Page 6 of The Oscar Escape
Aria shook her head, recalling the day when dots flashed on the screen.
Aunt Harper: I’d send some birthday bonbons to Oscar, if we knew where he was.
In all the bluster of the tour, she’d forgotten her birthday—and Oscar’s.
Aunt Harper: Did the bonbons make it? I called in a favor to have them brought directly to you. It never hurts to have bakery owners as friends.
Her aunt and uncle met the company’s owners and the local manager and his nephew when they’d participated in a reality baking show around the time that she came to live with them.
Aria searched the table as her phone pinged with more boyfriend bullshit images. “Jesus Christ!”
Flustered by a stream of Justin-flanked-with-blondes-shots rolling in, she scanned the table and eyed the chocolate treats.
Aria: I see the bonbons. Thank you.
Ping!
She didn’t even have a second to bask in the glory of the chocolate delights.
More Justin pics.
Ping, ping!
More videos. More of Justin getting handsy with the leggy blonde.
She gnashed her teeth together, damn near close to busting a molar, and typed a goodbye message to her aunt and uncle. But before she could hit send, a text from her uncle flashed on the screen.
Uncle Landy: We can’t wait to see you in Denver in two weeks. We’re counting the days.
Days.
A dizzying current passed through her, and she nearly dropped her phone.
She had days to hit double platinum.
Days.She didn’t have time for—
Her phone buzzed and she bristled. More Justin bullshit. He had to have known that she’d see these pics.
She drank what was left of the whiskey, felt her phone vibrate again, and snarled at the screen.
Pics, pics, and more stupid Justin pics. It was as if he’d invited the damned paparazzi to party with him.
She parted her lips, prepared to release a frustrated howl but produced a raspy ragged ribbon of sound instead. With blazing irritation prickling over every inch of her body, she rubbed her face and smeared more makeup. “This is disgusting,” she lamented and wiped the thick paste onto a napkin.
“Who gave Aria her cell phone?” came her manager’s voice through the hum of backstage activity.
She rubbed her eyes and possibly ripped off a fake eyelash. She couldn’t let the man know she was harboring homicidal tendencies. He might try to persuade her to take the night off. She mustered a grin. “It’s nobody’s fault, Dom. I tucked my phone into my costume.”
Dressed in black with a scowl slapped to his face, the slim man with dark hair and almond-shaped eyes huffed an exasperated breath. “You’re making yourself crazy. No artist should jump on their phone after a show. You’ve got to give yourself a second to unwind without the noise of social media.” He looked her over, and his frown deepened. “When we started this tour, there was no room in your stage clothes to conceal a phone. You’re getting too thin, Miss Thing. Your glitter-spandex getup is hanging off you, and the crew says you’re swimming in the harness.”
She rubbed her side. “That harness is a real bitch.”
“That’s because you’re skin and bones. Try filling your mouth with more of those and gulping down a few less gallons of that,” Dominic chided, pointing first to the bonbons and then to the bottle of whiskey. “You don’t want me to tell my aunt Mitzi that you’re self-medicating and could probably use a visit to Urgent Care, do you?”
Alarm bells went off in her head.
Dominic’s aunt, Mitzi Jones, was a family friend. She’d managed her parents’ band, Heartthrob Warfare, overseen her uncle’s solo career, and had represented her aunt Harper. Mitzi, Dom, and Dom’s husband, Malik, her head of tour security, were practically family. She loved Dominic and respected his opinion. He had her best interests at heart, but she needed to remind him who he was dealing with. “I know how hard I can push myself.” She glanced away. That wasn’t exactly true, but only Oscar could call her out on this.
