Page 46 of Paint the Town, Dove
I swallowed hard, glancing around to see if I’d misheard a distant conversation, a gust in the wind tormenting me or had it just been me – my own mind – all along.
I shoved the thought away, shoved it so far down that it drowned on its own whispers.
“Excited for Radio City?” Polly asked over the brim of her coffee. I was thankful for the distraction.
Lock it up, throw away the key.
Ryden shrugged. “Will you be there?”
“Of course.”
He snagged her mug. “Then I’m elated.”
I steadied my breath. “You won’t be elated when there’s a hitch in your vocals.”
“And when has that ever happened?”
“Preventative measures, Ry,” I pricked his thumb. “I’m calling the guys.”
Before I could unlock my phone, he covered it in his palm, sliding it into my front pocket. “I’ll call them,” he assured me, lifting out of his seat. “Be right back.”
“Wait!” I warned. “There could be paparazzi.”
He glanced around, pulling on his hood. I watched as he practically scaled the back wall to reach the men’s room, and only then did I take a breath.
“You’re so tense, girl.” Zayla reached out to rub my shoulder.
“Yeah, babe. Ease up. They won’t eat him alive.” Polly said.
But they didn’t know the industry like I did, the lengths I had to go to bury all of Ryden’s scandals. Not because of his image, but because of who he was – to his core – the man I cared about the most.
They would fucking ruin him. Lord knows they’ve tried. And I already had a plate full of thorns waiting for me since the aftermath of GQ. I couldn’t deal with another headline.
“Did Yasmine say anything to him at the party? Is that why you drenched her?” Zayla asked.
I nodded. “He wouldn’t tell me what they talked about, but honestly, her career is tanking by the second. She’s resorting to singing backup for some major clubs now. One hit wonders get you nowhere.”
“And it wasn’t even her hit,” Polly rolled her eyes. “Some people are unbelievable.”
Ryden returned, snagging a grape from the cheese board. “All taken care of.”
I snorted, sipping mymimosa. “Managers take care of rock stars.”
He turned to me slowly. “Friends take care of friends.”
Something sour (or sweet) churned in my gut. I couldn’t differentiate the two anymore.
“What’s your setlist for Radio City looking like?” Zayla piped, offering him more fruit.
He plucked a kiwi between his fingers, eyes bright. “Grand.”
“Aw come on,” she whined, “no hints?”
He laughed. “The guys and I are working on a new release for the encore. I’m all about surprising the fans.”
She twirled a lock of blonde hair around her finger. “But I’m more than a fan…”
I kicked her leg under the fucking table.
