Page 8 of The Oscar Escape
“Yes, it is. But that’s not what I’m most concerned about,” Dom said, then returned to rubbing his neck.
Shit.
The deep freeze in her body made way for a rush of blistering heat. “What could be more concerning than that?” she asked, wiping a bit of perspiration and a glop of makeup from her chin. She must look like the rock star version of a melted birthday candle.
Dominic glanced down the hallway, then waved over Malik. And dammit, this wasn’t good. Dom’s husband wore a matching scowl on his face.
“There was another kidnapping threat. It’s the third in two weeks,” Dominic said, lowering his voice.
Malik, a stocky man with his jet-black hair pulled into a low ponytail and a no-nonsense set to his jaw, nodded. “Dom’s right. The call came in while you were on stage. It was a little different from the last two. But the threat was consistent.”
Aria ran a hand through her hairspray-laden bangs. “It’s got to be someone screwing around. Who would want to abduct me? I’m a hot mess.” She had to play it off. She didn’t have time for this bullshit either.
Stone-faced, Malik didn’t crack a grin. “It may be some kid screwing around. But it could also be some psycho who wants you all to themselves to do God knows what. We can’t take this lightly, Aria. Not after it’s already happened two other times.”
“You can’t do the influencer meet and greet tonight,” Dom added. “We need time to assess the risk. And we don’t want you mentioning the threats on social media.”
Aria balked and gestured to her face. “What do you think I’ll do? Go live on my socials looking like I moisturize with three-day-old gas station nacho cheese and ask some wannabe kidnapper to slide into my DMs so we can shoot the shit and work out a better way to hang out that doesn’t include rope and duct tape?” She released a guttural growl. “This cannot be happening.”
“Aria, we have to take this seriously,” Dom maintained.
“We do. You know we do. We don’t want you posting anything online,” Malik added.
Ugh!There had to be some other way.
Aria lifted her chin and held Malik’s gaze. “I get it. I do. But you know better than anyone that I’ve got to get something out for the press to chew on to counter Justin yucking it up with a pair of bimbos.”
“You and Dom can work that out later. For now, you need to stay put. We’ll get you back to the hotel as soon as—” Malik said, then touched his earpiece. “Hold on. I need to check with one of our guys. Somebody saw a suspicious vehicle. Stay in your dressing room. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
Aria rested her head against the door. “Why did some douche-nozzle decide to prank my tour at the exact moment when I need to be pushing my hardest?” She inhaled a sharp breath, then barked a ragged cough.
“Aria?” Dom said softly.
Another topsy-turvy wave hit, and she closed her eyes. “Yeah.”
“Are you happy?”
She looked up and eyed Dom.Were there two of him?She blinked a few times. “What do you mean?”
“Does this life make you happy?”
She parted her lips. And for a beat, then two, she couldn’t answer.
Why couldn’t she answer? And was the building swaying?
A jumbled list of everything she needed to accomplish alongside a healthy dose of imposter syndrome clunked and crashed in her head like super-charged bumper cars going berserk. She had to make it stop. She reared back, then smacked her forehead against the door. The slice of pain sent a jolt that stilled the mayhem in her mind.
“What the hell are you doing?” Dom cried. She could hear the worry, or perhaps it was pity, in his voice. She sure as hell couldn’t have that.
She assessed the makeup smear on the door, then steadied herself the best she could. “Am I happy at this exact moment, Dom?” she spat—or possibly slurred. She couldn’t really tell. Everything had become a tad fuzzy. “No, I’m not happy. Kidnappers, asshat boyfriends, you name it. Anybody who wrecks my ability to work doesn’t make me happy. Anything that keeps me from reaching my goal is a giant pain in my ass,” she roared, glaring at her manager, who didn’t deserve her wrath. Guilt panged in her chest. That damned eat-worms spark could ignite at the worst times. “Dom,” she said, taking it down a few notches, “I don’t mean to take this out on you. You and Malik have been nothing but good to me. It’s just that—”
“Aria, do you know where your boyfriend is tonight?” a man interrupted with a slippery bend to his words.
She looked down the hallway, and her gut twisted.
A trio of plump, bald men clad in rumpled Hawaiian shirts charged down the hall with their smartphones pointed at her. Even in her whiskey-medicated state, she recognized them from the gaggle of paparazzi who’d followed her for the better part of the tour.
She took a step toward them, ready to stand her ground and tell them to beat it. Did she usually go out of her way to confront the press? No, but her liquid courage—or alcohol plus over-the-counter-meds stupidity—had kicked in, and Little Miss Eat-Worms had taken over.
