Page 115 of The Comedown

Chants of “Jollette” fill the superdome, making the ball of dread return to my stomach with a swift, vicious vengeance. It never lasts for long—the reprieve from the constant worry over how the public will take you, criticize you, condemn you. Damn it.

“Look what you started,” I say out the side of my mouth to Julian, and he slowly turns to face me with one hand still in the air, halfheartedly waving.

To me, he says, “It started long before this.” To the crew behind us, swirling his finger above his head, he yells, “Flood it!”

The fog machines all turn on at once, flooding the stage with continuous streams of thick, white smoke.

He should’ve thought to smoke the stage out before he kissed me in front of thousands of people.

“Send for me when it clears,” I tell him without so much as a glance. Even if I’m not singing, I try to avoid long exposure to smoke of any kind. It kills my throat otherwise…which he knows and is usually respectful of.

Fuck, he just had to ruin today through and through.

Julian’s dragged-out steps follow me offstage, but I don’t bother looking back. I only quicken mine in my escape.

He did this. He took something that was so beautiful and peaceful and significant—he took it—and he made it his. He wanted to end on a newsworthy note, and by God he fucking did it. That kiss is all anyone’s going to be able to talk about for a week, if not longer. Not the tender, emotional, pivotal moments leading up to it. That’s all that ever makes headlines anymore—scandal.

And the way he did it. Like he had a right to take that kiss. Like I was his to take.

Thankfully, Holter and Mary stayed back at the hotel, so my dressing room is empty when I enter it. The door never closes when I try to shut it behind me though.

Well, it was empty.

I don’t even have to look to know who it is. He followed me all the way here. He always follows me off the stage, never giving me any time to collect myself.

“I’m not going back out there until that stage clears.”

“I know. That’s why I flooded it.”

I spin around, searching his face for clues as to what the hell is going on with him. From the crown to the kiss, now…this. Whatever this is.

“Get out. I need to think.”

His listening skills on par with mine, he sends a leg out, kicking the door shut without so much as blinking.

“Every damn time I turn my back you’re running away instead of just telling me what I did wrong. I know you’re mad, so just tell me.”

Fine.

“How fucking dare you pull that out there,” I spit. “I’m not yours to fucking—”

“Oh, you’re fucking mine all right,” he cuts in, making my head rear back even as he approaches. “I got your cum coursing through my body. You got mine coursing through yours.”

“That single lick of precum? It dissolved before it even had a chance to hit my throat.”

He keeps going, pointing to my forehead, “You got my crown on your head.”

I tear it off, and bend my wrist, ready to launch it across the room, but he closes his hand over mine, gritting, “You’re. My. Queen.” The jewels pressing into my palm are just shy of painful.

“No, I’m not,” I seethe before adding, “Bodee.”

The air in the room freezes, and I fight a chill to stand firm because I said it and I fucking meant it.

“What did you just call me?”

“Bodee. You’re exactly like him.”

He visibly flinches, and his hold on my hand eases but doesn’t disappear as he questions, “How so?”