“What happened?”
Tessa ducked her head. She avoided Dr. Regan’s gaze, fiddling with the frayed hem of her bedspread. “It started with a story I’ve been writing. About Eric. I posted one online last weekend.” Tessa watched a row of stitching come undone as she pulled at a loose thread. “I called it ‘Obsessed.’ It was supposed to be a little joke at my own expense, you know?”
“And what happened?”
“I started this hashtag, #EricThornObsessed. Do you know what a hashtag is?”
“I’m familiar with the concept.” Dr. Regan’s tone remained perfectly deadpan but her eyes lit with amusement, and Tessa bit her lip. She generally assumed that anyone Dr. Regan’s age didn’t even know how to download an app, but she must have misjudged her therapist. Tessa’s mouth curved into a shy smile as she continued.
“I was trying to get other fans to read it. So I made all these tweets with sexy pictures of him and the link to my story. And it just…blew up somehow. It happened so fast. First one of the bigger Eric Thorn fan accounts retweeted me. And then @Relatable retweeted. And then @Flirtationship retweeted. And then… I forget after that. I think it was @GirlPosts? Or maybe @SoDamnTrue? One of those big accounts that everyone follows. And then it was everywhere after that. I think it hit number one on Wednesday? Maybe Thursday? Look.” Tessa swiped across the screen of her phone and held it out to Dr. Regan again. “See? These are all the hashtags trending worldwide.”
And there, still hovering third on the list, were the words Tessa had first typed into her phone six days ago, now amplified by more voices than she even dared to fathom:
#EricThornObsessed
21.8 million tweets
2
#ERICTHORNOBSESSED
Eric opened Twitter and pulled up the list of trending topics.
#EricThornObsessed
21.8 million tweets
“Shit,” he swore softly, chucking his phone down on the bed beside him. Still third on the list. The damn thing refused to die. Couldn’t all those stalker-iffic parasites find anything better to obsess about?
At least he wasn’t first anymore.
He slumped back against the velvet-upholstered headboard of the hotel bed. A lock of his shaggy, dark-brown hair fell over his eyes, and he raked it away in annoyance, grimacing at the crunchy texture of leftover hair gel. He should have showered before turning in last night. He’d put in another sixteen-hour day of interviews yesterday, and he’d been too tired to do much more than kick off his clothes and pass out on top of the covers by the time he made it back to his hotel room.
No point showering now anyway. His morning workout regimen began in twenty minutes, and his trainer would give him hell if he showed up late. Then again, his hairstylist would give him hell if he showed up in the makeup chair afterward with a tangle of sweaty, hair-gel-caked disgustingness. Maybe he should hop in the shower just for a sec…
A faint creak sounded from the other side of the bedroom door, and Eric paused, his spine stiffening. Someone was in his suite. Maid service? No. They knew better. Did he forget to turn the deadbolt before he passed out last night? But then it could only be—
He shrank back against the pillows as the bedroom doorknob turned.
“Who’s there?” His lips formed the shape of the words, but there wasn’t enough air in his lungs to make a sound. He grabbed a bedsheet to cover himself—undressed except for yesterday’s pair of boxer briefs—while his eyes made a quick scan of the room. Anything he could use as a weapon? Bedside lamp? No. Just wall sconces in here. No ashtrays either. Shit! Maybe that ceramic vase over there—
“Hey, kid, you decent?”
Eric squeezed his eyes shut at the sound of the familiar voice. He relaxed his death grip on the bedsheet as his manager, Maury, sauntered into the room.
“Dude!” Eric exclaimed, his heart fluttering like a caught bird inside his chest. “You don’t even knock anymore?”
“Sorry, kid. Were you sleeping?” Maury looked like he’d been up for hours. Eric couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen his manager dressed in anything other than polished wingtip shoes and designer-label suits. The man deserved a GQ fashion spread—probably could’ve landed one for himself, if he hadn’t been so short and fat and bald.
“No, I wasn’t sleeping,” Eric said. “That’s not the point. This is my bedroom!”
Maury roved his eyes appreciatively around the well-appointed room. “Technically, this is a hotel suite paid for by your record label,” he said, brushing a hand against the duvet cover. “What is this, Egyptian cotton? Probably eight hundred thread count. Did you sleep cozy?” His manager didn’t bother to mention the room rate, and Eric knew better than to ask.
“So we’re not even going to pretend I have privacy anymore?”
Maury poked a toe at the pile of dirty clothes that lay discarded on the hand-loomed carpeting. “Maybe hang a sock on the door if you’re gonna have a girl in here,” he said, his eyes twinkling with mischief. Eric made no response. He punched his fist into one of the overstuffed pillows.
“Oh, come on, kid. Lighten up. It’s a joke!”
“You’re hilarious, Maury.”
“Relax! I’ll knock next time. I promise.”
“Thank you. Can I get dressed now?” Eric clasped the bedsheet tighter around his shoulders, but his manager didn’t take the hint. “What?” Eric asked. “Is there something you needed?”
Maury reached for Eric’s cell phone. “Yeah, I just got off the horn with social media. The #EricThornObsessed trend fell to number three overnight, so they want you to give it a little shot in the arm—”
“No!” Eric swatted the phone out of reach before his manager could get his paws on it.
“They just want you to do a little follow spree,” Maury said. “Follow a few fan accounts. You know the drill.”
Eric thought he might throw up. Seriously? Did those words seriously just come out of Maury’s mouth? Didn’t anyone at his record label watch the news?
Eric buried his head in his hands. He knew he must sound like a broken record, the way he brought up the murder case on a daily basis, but he couldn’t put the ugly story out of his mind. His manager’s words had summoned up all the sordid details once again. A follow spree… Eric let out a low moan.
Maury cast his eyes upward. “Oh, for the love of God,” he said. “Let me guess. Dorian Cromwell?”
“Maury, don’t you get it? That’s exactly what happened to him! He did a follow spree!”
“Kid, I understand you’re freaked out, but—”