Page 130 of Knot Their Starlet

“But I can’t cry now,” I snap, my chin wavering. “Because that would fuck with my makeup and then my disgusting face would be plastered all over the internet tomorrow.”

“Stop saying stupid ass shit like that,” Eli snaps, shoving a cold glass of ice water into my hand.

“Do you have to be such an asshole all the time?” I bite back, narrowing my eyes on him.

“Pot meet fucking kettle, except you’re an asshole to yourself,” he snaps. “And I’ve never said the kinda nasty shit you say about yourself.”

I take a big gulp of water to try to cool the fire bubbling in my chest.

“Hey there, slow down. Wouldn’t want you to get sick,” Beck says, continuing with his soothing touches. “And hey, look at that! You don’t look like you’re about to cry anymore.”

He’s right.

I narrow my gaze on Eli while I bite down on some ice.

I’m trying to go for menacing, but I don’t think he’s picking up that vibe, considering the smug expression on his face.

“You’re welcome,” he drawls. “Makeup saved.”

I roll my eyes so hard it feels like the room is moving with me.

“Shut up,” I mumble, before taking another sip of the ice-cold water.

“Leo’s got the car pulled out front,” Eli says, glancing down at his phone. “Ready to go, Princess?”

“Shut up,” I repeat, setting the glass down and scooting my butt out of the booth.

Beck’s hands remain at my waist as I find my balance.

“Not very polite, are you?” Eli teases.

I flash him the finger before lacing my hand with Beck’s and heading for the stairs.

The three of us stop before the doors outside.

“Okay, it’s just a few steps to the car. Do you think you can make it without falling?” Beck asks, his brows drawn down in concern.

“Yeah,” I nod, pressing the backs of my hands into my burning cheeks. “Do I look drunk?”

“I mean, you look a little tipsy, but I think it’s cute.”

“Let’s hope the court of public opinion agrees with you.” I nod. “I’m ready.”

Eli pushes the door open in front of us. The chill of the night after the heat of the club smacks me in the face. The second Beck and I step out, we’re assaulted with a barrage of flashes that have me stopping in my tracks.

“There they are! Beckham, Andromeda, over here!”

“Leaving early? Where are you headed next!”

“Can you comment on Ezra Fletcher’s rehab stay?”

I can’t handle this.

I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.

I’m going to have a mental breakdown on this sidewalk, and it’s going to be documented by a dozen professional cameras all aimed right at me.

God, I regret drinking as much as I did. Everything is too bright. Too loud.