Page 11 of It Happened on a Sunday
I’m not going back there. Not now, not ever.
That’s why I need the armor. That’s why I need the Black Widow.
I close my eyes and force the memories back to whatever vault they clawed out of. Because that girl died a long time ago. I’m what rose from the ashes.
My breath steadies. My heart settles, even before a knock on the door has me straightening my shoulders and dropping the mask back in place.
“Come in!” I call as I move back to my dressing room and check for any personal items I can’t live without. It’s our last night in Austin.
Olivia cracks open the door and sticks her head in. “Just wanted to check in. See how you thought the meet-and-greetwent.”
I have nothing to say about that meet-and-greet that I want her to hear. So I settle for a shrug and a, “Fine. Why?”
“No reason.” She shakes her head. “They seemed nice, that’s all.”
For a second, Sly’s brown eyes are right there in front of me, his words a reflection I never wanted anyone to see. “But all I saw was you fighting to stay.”
I blink the words away, but his face stays stubbornly in my mind’s eye. And before I even know I’m going to do it, I ask, “Do you think you can get me Sly’s number?”
Chapter 6
Sly
Thirty minutes after we leave Sloane’s dressing room, I finally get abuela Ximena through the pouring rain and into the car. As the lights of the stadium fade in my rearview mirror, I point us toward her cozy house outside Burnet, a small town about an hour from Austin, where I grew up.
A quick glance at her in the passing streetlights tells me my abuela looks exhausted but also happier than I’ve seen her in a long time.
“That was better than I dreamed it would be.” She pats my hand on the steering wheel. “Thank you so much, mijo.”
“I should be the one thanking you,” I tell her. “The concert was great.”
“It really was. And I still can’t believe you arranged for me to meet her.” She sighs happily. “I always knew Sloane was a wonderful person, but she was so much kinder than I ever could have expected. And she’s even more dazzling in real life, don’t you think?”
The truth is, I don’t know what to think. I mean, abuela Ximena’s right. Sloane is both gorgeous and kind, and while I can appreciate both those things, they aren’t why I haven’t been able to stop thinking about her since I closed her dressing room door.
No, what keeps her front and center in my mind isn’t her looks or her voice or even how sweet she was to my abuela. It’s the way she wears the Black Widow like a shield. The way her fingers were ice when she went to shake my hand. The vulnerability in her eyes and the way she tried so damn hard not to let it show.
I don’t know what hurt Sloane so badly she has to hide herself away from the world. But I do know what it feels like to break. And I know just how exhausting it is to shield the broken parts of yourself.
“What song was your favorite?” my abuela asks as we merge onto the highway.
“I liked ’em all,” I answer, even as an image of Sloane forms in my mind. Skintight tube dress, crimson lips, hair a wild red explosion around her. Eyes wide and wild as she sinks…and then claws her way right back to the surface one inch at a time. “But maybe ‘The Rumor Game.’ I know it’s what everyone says, but it’s a good one.”
And I’ll never be able to hear it again without thinking about the strength it took for Sloane to fight her way out of the abyss.
“That’s a great one,” abuela Ximena agrees. “But I’ll always love ‘Watch Me’ the best.”
“Oh, yeah?” A couple verbal commands later and the song is blasting through my audio system while my abuela sings along. Tonight was my first time hearing it, so I don’t know the song as well as she does, but I do my best to keep up on the chorus.
At least until a message flashes across my dash, telling me I’ve got a text from my agent. What the fuck could Vivian want at midnight on a Sunday?
“Sorry, abuela.” I interrupt the third verse so my car can read me the message.
Vivian:Any reason why a request from Sloane Walker’s publicist for your phone number just came across my inbox?
Before I can even process what that means, my abuela is hooting and hollering beside me. “Looks like you’re not the only one who’s smitten.”
“Smitten? I’m not—” I break off as my car asks if I want toreply. “Yes! Yes!”
