My body.
My skin.
The pit of my stomach where lust resided, dormant and napping.
“Aren’t you going to wish me luck?” He grabbed the handle and opened the door, his shoulder bumping into someone else’s. He didn’t slow down. Alex Winslow was a tornado, impacting everything and everyone on his way to destruction.
“Break a leg,” I croaked. The light seeped through the black curtain of the stage, making his hair shimmer gold. Jesus’ pinnacle. I closed my eyes and glued my forehead to the wall, inhaling.
I told my heart to stop beating so fast one last time. It didn’t listen.
Twenty minutes after Alex took the stage, I headed into his dressing room, intending to catch up on some sleep. The jet lag was kicking my ass all the way back to North America, and I knew I needed to ride it out, but surely, a power nap wouldn’t be the end of the world. Blake was there, with his back to me, talking on the phone. He couldn’t see me from his position, which was probably why he was yelling and flinging his arms around. I took a deep breath, intending on making myself known, but Blake’s voice boomed in the empty room.
“Yeah, Jenna. Yeah. For the hundredth time, it’s under control. We leaked the photos and now he thinks we don’t want him anywhere near the Internet because of that. All interviews and media access will be denied for the duration of the tour. He doesn’t suspect a thing. He doesn’t even remember the girl who took them.” He paused, listening to Alex’s agent on the other end of the line.
My blood froze in my veins. They were the ones leaking those pictures?
Then I remembered the conversation with Lucas. The talk about diversion…about keeping Alex offline. About meeting with Will Bushell…oh, my God.
“Listen. Listen…listen! Bloody hell, woman. You’ve got balls the size of watermelons. Do you realize it’s quite unattractive? And before you say anything, yes, I am aware your sole purpose in life is not, in fact, to attract me. We bought enough time to recalculate. He won’t check, because he doesn’t give a flying fuck. Or a driving one, for that matter. No fucks at all, by any means of transportation. His knob could be on the cover of Vogue wearing a beret with a cigarette sticking from the tip and he would probably not even recognize it as he passed by a newsstand. He’s a rock star, Jenna. Not a has-been reality TV loser. No one knows.” Blake rubbed his face, then he turned around and stared right back at me. His phone was still cemented to his ear when he said, “Well, scratch no one. The sitter knows. I’ll deal with her now. Sext me later?”
The other line went dead by the way Blake groaned. The need to slap him across the face actually made my fingertips tingle, and I didn’t even know why. I didn’t like Alex, but that didn’t mean I was okay with his team wronging him. Hell, I didn’t even want to be a part of said team, and I still thought this was bullshit. The people he trusted were betraying him. Why would they sell him out? Were they trying to sabotage his recovery?
“It’s not what it looks like.” He held his palms up, his face creasing into a grimace.
“You sound like a cheating husband, so I’m going to say what any cheated wife would answer: it is exactly what it looks like.” I found my words somewhere in the back of my throat. They came out thick and angry. “Wow. You’re…ungrateful.”
“You don’t understand how much is at stake here. Alex is obsessed with Fallon. If he finds out she’s engaged to his archenemy, he will go through the mother of all downward spirals. You’ll fail at your job. The tour will be canceled before it even begins. His career will probably be over, not to mention he’ll have to pay millions of dollars for the damages and loss. We can’t just ask him to swear off the Internet for two and a half months without any explanation. We’re doing what we can to help him. Everyone who cares about him is involved. His family, friends, bandmates. Everyone. You fuck it up, and I swear, Indie, you’re going to make a lot of enemies in Hollywood.” He pointed at me with the hand that held his phone.
I blinked, incredulous, wondering if he was for real.
“Blake”—I took a step deeper into the room—“no matter how you spin this, you’re lying to your client. To your ex-roommate. To your friend. You can justify it from now until your last day on this earth, but at the end of the day, you leaked pictures of his privates to keep him from logging onto the Internet, and that’s shitty.”