And just like that, the whole explosion and invasion of my privacy felt like small change.
Because I’d realized that Killian O’Dea had lied to me for the first time.
He had no intention of protecting me from this. Of putting me first. Not if it meant destroying the album launch and whatever chance he had of forcing his uncle to acknowledge that he was the best thing that ever happened to this label.
This time you pick a guy who cares more about your happiness than he does about his own.
The fight fled me as Micah’s words came back to haunt me.
I was trapped again.
In love with a man who loved his career more than me.
Tied to a contract I couldn’t get out of.
Hounded by the press.
Suffocated.
And it had been less than a day.
Last night with Killian seemed like some long-forgotten dream.
“Fine,” I whispered, unable to look at him. “I’ll do the interview.”
He exhaled slowly in relief. “It’s the right thing, Skylar. And you don’t have to worry about a thing. We’ll write you a script and we’ll make sure we get final say over what questions the interviewer is allowed to ask.”
“Okay.”
He approached me and I tensed as he tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. “I promised I’ll take care of you and I will.”
My smile was more of a grimace but it seemed to appease him because he pressed a kiss to my lips. Stupidly I reached for something deeper that he gladly provided. I held on as I kissed him like it was the last time I ever would.
In that moment, I hated him because I still wanted him. I still loved him. It was easy to, looking into his eyes and seeing his love for me.
But like Micah, it wasn’t enough.
Killian didn’t love me enough.
* * *
I MOVED INTO A HOTEL.
Killian wanted me to move in with Autumn but I had money now. Money I could burn on an expensive hotel suite indefinitely.
Everyone wanted to hover, including Killian, but I wanted space to hear my own thoughts. Brandon, Micah, and Gayle all called to see how I was coping with the media storm. Micah wanted to come back over to support me, but I told him that would only make things worse.
And I finally got hold of Austin. Apologizing to him, catching up with him, was a much-needed distraction. Apparently, he’d hated every minute of the nature trail, which didn’t surprise me, but he loved Selina so he’d put up with almost anything for her.
That shocked the hell out of me and I didn’t mind telling him so. He said she was different. She was a college graduate he met in Berkeley who was bartending during the summer until her postgrad courses started. Her complete and utter lack of interest in him as a rock star did it for him.
“I knew when I finally won over her over, it was because I won her over, not the guy with the guitar. She’s so fucking smart, it’s frightening, Sky. She takes none of my bullshit,” he’d told me with more than a hint of satisfaction.
I was glad. She sounded like exactly what he needed. I said I wanted to meet her and we made it a promise that I would.
Talking to Austin was the only joy I felt in the forty-eight hours since Skylar Finch officially belonged to the world again.
I’d been stuck in this hotel suite since yesterday afternoon with nothing but my thoughts to distract me. They weren’t fun thoughts, I’ll tell ya.
Throwing myself across the huge bed, I picked up the notes from Lois for my interview with one of the biggest morning talk shows in the UK. I’d agreed to it, but I’d also asked Killian for some time. He granted me three days.
“How generous,” I muttered.
He’d also banned me from looking at social media. A few months ago, that would’ve been fine by me. The incessant buzzing that used to fill my brain back when I was in Tellurian had returned. So was the constant sharp tightness in my chest.
I was beginning to suspect it was anxiety.
It had never occurred to me before, but Mandy had anxiety and had described it to me once. I wasn’t an anxious person. I didn’t think I had an anxiety disorder. But now, feeling those feelings again and remembering Mandy’s description, I guess I did.
It wasn’t a constant thing for me—I supposed life in the spotlight was my anxiety trigger.
The physical symptoms were accompanied by the all-too-familiar feeling of impending doom. It was horrible. It was a sickness in my gut. That doom weighed on me. It made me feel brittle, like one tap would shatter me into pieces.
Back then, the only way I knew how to cope when it was bad was to push people away, isolate myself, so I didn’t have to worry about my band or family noticing that I wasn’t myself. I went through periods, especially when we were touring and I was too busy to overthink, of being okay. Some days I felt almost normal. Other days were bad.
Today was a bad day.
Yesterday had sucked pretty hard too.
Thankfully, Killian couldn’t be spotted coming to my hotel room late at night so I didn’t have to deal with my heartbreakingly complicated feelings for the man.
It was another reason he wasn’t happy I hadn’t chosen to stay with his sister.
No nookie for Killian.
I sighed and flopped onto my back, glaring at the ceiling. Killian didn’t care about getting laid. I knew that. I was just . . . I guess I was trying to vilify him. Make it easier.
None of this was easy, and it wasn’t any less difficult being in the dark about what the fans were saying online. A few months ago, I didn’t want to know. But now I needed to know. I reached over for the phone on my bedside table and called the concierge.
Five minutes later there was a knock at the door. I opened it to find an immaculately dressed staff member in a gorgeous skirt suit. She smiled as she held out an iPad.
“We’ve created a user account on one of our hotel iPads for you, Miss Finch. Should you need anything else, please don’t hesitate to ask.”
“Thank you.” I shakily took the iPad from her and closed the door.
My gut churned.
“Here we go,” I muttered to myself.
It took me a while to access my accounts because I’d forgotten a couple of passwords and had to reset them before I could log in.
My heart pounded as I opened the Twitter homepage and saw under the side bar titled “Trends for you”: #FecklessFinch
Bracing myself, I clicked on the hashtag.
There was a barrage of tweets accusing me of deliberately scaring fans and then having the audacity not to speak up now that I was outed as “alive and well.” People had retweeted the interview on YouTube with the band where Brandon got upset. They called me a coldhearted asshole. Fans asked why the guys had forgiven me. Someone even tweeted:
I wish the bitch had died. I’d rather mourn her than be this disappointed in her. #FecklessFinch #FuckYouFinch
Beneath it I could see people call the person out for crossing the line, but it still made me throw the iPad onto the bed. I wasn’t sure how I could still be stunned by that shit, but I was. I scrubbed a hand over my face, wishing for once, just goddamned once, that a pair of ruby slippers that sparkled and glittered and took you to a magical place called Home really did exist.
I slid down the wall until my ass hit the carpet and I stared unseeing across the suite.
Four days ago, I was gloriously happy. I thought I was home.
Then I’d made one call, one phone call, and I’d lost everything. Because I had lost everything, hadn’t I?
My cell rang, jolting me out of my miserable thoughts. I forced myself off my ass to answer it.
It was Killian.
I considered ignoring it, but that would only bring him to the hotel to check on me, and that might make things worse.
“Hey,” I said, curling up in an armchair.
“Hey yourself.”
I squeezed my eyes shut at the sound of his voice, savoring it.
“I wanted to check in. I wish I were there.”
“I know.”
“Have you eaten?”
“Yeah,” I lied.
“The hotel is temporary. We’ll find you somewhere else to live.”
I didn’t mind the hotel. “I slept in a tent in a cemetery for five months. The hotel is fine.”