Fame & Obsession (Lords Of Lyre Book 1)

by Cora Kenborn

  “Julian, don’t!” Phoebe called out, but I was already gone.

  I’ll give you a picture, asshole.

  He was almost to the turnstile when I grabbed the back of his shirt collar and jerked him backward.

  “Man, what the fuck?” As he tumbled, the camera jostled and I capitalized on it by ripping it out of his hands.

  “The fuck is that you need to leave us the hell alone,” I demanded, seething.

  The man looked me up and down with a sneer. “See, that’s the beauty of America. The Constitution says I can stand here and take your picture and there’s not a damn thing you can do about it. It’s a public place, man. Don’t want your picture taken? Don’t get in the limelight. I gotta eat too.”

  “You,” I said, shoving him again, “can eat shit, for all I care. Take a picture of me, but leave her out of it. If you don’t put the damn lens cap back on, I’ll put it on for you. Are we clear?”

  “She’s more newsworthy than you, believe it or not. She brought all this on herself writing that article.” His sneer widened and I had an urge to punch his face in.

  The entire lobby froze as if waiting for my reaction. I obliged them by opening the camera, pulling out the memory card, and putting it in my pocket. With one movement, I snapped the cover back on and handed it back to him.

  “Hey, man, you can’t do that! That’s private property. Give it back.”

  “We both know that’s not going to happen, don’t we, Chad?”

  He looked like a fucking Chad. Actually, he looked like a middle-aged Heath Vaughn, which brought back memories of the night I met Phoebe. Now I really wanted to hit him.

  “My name is Ollie, asshole,” he barked, snatching the camera out of my offered hands.

  “Thanks, Chad. Now I have a name to add to the police report.”

  “Police? Are you fucking crazy? I’m well within my rights to do my job.”

  “You’re exactly right,” I said, nodding to the security guard beside us and then pointing to the door. “Out there you have rights. In here, you’re a trespasser harassing an employee. Isn’t that right, Miss Ryan?” I glanced over my shoulder, waiting for her agreement. What I got were pursed lips and narrowed eyes.

  Shit. What now?

  “Phoebe?” I asked again.

  She sighed and moved beside me. “He’s right. You can’t be in this building without checking in with the guard or without one of these.” She flashed her access badge in front of his face.

  “He said he was your father, Phoebe.”

  All three of us turned toward the security guard who’d watched the exchange. I quickly glanced at Phoebe, who’d grown pale.

  “He did what?” she asked softly.

  “Said he was Daniel Dalton and wanted to surprise you,” the guard admitted. “I gave him a pass.”

  Phoebe’s hands fisted beside me as tension radiated off of her. “Hey, Ollie,” she said, her voice shaking with anger. “I wouldn’t name drop that one if I were you. It isn’t complimentary. If the wrong people heard you, your ass would be locked up, and you’d be someone’s bitch before noon.”

  I’d never seen such a violent mood swing in her before. Running a hand down her forearm, I pulled her to me protectively. “Let it go, baby.”

  “No,” she said, shrugging me off. “I want him arrested, Gus.” She shot a look at the security guard and crossed her arms.

  Catching his eye, I slightly shook my head, letting him know I’d handle her. “Phoebe, calm down. Gus is throwing him out and we’re leaving. I’m sure fifty bucks for a new memory card won’t kill your bank account, right, Chad?”

  “It’s Ollie, motherfucker.”

  “Okay, Chad, you have yourself a good day, all right?” I pressed a few twenty dollar bills in his hand and ushered her to the elevators.

  Phoebe pushed the elevator call button and stared straight ahead. Her face remained expressionless.

  “What the hell was that?” I asked.

  “Just don’t, Julian. Not now.” She fixated her stare on the numbers at the top of the elevator.

  I guided her inside as the doors opened. Once they’d closed and we began our ascent, I raised a hand to her cheek. “Are we going to talk about this whole Ryan/Dalton thing soon?” She pulled away and tightened her lips. “We’re having a baby, Phoebe. Knowing about each other’s family is important, don’t you think?”

  “Don’t pull parental shit on me,” she said, stalking out of the opened doors. “I’ve stressed over it a lot longer than you have.”

  “Well, that wasn’t exactly a choice I made myself, was it?” I regretted the words immediately.

  Stopping abruptly, she turned around and spoke through clenched teeth. “There’s a stalker trying to kill me, I’m pregnant with some man’s baby I’ve known a little over two months, and you want to play the martyr?”

  Now I was pissed. “What the hell do you mean some man?”

  “Everything okay, Phoebe?” We both looked up to see the receptionist peering at us through glasses balanced on the bridge of her nose.

  “It’s fine, Patty,” Phoebe replied, walking past her at breakneck speed. “Everything’s great. But why don’t you ask Julian, since he fucking knows everything?”

  I’d heard about pregnancy hormones making women extremely volatile, but I’d never seen them in play. Phoebe’s hormones scared the shit out of me.

  I took off after her. “Phoebe, wait…”

  Halfway through the office, she turned with tears in her eyes. “As far as Castellano knows, the autobiography is right on schedule, all right?”

  “Sure, of course.”

  “And you’re going to tell him he’s not being sued?”

  My fingers traced her cheek. “Anything you need, princess.”

  She nodded and turned back to the double glass doors that boasted the managing editor’s name. She grasped the door handle and exhaled with her chin trembling. “I’m sorry. I can’t control my emotions anymore and it’s pissing me off.” She stomped her foot, and it made me smile. “What the hell are you laughing at?” she demanded.

  “You.” I kissed her temple. “You’re going to be a great mom.”

  “Don’t patronize me, Julian. I’m acting like a psychopath.”

  “You’re adorable.”

  “Yeah, adorable.” She snorted. “That’s me, all right, a psycho—an adorable, psycho angel. Your little angel, me. Maybe I can get that changed on all my bylines and start using it as a pseudonym to combat that Blogosphere bitch.”

  My blood ran cold. Her words eerily echoed the signature I’d seen in months of threatening letters and texts. “What did you say?”

  “I said I was psycho. You heard me the first—”

  “No!” I interrupted, my forehead breaking out in beads of sweat. “You said your little angel, me.”

  “So?” She looked at me hesitantly.

  I didn’t know why I hadn’t put it together sooner. The signature on the letters. Of course she’d use it. She wanted me to recognize her. Fuck my stupidity for not looking at those screen names closer.

  She sighed disapprovingly as I grabbed her hand, leading her away from the office and back toward the elevators. “Julian, what the hell are you doing?”

  “We’ll come back,” I said impatiently as the elevator rose to meet us. “We have to go to Helena’s office.”

  Her face fell. “Oh goody. She’ll be so welcoming when she sees me returning to the scene of the crime.”

  ***

  “It’s like looking for a needle in a haystack,” Helena grumbled, thumbing through her pile of papers.

  “It’s worse,” Phoebe muttered. “We’re looking for a needle in a pile of needles.”

  “Would you two stop?” I asked, rubbing my forehead as I flipped the page. “Just highlight every time you see it.”

  “What’s the point, Julian?” Helena asked, slamming her highlighter on the desk. “I don’t get why we’re looking for this one name, and I r
eally don’t get why you made me print out eight weeks’ worth of Circa’s message boards and Chatter feeds.”

  “Phoebe said something that made me remember a conversation.” I looked up to see both women looking at me with raised eyebrows. “Helena, do you remember our meeting after the album release? You shoved that printout of pissed-off posts in my face to prove a point.”

  “A lot of good that did me, huh?” she said, glaring at Phoebe.

  “Cut the shit, we don’t have time for this,” I warned. “Something seemed familiar about them at the time, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.”

  “So?” she asked, obviously not buying into my theory.

  I scanned the paper in my hand, and it jumped off the page at me, typed boldly as if she didn’t care about being discovered. Pointing to the name, I slammed it down on her desk.

  “I finally put my finger on it.” I planted my index finger beside the name and anger shot through me. “Right fucking there.”

  @AngElmie: Bitch took him from concert! Shld b hung by hair & taught manners.

  Helena shrugged. “So it says AngElmie. Big deal.”

  I glared at her. “No, it doesn’t. Read it again, out loud. Take the emphasis off the capital E for a minute and disregard the I. Say it smoothly.”

  “Angelemee.” She drew the name out and shoved the paper back at me. “Julian, I don’t think—”

  “Angel, me,” Phoebe whispered, her voice confident.

  “What?” Helena said, still confused. “I’m tired of this, Julian. Can’t you just take it to the police? It’s their job, not yours.”

  “Angel, me, Helena,” Phoebe said sharply, eyeing her with irritation. “As in, Your Angel, Me.” She looked at me for confirmation and I smiled at her.

  Helena lifted an eyebrow, recognition on her face. “Your stalker’s signature?”

  “Exactly.” I tossed the highlighter. “She’s been hiding in plain sight from us for months.”

  “But these are old messages, Julian. The police can’t do anything with this.”

  “It’s a start at least,” I snapped, my anxiety amped. “It’s more than we had before.” I nodded my chin at the marker on her desk. “Highlight anything resembling that screen name and then I’ll pay Detective Jaxon Hough a visit.”

  She cut her eyes at Phoebe and snatched the highlighter, scanning the page again.

  An hour later we had multiple piles of papers with slashes of yellow streaks through them. She’d been everywhere. I’d been too busy hiding behind my own guilt, and I’d let this woman taunt me in plain sight.

  “Julian, how do you know Vivian didn’t do all of this?” Helena asked.

  “Because she’s dead,” I snapped.

  We’d pored over message boards for hours and stress showed on everyone’s faces. Even with my discovery, this bitch eluded me. I still lacked concrete proof of anything substantial that could help in finding her.

  Dropping the papers, Helena kicked off her high heels and massaged the arch of her foot. “You said you suspected her after she made threats against Phoebe, right?”

  “So?” I questioned. “It’s not like she calmly walked into an alley by Phoebe’s apartment and stabbed herself to death.” I didn’t particularly want to imagine Vivian bloody and lying in a dirty alley.

  “Well, maybe she pissed off the wrong person?” she suggested. “I’ve been doing this a long time, Julian. Vivian was about as nutty as they come. I wouldn’t put it past her to stalk you right under your nose then have someone act as your personal executioner.” She stared at Phoebe.

  “Don’t go there,” I scoffed, standing up. Sitting still drove me crazy. I needed movement to figure this out. “How did they find Osama fucking bin Laden in a gopher hole, but we can’t find some bitch who’s taunting me with every form of communication invented?”

  “Helena?” a grating voice spoke through the intercom.

  Helena mouthed the words, “My assistant,” and put her finger to her lips to demand silence. “Yes, Katherine?”

  “There’s been a delivery for Mr. Bale.”

  “I’ll be right out.” Disconnecting the call, she lifted her chin, nodding to the lobby. “It’s probably the new merchandise shirt mockup I ordered. You’ve got a concert in two weeks. You still remember you have a job, right?”

  “I’ll get it.” Phoebe pushed off of the couch and headed toward the door. “I need some air anyway.”

  “You okay?” I eyed her suspiciously. I’d been hypervigilant about every move she made since she announced she was pregnant. I hadn’t had time to fully process the idea of being a father, but the thought of anyone taking the chance away made me irrational.

  “Yeah.” She raked her fingers over my shoulder, giving it a squeeze as she passed. “Sitting in one place for too long gets to me.”

  “Come right back,” I instructed as she closed the door.

  Helena and I sat in silence for a few moments. Eventually, she motioned between me and the door with her hand and lifted an eyebrow. “What’s this?”

  I evaded her question on purpose. “What’s what?”

  “What’s with you and Deep Throat out there?”

  “Watch it, Helena.” I held up my hand before she spoke again. “Even if you’re joking, it’s disrespectful.”

  She snorted. “Since when have you cared about being disrespectful to women?”

  There wasn’t really an optimal time to explain to my manager that I’d knocked up my on-again, but mostly off-again girlfriend.

  “Phoebe’s pregnant.”

  She rubbed her eyes with both hands. “Are you kidding me? Do you know what this will do to you? No one will throw their panties at someone covered in baby vomit.”

  “Great. That got on my fucking nerves anyway.” What the hell was her problem? Like I gave a shit about groupies. Even if Phoebe wasn’t pregnant, I still wouldn’t fuck around on her. I glared at her and paced the corners of the room as usual when arguing with Helena.

  “It’s career suicide, Julian. I know men think with their dicks, but did you consider covering it for Christ’s sake?”

  “It just sort of happened,” I said, defending myself.

  “It just sort of happened? Well, that’s great.” She threw up her hands. “That’s how I’ll spin it to the media. I’m sorry ladies, he slipped and his dick fell into her.”

  “Knock it off, Helena.” She was pushing me, and I’d had enough.

  “No birth control?”

  “She said it didn’t work.”

  “Of course she did.” Helena paused and raked her palms down her cheeks. “Are you that stupid? The struggling writer got herself knocked up by a famous rock star. It’s her retirement plan.”

  My pacing stopped as anger boiled over. “Are you fucking done?”

  “I, uh…wanted to see the shirts. I didn’t—it’s not possible.”

  My guard immediately went up. Phoebe stood in the doorway shaking, her delicate face drained of all color. She held a plain brown box tightly against her chest.

  “Phoebe? What’s not possible? What’s wrong?”

  Still shaking, she reached in the box, pulling out two small square pieces of paper. She hugged them to her chest while still gripping the box. “It’s the only one I had. I had it in my desk at Vinyl. How…” Her eyes filled with tears.

  Unease filled me. With one hand protectively on her arm, I pulled the papers out of her death grip with the other. As I slowly recognized what I was holding, and what had been done to them, rage simmered into a tirade of curses.

  “Fucking bitch!” I shouted, hitting the wall with my forearm.

  The first picture was a camera phone print of Phoebe and me in front of the deli the day I declared my feelings in front of the paparazzi. Phoebe’s face had been almost completely scratched off with something sharp.

  The other picture was grainy, but I’d watched enough TV to know what it represented. I knew it was an early ultrasound picture of the baby. Someone had
drawn crosshairs over the top in black marker, ruining it. The symbolism punched me hard in the gut. One look at Phoebe and I knew my fears weren’t unfounded. Tears poured down her cheeks as she cradled her stomach with both hands.

  The bitch aimed a gun at my child.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Phoebe

  He paused after opening the door, then followed behind me, one hand protectively on the small of my back. The minute we walked outside, the whispers began.

  “Oh my god, it’s Julian Bale!”

  “Who the hell is that?”

  “That’s the reporter bitch.”

  Things were tense enough. The looks and whispers slowly pushed me to the edge of crazy.

  Julian raised his hand for a taxi when a woman barreled toward us with an arm waving wildly over her head. She ran ahead of her friends, and her footsteps picked up in intensity as Julian cursed under his breath.

  I mentally tried to force a cabbie to stop as a blur of yellow cars whirled past us. I counted them as they flew by: four…six…nine…fifteen. I closed my eyes, willing her to go away.

  “Julian, I’m such a huge fan! Oh wow, this is the coolest thing ever. Can I have your autograph?” A piece of paper and a Sharpie materialized out of nowhere and she shoved both in his face.

  Heat rose from my neckline. Julian stiffened, sandwiching his body between us. We still had a keen sense of each other’s body language, but that did nothing to quell my irrational jealousy. Grinning that cocky-ass smile, he took the paper, signed it, and handed it back to her shaking hand.

  Tears sprang to her eyes. “Oh my god, thank you! You’re incredible. I love you, Julian.”

  Where was a fucking taxi when you needed one? I searched the streets then redirected my attention back to Julian. I expected the groupie to be gone. She wasn’t.

  She kept standing there—grinning that stupid, googly-eyed grin they all had.

  Walk away, bitch.