Page 7 of Fame And Secrets
Chapter Two
Julian
The hum of traffic below the ninth-floor window escalated, and I threw my pencil across the room. Balling up the piece of paper, I chucked it into the wastebasket with a disgusted snort. It didn’t matter. The lyrics I’d written were shit.
Three days into our publicity tour and I already ran on autopilot. Attempts to write a new song for the upcoming album proved to be an exercise in futility. I couldn’t concentrate with thoughts of her controlling my brain. Interlocking my fingers behind my head, I stared out the window. It was dark in Phoenix, so the sky would be the same in LA.
For the tenth time, I glanced at my silent cell phone. Ten times I’d called her, and ten times I’d gotten kicked to voice mail. I told myself paranoia and lack of sleep led to an overactive imagination, but I couldn’t ignore the feeling something was wrong. I had the same feeling when someone I considered family had attacked her.
If I could bleach away the images in my head of that night, I’d fall on my knees in gratitude. Because of it, I awoke countless times in the middle of the night in a cold sweat—just to make sure she was safe.
Now, because of him, that same black feeling tore me apart.
“Goddamn it!” I hit speed dial again, only to be met with the same mocking voice mail. I attempted to keep my tone even. “Hey, princess, it’s me, again. I know I’m being paranoid but I’ve tried to reach you all night.” I ran the back of my hand across my damp forehead. “Call me as soon as you get this. I’m worried about the baby, and…Phoebe, just call me, okay?”
I placed the phone on the table and willed it to ring. Muttering under my breath, I scooped it up again, hitting another speed dial number I’d worn out in the last few hours. Unlike Phoebe’s phone, this one rang three times before transporting me to voice mail.
“I don’t know where the hell you are, or why you’re not answering, but someone had better pick up some-fucking-where before I have an aneurysm.” I sank on the bed and dropped my forehead into my hand. “You know what’s at stake. Call me back. I don’t care what time.” Disconnecting the call, I closed my eyes.
God, I’m tired.
My body ached, and my brain hurt. I needed sleep, but there’d be none tonight. The minute I closed my eyes the nightmares would start anyway. They’d begun to alter my personality and turned me into a brooding introvert.
I had all I’d ever wanted in life. The woman I loved lived in my house, wore my ring, and was having my baby. It was all too perfect.
Too perfect.
Of course, this was when my life usually went to shit. Standing up, I picked up my phone and rolled it over in the palm of my hand.
“She’s fine, Jagger.”
I cringed at the nickname the band had given me in our early years. Dropping the phone back on the table, I returned to the window and stared at the cars as they drove below.
“You don’t know that.”
Zane’s voice was gruff from two hours of singing and shooting a bottle of Jack. “Yes, I do.”
“How?”
He laughed sarcastically. “Because that chick of yours scares me, brother. But the offer still stands if you want—”
I faced my best friend, my eyes heavy with fatigue. “No, I don’t want those people near her.”
“I think you do, but whatever, bro.” He flopped backward onto the hotel bed.
My patience snapped. “I need some sense of control here, Z. Otherwise, I’ll lose my mind.” Nodding, he pulled a bottle from inside his jacket and took a drink, then pushed it toward my chest. I rolled my eyes. “I’m not thirsty.”
He stroked his long beard. “Take the bottle, Jag. You’re a ticking time bomb, and I’m too fucking tired to clean up your explosion.”
Taking the half-empty bottle, I closed my eyes as the warm liquid coated my throat. I handed it back to Zane and sank into the desk chair. “Not that I’m going to change my mind—because I’m not—but would she see them?”
Zane took another swig. “Not unless there’s a reason. I told you, these aren’t the police. They don’t do things by the book. If Phoebe’s threatened, they’ll take care of it.”
His words didn’t make me feel better. “At what cost?”
His expression remained stoic. “I’m going to tell you this one time, bro. They don’t care if you’re Julian Bale or Bob Smith. It’s a job—it’s what they do. If their job is threatened, they make it not threatened. Got it?”
“I wish somebody would answer the damn phone. I’m riding on about four hours of sleep in the last three days.”