Page 92 of Fame and Obsession

Her grip tightens on the magazine. “Beef? Oh no, this has gone way beyond beef, Julian.” She rolls her eyes toward the ceiling. “I knew when you made me do this that it was a bad idea. But, as usual, I let you talk me into going against my better judgment.”

“Helena, I don’t have time for bullshit.”

“You’re going to make time. Your world is about to blow the hell up.”

“It already has!”

“What?” Jerking the glasses off the top of her head, she throws them on her desk.

Digging my phone out of my pocket, I pull up the text and toss it next to her discarded glasses. “There’s my petty bullshit, boss. You want to tell me how bad your fucking day is now?”

Still gripping the magazine, she picks up my phone with her other hand and scans the text. After a few seconds, her eyes widen with understanding. “Jesus. How long have you been getting texts?”

“Since the gala,” I grumble.

She shoots off the desk like an irate cannonball. “What? Julian, that was over three weeks ago.”

“Your point?”

“Boy, do you have a death wish you’d care to share with me? I’m not understanding why you felt the need to keep this quiet.” She runs her hand through her hair as she paces. “Celebrity stalking is a crime. It’s punishable by law in New York and New Jersey. With some footwork from the police, we can catch this person and put an end to this before she blows your head off!”

“I’m not worried about my head.”

Helena closes her eyes and sighs. “Julian, if this is about that girl again…”

“This bitch took a shot at her.” Gritting my teeth, I disclose what happened at the shooting range and with my car as Helena’s eyes widen. “Thank God she missed.”

“Jesus…”

I scroll back through the texts, showing her the first one from the gala all the way up until today. “Phoebe’s life has been turned upside down because of me. I’m not going to put it in jeopardy anymore because some chick has a delusional fantasy about me.”

She snorts, motioning to the magazine in her hand. “Your Phoebe did that all by herself. She didn’t need any help putting her life in jeopardy…or yours, for that matter.”

I stare at her and then lower my gaze. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t I?” she asks, throwing the rolled-up magazine in my lap. “Page forty-two. And spare me the protective crap about how she wasn’t aware of what she was doing.”

It’s the newest issue of Vinyl. Unease settles over me as I flip to page forty-two and read the headline. I have no idea if Helena’s still talking. I can’t hear anything over the pounding in my head.

Mother of fuck.

I’m staring at a full two-page spread—pictures of me splashed all over it from early band days to me and Phoebe at the gala.

Dirty Little Lyre

What happens when the hunter becomes the hunted?

by Phoebe Ryan, staff writer

For over twelve months, Julian Bale, frontman for rock group, Lords of Lyre, has kept a dirty little secret. Unlike most rock stars, whose secrets are found at the end of a needle or show up eighteen years later, Bale’s secret has a darker tone.

Ever since the death of friend and bandmate, Billy Lamee, a year ago, Bale has been stalked by a fan who has sent him disturbing and psychologically unbalanced letters. Bale hid his stalker from the world, his friends, and manager in hopes it would ensure their safety and remove the incentive for the stalker to react.

Having been in the trenches with Julian Bale as his biographer, I can attest to the fact that this stalker needs no incentive to react. She needs no incentive to do anything. Julian Bale promised himself he wouldn’t burden anyone with “fixing” his life again.

It’s a good thing this reporter never made such a promise. I, Phoebe Ryan, am calling this person out, in print. Stop hiding in the shadows like a coward. You’re a bully and a deranged sociopath in need of therapy.

Phoebe goes on for a two-page rant, calling out my stalker, basically daring her to retaliate. I sit in stunned silence. Reading the article feels like being slapped over and over by the hand of the girl I’ve fallen for.

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