and we couldn’t sue anyway. My sexuality wasn’t a well-kept secret between Eleven and the crew.
“I’ll think about it,” I mutter to shut Gideon up.
I love fame.
I love my life.
But sometimes it’s too overwhelming. I want a break from it but then remind myself I can’t stop even for a second. I have to keep pushing. Keep going.
The VIP party is like the billion others I’ve done. It’s basically a conveyor belt of rotating fans coming up to take photos and squeal in my face. They ask about Evah and look mostly disappointed when I tell them she’s visiting her parents in Kansas. Some look hopeful, like Evah being out of town means they have a chance. It’s not anything I haven’t heard before.
On the way out, I nod and wave to some fans lurking by the back door, and then venue security puts me into the back seat of the Escalade waiting for me.
All in all, it was a successful night, successful tour, and now I’m looking forward to doing nothing but writing songs for the new album I’m set to record in six weeks.
Twenty minutes later, my driver pulls up to my short driveway and waits in the car until I put my passcode into the gate before taking off.
The Spanish Colonial property set me back a cool ten mil, but it’s big enough for Evah and me so we’re not living on top of each other.
I unlock my door using an app on my phone, which still amazes me. Sure, the multimillion-dollar views of LA are breathtaking, but I can unlock my house with an app!
I flick on the lights and make my way to my bathroom for another shower. The guys from Eleven used to mock me for my germ phobia, but after our first ever tour, I got hit with the flu. And I don’t mean the sniffly kind. I mean bedridden, fevers, vomiting, and delirium for weeks. I needed an IV of fluids and antibiotics for the infection I got from it. Since that happened, I shower after any meet and greet and try not to flinch if someone so much as coughs within five feet of me.
Dressed in sweats, my hair still damp, I scroll through social media on my phone while heading for the kitchen to get a snack.
I easily become lost in the world of Twitter, reading tweets about the show—egotistical maybe, but I read it for the feedback as well as the praise. If there’s something I could be doing more or doing better, I want to know about it.
The fans made me who I am, and I owe everything to them.
But as my feet carry me across the cool tile, something feels off.
I get the sense I’m not alone, but Evah’s not here. Unless she came home early from Kansas. I check my billions of unread messages, but none are from her.
The hairs on the back of my neck prickle.
I look up from my phone and see a guy I don’t recognize sitting on a stool at my kitchen bar.
My skin breaks out in goose bumps.
I blink, thinking I’m confused or hallucinating or something. He’s still there, so I blink again.
I even look around the room as if I’m the one in the wrong place. Like, it was possible for me to walk into the wrong house, shower in the wrong bathroom, and put on a stranger’s sweats.
Because someone getting in, let alone looking so casual about it, doesn’t make sense.
Him being here isn’t even the scariest thing. It’s the small smile he wears. It’s … normal-looking. Cute, even. Which is why it terrifies me. He doesn’t even appear to be apologetic about breaking in.
His T-shirt is old Eleven merch from a tour a few years ago, and as he stands, he slides his hand into the pocket of his ripped skinny jeans.
Seconds pass where we stare at each other.
This isn’t some fan sneaking into my dressing room. This is my home.
Headlines from tomorrow’s news flash through my head: Harley Valentine Killed in Home Invasion.
I’m going to die.
Breathe, Harley. Stay calm.
I glance at the counter where he was sitting, and yep, there’s my knife block that usually lives about three feet to the right.
Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.
“I thought it looked cool.”
I startle at his voice, which is calm and casual, much like his demeanor. That only freaks me out more.
“Looked cool?” I manage to keep my voice flat. Somehow.