Page 107 of Fame and Obsession

As two broken halves, we’re powerless, but maybe united we can put each other back together again.

If she’ll still have me.

* * *

Conflicting emotions don’t cause sweat to bead across my forehead as much as nerves. Before I can change my mind, I grab my keys off the kitchen counter and head toward the door.

What if she refuses to accept my apology?

It’s irony at its finest. I finally consider letting go of the guilt I’ve shouldered, and it might all be for nothing. If Phoebe turns me away, I might as well be back in the hole I’ve lived in for the past year.

She gave me light, and I willingly turned my back on it.

I can’t think about that now. It’s time for action, not regret. I’ll tell her everything. I’ll stand behind that goddamn article, no matter what Helena says. If Phoebe wants to fight my stalker out in the open, we’ll fucking fight.

I’ll fight for her.

I’m in love with Phoebe Ryan.

The silent admission breaks my stride.

I have to make a gesture big enough for her to believe in me again. She made a public stand by willingly obliterating her privacy in an international article.

Why am I just now seeing that?

Declaring my feelings isn’t equal to her sacrifice, but maybe facing my fears will prove how much I believe in her—and in us.

I wrench the door open, the words I want to say repeating over and over in my head. I’m so focused on my speech that I don’t see the tall, lean, well-dressed man in a pressed, dark blue suit until I collide right into him.

“Julian Bale?”

I narrow my eyes. “Who wants to know?”

He steps to the side, and I’m confronted by deep-set frown lines framed by a hardened jawline and a head of cropped dark hair. He regards me curiously, and I, in turn, stare suspiciously.

No one just shows up at my house.

The hairs stand up on the back of my neck as my stalker crosses my mind. Could that bitch have sent a hit man to do the job?

“May we come inside and talk for a moment?” he asks, pointing toward the living room.

“I’d rather stay here, if it’s all the same to you,” I say, standing my ground. If I’m about to die, I’m doing it on my own terms.

“Actually,” he states, slipping beside me and glancing around my house. “It isn’t the same to us. And thanks for the invitation.”

“I didn’t… Wait, did you say us?”

What the hell was this?

He gestures to the two uniform-clad men following him inside. “Mr. Bale, these are Officers Grimes and Paloma from the New Jersey State Police.” Making himself at home, he offers himself a seat on my couch, then nods to the seat beside him. “I’m Detective Jaxon Hough with the New York Police Department. Please, have a seat, Mr. Bale.”

Unease sets in as I stare at the three men one by one. Something doesn’t feel right. My gut is telling me something bad is about to happen.

Slowly, I sink onto the cushion beside him. “What’s this about, Detective?”

“Call me Jaxon,” he says with a curt nod.

Right. “Detective, I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but would you mind telling me why the NJSP and a New York detective are in my house? Isn’t that a contradiction of jurisdiction?”

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