believe him, but the truth won’t be ignored. “Maybe you’re more like your dad than I realized. What is it they say about the apple not falling far from the tree?”

His jaw tightens. “I’m nothing like my dad.”

“So, maybe, you’re like your mom, doing whatever it takes to get the story. Your entire family is a bunch of vultures. Why should I believe you’re any different?” A horrible thought bubbles up from somewhere deep. “The napkins. You’ve been scribbling secrets down since I met you. Have you been writing about me this whole time?”

Dash flinches as if I slapped him. “What? No!”

“What about your cards? And the Tesla? Were we ever really stranded?” I do a quick scan along the curb, hoping his betrayal doesn’t run that deep. Not that it matters anymore. “Never mind.”

Ignoring the relentless interrogation, I push past the circling sharks, determined to get as far from the feeding frenzy as possible.

“Zoey, wait!”

Dash matches my stride as I flee, easily catching up to me at the intersection. Outrunning him is impossible. He’s too fast. No matter which way I turn, he blocks my path, dipping his head to look me directly in the eyes.

“Let me explain. Please?” His eyes beg me to listen.

“What?” Cornered, I throw up my hands. “What could you possibly say to me that would change anything?”

Gaze locked on mine, he takes another step toward me. “You’re right. I’ve been keeping a secret from you, but it’s not what you think. It’s a career. A way for me to cut all those damn strings keeping me bound to a life I don’t want. I couldn’t risk anyone finding out. Not until I figured out what to do about my dad.”

I’d trusted him with everything, and he’d given me nothing in return. Vibrating with anger and on the verge of tears, I tear my gaze from his and stare at my filthy sneakers. Oh, the places they’ve seen. “I’ve heard all I need to hear.”

Between Dash’s looming presence and my erratic pulse thrumming in my ears, I don’t notice the sweaty, out-of-breath reporter approaching us until he shoves his phone in our faces.

“One question, Zoey!”

“Get that goddamned camera out of her face!” Dash knocks the guy’s phone from his hand, and it lands on the pavement with a crack.

The reporter scoops his broken device from the road, muttering a few choice obscenities as he drags his disgusting gaze from Dash to me. “Did Hammond sleep with you before or after he got the whole story?”

My lungs seize, expelling my last breath in a loud hiss. Icy dread washes over me as my stomach does a death spiral.

“Zoey, no,” Dash croaks, as if he’s finally choked on all his lies.

The reporter nods, and his mouth hooks to one side in a knowing grin. “Like mother, like son. He learned from the best.”

Bile crawls up my throat, and I swallow before I retch all over the sidewalk. Was I just a means to an end for him? A wave of panic washes over me, and I scan my surroundings for a way out. I’ll walk all the way to Hicksville if it comes to that. “I can’t be here anymore.”

Dash invades my personal space, his gaze riveted to mine as he cups my face in his hands, forcing me to make eye contact. “I know how bad this must look to you right now, but don’t listen to him. You know me. What happened between us was real. We’re real.”

“What color crayon, Dash?” My heart clenches as the fears I’d buried deep resurface. Were my instincts about him wrong? Could he have been red this whole time?

The firm grip on my face relaxes, and he backs up, his eyes drifting shut. “Zoey, please believe me. I didn’t—”

“I don’t know what I believe anymore.” I turn my back on him and head toward a small group of people waiting in front of the bus stop at the next light.

“Zoey! Please . . . stop.” Dash reaches for my arm, but I yank it away before he can get a good grip.

“Don’t. Touch. Me!” My skin tingles, the aching need to be close to him battling with the truth, staring me right in the face. “They knew about my mom’s cancer. And the diary. And us . How else would they know those things unless you told them?”

Dash’s mouth goes slack, his breaths coming out in shallow pants. “My mom. But I didn’t know she’d send reporters.”

“Oh, okay.” I roll my eyes and push forward. “As long as you didn’t know.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“Like I said before, I’ve heard everything I need to hear. You’re no better than Damian. I should’ve stayed in Hicksville and waited for them to fix G-Lo’s car.” When we reach the intersection, the growl of the approaching bus catches my attention, and I break into a run, not sure if I’m trying to outrun the paparazzi . . . or Dash.

“Where are you going?”

“Anywhere but here.” My throat closes, my vision blurring with unshed tears as I inhale one jagged breath after another. It takes every ounce of self-control not to cry. As soon as the bus doors open, I jump in. The hurt in Dash’s eyes breaks my heart, but I’ve learned my lesson. “Don’t follow me.”

The doors close behind me, leaving Dash alone on the sidewalk.