What You Don't Know (Sequel to "Secret Love")(Hunter Hayes/James Marsden)

Jeremy Willakers

She was sweating bullets and wringing her hands. Her eyes darted to the clock again. Where was he? She tapped her foot impatiently, feeling her bravery - and the fancy dinner she had spent an hour making - grow cold and stale. Hunter was supposed to have been home half an hour ago, and she had already warmed the steak and potatoes au gratin twice, to keep them from getting as chilled as her fingertips, which were ice by now. Her lips were pressed into a hard line, her nervousness causing her leg to bounce wildly.

She checked her reflection in the mirror by the door. She had taken extra care to look good tonight. It comforted her somewhat, though she was not sure why. No matter what she looked like, she had a hefty secret to confess tonight, and as she peeked through the peephole into the empty hallway for the thousandth time, she felt her heart clench in anxiety.

"I can't do this," she said aloud, running her hand through her hair, probably messing up all the careful styling she had done to it. She did not care, instead returned to the kitchen and sat down at her place again, adjusted her pink dress - Hunter's favorite - and picked up the fork sitting beside her placemat. She stabbed her fluffy napkin over and over impulsively, watching as the tines made tiny little marks that just as quickly vanished as appeared.

She reviewed what she wanted to say over and over in her head, but it never seemed just right. She kept checking the clock on the wall, and as it neared the forty-five minute mark, she did not even bother re-heating the elaborate, hand-made meal again. She did not feel like eating anyway.

She pushed the covered dish in front of her out of her way, careful not to knock over the lit candle she had placed in the middle of the table, and rested her chin on her arm. She huffed and felt a tear at the corner of her eye.

Why are you not here, Hunter? I need you tonight. I have something important to tell you. Where are you?

Just then, from down the small hallway, she heard the tinkling of her cell phone, and got up reluctantly to answer it. It was probably Hunter, she reasoned, and she loved him enough to at least give him the benefit of the doubt. It was not as if he had known she was going to cook him supper, or known she had a gigantic piece of her soul to impart on this particular evening. She sighed as she looked down at her phone, not looking forward to the conversation that was sure to ensue.

She looked at her screen and quirked a brow. It was not Hunter's number that was calling, nor was it one she recognized. She frowned. Should she answer it? It was not very often that she would answer to a number she did not recognize, but maybe she should. Hunter had not made it home yet, after all...

She gasped. What if Hunter was hurt, and that was why he had not yet come back? He could have been in a car accident, or trampled by fans, or beaten up in an alley! He could be dead for all she knew!

With more tears threatening, she fumbled with her cell phone, and finally answered it with a harried, "Hello?"

'~'~'~'~'~'~'~'~'~'~'~'~'~'~'~'~'~'~'~'~'~'~'~'~'~'~'

Trenton sifted through the props and costumes on the rack and in the black bins backstage. Catch Me If You Can was a highly acclaimed musical, and one that any backstage director should be proud to be a part of, but Trenton had never liked musicals much. He did not care for music at all, actually, and had always detested working on such frivolous productions throughout his career, no matter how renowned.

However, he was proud of himself for having chosen this occupation as his alibi. When he had gone into show business, he had done so with designs to make money, and to use it as a means to continue with his more nefarious jobs. He had chosen it carefully. He worked with actors, who were so self-absorbed that they did not question the motives or intentions of others, nor did they look far enough into a situation to find any real evidence of misdoings. He was an authority figure, which meant that many of those he worked over had no inkling of what he was doing either, since no one was there to look over his shoulder and tell him when he was making a mistake. As an added bonus, he was surrounded by costumes and makeup, which had come in handy on more than one occasion when he had been trying to frame someone else for a murder, or simply cover his own tracks. It truly was the perfect cover up for a man such as he.