A Long Way From Home

Chapter 7: In which something bad happens. Again.

This chapter is devoted to jessimessy2 for the best 2 line review I've ever received. It said: "very good write more"


Thanks for making my day, jessimessi2 ♥





Mansion: Toronto, Canada—Sunday 10:00am


The pale blue curtains rustled in the wind, allowing the bright sunlight outside to fall on Layla’s face. She awoke slowly, rubbing her crusted eyes and ruffling her straight brown hair. She paused to take in the softness of the mattress beneath her and warmth of the white down comforter, then sat up. Why was there an enormous knot in her stomach? The thought had barely escaped her unconscious before the memories flooded back. Viktor. Frank. Viktor. Clarice. Frank. Viktor. Mom. Dad. The comforter wrapped around her as she tried to jump out of bed, eventually causing her to fall to the floor. Okay, she thought to herself. Layla, calm down.


The mansion was completely silent, and she didn’t know what time it was. Viktor could still be sleeping for all she knew. And without him, she couldn’t log onto the computer and check the news. Frankly, without him she didn’t even know where she was in relation to the nearest computer. The last think she remembered of last night was falling asleep on the couch. Besides, she really needed to get herself under control.


Layla was the kind of girl who prided herself on strength. She wasn’t the one to scream when a spider made its way into the classroom, even if it did creep her out. She was the one who stood strong in the face of danger and kicked as much butt as she was capable of kicking. She couldn’t remember a thing about the way she acted the day before, but considering the mess she was in now, she was sure it involved hysterics. Here she was, in the house of complete strangers, and they probably thought she was a weak, spineless idiot. The kind of person who, in a horror movie, is the first to open the creaky ancient closet in the dusty abandoned cellar in the ridiculously creepy mansion when the power goes out.


She detangled herself from the white comforter and sat cross-legged on the long brown carpet. She was in the far left-hand corner of the room. Directly behind her was a large mahogany bed with a white comforter and pillows to match. Behind the bed was a small bed-side table, followed by the far wall. Two windows broke out of the pale blue wall, each with soft blue curtains that fluttered in the wind.


The pale blue walls encircled the room, their color calming Layla’s nerves. The right hand side of the room had a large mirror covering a quarter of the wall. Looking closer, Layla realized that it was a sliding closet door. To its left was a smaller white door. The bathroom, she was sure. Then, she turned to her left.


In a stand in the corner of the room was an old, beat-up acoustic guitar. Layla instantly relaxed. Guitars. She could deal with guitars. She crawled over slowly and pulled the instrument into her lap. Slowly, she began to play. At first she was hesitant, afraid Viktor would be upset with her. But she as she warmed up, everything she had ever learned began to flow out her fingers, waiting for her brain to catch up. Soon she was gone, her mind captive to the world of music. Her worries faded. Nothing mattered now except for the notes. Then, slowly, some of her own music appeared. As she was singing to a personal hit single from two years ago, Layla was interrupted by a knock at the door.


“Hey,” said Viktor, smiling at the blissful Layla before him. “What are you up to?”


Her smile faded a bit as she pointed to the guitar. “I hope you don’t mind.” She said. “I just saw it and—”


Viktor just nodded understandingly. “Music is a real life-saver isn’t it?” he asked, fiddling with his cuffs. “I didn’t know you played the guitar.” Layla’s eyes were fixed on the cuffs. Why was he wearing a dress shirt again? Then, she noticed the black sequined vest.


“What are you wearing?” She asked, trying not to laugh. Viktor raised an eyebrow and grinned back.


“You think you look gorgeous, oh yea with little fashion sense?” Layla looked down at t-shirt ten times her size and the boxer shorts beneath. Her brow and nose wrinkled as she looked up.


“These aren’t yours, are they?” She asked, afraid of the answer. Viktor laughed.


“Don’t worry. It was a new package and you dressed yourself. You don’t remember?”


Layla shook her head.


“You saw Clarice to the door and fell asleep on the couch. It was hell waking you up again. I’m not surprised you don’t remember. You were acting like a zombie.”


Layla sighed and stood up. “Okay, whatever. But why are you dressed like that again?”


“I have a press conference to explain you to everyone. And Clarice, obviously. You know, I haven’t gotten this much attention in months.” He smiled a little to himself as he fixed the other cuff


“Glad to have been of assistance,” Layla grumbled. Viktor just grinned wider and yanked her up by the arm.


“Alright, let’s go. You’re coming too and you need to get ready”


“What? I can’t let them see me!”


“I know, but we still need to explain you away. They didn’t get a good look at you thanks to my jacket anyway. Oh, how do you feel about Hannah Montana?”


If Layla could’ve killed him, she would have. The next thing she knew she was bundled up, boxer shorts and all, into a large white van with Alex in it headed to some secret salon. The stylist looked her up and down.


“Geez. What do you expect me to do with this?”


Uy. That’s all she needed, a snobby stylist.


“Hey, I don’t want to be here either.” She snapped, then stifled a yawn. “That’s it. I want to go back to bed.” Viktor seemed to be enjoying the show, but Alex was not amused.


“Charlene, please, just pop a wig on her and let’s get going. We’re going to be late.” Charlene waved a perfectly manicured hand.


“Shut up, Alex. You can’t rush art.”


At first Charlene pointed Layla towards the closet and let her pick her outfit, but it wasn’t a very successful escapade. “She has no style!” Charlene moaned dramatically, pretending to swoon at the jacket Layla pulled off the rack.


The next few minutes were a flurry of instructions along with a pile-up of clothes on the floor. She looked best in green, which was great since military was in, and that shade of olive went great with pink and blah, blah, BLAH. Layla ended up in a military jacket, a pale pink t-shirt and black skinny jeans. At least six necklaces jangled around her neck and she nearly fell over in her tall black heels.


After the flurry of makeup, involving various torture devices and more mascara than she’d ever seen in her life, Layla could barely recognize herself. Especially when the look was complete with a long blonde wig streaked with a few pink highlights. Though she tried to look unimpressed, she couldn’t help but like the look. It was unconventional, fashionable and unique. Trina would totally approve.


The press conference wasn’t too exciting. It was a room over-filled with cameras and reporters. She, Viktor, Alex and Clarice sat at a long table in one end of the room. All she really had to do was answer a few questions. She was his cousin, she had diabetes, she had a horrible low and was rushed to the hospital. Her name was Eva and she had no intention of telling them anything about her private life. The rest of the hour was spent itching to get to a computer. Who knew what had happened to her family?


Viktor dropped her off at home on his way to Alex’s house. He had a couple things to explain to his friend, he said. Layla just nodded and rushed into the house, thankful to find that the computer had a guest account. There, in large letters, was the headline.


“Mother of Kidnapped Missing.”


Alex’s House: Toronto, Canada—Sunday 1:00pm


“Okay,” said Alex, pushing a plate of microwaved pasta into Viktor’s hands. “You have a hell of a lot of explaining to do.”


Viktor was glad of the opportunity to talk. He had a lot to get off his chest.


“Alex, I’m sorry I lied to you.”


“Sorry? Is that all? Why aren’t you on your knees right now, huh? Who am I Viktor? Just another crazed fan? Is that all?”


“Alex, I’m sorry. You know you’re more than that to me. You’re my manager, my friend.”


“A friend is someone you trust, Viktor.”


“I trust you. I really do. I just didn’t trust my relationship with Clarice. What if we broke up in a few weeks?”


“I’d still like to know, Viktor. Whether it’s a one night stand or years long, I’d like to know. Didn’t you tell me the minute you and Victoria were going out? Who did you call with all your excitement this time, Viktor?”


“No one, Alex. I was alone. Completely alone.” He put his pasta down and moved closer to his friend, wrapping him in a bear hug. “I’m sorry, Alex.” There was a long pause, then Alex hugged him back.


“Don’t do this to me again.” He pulled away and sat down on the bed. “I’m guessing you don’t want to go international?” Viktor sat down as well, forking some pasta into his mouth.


“I can’t Alex, I really can’t. If I go international I’ll be gone for years. I don’t want to lose Clarice.” Alex nodded.


“We’re screwed then, you know that right? What am I going to tell the management?”


Viktor sighed. “I know. Is it possible to make things so the management doesn’t want me to leave?” Alex broke into a grin.


“Now you’re thinking like a manager!” He said enthusiastically, clapping Viktor on the back. “To do that, we’d need you to be extremely popular at home. We’ve got a lot of publicity thanks to your non-cousin and Clarice so we can definitely work off of that.” He paused, as if the thought had just occurred to him. “That’s right. It’s time you explained to me exactly who your non-cousin is.”


It took a few minutes for Alex to understand the whole story.


“So you found her randomly, eavesdropped on her conversation, and got her in the ditch for $60,000? Why don’t you just kill her, you idiot?” Viktor sighed.


“I know. But Alex, what am I supposed to do? I know she’ll take the debt-bondage deal, and who are we to know whether or not she’ll end up getting out? After all, they’ll be able to hold her family over her head indefinitely.” Alex shook his head.


“We can’t think about that now, Viktor. If he lets her go easy, we’ll let this Frank guy off. If he tries to keep her here, we’ll find some way to trick him into police custody. That’s really the only choice we have right now. It’s possible it was an empty threat, but I doubt it. How do you plan on getting her a job?” Viktor looked up hopefully.


“Don’t you need an assistant for all the extra work? After all, you’ll need some help getting me more popular domestically. And doesn’t your brother run that bagel shop in town?” Alex sighed.


“Okay, I’ll pull some strings. Right now I’ll pass the domestic thing off as helping launch your international career for the management and get some more funds. I’ll hire Layla and I’ll talk to my brother. Happy?”


The next hour was spent with a large piece of paper and possible jobs Layla could take. It was kind of fun, in a way. Like putting together a puzzle. The only problem was that it was a thoroughly impossible puzzle. No matter how they changed things, it would take Layla years to make 60,000 USD. Minimum wage was about 6 USD an hour, and if she worked 40 hour weeks it would take 5 years to make 60,000 USD. Unless, Alex noted with a mischievous grin, they paid him in Canadian dollars. In that case it would take 3 years. A much better option.


Viktor came home in reasonably high spirits. He no longer felt guilty lying to Alex and they had reached some sort of solution for Layla’s problem. He threw open the front door, a song busting at his throat, when he stopped short. There, in front of him, was a smirking Frank and a thoroughly angry Layla.


Mansion: Toronto, Canada—Sunday 8:00 am


“Frank. We have news.”


Frank jumped out of bed immediately, rubbing his eyes in confusion. Don was standing over him with a satisfied smirk on his face.


“We have the girl’s mom. Now all you have to do is wait until she sees the news and ask her again. I’m sure she’ll comply with our demands.”


Frank travelled to the mansion, expecting to find the broken, weeping mess he’d encountered before. Instead, the front door to the mansion was open, and Layla was sitting calmly on the mustard yellow couch.


“Frank,” she said calmly, not looking up from the book in her hand. “I knew you’d come.”


The missing finger on Frank’s hand twitched as he looked at her. Wasn’t she supposed to be a little more…emotional?


“Have you thought about my proposal?” Frank said, trying to match her don’t-care attitude. She closed the book.


“I considered it, but I don’t like the proposal.” Frank’s eyes widened. What was she saying?


“Are you willing to let your mother die?” He asked, allowing a very sinister note to creep into his voice. “That’s what’ll happen if I don’t get my money.”


“You misunderstood,” Layla responded, her eyes flashing with anger as she stood up. “I’ll pay you, but on my terms. I will find my own job. And I will collect the money in my own bank account. And then, at the very end, I’ll pay you.” Frank raised an eyebrow.


“How about interest?” He asked with a smirk. Layla snapped. She grabbed him by the collar and jerked his head down so it was inches from her own.


“There will be no interest,” she said slowly. “ Because you’ll have your money in a year.”


A laugh bubbled its way out of Frank’s throat. A year? The girl was ridiculous.


“I don’t think that’s possible, sweetheart,” he said, wiping the tears from his eyes.


“She’ll do it,” came the response from the doorway. It was Viktor. He walked in and put an arm around Layla’s shoulders. “In fact, she already has two job offers. So you can let her mother go and get the hell out of here.” Frank looked at him in surprise. Since when did the spineless pop star get a backbone? Whatever, as long as he got the money, everything would be fine.


“Your mom will be returned home tomorrow. You are not allowed to contact anyone from home until the money has been paid.” And with that, Frank turned and walked out the door.