Starlet: A Dark Retelling - Cora Kenborn Page 0,79

I don’t need much else. If you’d told me two months ago simple communication with a woman would become a basic need, I’d have laughed in your face.

But here I am, a week after Angel disappeared from Braddock’s movie premiere, starving for a simple word from her, a smile, anything other than the walking coma she’s turned into. Something happened between her and Rosten. Neither of them is saying shit, but I’m not an idiot.

Angel went to that party, but I’m not sure who the hell came back.

The change is so dramatic, I’ve become her shadow. I haven’t spent a night at my house since the red carpet because I’m terrified to leave her alone in this godforsaken house. Mainly, because I don’t know where her mind is, but partly because I’m worried that I do.

Like I said, that was a week ago. It’s now Saturday.

The sun is already starting to disappear over the horizon, and she’s still in bed. The same place she’s been since she stumbled home last night from the studio, bleak eyed and silent. Worry and guilt eat away at me as I stand in the doorway staring at her curled up on the mattress, staring blankly at the wall.

Tell her.

The voice grows louder every day, but I push it down. I tell myself she’s already fragile and telling her the truth would only open a portal I can’t close. It’d be like dominoes; tipping one would set off a chain reaction. Everything would spiral out of control until there would nothing left.

I can’t let that happen. I’m protecting her.

Liar.

Coward.

You’re protecting yourself.

My fingers tighten against the door frame. “Get dressed.” She doesn’t acknowledge me, not that I’m surprised. But I’m not backing down anymore. Not today. Storming across the bedroom, I jerk the covers off her and slap her ass. “I said get dressed. Now.”

That gets her attention. She halfway rolls over, her eyelids heavy. “Why? It’s my day off.”

“Exactly. We’re going out.”

“Out where?”

“What do you mean, ‘out where’? Out there.” I jab a finger toward the shaded window. “In public. Around people. Out of this fucking house.”

Her eyes widen a fraction, which is probably the most reaction I’ve gotten out of her in days. “But people will see us. Together,” she adds as if it’s a forbidden word.

I guess it is, and that’s my fault. I’ve done nothing but force her to keep our affair hidden away like a dirty little secret.

“Let me worry about that,” I say, rounding the bed and opening the window shade. What’s left of the diminishing sun pours into the room. “You have forty-five minutes.” Glancing over my shoulder, I add, “And none of this glamor shit. Dress like a normal person for once.”

“Dominic, I need more than—”

“Forty-five minutes,” I repeat, crossing my arms over my chest. “After that, I’ll drag you out of here in whatever the hell you have on.”

Her face darkens, and I see a spark of life, a glimmer of Angel peeking through the cracks. “You wouldn’t dare.”

Leaning down, I smile. “Why don’t you try me and find out.”

Exactly forty-five minutes later, we’re in a Benz, courtesy of the estate, driving toward West Hollywood. I do my best to fight the smirk begging to break free, but I do a shit a job. What can I say? When things go my way, I’m an arrogant son of a bitch.

Angel stares out the passenger’s side window, refusing to look at me, but I’m not offended. On the contrary, it gives me the chance to take every inch of her in without meeting a scowl. She’s mad, but it’s worth it.

This is my Angel. My Chula Vista cocktail waitress.

The one who caught my eye before Hollywood changed her.

I told her to dress normal. I guess for an heiress this is as normal as normal gets. Dressed in a pair of ripped jeans, black-knee high boots, and a black corset I think is supposed to be a shirt, she’d still stop traffic. At least she somewhat covered herself with a long black jacket.

Which will stay the fuck on.

Finally, she breaks the silence. “Do you plan on telling me where we’re going, or am I supposed to guess?”

“Guessing could be fun.”

“That was a rhetorical question.”

I toss her a quick wink. “Then I think we need to revisit the definition of rhetorical.”

“Fuck you.”

I smile to myself because this feels normal. The banter and sarcasm. This is us. This is our normal. “One more thing,” I say, digging into the back seat