Page 64 of Fame and Obsession

“No comment.” I push the microphone away. “Come on, Phoebe, ignore...remember?” I whisper, tugging on her waist.

“Our sources tell us that she’s Phoebe Ryan, a reporter for Vinyl magazine. Interestingly enough, that trail led us to a Phoebe Dalton, who was the subject of an unauthorized documentary for Predator Confidential.” Pursing her lips as if she’d just won the Nobel Peace Prize, she shoves the microphone toward Phoebe. “Do you have a comment?”

Her face turns to chalk. Whatever the hell that reporter just said has ripped her to shreds.

I want to strangle the bitch.

“I said we have no comment.” I pull Phoebe into a protective hold.

But the reporter is still out for blood. “Fine, what about the sources who say you’ve had a female stalker since the death of your bandmate, Billy Lamee?”

Where does this bitch get off pulling investigative reporting shit on the red carpet?

“Look, lady, I don’t know who the fuck you’ve been talking to, but—”

“Those are all the questions for now. Thank you, and have a good evening.” Helena curses under her breath while gathering everyone inside the venue. After pulling us into an alcove, she throws her hand over her face. “What. The. Hell, Julian?”

“You’re asking me?”

“Did you tell the press about the letters?” she hisses.

“Do I look like a fucking moron to you?” I growl back.

“This is not good, Julian...not good,”she frets, pacing the hallway. “That was Carly Waters with Access Live.”

“You think I don’t know that?”

“We’re starting press for the tour, the book, and God knows what else. If they drag Billy into this, the label isn’t going to like the image of you that comes out.”

“I know, Helena.”

She waves her arms. “You know. You know. You always know. But I get blindsided every time I turn around, Julian. You’re going to give me a goddamn stroke before I’m fifty.”

Blowing out a hard breath, I turn to look at Phoebe. She’s moved away from us, slouching against the wall as if it’s the only thing keeping her upright.

This isn’t good.

She needs me, so I need to get rid of Helena.

“Yes, you’re exactly right.” I indulge her with an affirmative nod.

“Don’t patronize me, Julian.”

“I’m not.” Holding Helena’s eye, I force her to look at me and then shift a glance toward Phoebe. “I’ll get to the bottom of it, but right now I need to get ready for the opening set.”

Her eyebrows knot, then rise as understanding floods her troubled face. Inhaling deeply, she turns to leave. “Yeah, you do that. Be at my office in the morning, at ten sharp. We’ve got an impending shit storm to wade through.”

With Helena gone, I approach Phoebe, her small body still shaking. Seeing her like this does something to me. Something foreign. I’m consumed with a primal need to get my hands on whoever is responsible for causing this.

“Phoebe?”

“What happened to Billy?”

I grit my teeth. “Can we please not do this here?”

I’m not in the fucking mood for an inquisition. My head is pounding, and I still have to play.

Carly Waters is the motherfucking antichrist.

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