We got into my SUV and let Dmitri drive us back to the house. Neither of us spoke until we got inside.
“I’ll be back. Going to shower,” I said.
Cole grunted a reply, which I assumed meant he was going to shower too.
I went to my bathroom and turned on the water before stripping out of my clothes. I groaned beneath the warm spray, the water soothing my troubled soul.
Not wanting to stay in too long, I quickly washed, got out, and put on a pair of pajama bottoms, skipping the shirt.
I went downstairs and found Cole in the kitchen, wet-haired and eating cold pizza. He pushed the box at me, and I grabbed a few slices before we went to the living room and turned on the TV. We ate way too fucking much pizza.
Most of our nights were spent this way. E did a lot of work with sugar during the day while Riot played around on the piano or scribbled his funny little pictures in the book we’d picked up for him. When Riot slept, E would take photos or play the piano before heading off to bed.
He sometimes joined us when his parents would take Riot on short vacations, and, to be honest, he was a scary guy these days when it came to handling things. Quiet violence. That was E.
Tonight, he wandered in and sank onto a couch cushion, his phone in his hand. I noticed that over the last few days, he had spent a lot of time on it and had been needed at Mayfair more for work on a research project.
Cole had been struggling with E talking to some girl named Emily. It had been a hot topic lately, but if E was happy, then so was I. The fact that he wanted a house, yard, and even a new girl meant he really was moving forward with his life. He didn’t seemto be pissed about the contract, which I thought he might punch me in the face over. Instead, he took it in stride and agreed without calling me out for being a shitty friend back then.
It hurt like a bitch, though, but I knew we’d entered a new era in our lives when I’d walked out the door on Rosalie. I accepted that. Now, she was married. Life had to move forward.
“How was your night?” I asked, looking over at him.
“It was good,” he said. “Laz went to sleep early, which means he will be hell tomorrow, but I needed a little break.”
I nodded. Sounded about right.
“How many dead tonight?” E continued.
“Two. Enzo put a bullet in both of them. The third one got away. Lucky prick, I’d say,” Cole said, biting into his pizza. “You still texting that bitch?”
E shook his head as a report came on. “Man, stop.”
“CHAT has some juicy new gossip for you tonight!” The host said, her too-white teeth the forefront of her damn face. “Footage was captured last night of pop queen Bishop having a wild night with none other than Riley Parker from Fatal Promise! Is there trouble in paradise?”
We watched as a video of Rosalie sitting with this rocker guy we’d seen before came on the screen. Rosalie laughed as they sat close to one another. The guy was good-looking. The sort I was sure had screaming fans all over the damn place. Why the fuck did he need Rosalie? I was still seething over him kissing her on stage.
I schooled the thought, my chest tight.
“Bishop was recently wed to her manager, Anson Beyers, but CHAT has the exclusive video of Anson crashing the cozy pair.”
An image I’d seen way too many times of Rosalie and Anson kissing showed up, her wedding ring on as she cradled his face, before another video flashed on the screen. This one was toughto see, but it looked like Anson led her away from Riley, his hand gripping her bicep tightly as he dragged her through the crowd.
“CHAT also has information about the stalker Bishop has. The police have been searching for him after he attempted to set her tour bus on fire tonight. Rumor has it, he left a severed head in her dressing room only weeks ago. Security has been tightened around the superstar, and it looks like her husband isn’t even letting her very closefriendsnear her.” The host put quotes around “friends”and winked. “CHAT is working on getting details, so stay tuned for all the juicy news!”
I turned off the TV, not wanting to see any more of it. It was bad enough she was on every fucking billboard from here to California, but she was also on TV. On the radio. Her face was on every damn magazine cover in every fucking store. I’d been to Paris and seen her on the side of a damn bus.
She was a ghost haunting me.
She was killing me with it.
I knew it wasn’t her fault, but fuck, it gutted me.
And the knowledge of her having a stalker was driving me insane. Every guy I sent out to find this prick came up empty-handed. No one had any idea who it was or what he wanted—he seemed just to be a crazed fan, which worried me even more. He or she was erratic, which made them even more dangerous. I didn’t like this shit, but there wasn’t fuck-all I could do about it but keep trying to find the fuck who was messing with her.
“I hate that motherfucker,” Cole snarled. “I knew this shit would happen. Did you see the way he was holding her? He was hurting her.”
“Relax,” I murmured, feeling the furthest thing from relaxed.
