by Cora Kenborn
For the first time, I saw the real Phoebe. Gone was the snarky bravado that always took center stage. Instead, an insecure young girl trembled on my arm. It ignited a fierce need to protect her.
I studied her face. “Who says I’m calm?”
“You just…I mean, you never seem—”
“Princess, this business is all about face value. They report what they see. You give them what’s here”—I pointed to my face—“not what’s here.” I tapped my temple with my finger.
“I’m just glad they care about you and not me,” she said, turning her face inward as cameras flashed around us.
I chuckled at her naïveté. “Were you in the same room with me at MetroGroup, Phoebe? Ellison was right. This type of publicity is golden for your company. You’re just as much of—”
“Julian, why in God’s name can’t you take a limo like a normal person? CBB has already run a piece with you showing up in that Smurf-mobile.”
I ignored the insult. “Hello to you too, Helena.”
She arced a brow and scanned a roving eye over Phoebe. “Are you going to introduce us, or do I still get to be ‘the bitch from the hallway’?”
I should fire her for that.
“Helena, this is my ghostwriter, Phoebe Ryan.” I gave Phoebe a reassuring squeeze. “Phoebe, meet my filter-challenged manager, Helena Gibbons.”
Phoebe held onto my arm while extending her hand to Helena. “Pleased to meet you, Ms. Gibbons. I’m sorry about the other night. I had no idea he would run after me.”
Helena rolled her eyes in my direction. “Good Lord, girl, I’m not eighty. It’s Helena.”
Phoebe blushed. “Sorry, Southern manners are ingrained at birth.”
“I hear the accent. I lived in Atlanta for a while. Loved the area. God knows why you gave it up for this.” She gestured to the incessant flashing cameras. “And please, I’ve been dealing with this one’s crap for years now. Once he gets an idea in his head, there’s no stopping him.”
“Hey, fuck nuts! We saw a video online of you driving up in the douche wagon. That shit’s already viral.”
A quick turn over my shoulder preceded a sucker punch from Zane. “Ouch! Damn, fucker!” I yelled.
“Pussy.” Zane shot back.
“Boys!” warned Helena. “The press has microphones so watch the language, please. You make my life hard enough.”
Zane sneered at her and slung his arm around some Italian model. Things were back to normal between us, thank god.
“You’re the girl from the club.”
All eyes turned toward the thin, pale girl in a simple black gown, drowning in long purple hair. Tanna eyed Phoebe quizzically while holding onto Ty’s arm for support. With her wide-eyed stare, she looked like she’d been caught playing dress up in her mother’s closet.
I turned my focus back to Phoebe as she lowered her eyes to the carpet. Where the hell was my feisty firecracker? Was she intimidated by Tanna?
“Yeah.” She whispered so low I had to strain to hear her. “Julian and I work together now.”
Tanna cocked her head to the side and studied her. She pursed her lips as if she were seeing her for the first time, but let the subject drop. She may have only been nineteen, but that girl could read people like a book and innately knew Phoebe was out of her element.
“And here we have Julian Bale, front man for the new Circa Records group, Lords of Lyre.” A reporter with long blond hair and a white gown shoved a microphone in my face as the camera man focused his lens. “Julian, how’s all the newfound fame changed your life?”
Same old same old. Couldn’t these people find some new questions to ask?
I plastered on my fake smile. “Actually, beyond the obvious perk of being able to talk with you, Karli, my life is the same. I get to make music with my friends and play it for some awesome fans. The only difference is now I don’t get booed so often.” She blushed and I wanted to roll my eyes.
“I know there’ve been rumors of a tour soon, but what’s really buzzing is talk of an autobiography in the works. Is that true?”
I glanced at Phoebe, her face froze in a fake smile and her body stiffened in my arms. How was someone who won a state pageant this freaked out?
“Yes, it’s true. Lords of Lyre, The Gibbons Agency, Circa Records, and MetroGroup Publishing have commissioned my autobiography to be published fall of 2016.” I pinched Phoebe’s side, causing her to inhale sharply.
I had to get her inside before she passed out. Nodding to Helena, she dipped her chin and herded the band down the carpet. Tightening my grip on Phoebe, I nudged her to follow them.
“The world also wants to know if your date is the girl from the Blogosphere Daily column,” the reporter called out behind me.
Keep walking, Phoebe. Keep walking.
Of course she didn’t. She stopped and spun around, staring daggers into the reporter, whose smug look indicated she’d waited to go in for the kill.
“No comment.” I pushed the microphone away. “Come on, Phoebe, ignore…remember?” I whispered, tugging on her waist.
“Our sources tell us that she’s Phoebe Ryan, a reporter for Vinyl magazine. Interestingly enough, that trail led us to a Phoebe Dalton, who was the subject of an unauthorized documentary for Predator Confidential.” Pursing her lips as if she’d just won the Nobel Peace Prize, she shoved the microphone in Phoebe’s face. “Do you have a comment?”
All the color drained from Phoebe’s face and she looked like she’d been slapped. Whatever the hell the reporter just said ripped her to shreds and took her to a dark place. I wanted to strangle the bitch.
“I said we have no comment!” I pulled Phoebe into a protective hold.
But the reporter was still out for blood. “Fine, what about the sources who say you’ve had a female stalker since the death of your bandmate, Billy Lamee?”
Where did this bitch get off pulling investigative reporting shit on the red carpet? “Look, lady, I don’t know who the fuck you’ve been talking to, but—”
“Those are all the questions for now, thank you, have a good evening.” Helena cursed under her breath and gathered everyone into the venue. She pulled us into an alcove and threw a hand over her face. “What. The. Hell, Julian?”
“You’re asking me?”
“Did you tell the press about the letters?” Her eyes widened.
“Do I look like a fucking moron to you?” I shouted.
“This is not good, Julian…not good,” Helena said, pacing the hallway. “That was Karli Waters with Access Live.”
“You think I don’t know that?” Helena didn’t deserve the shit I dished out at her, but I was about to dive off of the deep end.
“We’re starting press for the tour, the book, and god knows what else! If they drag Billy into this, the label isn’t going to like the image of you that comes out.”
“I know, Helena.”
“You know. You know. You always know. But I get blindsided every time I turn around, Julian. You’re going to give me a goddamn stroke before I’m fifty.”
I shifted a look at Phoebe. She’d moved away from us and slouched against the wall as if it were the only thing keeping her upright. She needed me, and I needed to get rid of Helena.
“Yes, you’re exactly right.” I indulged her with an affirmative nod.
“Don’t patronize me, Julian!”
“I’m not.” I forced her to look at me and shifted a glance toward Phoebe. “I’ll get to the bottom of it, but right now I need to get ready for the opening set.”
Understanding, she inhaled deeply and turned to leave. “Yeah, you do that. Be at my office, in the morning, at ten sharp. We’ve got an impending shit storm to wade through.”
With Helena gone, I approached Phoebe, her small body still shaking. I had a primal need to get my hands on whoever put this level of fear in her. “Phoebe?”
“What happened to Billy?”
“Can we please not do this here?” My head pounded,
and I still had to play.
Karli Waters is the motherfucking antichrist.
“Just leave me alone.” She kept her eyes trained on the carpet.
“You know that’s not going to happen.”
She refused to look at me, turning toward the wall. “Make it happen.”
I could tell she was shutting down, so I gently touched her shoulder. “Phoebe, I—”
Recoiling, she suddenly came to life. “A stalker, Julian? You have a stalker? How could you not tell me?”
“Keep your voice down!” I bristled. “It didn’t come up.”
“It didn’t come up?” She gaped. “How about, ‘Hi, I’m invading your life, and oh, by the way, I’ve got a goddamn stalker’?”
“Don’t think you’re so special, princess. I kept it from everyone. Hell, I just told Helena the other day. Why would I tell you anything when all you do is slam the door in my face?” I didn’t mean to lose my shit, but her accusations pissed me off.
“I’ve told you, I don’t do stalkers.” She turned away, wrapping her arms around herself.
“I don’t do them either.” I smirked, attempting to diffuse the heaviness.
“This isn’t funny, Julian.”
“Look, I’m dealing with it, all right?”
“How?” She threw a scowl over her shoulder.
“Eventually this bitch will get bored and stop. If I respond publicly to her stupid letters, she’ll know she’s getting to me. It’s common sense, Phoebe.” I broke from her stare, forcing a look of indifference.
She laughed and returned her focus to the floor. “You’re naïve if you really think that.”
My laugh lacked amusement. “I’ve been accused of many things, but being naïve isn’t one of them.”
“Stalkers don’t give up. They just change tactics, biding time until you’re most vulnerable.” A distant look swept over her delicate face and she twisted away.
Hooking a finger under her chin, I pulled it toward me as the tears fell. “Hey, what’s going on, princess? What’s all that Predator Confidential stuff? I thought your last name was Ryan.”
“I can’t talk about that now.”
Anger flipped a switch in me. “Well, touché, baby.”
A storm brewed in her eyes, and she smacked my hand away. “Look, Jagger, it’s because of you that I’m now fucked beyond any scope of your imagination. You need to come forward and fight this bitch. Better yet, we can both fight her. It isn’t as if I can hide anymore.”
Hearing her call me Jagger felt like nails on a chalkboard. “Or what?”
“Or I walk from our project.” She glared at me, constantly checking the entrance to the venue as if she expected someone to come barreling through it.
“Why the hell would you want to get involved?” I yelled.
She looked disillusioned. “Let’s just say it’s my way of getting even with a ghost.”
I stood ready to question her, when my text alert rang. Glancing quickly at my phone, I read the text and willed my blood pressure to calm before answering her.
“No,” I said with finality.
“No?”
“That’s what I said,” I reaffirmed without missing a beat.
Initially fuming, she softened her voice, changing her approach. “Julian, do you want me?”
My eyebrows shot up. “What kind of fucking question is that?”
“An honest one.”
Blood coursed through my veins at double its normal rate. “What do you want me to say, Phoebe?”
“The truth.”
She wants the truth, she’ll get it.
“I want to fuck you so bad, all I can think of is what it would feel like to be inside you.”
Her eyes widened in shock. After a few moments of silence, she moved closer and trailed her fingers down my chest. I wanted to shake the shit out of her, then kiss her senseless.
“Then let me do this,” she whispered.
I had to give her points for a skillful diversion attempt. “No.”
“Are you kidding me right now?” Her hardened shell began to splinter.
“It’s not worth it.” I shrugged.
“This date is over,” she said, keeping her focus on the entrance. “This business relationship is over. I can deal with a lot, Julian, but victim compliance isn’t one of them.”
“Phoebe!” I called after her, but she flipped me off and stormed down the hall.
How in the hell was I supposed to counter that? I couldn’t show her the text I’d gotten. On top of everything else, how did that bitch get my unlisted number? I hit redial on the number, and as I suspected, minutes after the text came through, the phone number was disconnected.
Burner phone.
Fear for the woman walking away from me returned as I read the words again.
Pretty date. Get rid of her. Didn’t think I would out myself to the press, did you? Don’t underestimate me. I know everything you do and who you do it with. Ask Phoebe Dalton about her daddy.
“Fuck!” Turning around, I slammed my fist into the drywall.
Chapter Eighteen
Phoebe
I’d been hiding out behind a line of palm trees for over an hour, avoiding anyone connected with Ralston Media. Julian’s band had already played their obligatory opening, but I couldn’t make myself look at him. He purposely sang my song, trying to force a reaction out of me. I couldn’t take anymore.
Deciding to call a taxi, I’d just pulled my phone from my purse when a hand tightened around my waist from behind. I knew his scent in an instant and twisted out of his grasp. “We have nothing else to say, Julian.”
His hands fisted by his side. “Then maybe you should shut up and listen for once.”
A confusing rush of anger and arousal coursed through my veins. God, he was infuriating. Did he seriously think he could order me around like a goddamn caveman? The man’s ego matched the size of his bank account.
As the iciness of his glare rained down, all the fight drained out of me in a flood of exhaustion. Dropping my gaze, I let out a sarcastic laugh at my own expense. “You’re such an asshole.”
“You’re probably right,” he agreed.
My head snapped up. His indifference ticked me off, and the internal torture I’d been wrestling with imploded. Planting my hands firmly in the center of his chest, I shoved him with all the strength I had in me.
“What the fu—” Caught off guard, Julian’s eyes widened and he tipped backward, wedging his shoulders between one of the palm trees and the corner wall. The move also knocked me off-balance, and I struggled to right myself into a steady standing position as my dress tangled around my shoe. I suddenly found myself catapulted into Julian’s chest.
The familiarity of his scent intoxicated me, and my body betrayed me by molding itself against every inch of his. The indecent warmth between my legs knocked me breathless.
“If you wanted to get on top of me, princess, you could have just asked,” he taunted as an edge of warning swirled in my belly. “No need to resort to theatrics.”
Lost in the intensity of his stare, I barely registered the rapid flashes of light going off in succession behind us. By the time I finally tore my eyes away, I was too mortified to do anything but grunt and push off of him. Straightening my twisted bodice, I fired an annoyed look in his direction.
“You should gain more confidence, Julian,” I snapped, glaring at him. “It seems to be lacking.”
Still lounging against the palm tree, Julian lifted an eyebrow and raked a heated stare over me. “I didn’t hear any complaints in the hallway of my concert, or outside your office, or even earlier tonight in your building.”
I wanted nothing more than to slap that grin off his damn face.
“That’s real classy, Bale.” I tapped my finger against my bottom lip and smirked. “But, as usual, you’re inflating things a little.” I took it too far and lowered my gaze across the bulge in his tailored black pants, and back to his face. “Or a
lot, as the case may be.”
His face darkened, and I knew I had to get away from the situation. Sober from my lust-drunkenness, I bent over and yanked my dress away from my heel, tearing a three-inch vertical rip at the bottom.
“Fuck,” I murmured, hating that his nearness continually reduced me to a bumbling moron.
Stepping clear of any more material, I quickly straightened, desperately needing distance from him. As I righted myself, his hands went to my hips. My arms shot out at the shock of his touch and landed palms down, again, against his sinfully defined pecs. I jerked backward, knowing this time I wouldn’t have the strength to push him away.
I never got that far. Julian’s quick reflexes kicked in, and his rough guitarist hands tightened around both of my wrists, holding me immobile. I could only stare at them, the connection searing both my skin and senses, melting them both into oblivion.
“Why do you always do this, Phoebe?” he questioned.
I continued to stare at his hands. “Do what?”
“Try to push me away when we get close. Do you think I’ll hurt you?”
His hands were strong. They were gifted. They played guitar as if it was an extension of his soul. They wrote amazing lyrics that could bring me to tears. They had the power to take everything away from me in one split-second decision.
As if he read my mind, his hand appeared under my chin and lifted it to meet his probing eyes. In that moment, I knew Julian Bale had too much power over me, and I couldn’t allow it to continue. No matter what it cost me.
I closed my eyes and jerked my chin out of his grasp. The bile rose and I forcibly swallowed it, waiting for my stomach to stop churning. When I opened them, I focused with resolve.
“I’m sorry, Julian,” I said flatly, gathering my dress in my hands so as not to trip for a third time. “This isn’t going to work—professionally or otherwise. We have an honesty issue here. You don’t know what I’ve been through and I can’t trust you enough to tell you. If you won’t deal with your own problems, or let me help you fix them, I can’t put myself in a situation to be at the mercy of some crazy person.”
