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Chapter Thirty-One
Phoebe
“Son of a bitch!”
“What?” Julian took his eyes off the busy freeway.
Scrolling through my texts, I tapped a photo to enlarge it and shoved it in his face. “Faith just sent me a text. Bystander just hit the newsstands today. Care to guess what’s on the front page?”
His eyes widened. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“I’ll kill those nurses.”
He drove with one hand and took my phone with the other. His jaw tightened. I didn’t have to look at it. I knew what it looked like. The shitty tabloid printed a close-up of Iris being held by a NICU nurse. The caption read,
Lords of Lyre front man’s newborn in life or death fight for heart transplant.
The blatant lie didn’t get to me as much as the invasion of privacy. I chose to be with Julian. But Iris had no choice but to live in the glare of paparazzi cameras. I’d be damned if she’d be exploited.
“The nurses are screened, Phoebe. Don’t blame them.”
“Fine.” I snatched my phone out of his hands. “Then tell Kristina to go to hell. She’s the only non-family you allowed in the damn NICU.”
He rolled his eyes. “We’re having this discussion again?”
I squeezed the orange NICU wristband, something that had become somewhat of a habit. “Someone did it, Julian. Why not her? Why does Kristina know everything you do and I get scraps?”
His fingers tightened around the steering wheel. “She’s my manager, Phoebe. I see her every day.”
“You see me too.”
“If you’re still pissed Kristina knew about the flight changes, say it and stop fucking dancing around it.” Irritated, he slammed his hand across the CD changer and the screech of metal music blasted the car. Used to his mood swings, I turned down the volume and placed my hands in my lap.
I’d been home a week and we’d spent most of our time in the SUV navigating freeway traffic or sitting with Iris in the NICU. The stress had gotten to us, and it seemed that we took each other’s heads off more than we leaned on each other.
“I’m not pissed about Kristina,” I said calmly. “I’m hurt you’re hiding things, again. What happened to the teamwork we promised each other?”
He never answered. He just tightened his hold on my hand as my mind went into overdrive.
Something about that picture didn’t sit well with me. I got a sick feeling when I looked at it. Something seemed too familiar, and I couldn’t put my finger on it.
***
The sun greeted me like a head-on collision. Rubbing a hand over my face, I squinted against the blinding light. God, what in the hell? Didn’t I just close my eyes?
As Julian snored in peace, I glanced to the side table. According to the alarm clock, the crack of dawn had arrived, and Iris’s wails indicated she wasn’t amused by my inattentiveness. Yawning, I brushed my hand through my matted hair and hit a tangle.
What?
Trying to force it through, I touched a sticky substance that sent me flying to the dresser for closer inspection. Holding my head against the mirror, my eyes widened in horror.
“Oh shit!”
To keep myself awake for Iris’s two a.m. feeding, I’d spent weeks binging on the second season of Sons of Anarchy on Netflix and chewed half a pack of gum. Unfortunately, somewhere between watching Charlie Hunnam and dreaming about Charlie Hunnam, I passed out cold and woke up with a wad matted in the right side of my hair.
Muttering disgusted curses, I grabbed a pair of cotton shorts and quickly pulled them on with a hoodie. As I snapped the waistband into place, I heard a familiar wail of retaliation from down the hallway.
Frustrated, I squeezed my eyes shut. “Hey, we wait our turn for shit around here. Those are the rules, sister. Get used to it.”
