Page 32 of The Oscar Escape
“Everyone saw how Justin treated you. They could hear how he spoke to you when you confronted him. That mic you snatched from the DJ picked up the entire exchange between the two of you.”
A coppery taste invaded her mouth. “Broadcasting my wrath seemed like a good idea at the time.”
“For better or worse,” Dom continued, “that’s how it went down until the world watched the hooded mystery man knock the wind out of your jerk boyfriend, throw you over his shoulder, and escape into the night with you in his arms. This is literally every woman’s secret fantasy.”
Aria shook her head. “It’s one hundred percentnotmy secret fantasy.”
“From what I can tell from the online chatter, women—and a decent number of men—are going crazy over it. People seem to think the mystery man is your bodyguard. I’m not sure how that happened. Probably a comment that got shared repeatedly. But that plays to our advantage.”
“What do you mean?” she asked. This situation sounded more preposterous by the second.
“I had a hell of a conversation with the Boston Police Chief in the wee hours this morning. Luckily, his grandkids are fans of yours. I told him you ate some bad lobster, and your behavior was due to food poisoning.”
“Food poisoning from bad lobster?” she exclaimed. They’d left Crazy Town and entered Complete Bananasville.
“Yes, that’s our story, and we’re sticking to it. I also convinced him that the mystery man is your bodyguard, and his job was to extract you from the situation by any means necessary.”
She recalled the echoing piercing pings. She eyed Oscar. “You pulled the fire alarm.”
He glanced away. “We needed a diversion.”
“The chief wasn’t pleased about that stunt,” Dom continued, “but after I explained the kidnapping threats, he came to understand that your bodyguard had no choice but to go to extreme measures to keep you safe. Nobody in the media knows Oscar’s your childhood friend. As far as the world is concerned, the mystery man in gray is your fierce protector who defended your honor. And . . .”
“And? There’s more?” She could use a cup of coffee with a hit of whiskey. Scratch that. She could use a cup of whiskey with a hit of coffee.
“And,” Dom said, stretching the syllable, “your hooded protector is madly in love with you.”
“What?” she shrieked.
“I’m simply relaying what I’ve read on social media,” Dom replied. “A body language expert—or whatever passes for one of those online—posted that she noticed, and I quote, ‘scorching chemistry and raw sexual energy’ between you and Oscar.”
“That’s . . .” she was about to say absurd, but then she glanced at the bed and was reminded of thescorching chemistryand theraw sexual energythat had sizzled between them. She cleared her throat and didn’t dare look at Oscar. She had to get this crazy train back on the tracks. “Well,” she blathered, “I can’t see how that type of buzz will help me hit double platinum. It sounds more like a circus.” She could feel her cheeks growing redder by the second.
“Whatever you want to call it, sister,” Dom lobbed back, “the music world is on pins and needles, wondering if you’ll make it to your Denver concert or disappear forever with the mystery bodyguard. The activity on your socials is through the roof. People are also watching the instrumental video I added to your website. They love it. They’re leaving glowing comments.”
“It’s not on brand. I still don’t know why you did that.” She glanced at the notebook, feeling guilty like she’d offended the music she’d penned on the pages. But she had to stick to her plan, which didn’t involve the pieces she’d composed.
“Views are in the tens of millions. You can thank that blonde who returned for her underwear and paid you a compliment. I hear she’s become a G-string influencer.”
Aria pinched the bridge of her nose. “Of course she has.” She exhaled a slow breath. “Listen, Dom, I’ve got to get my face out there and make a statement. We need to shift the focus to the album, and—”
“And your numbers have improved,” her manager slipped in.
That shut her up for a few seconds. “Excuse me?”
“In the hours since your food poisoning episode, there’s been a spike in sales. Trust the numbers. The universe is telling you something, Aria. You need to fly under the radar, kid. You need to give your body time to recharge. Take this time to get back to yourself.”
“What the hell does that mean?” she barked, but there was far less bite to it. She had a good feeling she knew what the man would say next.
“After the show, I asked you if you were happy. Do you remember how you answered?”
There it was.
She’d be happy when she hit her goal. What was so wrong with that?
She stared at Oscar’s back. “I can’t play this game with you, Dominic. I’m still recovering from the . . . lobster. What are you trying to say?”
“At present, you serve yourself better by staying out of the spotlight. The ‘where is Aria Paige-Grant talk’ is garnering sales. You return, it ends. Get healthy. Prepare for Denver. That’ll also give us time to investigate the unsavory element of the entertainment business.”
