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I point a finger at him. “Do not tell me to be dressed to kill. Been there, done that, almost shot your junk off because of it. I’ll be presentable.”
With a ghost-dimpled grin, he winks and disappears into the hallway.
When I hear the front door close, I run a hand through my hair. “What a fucking day.”
It’s been a long road, and the curves felt like they would end me at times, but happily ever after just might be in the cards for me after all. I spent years convincing myself it didn’t exist. Believing in it again is going to take a lot of adjustment.
After a shower and a closet-ripping production of picking out the right outfit, I’m still getting ready an hour later.
Towel drying my hair, I meander over to my desk. The last thing I need is for Gage to see that shit on my laptop. Faith said not to close out any screen until everything was processed, but I suppose minimizing it won’t hurt.
Holding the twisted towel on top of my head with one hand, I slide the other across the touchpad. When I skim the last posted comment, my blood runs cold.
A new post had appeared sometime between Julian’s confession and the door slamming.
AngelMia: You’re not as smart as you think you are…Phoebe.
Thirty-Seven
Julian
It’s ending.
It feels like a crosswind is going to blow the resolution out of my grasp if I say the words out loud, so I keep them in my head for now.
But inside, I’m in front of ten thousand people screaming them into a microphone.
The darkness that’s held me by the throat for over a year is gone. I’m no longer a suicide in progress. I have a chance to be more than a tragic footnote in rock and roll history.
I see a future. Success. Happiness.
Love.
The nightmare is over because of one woman’s determination to not give up on me—even when I almost ruined everything because of ego and selfish pride.
Leaving my car in a parking deck near 34th street and Phoebe’s brownstone, I contemplate taking a cross-town bus to get to the Surge Records building in Times Square. However, it’s just a twenty-minute walk across town to the West Side, and I need to burn off some lingering anger.
Checking my watch, I decide I have enough time to walk the ten blocks and forgo the inevitable stares of a moving autograph fan-mobile.
Mia.
Fucking AngelMia.
How in the hell had I been so blind? Had it all been a ruse? Had she been stalking me before Lam died, or was his accident just a golden opportunity to lure me into her clutches like a fucking black widow?
I told that bitch everything. I poured my soul out to her.
A perfect goddamn stranger.
The implications of my stupidity crashes down on me. Vivian is dead because of me. Phoebe had been attacked and almost killed because of me. Countless tabloids and gossip shows from here to Antarctica have splashed her real identity across print and airwaves because of me.
Mia may have taken a lot from me, but I’ll be damned if she’ll take Phoebe. That woman runs through my veins.
She gives me life.
By the time I reach the Surge building, my rage and resentment have escalated to a level I didn’t know if I could climb down from in order to talk to the rest of the band.
The band…
