Page 6 of It Happened on a Sunday
“Absolutely not,” I tell her, more forcefully this time. Rich men used to getting whatever—and whomever—they want don’tinterest me. Been there, done that, and really,reallydon’t want a souvenir.
Again, she ignores me. “Apparently, his grandmother is a massive fan. He says he’s really asking for her. She’s followed your career forever and even learned how to use Instagram six years ago so she could start a fan account.”
That makes it a million times harder to say no. Six years ago was after Hayden but before Jarrod. Before the Black Widow.
Six years ago, I was still just Sloane.
“What’s her name?”
Olivia shrugs. “I didn’t ask.Hisname is Mateo Sylvester. He’s the starting quarterback—”
“Fine,” I say, cutting her off because I couldn’t care less about the grandson. “Give me ten minutes after the show and then bring her back.”
“Excellent.” Olivia beams as we move into the tunnel. “That will give me time to round up Jess—”
“You don’t need Jess.” I balk at the mention of the tour photographer. “This is just for the grandma.”
“But it’s great publicity,” she protests. “Sly—that’s what everybody calls him—is totally the golden boy of football right now. Everybody loves him. They say he’s going to take the Twisters all the way to the Super Bowl this year. Plus, he’s hot as fuck. The headlines practically write themselves.”
They really do. That’s what terrifies me. Olivia lives by the motto that there’s no such thing as bad publicity. But she’s not the one who has to survive it. I am. Which is why there’s no way I’m sending photos of me and this Mateo/SlySylvester person with his ridiculous nickname and giant ego—experience has taught me theyallhave giant egos—out into the media. Absolutely, positively not.
“No photographer,” I tell her, eyes narrowed so she knows I mean it. “I’ll meet these people, but you are not using it as apublicity stunt.”
She wants to argue, I can see it in her eyes, but I’m not backing down. Not on this. Just the thought of what the media would say if they imagined there was even a chance the Black Widow had caught another golden boy in her web is enough to send a shiver of dread running down my spine. There’d be nowhere on the planet I could hide.
“Okay, then.” We’re under the stage now, so she steps back. “Ready for the encore?”
Not even close.
But what else am I going to do? Music is the only thing I know is really mine, and if having it means being the Black Widow, then that’s what I’ll do. Who I’ll be.
As soon as I move toward the platform, the panic comes back, brambly and familiar. It coils inside my throat, scratches at me from the inside. I force it back with a long drink of tea and let the lie scald the terror into submission.
They want a wrecking ball? Fine. I’ll tear the whole damn place to the ground.
Jace is waiting for me at the platform. “You good?” he asks.
I nod, and seconds later, my in-ears come alive.
“Can you hear me?” Dani, one of the sound techs, asks in my ear.
“Gotcha,” I grind out as I hand Jace my flask.
“Excellent,” she says. “Go finish kicking a little ass, will you?”
I don’t answer. Instead, I look at Jace, widening my stance as I wait for the signal.
“See you on the other side,” he tells me, eyes serious despite the smile on his face.
“See you on the other side,” I repeat, bracing myself as the platform starts to rise, taking me up, up, up, as the crowd goes wild.
Pretty doesn’t sell nearly as well as pain, I remind myself as Irise.
So I pull in the cheers. I let them scrape against the jagged pieces inside me as my band starts the intro to “Uncharted Waters.”
Then I’m exploding onto the stage, belting out the first line with every ounce of strength I’ve got inside me. The fear still flowers in my chest, prickling and wicked. But now it’s something I control. Something I feed to the crowd, petal by poisoned petal.
And they eat it up. Hell, they beg for it. So I give them more and more and more. For three songs, I give themeverything, until I’m nothing more than an empty husk wrung dry.
