I get that Skye’s team knows about us. I just wish I could be one of those floopy women who gush about it all over social media. Too bad I don’t really use social media.
I exhale slowly and run a hand through my hair.
Last night plays through my head again, and I can’t stop the feeling.
The concert. The crowd and the moment I locked eyes with Skye.
That look. There was no confusion in it. No curiosity.
Just cold and quiet understanding.
Skye knows, and I almost feel better now that my secret is out. I wanted to tell her, but couldn’t find a good time to do so. I know all the stories say that, but this time I mean it. She was going through some things, and I didn’t think I could slash into our few deep moments with my oh-by-the-way-I’m-famous speech.
Ugh.
Last night was too chaotic. I would have called her as soon as I got back to the hotel. It’s not like I could break character on stage. And the moment I stepped off the stage, everything went south. I grabbed my bag from my changing room and slipped through the service corridor like I always do after big shows. Only this time, the back entrance had been chaos.
Fans. So many of them. Not even Michel could hold them all off.
The crowd surged when security opened the door, people pushing forward to get a glimpse of Solace. What they didn’t know was that I had slipped out of my disguise and managed to join the stampede to get to my car.
Michel moved quickly when he saw how antsy the fans were getting toward the end of the show.
Somewhere in the middle of him getting Violet through Solace’s doors, my phone slipped out of my hand, hitting the pavement.
RIP.
The screen shattered instantly. I know, typical cliche, but it was bound to happen. I never put cases on my phones. It’s too hard to pick just one vibe, ya know?
I’m sure Skye tried to reach me, though she didn’t bother coming to my hotel room. She was probably busy with the real reason she’s here in Milan. Being a famous hockey player and all.
I pick up the new phone that’s been swapping data for the last ten minutes, and follow the prompts to turn it on, keying in my new passcode: zero-two-zero-four. The day I met Skye.
Once the phone registers that I’ve brought it to life like the next Frankenstein’s Monster, it starts to explode with notifications.
Messages, emails, missed calls. I stare at it, equal parts exhaustion and irritation.
“Jeez,” I groan, putting it down so my hand doesn’t go numb from the vibrations.
When it finally slows, I scroll.
The first thing that catches my eye is a message from Ollie.
Ollie: Have you put any real time into the new album yet?
She’s been awfully pushy lately, and every time I ask her about it, she flips on me. Super out of character for her, but it’s not like I can do anything about it. She’s my agent. She makes the calls.
Another two messages from Ollie.
Nope. Three.
Ollie: The label wants updates.
Ollie: We need to keep the momentum after that concert last night.
Ollie: Call me.
My mouth tightens at the push I’m getting from her. The pressure and the tone, it’s not new. But something’s definitely been off. Little things I’ve noticed. Too many questions and interest in details that shouldn’t matter.
