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Chapter Four
Cheyanne
This morning is different, because when I woke up, Adrian was gone. It’s been days since I got here and, in that time, Adrian hasn’t been out of my sight for longer than a few hours. When he’s gone, he leaves either Jagger or Saint in charge. I was unsure about trusting them, but Adrian does and from what I’ve seen and heard, they seem competent. I sit up in bed, my spine ramrod straight. Panic sets in. I’m scared at first, fearing all the ways a stalking situation could turn into something inconceivably more horrifying. My hell made real. And who’s caught in the middle of my downfall to fame? Adrian. And I can’t bear it.
I tell myself I’m being paranoid and unreasonable. It’s enough to get me out of bed, showered and dressed.
I walk out of my room, down the hallway, and into the living room where I find Jagger and Saint lounging on the couch, watching TV.
As I step into the room, their heads swivel in unison. Their eyes lock onto mine. Lines crease their brows and identical furrows form between them. The weight of their gaze drills into me, making me feel exposed. They both lean forward slightly, as if anticipating my next move.
“Hey,” Jagger says, sitting up and patting the seat next to him. “You okay?”
I take a deep breath as I walk over to the sofa, nodding, not trusting my voice.
“You okay, Chy?” Saint asks, his voice low.
I nod again, and Jagger pats my hand gently.
“He left a note. He’ll be back soon.”
I take another deep breath, calming myself down. It’s difficult, though. Realizing it’s only taken a few days for Adrian to become my safety net. Without him, I feel exposed.
“What does the note say?” I ask.
Jagger hands me a folded piece of paper, and I open it carefully.
Taking some time. Be back soon.
A
I fold the note and hand it back to him.
“Thanks,” I say.
Jagger gives Saint a sidelong glance, his forehead wrinkled as he purses his lips together. Saint’s eyebrows draw close together, an unspoken understanding between them. He clamps down on the inside of his cheek to stop himself from speaking. There’s something hidden below the surface they’re not telling me. But I choose not to press them. My anxiety is already high enough without agitating it further.
“Can we do anything for you, Chy?” Saint asks, his voice gentle.
