Page 18 of Toxic Kiss

He walks onstage like he owns the air that everyone breathes. Same cocky smirk, same swagger, his sunglasses low, the whole I’d-rather-be-anywhere-else thing dialed to eleven. He looks sexier than I remember, a human train wreck if ever there was one. And God help me, my pulse spikes.

I pluck another shrimp from the container beside me as Jack Malone tosses the group softball questions. Then the interviewer brings up Patrick, and Cyrus’s smile hardens. The edge in his voice slices even me. For a second, I almost pity him. Almost.

And then Malone says my name.

I cinch the robe tighter, as if fabric can hold me together. Cyrus doesn’t hesitate.

“She’s not here to save me, Jack. Don’t let the sweet, doe-eyed act fool you. Haven Gaillard is a Grade-A bitch. A leech in lip gloss. She plays innocent well, but she’s poison. She wraps herself in morality while stabbing you in the back with a smile. Haven Gaillard isn’t some industry fixer, she’s poison. She’s the kind of person who watches you drown just to write a blog post about it. If this is supposed to be our redemption, I’ll take damnation. I bet she won’t even last a month.”

My fork drops from my hand.

“Oh no, he did not.”

Bursting to my feet, I pace the room with my robe flaring like a cape.

“What the hell, Cyrus? What did I do? EXIST!”

I jab my finger at the screen.

“You’re calling me poison? You bullied me every chance you got. You mocked my clothes, my voice, my lack of friends, my entire existence, like it was a sport. And now you want to play the victim? Screw you.”

Memories flood my mind of the night I dragged him out of that club, drunk, high, drowning in grief. He cursed me the whole way home. I lied to Dad for him. Protected him. I was there for him when he needed someone. Hell, I gave him my virginity, and he repays me by spitting lies on national television.

The host stammers, tries to make a joke, and moves on, but tension hangs like smoke even through the screen. Jack tells everyone that the group is going to sing, and I stomp my foot as they get up from the couch, like Cyrus hasn’t just thrown me under the bus.

Cyrus picks up his guitar, sings half a chorus, then walks off. He leaves the band, the cameras, and chaos in his wake. They all look at one another with genuine shock. This is not a pre-planned publicity stunt.

“No way,” I whisper. Then louder, “Are you serious?”

He acts like he’s immune to consequence, like the world is a toy he’s broken for fun. I feel something solid in my chest snap open. Anger rises not just at him, but at the humiliation of our names tangled together in headlines.

I snatch my phone off the bed and hammer out an angry text to my father.

Haven: You don’t need a social media rep, you need a miracle.

Dad: I know, you’re my miracle. Good luck, honey.

Grabbing a pillow I scream into it. “Ahhhhh!”

I collapse onto the bed, fury a live wire under my skin.

I don’t cry. I don’t scream. I do what I always do…I sharpen my planning skills.

Sitting up, I grab my notebook and open it to a clean page. At the top, I start to write.

DAMAGE CONTROL PLAN: OPERATION WRECKED ROCKSTAR.

Underneath, in ink pressed so hard it grooves the paper, I write.

CYRUS VALE IS GOING TO LEARN.

Needing a moment of calm before I start this mess, I call Charles. Voicemail. My voice is too soft when I leave a message, too hopeful. I hate that he doesn’t pick up. Hate that I still want the comfort of someone else’s steady heartbeat when mine is chaotic.

God, I feel stupid, even after all this time. I’m still that girl he tortured. Still hoping too loudly.

No, not anymore.

I underline the words three times and close the notebook.