Page 76 of Songbird
Rosie blinks, eyes trained on mine, and I appreciate that she’s thinking about this, and when she doesn’t argue right away, I feel a glimmer of hope that I’ve persuaded her to see things my way, but then she shakes her head.
“No,” she says. “I’m not letting him win. Tell me what we need to do to make you comfortable with sticking to Pia’s schedule, because that’s what I want to do.”
“Rosie…”
My protest stalls on my lips, and I drop my head. I’m not used to saying out loud all the complicated things I think and feel inside. Once the words are out there, there’s no taking them back, and then when the worst comes true, there’ll always be a record that once upon a time, before my heart broke into a thousand pieces and life once again proved that bad things happen more often than good, I was stupid and naïve and arrogant enough to believe I could have done something to avoid the inevitable.
“What is it?” Rosie shuffles closer and ducks her head to meet my eyes. “You can say it.”
“What am I supposed to do here?” I straighten my spine and square my shoulders, needing to feel more in control than I am. “If you were my client, I’d have no choice but to do what I’m told, but I love you. You want me to trust your judgment, and I do, but I don’t think you understand what’s at risk here. If anything happens to you, I won’t survive it.”
“Oh, Finn. Nothing is going to happen to me.” She crawls back into my lap and balls herself against my chest. “How do we make this work for both of us?”
I hold her tighter against me, inhaling her hair that smells less like rose petals and more like coconut. New shampoo, I suppose, to go with her new soaps and lotions and perfumes.
“Two extra protection officers at all engagements,” I say, the words rough with the defeat caught in my throat. “There are to be no other clients at any of your appointments today, and only bare minimum staff. At any confirmed sightings of your stalker, we return home immediately. No arguments or negotiations. You can hate me later, but at least you’ll be alive to do it.”
Rosie is quiet for a long moment, and when she does speak, her voice is low. “Okay. We’ll do it your way, but I really think it’ll work out fine. Nothing is going to happen on a busy LA street, and he won’t get past security again. We’re ready this time.”
I stroke her hair and try not to let all the examples of things not working out in my life dim the gentle hope in Rosie’s words.
“I can’t stop living because the world doesn’t look quite the way I want it to,” she adds, reading my mind and overcoming my protests with her innocence. “Everything will be okay as long as I have you.”
twenty-eight
Finn
Thegatestotheproperty swing outward and the photographers around them scatter, cameras lifted and ready to shoot as our car rolls toward the street. John is behind the wheel today, Marissa in the front seat, and I’m in the back with Rosie. She’s wearing a long, tight top in black with white high-cut shorts, tall patent leather heels, and coral lipstick, and her blonde hair falls in loose waves around her shoulders. She’s gorgeous, her spine straight and chin lifted as we pull out onto the road, and I wish I could appreciate her instead of urgently scanning the faces outside and fighting my rising dread.
Our first stop is a Beverly Hills hair salon, and although the street is relatively empty when John pulls the black SUV to the curb, by the time Rosie is done with her appointment, the sidewalk is teeming with paparazzi and fans clamoring to get a snap or a selfie when she walks out the door.
“It’s chaos out there,” Marissa reports as she joins us at the back of the salon, which is empty but for us. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“I have.” Rosie flips and fluffs her hair in the lit-up mirror, the perfect curls an inch shorter, a shade brighter, and glinting with unnatural gloss. “Thank you, Richard,” she adds, holding out her hand to the gentleman standing behind her chair and admiring his handiwork. “I love it—as always.”
“You’re welcome, honey,” he says. “Try not to leave it so long between visits next time, and I won’t have to be as brutal with those ends.”
Rosie laughs lightly. “I won’t.”
The general cacophony of sound rises in pitch as Rosie gets to her feet and people catch a glimpse of her through the curtained glass-paned storefront. My nerves surge along with the screams, and I shift my position to block her from view.
“John will step outside first,” I direct, and he nods in agreement. “He will go straight to Rosie’s car door. I’ll follow with Rosie,” I add, staring at the woman I love and will do anything to protect, “who will stick by me like glue.”
“Yes, sir,” she says with a teasing glint in her eye.
Another time, I’d rise to her challenge, but today, I’ve got no bandwidth for it. It’s a relief to know that she’s not feeling intimidated by the crowd outside, but there’s a special pressure knowing that the reason for her apparent nonchalance is her unshakable faith in me.
“We go straight to the vehicle with Marissa bringing up the rear,” I say. “Do not engage or encourage any interactions, all right? It’s too uncontrolled to stop for pictures or autographs, and our goal is to get out of here quickly and without incident. Are we on the same page?”
Rosie looks up at me through her lashes, expression calm as she loops her handbag over one shoulder. The stilted bob of her throat is the only hint that she shares a little of my apprehension, and I give her an encouraging dip of my head.
“Let’s do it,” she says.
The hollering picks up when people realize we’re about to leave, and when the door swings open, the shouting rises to an uncomfortable fever pitch. My senses shift into high alert as John moves out first, Rosie following with me at her arm, and Marissa one step behind.
It’s impossible to hear anything above the near-hysterical cheering of Rosie’s name, and there’s no way to scan the crowd for threats other than pushing back the unwelcome reach of hands from a hundred different directions. Rosie smiles politely, eyes forward like she’s not the reason for this demented screaming match, and I scowl at every raised hand that holds a smartphone as I hold out an arm to stop anyone from getting too close. Rosie ignores the phones first thrust in her face then in the direction of the car interior as she ducks through the open door.
I slip in after her, impatient to get her behind the protection and semi-privacy of the bulletproof tinted glass, and I’m not at ease until the car pulls into the street, leaving the uncontrolled throng waving their hands and cameras as we edge into traffic. As soon as it’s safe, John hits the gas and cruises at the speed limit, not slowing until we pull up to a set of lights.
