Page 122 of Fame and Obsession

My eyes lower to the plain brown box she’s holding tightly against her chest. “What’s not possible? What’s wrong?”

Reaching into the box, she pulls out two small square pieces of paper and hugs them to her chest. “It’s the only one I had. I had it inside of my desk at Vinyl. How…?” Her eyes brim with tears.

It’s like a damn vise clamps around my chest. Unease. Impending disaster. A brewing storm. Whatever you want to call it, it darkens the room. It hangs heavy, rumbling with thunder, just waiting for the lightning to strike.

Crossing the room, I place a protective hand on her arm while the other gently pulls the papers out of her death grip. When I recognize what I’m holding—and what’s been done to them—my rage erupts.

“Fucking bitch!” I roar, hitting the wall.

The first picture is a camera phone printout of Phoebe and me in front of the deli the day I declared my feelings for her in front of the paparazzi. Phoebe’s face has almost completely been scratched off with something sharp.

The other picture is grainy, but I’ve watched enough TV to know what it is—an early ultrasound picture of the baby. Someone has drawn crosshairs over the top in black marker, ruining it.

The symbolism gut punches me. One look at Phoebe and I know my fears aren’t unfounded. Tears stream down her cheeks as she cradles her stomach.

The bitch aimed a gun at my child.

Thirty-Two

Phoebe

He pauses after opening the door, then follows behind me, one hand protectively placed on the small of my back. The minute we walk outside, the whispers start.

“Oh, my God, it’s Julian Bale!”

“Who the hell is that?”

“That’s the reporter bitch.”

Things are tense enough, but the looks and whispers are slowly pushing me to the edge of crazy.

Julian raises his hand to hail a taxi when a woman barrels toward us, her arm waving wildly over her head. Leaving her friends behind, she takes off in a sprint, her pace quickening as Julian curses under his breath.

I try to get a cabbie—any cabbie—to stop as blur after blur of yellow cars rush past us. I count them as they fly by: four…six…nine…fifteen.

I close my eyes, willing her to go away.

“Julian, I’m such a huge fan! Can I have your autograph?” A piece of paper and a Sharpie materialize out of nowhere, and she shoves both in his face.

Heat rises from my neckline. As if sensing I’m about to snap, Julian stiffens, sandwiching his body between us. The gesture does nothing to quell my irrational jealousy. Grinning that cocky smile, he takes the paper, signs it, and hands it back to her.

Tears well up in her eyes. “Thank you! I love you, Julian.”

Where the hell is a damn taxi when you need one?

I search the streets, then redirect my attention back to Julian. I expected the groupie to be gone. She’s not.

She’s still standing there—grinning that stupid, googly-eyed grin they all get.

Walk away...

Julian leans down to whisper into my ear when she says it.

“Julian, um, can I have a hug?”

And just like that, she rips the top off Pandora’s Box.

Julian lightly kisses the outer shell of my ear. “Calm down, princess. I’ve got this.”

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