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He looked at me as if I’d grown two heads. “To fucking jam, man.”
I followed him out into the late-afternoon sunshine and felt the chill of it on my face. New York City in the winter was something else. The snow seemed to hide the grunge and crap the dog days of summer never could. We trudged along the sidewalk, snow crunching beneath our feet, and I felt something I hadn’t felt in a long time.
Excitement.
Anticipation.
The thrill of the chase.
I just hoped I could catch the woman I was chasing. And that when I did, we didn’t kill each other.
13
Echo
I was running late. Not the usual thirty minutes or so, but a full sixty. My phone was blowing up, and I actually considered leaving the stupid thing behind. I stared at it for all of two seconds before tossing it into the cute bag my stylist had picked out for me—a glittery black sequined dog. Gucci had never looked so good.
Like I said, cute.
Alan, the makeup god in charge of my glam squad, gave me one last critical once-over before nodding his head and packing up his stuff.
“You look sensational,” he said, his thick Bronx accent caressing the words in a way that made me smile.
“I don’t feel it,” I murmured, eyes on the mirror in front of me.
Alan was right. I looked red-carpet ready. High-waisted wide-leg trousers in a deep crimson paired with a black sleeveless cashmere turtleneck. A silver belt cinched the pants perfectly, and matching shoes peeked from beneath the bottoms. My hair was left in long, loose waves, while my makeup was dramatic. Alan had contoured the hell out of my face, and my eyes popped with grays and burgundy. And my pout was on point, with the deepest red lipstick we could find. I’d kept my jewelry to a minimum. Simple large hoops in the ears and the classic silver bracelet my dad had given me when I’d turned eighteen.
“You ready?” Lyric was still with me. Thank God. These past few days had been awful, and she’d been the sanity that kept me from falling over the edge. I didn’t want to think ahead to Monday when she’d be heading back to Boston.
So I didn’t.
I pasted a smile on my face like the trouper I am and nodded. “Yeah. Sorry I’ve been acting like such a diva.”
I turned away from the mirror, and my mouth fell open. Like literally open. It wasn’t so much the makeup—my sister was beautiful without. But her hair was long and shiny and slid across bare shoulders. Shoulders that were set off to perfection by the deep-plum strapless dress that clung to her curves like a boss. The hemline was a few inches above her knee, and the kick-ass black pumps she wore added at least four inches to her already five foot ten. She looked fierce and beautiful and—her bottom lip trembled a bit—scared out of her ever-lovin’ mind.
“Sweetie, you look incredible.”
I was suddenly ashamed of my behavior. This wasn’t Lyric’s thing. She didn’t like the limelight or the photographers or the attention. She’d stayed in New York for me. She was going to this gala for me.
“Doesn’t she?” Alan crossed the room and gave my sister a big hug. “She let us work on her while you were deciding whether or not you had enough balls to go to the gala.”
“Hey,” I said with a frown. “I found my balls.”
“I don’t think you found them.” Alan snickered dramatically. “I think you borrowed them from your sister.”
“You’re probably right.” I walked over and reached up to give my sister a kiss. “Are you sure you want to do this? I can go on my own if you feel uncomfortable or like I forced you or something.”
“Are you kidding? It took three people to get me into this dress. I’m going.” She scooped up her bag and pointed to the door just as my security guy, Enzo, poked his head inside.
We followed him down the private elevator and kept our heads down as we walked outside. There were lots of photographers and fans shouting at us, but I ignored all of them and ducked inside our waiting SUV. The windows were darkened, and I relaxed when the door closed behind us. My publicist, Joan, an older woman with severe frown lines, was on her phone and gave a half wave by way of acknowledgment. She was good at her job, but her personality sucked. Thank God my assistant, Ali, was along for this, because as much as I needed Joan, I couldn’t handle her one-on-one.
“Is it always this insane?” Lyric asked, eyes glued to the throng of people on the other side of the glass.
I nodded. “Always.”
We rolled up to the venue, an old theater that had recently been renovated into a club. Not far from Times Square, the sky was lit like a Christmas tree and the streets were lined with thousands of fans and paparazzi. There were a lot of celebrities on the guest list. I knew because I’d snuck a look when my publicist had come by a few days earlier. I’d been curious to see if Harmony’s name was on it—it wasn’t. Though Aiden’s was.
The snake had been texting nonstop since I got back to the city, and I’d had to block him. I hoped he was mature enough to leave things alone, and I was glad I had Lyric with me. When in doubt, use a human shield.
