Page 90 of Fame and Obsession

“Oh yes, you will. Do you want to know why?” He leans in close.

“Not particularly. But I’m sure you’ll tell me anyway.”

“It’s simple—you scammed me, and now you have to pay up. You said whatever I want... Remember?” He doesn’t even try to mask his smugness.

“You’re not playing fair,” I groan, slumping against the car.

“Cheaters never win, princess. Besides, you hosed me.”

“Says who?”

“Says you. Now, are you going to be a sore loser, or are you going to let me take you to dinner?”

I watch him carefully, his breathing pattern picking up an erratic pace as I step closer. “You want to take me to dinner?”

“Well, you do eat dinner, don’t you? Isn’t that what people do at this time of evening?” Hooking a finger under my chin, he tilts my chin up to meet his fiery gaze.

Just the thought of food makes me want to hit myself over the head with one of those clay pigeons. “Won’t people stare?”

“Princess, it comes with the territory. You have to learn to block it out, or it’ll drive you insane.” He watches for a reaction. When I don’t give him one, he sighs. “Phoebe, people rarely let me have a moment to myself. If it’s not autographs, I constantly have cell phones shoved in my face for selfies. But I’d be shitting all over every other struggling artist’s dreams by being a dick about it.”

My eyes lower to his feet, slowly making an exaggerated perusal up his body. “Commendable, but I was actually referring to the fact that you look like you’re headed to a hunting fashion show, and I look like—how did you put it? Oh yes, a nearsighted stripper.” I gesture at our attire. “Do you really want this ensemble immortalized on CBB?”

He’s poised for rebuttal when his cell phone beeps. Grinding his teeth, he slides it out of his pocket and stares down at it. Within seconds his jaw tightens, and he’s frantically scanning the parking lot as if looking for someone.

“Point taken, Miss Ryan,” he mutters.

“That’s it? No retort?”

“Not my style.”

“Bullshit.” I argue, folding my arms across my chest.

Darting his eyes across the asphalt, he grabs my arm. “New plan. Get in the car, Phoebe.”

I jerk my arm away. “No! What just happened to you?”

Now almost in a panic, he clamps his hands around my shoulders, moving me himself as he reaches for the door. “I said get in.”

What the hell?

“And I said no! You’re starting to freak me out, Julian.” That’s when it hits me. “The range is closed, isn’t it?”

Julian and I know next to nothing about each other. When we’re together, lust always wins out over conversation. I give in to that cocky grin of his more times than I should.

But I’ll be damned if I’ll let him push me around if we’re in danger.

“I’ll explain later. I promise,” he says, softening his tone. “Just please, get in the car.”

“Fine.” Ignoring my gut once again, I turn to reach for the door handle. Like the domineering fuck he is, Julian pulls it from my grasp and opens it himself before motioning me inside. Muttering to myself, I sink with a thud into the bucket seat.

The events of the last week have drained my emotions, leaving me with fresh paranoia and a tangle of snapped nerves.

Luckily, there’s one thinly-stretched still intact.

And it has every intention on finding out what the hell was in that text.

Twenty-Five

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