Risky Rockstar: A Hero Club Novel, стр. 28

Iscroll through the articles on my iPad, shaking my head at how freaking messed up people are. Kevin called about twenty minutes ago to tell me that Claire was mobbed at the airport by the press, and it wasn’t pretty. Just about every tabloid magazine in the search comes up with images of him and Claire at the airport. Her face is alight with pure joy while he scowls at the cameras. The captions aren’t very gracious, and my heart sinks. Words such as “While Hayley’s away, Kevin will play?” “indecent displays of affection,” and “grinding brazenly”make my stomach twist.

People’s behaviors when it comes to celebrities have always baffled me. It’s like something happens to them that makes them act in ways they wouldn’t normally behave. You wouldn’t rummage through your neighbor’s garbage or care who the girl in the cubicle next to you is dating. You wouldn’t judge your friend on what brand of shampoo she’s using or if she popped out to the store with a hole in her yoga pants and no makeup. So why do people care what Kevin and I do or who he picks up at the airport? And why the hell do normal human beings turn into lunatics just to have a moment with a celebrity that doesn’t want it. It makes no sense to me.

Since Kevin and I decided on our arrangement, we’ve been out and about on quite a number of occasions. Usually for a bite to eat or an ice cream after rehearsing for the LA show, and while we haven’t been overly affectionate—sticking to what we discussed at the diner—it’s been enough to cause interest and speculation in the media. By the sounds of those headlines, a little more than speculation.

Keys jangle in the lock, and a smile spreads across my face when I hear Bridget walk down the hallway and into my living room, the smell of cashew chicken following her. “I come bearing gifts.”

“I knew it was a great idea to give you keys. I’m starving. Where’s Simon and Brendan?”

“They’re having a guys’ day. It’s supposed to be top secret, but I know they’re going dirt biking. Oh wow, this looks great!” She interrupts herself and looks around the room. “So much better than I imagined from the pictures you sent me.”

I stand to help with the food. I really am starving. Usually after a show, I inhale my weight in carbs, but since I flew straight home last night, I’d lost my appetite before I got here. The adrenaline wore off, leaving me pretty wiped. I’d been contemplating breakfast, or rather lunch, when I’d got distracted by the news about Claire. Bridget shoves the food into my arms. “Take this before I mess in here. It’s so beautiful.” Her eyes scan over the stone fireplace framed by floor-to-ceiling bookcases, gray couches that my interior designer tells me is “rock-candy gray” to the duck-egg cushions and throws. It’s an uncluttered space where I can kick off my shoes and work on my music or binge-watch crappy reality TV.

“Remind me to never bring Brendan here. Everything is so light.”

“It’s called a living room for a reason, Bridge. It’s supposed to be lived in.”

“But the white!”

Bridget looks panic-stricken, and I laugh. I love my new space, and yes, even the rug is white, but I don’t want people to feel like they can’t relax in here.

“Grab us some plates.” I move the birch-wood elephant ornament to the end of the table.

She looks horrified. “You don’t mean to eat in here, do you?”

“Of course. Bridge, it’s just a rug. Let’s eat—my stomach thinks my throat has been cut.”

Bridget laughs and grabs the plates while I set the Chinese out on my brand-new white maple-wood table. It takes her a while to ease into the idea that dropping a grain of rice on the coffee table isn’t going to be the end of the world, but eventually she relaxes and we spend some time catching up.

I tell Bridget all about recording with LP-45 and how easy and relaxed it was. I also tell her that I’ve proposed to extend our one-song deal into an album deal, and I’m sitting waiting with bated breath for their response. The entire time I go over the details of the day, I feel my cheeks heat more and more as a flush of pleasure creeps into my face. I scratch in the takeout bag for my fortune cookie so she doesn’t notice. Every time I think of the chemistry between me and Kade when we sang together—heck, when we drank beer together—has fire flashing through my body, sending heated pulses through my damn betraying lady bits. I need to deflect. “You better not have eaten my fortune cookie, woman. You still owe me for last time.”

The guilty look on Bridget’s face is almost worth losing my dessert for. Almost.

I place my hand on my heart in mock horror. “The betrayal.”

“I’m eating for three now,” she says, but the moment the words leave her mouth, regret replaces the cookie-snatching guilt. “Hayles, I’m sorry, that was insensitive.”

I stop digging and stand. Sitting on the coffee table in front of my best friend, I reach for her hands. Oh damn, look what my stupid deflection has done. “Bridge, stop. You can’t be walking on eggshells around me. I’m okay.”

She doesn’t look like she believes me, but I am okay. Do I wish I was still pregnant? With every breath I take. But I know that dwelling on the past isn’t going to help bring my baby back. What I need to focus on is moving forward. And having my friends and family tiptoeing around me doesn’t help. “Really, I’m okay. I’ve got so much on my plate right now, I don’t have time to dwell—”

“I don’t think burying—”

My phone rings and I’m relieved at the interruption. I do not want to have this conversation about boxing up my feelings with Bridget again. I know her heart is