I jump off the mattress and stumble across the few feet separating us, diving for the phone he holds just out of my reach. His eyes flick from me to the phone for precious seconds while my heart melts down in my chest. I snatch it from his hand, the breath stuttering over my lips.
His frown, his eyes ask what’s wrong with me, but I can’t come up with anything. The panic swallows me up. I can’t think straight. I’m a mass of self-preservation and fear. I clutch the phone and stumble naked over to the work table, turning away from him. His eyes sear the bare skin of my back, burning questions there I can’t possibly answer.
I open the message, and my fears blossom into the worst reality. It’s two messages from my blackmailer. The first is a link to a Spotted post.
Are they or aren’t they?
The elusive Rhyson Gray and his ex-girlfriend, rising star Kai Pearson, have been mostly silent regarding the public spat that almost broke the internet a few months ago. Our sources suspect the romance may have quietly rekindled. Gray was spotted in Berlin with DJ Kaos just weeks ago, coincidentally (?) on the same night Pearson’s tour passed through. And when Pearson collapsed last week during a performance, he rushed to her side at Cedars Sanai. Since her collapse, Pearson is nowhere to be found, and our sources confirm Gray hasn’t been in LA since Pearson was released from the hospital a few days ago.
And then this picture really got us thinking.
It’s a shot of Rhyson and me leaving the hospital. It was through the underground parking lot, what we were told was a private exit. Even still, we’d taken the precaution of pulling our hoods up. Just one tall hooded figure and a petite girl, barely clearing his shoulder approaching a black SUV, hand in hand.
What do YOU think Spotters?
The second text message is direct and cutting.
Unknown: I know he came to the hospital. If I find out these rumors are true, the tape goes live. How would your rock star ex-boyfriend feel seeing you doggy style with the man he hates? Think about that before you start “rekindling.”
How could I have forgotten this feeling of helpless dread? I allowed the hectic pace of the tour, the drama of my collapse, and this idyllic time with Rhyson to lull me into denial. To forget that a madman is out to destroy the thing I hold most dear. Rhyson held that vile thing right in his grasp. My hands tremble at the thought of him opening that message and asking all the questions that would come with it. Even now his curiosity reaches me across the shed. He may as well be standing right over my shoulder his attention is so focused on me.
“Pep?” He asks from the mattress, back propped against the wall. “Everything okay?”
No. Actually I’m being blackmailed by some monster who, for whatever reason, doesn’t want us together.
“I . . . it’s fine.”
“Who is it?”
“Um . . . San.” I bite my lip as soon as the lie crosses it. “It’s San.”
“Hmmm.” He sounds distracted, so I glance over my shoulder to see him studying his own phone. “He sent you the story?”
“The story?”
“Bristol just sent me a link to some Spotted post about us.” He glances up, wearing a small frown. “Why’s San’s number unknown?”
“Huh?” That word oughta buy me a few seconds.
“You said it was San, but it was an unknown number.”
“Yeah.” I bend to slip on my panties and jeans, shoving the phone in my back pocket. “He’s . . . on assignment. Sometimes he uses . . . yeah.”
I look around the shed.
“Have you seen my bra?”
“I thought you wanted to stay here tonight?” He walks over, putting his hand over mine. “What’s going on with you? Is it the story? We were going public anyway now that the tour is over.”
“It’s not that.” I drop my forehead to his chest, at a loss. “I’m just so tired.”
Tired of hiding. Tired of lying. Tired of keeping this from him, but desperate for him to never know. God, so desperate.
“Tired, we can fix.” He bends, arms folding around my legs, under my knees, and lifting me up until I’m looking down on him, hands on his shoulders. He walks us over to the mattress, laying me down gently. He unsnaps my jeans again, sliding them down my legs. His eyes plumb mine, his hand pushing my hair back.
“Whatever’s waiting for us in LA isn’t here tonight.” He lies down behind me, pulling Aunt Ruthie’s quilt over us. “The whole world is out there. We’re in here.”
I wish I could tell him the outside world invaded our solace, that the ugliness of that sex tape sullied an almost spotless night. I’m so burdened. The truth rests on the tip of my tongue, a much-needed confession I can’t manage to make. He leans over to give me one last kiss before we succumb to sleep, and it’s that look he gives me that holds my tongue.
He loves me.
Do I make him feel this way when I look at him? Like I would die for him? Like I can’t believe my good fortune to have him? Like I’ll do anything to keep him as mine for always? Because his eyes tell me all those things.
And I’ll do whatever it takes to keep that.