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“You’re home,” he told her. “Can you make it up the steps?”
She yawned, blinking wearily at them both. “Yeah. I can do it. Thanks for getting me home. That wine wiped me out, I guess,” she said.
Blaze slid out to give her space. She unlatched her shoes and stepped out barefoot onto the pavement. Just before he climbed back into the backseat, his hand reached for her face. He softly patted her cheek, and she leaned into it, closing her eyes.
“Goodnight, Giselle,” he said.
She opened her eyes and looked between them both. “G’night,” she murmured. With that, she climbed the stairs, followed Asher’s instructions to the letter, and dropped into slumber.
Bzzz. Bzzz. Bzzz.
Giselle’s eyes fluttered open and she winced at the sunlight. She reached under her pillow to pull out her cell phone, which was buzzing with text messages—most of them picture messages. She rubbed her eyes and yawned as she sat up in bed. Her head pounded and she remembered the events of last night, albeit through a fog. But it all came rushing back in brighter, more vivid color when she opened the picture messages.
Her heart dropped. These were photos of Giselle, Blaze, and Asher, both inside and outside Isabetta last night. Surreptitious cell phone pictures of the trio sharing wine and laughing at their corner booth. A photo of Blaze pinning Giselle’s wrists over her head, taken from across the street. Pictures of all three climbing into the taxi. And around all the photos were lines of text. Giselle’s mind filled with dread as she realized these were photos from an article.
A tabloid.
She scanned the text, her heart sinking with each phrase.
“Spotted canoodling at romantic Italian restaurant.”
“S and M in the alleyway.”
“Torrid love affair.”
“One man not enough for rebellious diva Giselle Kingston, of band Tortured Hearts.”
“No, no, no, no, no,” Giselle muttered helplessly as the pictures rolled in.
She had screwed up—big time. She was so angry with herself. So ashamed. She allowed her own lust to get in the way of her career.
But never again.
With trembling fingers, she sent a text to Asher and Blaze.
Check the tabloids. We fucked up. Can’t happen again. We need to lie low for a few days. I’ll see you on Friday for the recording session. No need to respond.
