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God. He would probably be so disappointed in me.
Selling out. Adopting this bubble gum image. Singing manufactured pop instead of my own songs. I’m a fraud. And Murph is the most authentic person in the world. He tells it exactly like it is. He’s been through war and pain and he’s still standing. I’m afraid to know what he would think if he could see the pampered pop princess I’ve become.
Taryn hangs up the call and claps twice. “You’re already trending.” She fluffs her cap of red hair and winks at me over her shoulder. “Well worth the price of a skinned knee, I say. You do have that Esquire shoot tomorrow, but it’s nothing a little Photoshop can’t fix.”
I look down at the bloody cut and flop back against the seat, reminding myself not to be a complainer. “Right.”
Half an hour later we pull through the security gate surrounding my house and stop in the circular driveway. At least I have this sanctuary. This is my safe place and no one can touch me here—
My heart crams up into my throat when I see the dummy hanging over my front door with a red slash in its throat.
The dummy looks exactly like me.
Above the door, written in red paint, are the words, “You love me or you DIE.”
A scream builds in my throat, heat stinging the back of my eyelids. Fear is like a tidal wave rolling through my stomach. I shrink down into the seat, ice building along every inch of my skin—and I don’t think.
I don’t even question my instinct to call Murph.
It’s my only option. I crave his protective presence more than my next breath.
He answers on the first ring, his voice like a balm in my ear. “Angelica,” he says in that low, low rasp. “What’s up, kid?”
I ignore Taryn asking me from the front seat who I’m calling.
“I’m in danger,” I whisper into the receiver. “I need you. Now.”
3
Murph
It has been an hour since Angelica’s phone call and I’m still fucking shaking, my hands ice cold on the wheel of my truck.
Danger.
I’m in danger.
Her terrified whimper replays in my head, over and over again, insanity threatening to take hold as I break the speed limit up the winding roads of the Hollywood Hills to get to her. It’s been a year. An entire damn year of misery since the last time I saw her, face to face. At least that she knows about. I’ve been to the concerts, watching her from the shadowed edges of so many arenas, I’ve lost count. Lost track of how many times I’ve stroked myself off inside the folds of a trench coat while she shakes her little ass on stage to the screams of thousands.
The rest of the time, I haven’t been far. At all.
God knows I’ve tried.
I’ve told myself to keep as far away from her as possible, accepting jobs all over the country. I always come back to Los Angeles, though. I always come back to where she is, our proximity soothing the suffering beast inside of me.
Somewhat.
Now that I’ve touched her, felt her beneath me, there is nothing that will fully soothe me but to be inside of her. That will never happen, however. Ever. So I’ve resigned myself to a lifetime of being deprived of her sweetness.
Protecting her is what I allow myself.
When I find out who is putting her in danger, I’m going to burn them alive.
No one puts Angelica Price in harm’s way. No one.
How the hell did this happen?
I breathe down the necks of every member of her security team. I’ve looked into their backgrounds and paid them to keep me informed. They aren’t as qualified as me, but no one is. I demand assurances about her safety several times throughout the day, every day. So I can only assume this danger is a new development. One thing is for goddamn sure, I’m not leaving her side until the issue is resolved and she’s safe again. And that includes from me.
I take the hairpin turn into her driveway, screeching to a halt outside of her security gate, punching in the code I’ve had memorized since she bought the place. The gates swing open and I whip my truck around the half-circle driveway, throw the vehicle into park and get out.
When I see the dummy and the words written over the door, my blood turns frigid. It thaws out just as fast, though, the temperature rising to volcanic levels. I’m up the steps and pounding on the front door before I’ve taken a breath, my hands braced on the jamb.
The manager, Taryn, answers the door. She’s new on the scene, only recently taking over from Angelica’s last manager. No criminal history—of course, I checked. Three times. She recoils slightly at my appearance. Normally I might feel a wave of shame over that reaction. Right now, though, I don’t give a shit about anything but getting to Angelica.
