“Then what’s the fucking problem? Get your god damn ass—”
“Fuck you.” Blind with rage, I slam the phone down and yank the plug out of the wall.
“What’s wrong?” Mallory’s soft voice extinguishes my fury.
I toss the phone and cord aside. “Nothing. Why are you up? Come on, let’s go back to bed.”
She holds out her hands, stopping me in my tracks. “I can’t. I hurt all over and feel gross. I need a shower.”
“All right. Let’s get you showered up.”
The corners of her mouth tilt up a fraction, then her gaze lands on the massacred phone. “Was that the band? Are they upset? Do you need to go?”
“It was Jacob. He’s an asshole. And I’m not going anywhere.”
“Chaser.” Her gentle, reasonable tone triggers my fight response.
“No. Not up for discussion. I can’t right now.” I take a few breaths. “I need to be with you.”
The doorbell rings and without thinking, I open the door. “Chaser! Can I ask you a few questions?” a reporter shouts. “Did Mallory have—”
“Get the fuck off my property.” I slam the door shut.
“What’s going on?”
“Apparently our tragedy is newsworthy.”
“What’s wrong with people? Why?”
“I don’t know.” I stare at the door and the walls around us. The doorbell rings again.
Mallory bites her lip. Her scared, tired eyes dart around the room. Jesus, after everything she just went through, she doesn’t need this extra stress.
“We can’t stay here.”
“Where should we go?” she asks.
“Home. Let’s go home.”
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chaser
Not a trace of guilt follows me to the airport. There’s a flight that would take me within hours of where we’re playing tonight. If there are no delays, I could probably get there in time to go on stage.
I book two flights home instead.
Am I destroying everything I’ve worked so hard for? A couple years ago, if you’d told me I’d leave in the middle of a headlining tour, I would’ve laughed. Now, other things just seem more important. I can’t explain it and I won’t defend it.
Mallory sleeps on the long flight to New York. I have to gently shake her awake when we land.
My father meets us at the gate and envelopes her in a gentle hug.
I hadn’t given him a lot of details when I called him and asked him to pick us up at the airport. Maybe he saw the news and understood my need to come home. No one should know how to find us here.
“Welcome home.” He pulls back and stares down at her. “Everything’s gonna be okay, princess.”
She gives him a weak smile and nods.
“You okay?” he asks, clasping my shoulder.
Am I?
The whirlwind of emotions I’ve been through the last few days hasn’t begun to settle. My biggest concern is Mallory’s health. The doctors assured us that physically, she was fine to travel.
Emotionally, I’m not so sure. Not after all the reporters clogging up our driveway, shouting obnoxious questions at us.
The ride to the house is quiet. Mallory rests her head on my shoulder and closes her eyes.
“House is all ready for you,” my father says. “Her car’s there. If you need to get anything.”
I snort. “You know I can barely drive that thing. My knees are too far up in the dash to work the clutch.”
“I’ll get someone to come pick me up and leave the truck.”
“You don’t have to. We’ll be fine.”
“Doe brought groceries but you might need other things.” He glances over at Mallory. “I don’t know.”
“I’ll worry about it later.”
At the house, Mallory sways on her feet. I get her to drink a glass of water before taking her upstairs and tucking her into bed. “I’ll be right downstairs.”
My father’s pacing in the kitchen when I return.
“She okay?”
“She seemed to be doing better until the circus of reporters wouldn’t leave us alone.”
“Then you better keep her away from the television,” he warns. “And grocery store magazine racks.”
“Seriously? All the way out here?”
He tosses a thin, glossy entertainment rag at me. One of those an-alien-ate-my-baby sort of papers. It’s wrinkled from being rolled up and shoved in someone’s pocket but not enough to obscure the picture on the front.
Mallory standing in between Andrew and me. Backstage at one of our shows. Her bright, beautiful smile obscene against the ugly headline.
Whose baby was she carrying?
“Motherfuckers.” I squeeze my eyes shut, wishing we hadn’t been so quick to leave L.A. Seems there are a few reporters I’d like to have a word with.