them talk and joke with one another, and frankly, it makes me want to punch a wall because all I can think about is the two of them naked in bed, laughing and joking with one another. Right now, I don’t know which is worse. The two of them ignoring each other is almost as awkward and uncomfortable as imagining them screwing. Gwen had said there were rumors about the two of them hooking up for years, but in the time I’ve spent with them, I haven’t seen anything indicative of that relationship―unless you count Finn acting like a jealous asshole this morning. I’ll definitely be talking to Layla about that later. When she starts sharing my bed, I won’t be sharing her. Period.
I hadn't wanted to make it worse for Layla by adding to the tension and riding in the car with them, but now I'm regretting that decision as I finagle my car into a parking spot and look around at the mob scene. Safety in numbers might have been the right way to go. People are lined up on the sidewalk as far as the eye can see. They hold signs that claim they love Layla, a few have marriage proposals on them, and one even asks if they can father her babies. As soon as they see Finn’s black SUV pull up to the curb, the shouts and crying that ensues could have broken the sound barrier.
Local police are there to help keep people behind the barricade so Layla can walk through the crowd and inside the store, but it still makes me fucking nervous to see her out in the open like that, where anyone can take a shot at her. Finn and a few of the officers who aren’t busy holding fans back usher her quickly inside, but I watch as she graciously pauses a few times to shake hands and smile and laugh with a few people before being rushed through the doors.
It's sheer and utter madness, and I have no idea how she does it. Especially now that I know what’s really in her heart and mind after reading through that song journal. I know it was wrong to pry into her life like that, but I couldn’t help it. After a short time, I feel like I know her so well, but after reading those words and seeing her reaction, I obviously don’t know her at all. She gets up on the stage week after week, shaking her ass, wearing skimpy clothes, and singing about teenage woes when she should be sharing what’s in that journal instead. It’s like being around two completely different people. The one today with perfect hair and make-up, wearing tight, black leather pants, black fuck-me shoes that are a mile high, and baggy, layered tank tops that show off a lot of sun-kissed skin, that’s the Layla designed by Eve―the one the public knows, and the one I know she hides behind.
The real Layla, if she actually exists, wears jeans with holes in the knee, old concert T-shirts, and no make-up to cover her beautiful features. She smiles effortlessly, laughs regularly, and she let's go of the diva pretense just long enough to suck me in, making me never want to let her go. That’s the Layla who kissed me last night, the one who wrapped her legs around my hips and begged for me to make her come. That’s the Layla I thought I would find in the kitchen this morning, but as soon as she saw that I held her journal in my hand, I could almost physically see the wall she put up in her eyes. Her laugh turned cynical and her smile was forced. She hasn’t said two words to me since her mother walked in the door and began making her demands. Like a puppy, she hangs her head, puts her tail between her legs, and does as she's told without an argument. I don’t understand any of it. I don’t understand how a person with so much fire and passion could just let someone walk all over them.
“Hey, Brady!”
A shout over the roar of the crowd breaks me from my thoughts, and I turn to see Adam Koonz, one of the guys from the force I used to work with. We shared a few words earlier the previous night when he came to Layla’s house to take her statement about the attack.