Page 89 of Toxic Kiss

She quickly masks the furious look, but I can feel the cracks forming no matter what she says.

Haven will break.

I need her to.

chapter

twenty-four

THREE DAYS LATER

“You never forget the sound of your worth being ripped apart by strangers.” – Haven

HAVEN

To add insult to injury, I called Charles after I got home from the disastrous dinner to find out that he’s at a work, golf thing for two days. So he can fly to Florida to play golf, but can’t find the time to visit me for a weekend.

Great.

Of course, Cyrus loves the idea of us pretending to be more than what we are, which is—hell if I know. I sent Charles a text letting him know that if he sees anything, not to believe it, but he didn’t respond. So now I don’t know if he is angry, busy, or ignoring me.

I’ve managed to avoid Cyrus for the most part over the last three days. I can’t even figure out who I don’t trust at this point…me or him.

I’m only around for the concerts and when I need content. The rest of the time, I stay locked up in my room, or I drive around like an insane person running away from myself, only to remember I have nowhere to go.

Escaping and hiding out is exactly what I’m doing today. The guys are working on new songs, and sitting around with them all day sounds like trouble.

The Utah sun is unrelenting, but at least the air inside the mall is cool.

I wander through a boutique tucked between a high-end shoe store and a juice bar. My hands are already full. Three shirts. Two pairs of jeans. A leather jacket. Jean shorts. A cute dress. Six pairs of lacy underwear, which is probably a terrible idea, and a silver necklace that just so happens to have a red guitar pic on the end. I don’t need the necklace but can’t leave it behind.

I don’t shop often, but when I do, it is because I need something to anchor me. Something normal.

The cashier smiles as I approach, but the cheerful moment is crushed when a cluster of voices echoes behind me.

“Oh my God, is that her?”

I turn and wish I hadn’t. Three girls stand near the dressing rooms with their phones out, recording me. Their eyes are wide with glee…the mean kind. Not fans. Mean girls. I know their type all too well.

“You’re Haven Gaillard, right,” one asks with a sneer. “The leech who’s sleeping her way to the top.”

“Yeah, must be nice to have a daddy who owns a billion-dollar company, and gives you access to poor Cyrus in his time of need,” a second girl chimes in.

Poor Cyrus? Poor Cyrus?

You have got to be fucking kidding me. Poor Cyrus, my ass.

“Eww, you don’t think she’s fucking her father, do you?” They all laugh.

That is a whole new low.

“She’s not even hot. What do you think she’s buying?”

At this point, the voices have blended together, and I can’t tell one snotty bitch from another.

“Confidence, maybe,” one says, eyeing the jeans in my hand. “Good luck fitting into anything sexy with those thighs. I don’t know what Cyrus sees in you.”

My grip on the clothes tightens. I want to lash out, stand up for myself, and tell them all to fuck off and go to hell. But one glance at their cameras stop me. Anything I say will land on the band and LG Records. So, I bite my tongue and turn back to the cashier, pretending they aren’t there.