Page 75 of How NOT to Seduce a Rockstar
Nothing.
The street was empty. Completely.
Where yesterday there had been a paparazzi encampment—folding chairs, coffee thermoses, telephoto lenses—there was now only wet pavement from last night’s rain, a couple of flyers plastered to the asphalt, and the distant honk of a horn.
Tess halted behind me. “Bea?”
“I don’t know,” I said, scanning the deserted street. “This isn’t normal. Paparazzi don’t vanish. They’re like bedbugs—you can hate them, but they don’t just disappear.”
She lowered her sunglasses, letting me see her eyes. For the first time in days, they weren’t diva eyes. They were eyes demanding an explanation.
“Fine. Paparazzi or not,” Tess said, tightening her scarf, “we’re going to the diner. Revenge doesn’t wait.”
I raised a hand and, like in an old black-and-white movie, a yellow cab appeared. The driver rolled down the window and gave us a flat once-over, as if two women dressed somewhere between ’60s diva and knockoff bodyguard were just another Tuesday in Brooklyn.
We slid into the back seat—Tess with legs crossed and shades on, me with folded arms and my best bulldog glare (more or less). As soon as the cab pulled away, Tess lowered the window. Thescarf fluttered behind her like a parade flag. She gazed out as if expecting applause, gasps, spontaneous photos.
Silence.
The driver coughed. A man walked his dog. Two kids crossed the street without even glancing our way.
“Impossible,” Tess muttered, yanking her sunglasses down to peer harder. “Everyone saw those photos. Everyone.”
“Maybe Chad and Medusa bought the entire internet to censor them,” I said.
She didn’t laugh. She just stared out the window, looking like a little girl at a dance recital who hadn’t been told she was “adorable.” Half fury, half disbelief.
The taxi stopped at the diner. Tess lowered her glasses and inhaled deeply, like an actress before stepping onto the red carpet. I paid, opened her door like a professional bodyguard—or as close as jeans and sneakers could get me.
The door jingle rang as we entered. Tess… made her entrance. Shoulders square, chin high, scarf sliding with strategic grace, slow and measured steps. The entire diner seemed to hold its breath.
But no ovation came. Just a low murmur, hushed and buzzing, like an underground current. A few heads turned. Customers traded looks. Someone whispered behind a hand. No euphoria.No celebrity chaos. Just that muted hum—too restrained, too composed.
Tess strutted to the counter as if it were a runway, sunglasses still on, and stopped. She waited—autograph? Selfie? Anything. Nothing.
And that’s when I saw them.
Their usual booth, in the back. Chad with his Pepsi. Medusa with her strawberry milkshake. She sipped from her straw, eyes locked on Tess, sparkling with malice. He drummed his fingers on the glass, working hard to look indifferent. But it wasn’t indifference: it was a smirk held in check. A half-grin that made my fists clench.
They were laughing.
Behind her back.
Tess didn’t notice at first. Or maybe she did but refused to admit it. She kept scanning the room, convinced the eruption of glory was imminent. But the tension in the air wasn’t awe. It was something else.
Then she froze. I followed her gaze. The aluminum magazine tower, two meters tall, right by the counter—the same one she’d nearly leveled a week ago with all the grace of a bulldozer in stilettos. Only this time it didn’t topple. This time, it was worse.
Every pocket stuffed with glossy covers. Dozens of them. All the same. Blinding. Tabloids, gossip mags, slick dailies. Each one screaming the sameheadline in giant type:
I’M GAY!
Zane Ryder Confesses: “It’s Time to Tell My Fans the Truth.”
Ryder’s face filled every cover: tousled hair, soft smile, earnest eyes. And next to him, embraced with the ease of someone finally home—Bernie. Our Bernie.
Of course half-asleep, cheek smooshed against the rockstar’s shoulder like a puppy who’d just dozed off.
Ice water shot through my veins. Tess stood slack-jawed. For the first time since I’d known her, she had no quip, no Plan B, no defiant smirk. Just silence.
