Page 17 of Toxic Kiss

The motel room smells like lavender soap, shrimp Pad Thai takeout, and all my bad decisions.

This isn’t the sleek hotel Dad booked for me. I’m supposed to be at The Ridge—mountain-modern luxury, overpriced cocktails, a valet who probably wears cologne that costs more than my rent in New York. Instead, a flat tire and zero cell service have stranded me at the Crescent Pines Motor Lodge.

The name sounds cute. Reality? More Bates Motel than boutique getaway.

The people here are…off. Not horror-movie threatening, just unsettling. Everyone smiles too wide, eyes are a little too flat, their politeness is sharp around the edges. Stepford, but in denim and plaid. I haven’t seen a Starbucks, a grocery store, or a single normal interaction since I was towed into town. I keep waiting for someone to hand me a pamphlet about The Circle.

Still, the sheets don’t smell weird, the room is clean, they have a wide variety of takeout, and there’s Wi-Fi. Okay…barely on the Wi-Fi. Small mercies.

I’m perched on the bed in a motel, in a robe that clings damply from my shower, and a towel twisted on my head. My laptop screen glows with the Venomous press kit like a neon nightmare. Photos, bios, and notes.

-Don’t let him talk over you.

-Remind him he’s replaceable.

-We want to double the band’s followers in the next eight months.

-Look into how to appeal to international markets.

-Keep Cyrus away from Finland. He got arrested there.

Dad’s fingerprints are all over the file, which proves he’s been plotting this for a while now. I want to be furious with him, but maybe this is just what I need to get Cyrus out of my system once and for all.

I stab a shrimp, chew, and try to convince myself that I can stomach the idea of managing the world’s biggest disaster. A dangerous aura in ripped black jeans with sexy tattoos and piercing blue eyes. Ugh.

For five years, I’ve acted like Cyrus Vale is radioactive. I methodically went through my phone, deleting his songs. I switch stations when his voice hits the airwaves. I refuse to follow a single update. He no longer exists.

Until now. Now, he’s my problem.

Ding.

I look at my phone. Dad. Great.

Dad: The plans have changed. I wanted to brief you in person before you meet up with the band, but I need to head to Ireland for a few nights. Head straight to Nevada for the first stop of the tour. I just sent you the address.

Ding.

Sure enough, the address pops up, and I snarl.

Haven: Got it.

Dad: You still angry with me?

Haven: Angry is not the word I’d use.

Dad: Lmao, I’ve missed you, Rock Star. I’ll see you at either the second or third stop.

I sigh and shake my head. My mind tells me it will be alright, but my stomach says this is a terrible idea.

Haven: Alright, and I’ve missed you too, Dad.

Dad: You’re going to be great.

I hope he’s right.

The Jack Malone Show glows on the TV screen, and I almost change it. Almost. But some masochistic part of me…call it professional curiosity, call it something worse, needs to watch. This is my job. My father’s plan. My life for the next year, apparently. May as well start taking notes now.

Spoiler…Cyrus hasn’t changed.