Page 33 of How NOT to Seduce a Rockstar
Rom-com?
Chick lit?
Ridiculous little tale?
Who cares.
It was a story. Period.
And I had three weeks to live it and write it. I’d reach the end exhausted, overdrawn, maybe even evicted. But the beauty of it was, my Olivetti didn’t need electricity. If I had to, I’d finish that damned book sitting on the curb. I swear I would.
This wasn’t over, Mr. Bronson. Not even close. And I’d prove it to you—I would prove it.
But enough wallowing. It was time to throw on my investigative journalist hat, grab my notebook, and find out exactly what my main character was scheming next.
13
The living room had turned into some kind of horror museum… dedicated to Zane Ryder.
I stood in the doorway in my slippers, hair a mess, brain still stuck in “slow mode,” staring at the scene like I’d just discovered a cult had taken over our apartment.
Someone had completely reconfigured everything.
And by “someone,” I obviously meant Tess.
Last night, when we came home, there was none of this. Just a dying plant, a crumpled throw blanket on the couch, and two glasses we’d left out for days like sad monuments to our laziness.
Now?
It looked like the office of a private investigator gone mad in the middle of a manhunt. The kind with walls plastered in photos, red string, thumbtacks, and scrawled notes in cursive.
Yep. That.
Except it was all Zane Ryder.
Posters of him everywhere—on the fridge, the front door, even taped over Aunt Gertrude’s oil painting.
And not just the typical rockstar shots—Zane on stage, backlit, one boot propped up on a speaker while flashing the wolf tattoo on his tongue—but also paparazzi pics from his personal life: Zane on a yacht in Capri with a mojito and a “too famous to function” expression; Zane flipping off a photographer while entering rehab; Zane in a tux at a movie premiere, playing (of course) the villain.
On top of that, clippings everywhere: charity headlines (“Zane Donates Millions to African Children”), gossip (“Ex-Wife #2 Speaks Out: ‘He’s Like a Hurricane’”), reviews (“Zane Ryder Is the Marlon Brando of Rock”).
Magazines were scattered across the floor—music mags, fitness spreads, luxury lifestyle glossies—all open to features about him, every page assaulted by neon Post-its. Tess had filled them with notes, as if she were prepping a PhD dissertation.
On the TV, a documentary was playing on an endless loop, modestly titled:
Zane Ryder – The Imperfect God.
The footage alternated between grainy concert clips—fans screaming, Zane dripping glitter sweat—and black-and-white interviews with brooding musicians, their hollow eyes framed by dark circlesand too many rings.
The narrator’s voice droned lines like: “Zane Ryder never wanted to be an icon. He became a legend despite himself.”
I rubbed my face.
How long had I been asleep?
Tess must have gotten up at dawn, entered a fugue state, and gone on a citywide shopping spree like a possessed fan.
And now here she was, having transformed our living room into a stalker’s bunker. She sat cross-legged on the rug, wrapped in her black silk robe, wearing tortoiseshell reading glasses, and looking so profoundly focused that CIA analysts would’ve seemed like toddlers playing with Legos in comparison.
