Page 97 of The Prodigal Son

“What the fuck?” Isaac mutters to himself. He releases my hand before the first bulb flashes.

Then, we’re being escorted inside and it feels like there isn’t a moment to breathe or think. I get out first, swept away by one of the guards.

There are cameras in my face and people yelling. Mostly asking Isaac invasive questions that I pray he’s not answering. As I reach the door alone, I turn back to find him, but he’s lost in the crowd.

Anger boils inside me when I spot him swallowed up by the paparazzi snapping photos. I barrel back into the mix, giving the security guard a rage-filled sneer as I shove camera-wielding men away from Isaac.

Wrapping an arm around Isaac’s back, I shout, “Back up!” It does nothing. They ignore me and continue to block our path and get in our faces.

Isaac burrows himself against me as I plow through the mob.

“I’ve got you,” I mumble to him just before we reach the door. Finally, the security guards make themselves useful and stop the paparazzi from following us as we disappear inside.

Every ounce of cool I once had is gone.

The woman I recognize as Isaac’s tour manager is there to greet us.

“Do those security guards work for the goddamn paparazzi?” I shout.

“Jensen,” Isaac says with alarm as he stares at me. It takes me a moment to realize I’m still holding him close, so I let him go, and he steps away.

“You must be Mr. Miles,” she says, putting out her hand.

I’m still fuming.

I don’t shake her hand, but she picks up on that immediately. Putting her hands on her waist, she says, “Nobody panic. We have some damage control to do, and then we’re leaving for the next stop on the tour.”

Isaac and I follow her as she leads us to a room in the hotel to talk in private. As we walk, I just keep hearingdamage controlin my head. It feels like it’s a little too late for that. Everything has gotten too out of hand, and the last thing I feel like we have at this moment is control.

Twenty-Nine

Isaac

Lola sits across from me at a large conference table while my publicist and tour manager stand at the front of the room, discussing with each other how they can use this sudden onslaught of attention to their benefit.

I still can’t understand what on earth we’re even talking about.

“So I wrote a love song,” I bark with my hands in my hair. “Who cares?”

“Theo, let us be very clear. We see no issue with the song or with any of the rumors,” Martina, my publicist, says as her eyes dash back to Jensen, who is standing against the wall with his arms crossed.

“But with any good PR, it’s always best to be three steps ahead and play the long game.”

“What does that even mean?” I ask with a whine.

“It means…we have to have a plan.”

“A plan for what?” I ask. I can hear how erratic and frustrated I sound. It’s because I feel it. She’s talking about getting ahead,but everything is flying at the speed of light. It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours since I played that song, and already the public is speculating about my sexuality. What exactly am I supposed to get ahead of?

Martina sits down at the table and pulls up her phone. She slides it over to me face up. And right there on the screen is a video taken less than two hours ago, out front of the hotel.

Jensen is holding me to his chest—not like a friend, but like a lover.

I glance up at him and he rubs at his forehead. I can practically see the veins popping out of his neck from here.

“It’ll blow over,” I say with a shrug. “People will forget. We just have to say nothing and move on like it never happened.”

Martina nods with a small smile. “Theo?—”

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