Page 93 of The Prodigal Son

“Fuck this thing,” I growl as I reach for it with the intent to turn it off. But then I see the notifications. They’re not just from Instagram. There are texts and calls and DMs.

“What the…fuck?”

“What is it?” Jensen asks.

I open my phone and start with the texts. There’s one from my tour manager, telling me she’s sending a car to the hotel to get me. Multiple from my publicist. Even a couple from Lola asking me to check in.

As I sit up, Jensen climbs off me and watches with concern. “Everything okay?”

“I have no clue,” I reply.

I text Lola first because she’s the easiest person to talk to.

What’s going on? I just woke up.

She replies immediately.

Morning, sunshine. Your little performance last night caught some serious attention.

What performance?

Go look at your Instagram.

I quickly open up the app and immediately see myself on the stage. It’s a video from last night of my song for Jensen. What’s the big deal about that? It’s not like I said who it was about.

Scrolling to the comments, I search for answers, but most of it is pretty expected.

Who is Theo dating?

Is it the actress from his music video?

Except for one…

Did you see pics of him with that guy?

Oh, God.

Immediately, I check my tags. And my heart drops. There are candid photos of me and Jensen. Photos of me and Lola. Of me and random guys at bars when I had no clue people even recognized me.

Sitting up, I dig my hand in my hair.

“Breathe, baby,” Jensen says, rubbing a hand up and down my spine.

I’m trying to relax, but it feels like an invasion. It feels like they’ve just splayed open my life and slapped it on a platter for the whole world to see—mypersonal fucking life.

All this because I said I was in love? No one gave a shit before.

“They have pictures of you,” I say, giving him a terrified look.

The calm in his expression glitches and I see the same look in his eyes I saw that night at Lucas’s house. He’s scared. He’s just hiding it better now. Jensen has been shoving his feelings down for so long, but he’s as frightened as I am. Maybe even more so.

“We’ll deny it,” he stammers as he stands from the bed, feigning confidence.

“Yeah,” I reply, nodding my head.

“We’re from the same town. We’ll explain that I’m an old friend, a preacher, just like your father. No one will suspect anything…”

My breathing sounds heavy as I force air in and out of my lungs. As I meet his gaze, I give him a nod and an expression filled to the brim with forced conviction.

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