by Cora Kenborn
Parker delivered a fierce look his way. “How would you know who looked at her? You were off grinding your dick on that redhead all night.”
A mark of wounded pride clouded Parker’s face as Gage’s mouth twisted, searching for words to soothe their rising argument. As they bickered, I used the distraction to my advantage and charged toward my bedroom. Impending panic surrounded me as if I’d free-fallen back into 2011.
Changing into sweats, I sat on my bed, staring at the black dress pants I’d thrown on the floor. The urge to reach into the pocket was strong, but fear of the unthinkable kept me rooted on my mattress. Gage’s refusal to acknowledge the glaring similarity to my past, Chloe’s phone bomb, and Parker’s proclamation fragmented my brain.
Could Parker be right? I had a five-minute conversation with that guy, half of which I’d spent berating him and stumbling over my words like I’d never been in public before. Running my hands through my hair, I exhaled through dry lips.
There was no way it could be him. He had no clue who I was or where I lived.
“I don’t even know your name.”
“That’s because I didn’t give it to you, Fancy-Pants.”
I flopped backward, closing my eyes as my head hit the pillow. Gage was right: no man sent flowers without a purpose. A shiver ran through me as I cocooned myself in my down comforter.
Great, I had a stalker. Some things never changed.
The fact that the bouquet wasn’t generic roses bothered me. Irises were specific. Blue wasn’t a normal color choice for a flower. I mulled everything over until the force of the memory hit me hard.
“You can’t reign as Teen Miss Iris Festival 2007 without some serious trash-talking skills. That title alone will get your ass kicked in various social circles.”
“Teen Miss Iris Festival? That’s a real thing?”
“Don’t disrespect the title. You laugh, but that stupid princess pageant gave me the scholarship money to attend Dreighton University.”
I sat straight up in bed. “Son of a bitch!”
***
The tables and chairs were stacked on top of each other in the tiny restaurant, giving minimal room to squeeze by. The third time someone’s ass knocked against my head, I wanted to stab them. Contemplating multiple homicides, I absentmindedly pushed a volcano roll into a glob of wasabi.
The previous night’s events haunted me. Was he making fun of me by mocking my stupid pageant? I could kick my own ass for telling him about it. However, in my defense, only a psycho would waste that kind of energy mocking a woman’s past. He sure as hell didn’t look like a psycho. His tattoos and bad boy smirk screamed many things—sex, dominance, sex, confidence, sex—but psychosis, no.
The morning had me no closer to figuring out his angle than when I’d pulled the note from my pocket. He’d have to think I was a moron to not see the connection. But beyond wanting to ask him why he did it, one question plagued me.
How the hell did he know my name and where I lived?
I’d taken extreme measures to ensure I could never be found. The fact he obtained the information so fast ultimately proved my final thought. Sex god or not, Fancy-Pants was a stalking whack job.
“If you eat what’s on the end of that chop stick, the sushi won’t be the only thing volcanic, Pheebs.”
I looked up to see Nate gesturing to my wasabi-soaked sushi roll. Groaning, I scrubbed my eyes with my palms. Dealing with flower-bearing stalkers proved to be exhausting.
“I think I’m losing my mind.” I crossed my arms and leaned back in my chair.
“Where’ve you been the last fifteen minutes?” Nate said, his eyes crinkled in amusement.
Despite hailing from New England, Nate Jacobs looked every bit the Southern California surfer. His dirty blond hair hung low in the front, dusting his eyebrows when it fell forward. He had quite the fan club in the editorial bullpen at Vinyl, and our friendship garnered more than its fair share of office gossip. Nate had asked me out shortly after I landed the job and found himself friend-zoned. I liked him, but I had strict rules against dating coworkers. It was a recipe for drama, and I came to New York to be drama-free.
So much for that.
“I’ve been right here.” I scowled.
“Bullshit!” he protested. “I’ve been dining alone while you’ve been in another time zone.”
I sighed and pushed my plate away. “It’s nothing, Nate.”
He held up his hands in defeat. “Whatever you say, Pheebs.”
“Men suck.”
His eyes widened. “Hey, I’m sitting right here, you know.”
It wasn’t fair releasing an entire night of stress and confusion on an unsuspecting party. Fancy-Pants was hot and extremely fuckable, but he was also the guy who made out with a complete stranger and stalked them after talking for five minutes. In addition, he went to great lengths to track down my carefully guarded identity, all while keeping his own anonymity and a side piece of blond ass.
Nope. Go directly to hell. Do not pass Go, do not collect Phoebe’s vagina.
I attempted a sympathetic look. “Don’t mind me. You just have the misfortune of having lunch with a single woman with issues.”
Nate’s face flamed. “Maybe I’m not the right person for you to be telling this stuff to, Phoebe.”
Aggression radiated off of him. Did I miss signals from Nate? As quickly as the thought entered my mind, I rejected it. Nate was my friend and he knew it. Fancy-Pants had me paranoid.
“Sorry,” I muttered, stirring my rice. “I’ve got too much shit going on to worry about guys, anyway.”
His jaw tightened. “So it is someone?”
“You could say that,” I mused, flicking my sushi with my chopstick.
It drove me insane to hold it inside, so I told him about the flowers, along with the full details of what happened at the club involving Heath Vaughn and Fancy-Pants. As I explained, he cocked an eyebrow and lifted his chin in thought. After regurgitating everything, I waited as he contemplated my revelations.
“Well, it is unconventional,” he admitted begrudgingly.
“Unconventional? Nate, the guy is stalking me!” I threw myself back into the chair. “Do you know how dangerous a stalker can be? And he has a girlfriend! What’s his angle?”
“It looks like his angle is you,” he said, staring holes into me.
“Great, what the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Lifting my soda to my mouth, I bit the straw in frustration.
Sighing, he stood up and brushed crumbs off of his pants. “It means he’s already in your head.”
I stared at him with my mouth open as he disappeared into the crowd.
Chapter Ten
Julian
Everyone had been antsy to get ready for the press conference, so Ty suggested we meet back half an hour early for a final run-through. I’d stayed behind to look over the posters from the publicity shots taken a few weeks ago and choose which one would be the primary one sold at the merchandise table. Narrowing it down to the final three posters, my attention was diverted as the door opened and a familiar face rounded the corner.
“You doing all right?” I called out tentatively.
“We, uh…” Zane cleared his throat and dropped his voice. “We didn’t know where you were.”
Guilt ate at me. “I know.”
“It’s time to wake your ass up and do something, Jag. You can’t keep doing this to yourself.” He adjusted the brim of his baseball hat. “You don’t deserve it, regardless of what you think.”
I rolled the poster in my hands. “They don’t deserve to get dragged down in my bullshit again.” I held his stare, needing his forgiveness. “I’m sorry, man. You know, for what I said—for lots of things.”
Zane dipped his chin in a slight nod. Guys didn’t hug or need long apologies. He nodded. We were cool.
“Ty said you’re telling Helena.”
I leaned back in the chair and smirked, although I was anything but amused. “T
y didn’t give me much of a choice.”
“We all agree with him,” he offered unapologetically. “When are you gonna get it? We’re family. We’ve been through a lot of shit together. Even Tanna, bro. She’s never tried to replace Lam. The girl just wants to fit in, and she’s done a damn good job in case you haven’t been paying attention.”
“Don’t worry about Tanna.”
He furrowed his brow, dropping his head in his hands and ran his fingers over his closed eyes. “Jagger…”
Irritation slammed me. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, Z! I’m not poking Tanna.” I slammed the posters onto the table and kicked my chair away. “Jesus, she’s a kid! Plus, that’s just not…god, just, no!”
His relief was obvious. “Thank Christ. I really didn’t think so, but, well, c’mon, man, your track record with women the last year hasn’t been goal-oriented.”
Might as well come clean.
I pushed out of my chair and started pacing. “After you left last night, I headed out to find somewhere to crash when Vivian showed up and cranked the shit factor up to an eleven.”
“Viv showed?” He threw his head back with a groan.
“Yeah, that was pretty much my reaction too.”
“What did she want?”
Pausing, I stared at him with an incredulous look.
“Right. Yeah, it’s Viv.” Grabbing the posters off the desk, he shuffled them around. “So what happened?”
“I told her to go blow someone else—preferably a few states away.”
“So she took it well,” he deadpanned.
I nodded stiffly. “If you consider threatening to tell Phoebe all about Lam, then yeah, it went smooth as shit.”
Zane raised his chin. “Wait, who?”
I realized what I’d said and lowered my eyes, hoping he’d let it go. An inquisition concerning my newfound obsession with Phoebe Ryan wasn’t on my agenda for today.
“Fuck, is this about that chick from the bar the other night?” He sighed. “You found her? Maybe after what’s happened it’s not a good idea to jump from the crazy pan into the psycho fryer.”
Remaining rooted in place, I clenched my jaw and stared out from the front of the stage to where masses of people would soon be huddled together for our big moment. My mind wasn’t where it needed to be for such a huge milestone.
“Fine, just call her,” he resigned.
God, if only it were only that simple. “I can’t—not yet.”
“Why not?” He asked a valid question.
He deserved an answer. I just couldn’t give him one. The truth was I had to make sure Vivian would leave Phoebe alone before I brought her into my batshit stalker world—even if it was for my own horny needs.
“What if she tells me that she hates me?” I asked quietly.
Zane’s stare challenged me. “What if she doesn’t?”
There it was. What I didn’t want to admit to myself—now validated.
I was simply a fucking coward.
“Look, man, you made some bad decisions following some devastating shit with the most vindictive bitch in the world. The best thing you can do is move on.” He stood up and walked past me, dropping one of the posters in my hand. “This one, you look like a chick in the others.”
He left me holding the promo poster and conflicting thoughts.
Whether or not either of us were ready, the ball had been set in motion. And the pitch was coming tonight.
Chapter Eleven
Phoebe
“I still can’t believe he said Eric didn’t have the right equipment.”
“He’s a chauvinist bastard,” I said, eyeing the celebrities packed in the small room.
“Baby doll, I don’t mean to burst your bubble, but it is cryptic,” Gage admitted, at least attempting to appear apologetic.
“Seriously? You think I’m banging for assignments too?” My ego suffered slight bruising.
“Pheebs, I couldn’t care less if you got your happy hump on with every byline in the Village,” he retorted. “But how do you explain it?”
“I have no idea, Gage,” I snapped, moving out of the direct line of a rapidly moving tango. “Maybe the promoters actually read my articles.”
He cut me off. “Back up, bitchzilla, I’m not the enemy. Whatever the reason, you got the prime gig.” Gage rested his hands on my shoulders. “It’s just too bad your cheese-dick boss won’t see you blow this interview out of the water tonight.”
His uncanny ability to always distract me from my derailing mood forced a smile. “I thought you said I didn’t need to prove anything?” I joked.
He sneered and patted my bare midriff. “You don’t. But with this outfit, on that body, the band won’t see the other reporters. You’ll scoop Rock World, baby doll.”
While I outwardly ignored his other comment, he was right. The only way to prove Castellano wrong was to hold my head high and walk into this press conference like a boss. This interview was going to get me noticed by MetroGroup Publishing. Book deal in the bag.
I spent the next half hour watching my best friend as he worked the floor. Gage charmed and schmoozed Grammy legends with ease. Contrary to what he told everyone, that kind of smoothness couldn’t be taught in acting classes. You either had it or you didn’t.
To look at the suave social charmer on the dance floor, no one would guess that his past was a tragic Lifetime movie. Gage spent the first two years of his life in group homes, abandoned by a drug addicted mother. Adopted by a devout Christian couple in their late thirties, his uneventful suburban upbringing came crashing down at age fourteen when he bravely came out as gay to his parents. The judgment he received for the second time in his short life almost destroyed him. Within three weeks they’d disowned him and kicked him out, refusing to speak to him. He’d been on his own ever since.
If asked about his family, Gage always told people his parents were dead. Besides my sister, I was alone in the world too. Maybe that was why we protected each other so deeply. We were our own dysfunctional family.
Not wanting him to feel like he had to babysit me, I walked carefully to the freestanding bar at the press pre-party. I’d let Gage talk me into wearing stilettos again, but at least the suede Jimmy Choos wrapped around my ankles and tied halfway up my calf. The ties felt like ambulatory assistance for scary shoes. However, I loved the edginess and the look was just perfect for a Circa Records party.
The indecently short leather mini-skirt had me taking extra caution while tipping the bartender so as not to flash my goods. As I held onto the hem, a quick succession of flashing light blasted my peripheral vision, and a figure ducked behind a potted plant.
Photogs.
It wasn’t me they wanted on film, but instinctively I sucked in my tummy and stood up straight. Tiny belly shirts and paparazzi made me a little self-conscious.
“Phoebe!”
Confused, I glanced back at the photog who still hid behind the tree. Something about the whole scene made me uneasy—as if I were being watched. I felt stupid for even looking. No one would be calling my name. No one cared about me.
“Phoebe Ryan!”
My head snapped up, and I recognized Nate pushing his way through the crowd. He had a young girl in tow, her apathetic face set in a permanent scowl.
I greeted him with a warm smile. “Didn’t you get my text? The band’s bus got stuck in some midtown traffic jam. They postponed the press conference until the after-party.”
Flashing me a grin, he gestured around the room. “And miss rubbing elbows with people like”—he glanced around in concentration—“these people?” He wiggled his eyebrows.
“You have no idea who these people are any more than I do,” I accused, crossing my arms in front of my chest.
“I like Lords of Lyre, sorta.” He nodded to the girl by his side. “Mallory is the die-hard fan.”
Mallory seemed disinterested in life in general, and less appreciative of Nate bringing her to an album release party. She stared me d
own as I nervously fluffed my hair from the back.
“I only know what I’ve read and what Gage tells me,” I admitted.
“You’re the entertainment reporter, Pheebs.” Nate laughed. “Aren’t you supposed to know what these guys eat for breakfast and stuff?”
I rolled my eyes. “I had another article thrown at me the last couple of days, and I barely made the deadline right before this party. I went into a slight panic mode until Gage peeled me off the ceiling.” I motioned to him as he led a female record executive in a perfect dance formation. “He’s a walking Lords of Lyre Wikipedia page. Who needs the internet when I’ve got him?”
Nate laughed while fiddling with his Nikon D3 camera. His eyes dropped, then quickly averted when they landed on my miniskirt. Awkward silence fell around us and I lifted my drink to my mouth to keep busy.
Mallory yawned and directed a bored look at me. “Are you fucking my cousin?”
I coughed through the drink I’d just inhaled and gaped at her.
“Mallory!” Nate looked horrified. “What the hell? Are you insane?”
She rested her hands on her hips, her black fingernail polish gleaming under the spotlights. “Oh, don’t act offended, Nate. You’ve been stalking her since we got here.”
Nate stared into his beer as if he wanted to crawl inside it. I didn’t blame him. I wanted to deck Mallory for him. I had no clue how to alleviate his humiliation, so I changed the subject, hoping she’d shut her face.
“Did you hear about Castellano’s vote of confidence?”
He lifted his head, his complexion blushed. “He’s a jerk, Pheebs. Nobody believes that.”
I stared at my glass. “Regardless, Castellano doesn’t think I’ve got what it takes. He’s expecting me to blow it.”
He lightly touched my shoulder. “I believe in you, Phoebe. You’ve got this.”
There was heat in Nate’s touch and I knew a smug smirk rested on Mallory’s face without even looking at her. Beginning to fidget, I gladly turned toward Gage’s bellowing laugh. I found him spinning a lead prime-time actress on the dance floor then dipping her low in a dramatic show-stopping pose.
