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Chapter Thirty-Three
Phoebe
“What in the hell is he doing?” A mix of shock and anger blew through me as I turned the television off and threw the remote across the room. Faith stopped cuddling Iris long enough to raise an eyebrow at me. She didn’t say anything. She knew better. My mood swings were still stratospherically unpredictable.
“Is Karli Waters on the warpath again?” she asked, awkwardly holding Iris like a bowling ball.
“Yes. That stupid bitch from Access Daily who blindsided me on the red carpet in New York. They ran footage from the Utah show. I guess Julian had a meltdown on stage over something. As usual, her stellar reporting couldn’t verify what happened, just that it was ‘out of character and dangerous.’ How the hell does she know what’s out of character for him?” I let out a frustrated scream, causing Iris to wail. “Jesus Christ!” Stomping over to Faith, I held out my hands. “Give her to me.”
She gave me a hesitant look. “Are you sure? When was the last time you slept?”
“I got a few hours a couple of nights ago.” I pulled my daughter out of Faith’s arms. “She’s been a little cranky and a lot hungry. The doctor said it’s probably a growth spurt.” Yawning, I tucked her into my chest, and she immediately rooted her tiny face onto my breast. “God, this kid doesn’t ever stop eating. At this rate, my nipples will drag the floor.”
Hating breastfeeding made me feel like a shitty mother. All the pregnancy books made it sound like if I didn’t love it and think it was the greatest thing since indoor plumbing, I walked the earth as the antichrist of the maternal world.
Branded with a Scarlet F for A Big Fat Nipple Bleeding Failure.
I loved Iris. My daughter was the center of my world. I’d die for her. But nearly seventy-two hours of no sleep screwed with my mind.
I used to be cute. Now I looked like I ate cute and shit it out.
I lived like a hermit—a prisoner in my own home.
A domestic terrorist of my own doing.
Maybe I’d get a cat.
“Phoebe?” Faith scrolled through her phone, her face ashen gray.
Holding my baby, I dropped into the recliner. “What now? Do I even want to know?”
“Probably not, but it might clear up what happened at the Galleria.”
She handed me her phone, the page already pulled up. As I scanned the Blogosphere Daily article, my grip on Iris tightened, and she unlatched, letting out a squeak.
“Son of a bitch!”
Mr. and Mrs. Lord of the Lyre
Here Comes the Bride…All Dressed in Organic Fruit Gloves?
It’s been a while since we’ve brought the buzz on our favorite photog-phobic couple, but that’s for good reason. It seems Phulian rebooted themselves to a more western fare. More specifically? California. More specifically than that? Los Angeles? Want more than that? Oh, disciples, Hollywood Hills hath new inhabitants, and Phulian be thy name.
But the news doesn’t stop there. We all know Phulian got hitched. But, according to a source very close to the family, it seems our favorite rock god tried to be stealth and rented an organic strawberry greenhouse to not only propose to his reporter lady love, but he also married her on the spot. That’s right, ladies. Cry into your martinis. Mrs. Julian Bale gets all the goodies from now until the pre-nup goes into effect.
But wait, there’s more! As has been reported, Phulian 2.0 raced to the finish line a little early, barely allowing Dad to witness the big moment. Little Iris Rose Bale was born nine weeks premature. Sources tell us that little brother and bandmate, Ryker Bale, stepped in and took care of Mrs. Rock God. Is there some hanky-panky going on within the Brothers Bale and the new Mrs. Bale? It’s pure speculation from here, but we at BD plan to keep our ears to the ground and our noses in everyone’s business.
You’d better believe we’re watching. Everything.
“Faith, what’d you do?” Julian didn’t want me telling her for this exact reason. I should’ve fucking listened. Blogosphere Daily’s online gossip column had been famous for relentlessly running sensationalized stories on Julian and me in New York.
“I wanted you to have something to remember it by.” She wrung her hands and paced, her long blond hair bobbing in the ponytail pulled high on her head. “It happened so fast, you didn’t have pictures or anything, so I made you a memory book. I went to the greenhouse and took a few pictures, a couple of mementos, and started making it. It’s nothing fancy. I suck at this stuff, but it was supposed to be a present.”
“What happened?” Deep down I already knew. I just wanted her to say it.
“I went into work the other day and noticed it was missing.” Cursing, I threw her phone and waited for the rest. “I blamed my assistant and made her clean out everything in front of me—her desk, purse…even her car. It wasn’t until her intern’s shifty eyes caught my attention that the bitch went ballistic on me. I opened her desk drawer and found the book. By the time I ran to the garage, her car was gone.” Faith looked nauseous. “I checked the phone records and saw she’d made calls to New York. When I redialed them, they connected me to the BD offices.”
“Oh, Faith…”
