Page 18 of The Rockstar

I step back instinctively. It’s like I’ve been shoved out of the frame of his life. I’m ready to run back to our booth, but Ryder doesn’t let it happen. He sees the way I flinch, the way my smile falters, and without hesitation, he wraps an arm around my waist and pulls me close.

“She’s with me,” he says, loud enough for everyone to hear.

The girls freeze. One of them crosses her arms. “Seriously? This is how you treat your fans? You’re nothing if not for us.”

His jaw clenches. The laughing, grinning Ryder is gone, and I see a side I haven’t seen before.

“Haven’t I given enough of myself?” he says, voice flat. “You got the songs. The shows. The pieces of me I was contractually obligated to hand over.”

“But you wouldn’t even be famous without us,” the girl spits.

“Then maybe I should’ve stayed unknown.” He leads me by the elbow before anyone else can chime in.

We step outside, and it’s like falling into a war zone. The flash of cameras hits me like lightning. I get blinded for a few seconds before I close my eyes and keep my head down. Ryder has his arm around me protectively, and he pulls the hoodie over my head.

A swarm of paparazzi shouts question after question.

“Ryder, why are you here? Aren’t you supposed to be in the Bahamas?”

“Did you and Heather Green break up?”

“You weren’t part of the bill. Were you a last-minute addition?”

“Where’s the rest of your band? Is it true they left you after you failed to pay them for the tour?”

“When’s the next album coming?”

I’m not ready for this. I expected it when Ryder said he would go on stage, sure, but the real thing is terrifying. My anxiety bubbles to the surface, and my breathing becomes uneven. I feel like I’m drowning, choking.

One gets too close, his camera practically in my face, and I stumble back. Ryder shoves a hand up, shielding me, guiding me with a protective arm as we try to make our way through the chaos.

And I realize I’ve just scratched the surface of his world. The Ryder I know is a man who loves music and books, can cook, smiles and laughs at the smallest things, cannot keep his hands to himself, and kisses me every chance he gets.

But this? This other part of his life?

It’s loud, invasive, and it’s not what I signed up for.

We get into his car, and Ryder doesn’t wait. He throws the car into drive and peels out of the back lot before anyone can think to follow. The tires screech, the headlights slice through the dark, and my heart thuds from more than what we just did in the supply room.

Neither of us speaks as I fire off a text to Valerie, apologizing and telling her I’ll make up for it.

Ryder checks the rearview mirror again and again, scanning for tail lights. When none appear, he finally slows and pulls over to the side of the road, engine idling softly.

He rests a heavy palm on mine. “Are you okay?”

The question is simple. My answer isn’t. I try to nod. I want to nod. But instead, I whisper, “No. Not really.”

Ryder unbuckles his seatbelt and turns in his seat to face me fully, brows knitting together. “Vivian?—”

“I’m not built for this,” I cut in, one hand gripping the other, trying to hold myself together with pressure. “The rabid fans, the press.”

He turns my palm up and laces his fingers through mine. “I’m sorry,” he says softly, thumb brushing over my knuckles. “I should’ve known?—”

“No.” I shake my head. “I should be the one apologizing. I might’ve just messed things up for you. Your career, your public image—all of it.”

His grip on my hand tightens. “You’re more important than my career.”

The words punch the air out of me. “Why would you say that?” My voice cracks. “You just met me yesterday.”

---