Page 29 of Declan

Someone is speaking.

I’ve been going in and out of sleep for a while, the low mutterings becoming a soft vibration beneath my ear, and I press my face into the warm, firm, delicious-smelling pillow that I know is Declan.

I attempt to settle again, but then I hear those same whispers, and I hold my breath in an attempt to make out what he’s saying. Declan is known for his raw, almost reckless ability, and I don’t recall a time when he’s ever sung a ballad. Other than the time with me on the Kylie show, he hasn’t really ventured too far into acoustic music. Even at my concert, where he took a song of mine that was supposed to be sassy and fun about shitty people, he redid it into a two-middle finger scream fest.

Which, of course, is much more suitable than the original arrangement, but that’s what happens when you’re young, selling music through a corporation.

He says something that sounds an awful lot like love equating to murder, and I laugh softly, and his arm immediately tightens around me as I say, “If you’re trying your hand at a love song, you may want to rethink your wording.”

He chuckles softly, and I like the sound and feel of the rumbles beneath my ear. “Are you saying I’m ruining a love song?”

I shrug then reply, “You were giving off love-song vibes until you started talking about murder. Or was that suicide?”

“Well, we all know that any overwhelmingly powerful emotion can lead to either one.”

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean you should write a song about it.”

“Maybe someone needs to write a song about it.”

I smile at his flippant non-explanation, then move to sit up, but his arm once again tightens, keeping me in place. I push at him, and he squeezes me in tighter, so I do the only thing I can think of. I bite him. Hard.

I sink my teeth into that meaty part in the front of his shoulder, and when he makes no sound, I bite down even harder, a growl escaping as I give my head a little shake. He flinches with a curse and his arm lifts. I scurry off the sofa and then stand there facing him, smiling.

He glowers at me. “Why’d you go and do that?”

My smile widens, my pride obvious as I beam. “It worked, didn’t it?”

He gives me an assessing look and then replies, “Good to know you’re a biter. I like it.”

I roll my eyes, laughing dismissively as I scoot away as I adjust my very rumpled dress, then grab my shoes, and when I turn back to Declan, he has his shirt partially open with his shoulder exposed. The impression of my teeth is quite obvious, and he grabs his phone, lifting it up and pointing it at his shoulder as I ask, “What are you doing?”

“Evidence,” he says, his voice unwavering. “Proof of the first time you marked me as yours.”

“That’s not what I did!”

“Sure looks like that to me.”

I shake my head, knowing any argument I make is pointless. So, I say nothing and instead make use of the rather lavish restroom, surprisingly well-stocked with a broad array of toiletries and beauty items. I choose to ignore the fact they are predominantly brands that I tend to use because the implications of premeditation behind it are clear, and I’d rather pretend I didn’t see it.

And even if I felt like confronting him, what would be the point? It’s not like I can just get on a plane home and ride out the press by saying, “Just kidding.” And also, so far, he hasn’t been terrible. Certainly, it was a lot less terrible than I would’ve forecasted, given my interactions with him thus far had been rather torturous.

I exit the restroom to find he has moved to the front of the plane, so I join him, and he indicates for me to take the seat next to him as he says, “We’ll be landing soon.”

I take the seat next to him, and he leans over, grabbing each end of the lap belt and securing it over me, pulling it tight. I stare at him, likely a bit wide-eyed, but he just pats me on the leg and gives me a lopsided smile and a wink before turning to look out the window.

I consider leaning over him to get a glimpse of our surroundings but then decide to keep my distance since this is likely my last few moments of having any personal space.

I clasp my hands in my lap, rest my head back, and close my eyes, taking a few moments to do some deep breathing exercises in an attempt to center myself from this day of chaos.

I need to speak with Bobby to make sure he’s not going to pull some kind of backhanded bullshit. I figure the only reason he would have pulled this kind of stunt, other than to embarrass me, was because he had a better deal elsewhere. Which means those pictures he has have most likely already been purchased by the highest bidder. My only consolation is that I feel whoever purchased them will most likely bring them to me first in the hopes they can just make more money. And it’s true. They can basically name their price.

My stomach is in knots again, my anxiety over the situation skyrocketing as I consider what may be happening behind the scenes while I’m off gallivanting. My first inclination is to demand to turn around, to go back so I can get to the bottom of it, but I know there’s no use.

The truth won’t come to my attention until that asshole is good and ready, and chasing it won’t do any good. And I know Declan’s right; at this point, we have to put on a good show, even if, for the first time in my life, I come off as the bad guy.

There have already been a few headlines about how I’ve been led to the dark side by Declan. Mostly, the articles were quite humorous, written by conservative men, who took offense to the sudden change in lyrics to that song we sang at my last concert.

As if my new lyrics weren’t far more accurate than the original arrangement, but no one cares about that. No one wants to talk about the sinister side of fame, especially for girls who start out young and manage to make it to the top as adults. It wasn’t without sacrifice, it wasn’t without pain, and it sure as hell wasn’t without a considerable amount of mishandling from the people who were supposed to be protecting you.

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