She returns attention back to me. “You aren’t our first celebrity.”
The word grates on my frayed nerves. “I’m not a celebrity.”
Her smile catches me off guard. “You are by association.” Squinting at the blood pressure results, she wrinkles her nose.
I nod toward the machine. “Is it bad?”
“It could be better. I’ll let Dr. Thomas explain more. For the time being, try to keep it to a dull roar.”
They leave, quietly closing the door behind them.
I turn my gaze back to Faith. “So, Zane, huh?” Her cheeks flame and she tenses. “You don’t have to answer. But I’d be a shitty friend if I didn’t warn you.”
Her fingers trail the fabric of the chair. “About what?”
“Life with a rock star isn’t a walk in the park. It’s hard, Faith. They’re gone a lot. You need to have trust—phenomenal trust. Thousands of screaming women beg to touch him. They dream and fantasize about him. He has to cater to them.” I shrug. “It’s hard when they’re gorgeous. Then there’s the cameras flashing in your face every time you walk down a street, eat a meal, or go to the bathroom.”
“Are you done?”
“Are you listening to anything I’m saying?”
“I hear you.” She lifts one shoulder in a noncommittal shrug. “We’re just friends.”
“Whatever you say.” Letting it go, I flash her a genuine smile. “I’m happy to have you close again, Faith. After what happened at the house, I don’t have a good feeling…” I trail off as the doors swings open, and a young doctor with tanned skin and straight white teeth walks in.
“Miss Ryan, I presume?” He extends his hand. “I’m Dr. Thomas. I see you were brought in with some pain.”
Overwhelmed, I nod and shake his hand.
“From your test results, it looks like dehydration has caused Braxton Hicks contractions. I checked your admittance exam notes and, thankfully, you’re not dilated.”
“Braxton Hicks?”
He scratches his forehead with his pen. “Call it false labor. Have you been under any unusual stress lately?”
I shoot Faith a warning glance. “A little. But the pain stopped. That’s good, right?”
“For now, yes. But you’re also twenty-seven weeks pregnant. You have to keep your stress level low and start taking better care of yourself if you want to make it to your due date.”
Faith’s hand grips mine. He continues, but I’ve already tuned him out by that point, concentrating only on Faith’s hands as she digs into her pocket once more, her lips pursed.
He pats one of my legs. “Just try to rest. We’ll keep you for observation overnight.” He turns to Faith, studying her carefully. “And you are…?”
Faith interjects before I can open my mouth. “Her sister.”
Shrugging, he exits the room as quickly as he entered. As the door closes, I tilt my chin. “Sister, huh?”
Her eyes widen as she stands and sprints toward the door. “Meh, we could be. I got all the good genes in the family, though.” I throw a pillow at her head just before she ducks. “Behave yourself,” she warns. “I’m going to make a phone call.”
As the room silences, I focus on the rhythmic beep of the fetal heart rate monitor vibrating in my ears.
Thank God Julian is gone.
With publicity interviews and an upcoming tour, people are constantly pulling him in twenty different directions. And judging from his trip wire mood before he left, he’s currently balancing on “ready to snap mode.”
He doesn’t need the stress of knowing what happened. Faith won’t tell him—not with the shit I have on her and Zane.
I tell myself the omission of truth is to protect him, but deep down, I know it’s to protect myself.
If I don’t speak of it, it isn’t true.
And I can keep telling myself that Elisabeth Cayden didn’t die by the same hand that butchered me three years ago.
Two
Julian
The hum of traffic below the ninth-floor window escalates, and I throw my pencil across the room. Balling up the piece of paper, I chuck it into the wastebasket with a disgusted snort.
It doesn’t matter. The lyrics I wrote were shit.
Three days into our publicity tour and I’m already running on autopilot. Attempts to write a new song for the upcoming album is proving to be an exercise in futility. I can’t concentrate with thoughts of her controlling my brain.
Interlocking my fingers behind my head, I stare out the window. It’s dark in Phoenix, so the sky would be the same in LA.
For the tenth time, I glance at my silent cell phone. Ten times I’ve called her, and ten times I’ve gotten