Total pages in book: 24
Estimated words: 21838 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 109(@200wpm)___ 87(@250wpm)___ 73(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 21838 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 109(@200wpm)___ 87(@250wpm)___ 73(@300wpm)
2
Angelica
One Year Later
I don’t want to be a pop star anymore.
Camera flashes go off too close to my face. Fingers reach out from behind the barriers, clawing at my skin and clothing. I just finished a concert at the Staples Center and it’s as though the entire audience is now converging on me, demanding selfies and autographs. My security guards are making attempts to block the fans from grabbing me, but it’s pandemonium.
“Where is the car?” I call over the screaming, stumbling forward blindly.
Someone yanks me by the elbow and I lose my balance, falling forward onto the pavement and skinning my knee. Getting to my feet unsteadily, I hobble forward, grateful when one of the guards ushers me in the right direction.
“This way, Miss Price.”
“Okay,” I whisper, though they can’t hear me.
My chart topping single, “Candy from a Baby,” is blaring from somewhere in the crowd and I block out the familiar chorus. The last year of my life has been a complete whirlwind. I was signed by the talent agency and a week later, I was on my way to Los Angeles to record a demo. A month after that, it seemed like I couldn’t swipe on my phone without hearing my single. Or seeing a picture of me walking to the store, sunbathing on the roof of my condo, pumping gas, buying coffee.
Now? I can’t even set foot outside my door. The release of my album made me a household name. This is what I wanted, though. Isn’t it?
A wave of relief hits me when my waiting SUV comes into view and my security team fairly throws me into the backseat and slams the door. Gingerly, I touch my wounded knee, leftover fear cascading down my spine and turning into a violent shiver. Hands bash against the windows of the vehicle, the door handle jiggling from people attempting to gain access to the car.
I give in to my impulse to lie down on the back seat, drawing my knees up to my chest and taking several deep breaths. This is not what I envisioned when I decided at a young age that I wanted to be a performer. Sure, there is still a certain euphoria that comes from being on stage. The roar of people singing along and feeling every word is truly indescribable.
But I can’t help but feel like I sold my soul.
My manager, Taryn, climbs into the front passenger seat and lets out a hoot, propping her Prada boots up on the dashboard. “Amazing show. They are rabid for you, Angelica. Rabid.”
I swallow hard. “Yeah.”
Is it really me they love? Or the image created by the label?
Stop being a baby. There are millions of people who would kill to be in my position. I have a new house in the Hollywood Hills. A-list celebrities in my contacts. How dare I complain about getting exactly what I asked for?
Swiping at my nose, I sit up and straighten my shoulders. “Are there any bandages in the glove compartment? I fell on my knee.”
“You did?” With a look of glee on her face, Taryn turns slightly in the passenger seat. “Oh, that is going to play well in the press. I’ll put a call in to TMZ. Angelica Price: injured by fans outside the Staples Center. I’m sure someone has already sold the footage.”
She never checks the glove compartment for bandages.
As my manager speaks to the tabloids on her phone, laughing raucously, I stare out the window at the lights passing by. For all the adoration, there is a yawning pit of loneliness inside my chest. My father came for a visit last week, but between dance rehearsal, photo shoots and live shows, I barely had any time to spend with him.
I might as well be honest with myself.
This loneliness isn’t a recent development.
I’ve been lonely for an entire year.
Since Murph walked out of my father’s living room, nothing has felt…right.
As I often do, I allow myself to close my eyes and remember the weight of his huge, bruiser body on top of me. I bite my lip hard, skimming my hands up my bare thighs and think of that guttural grunt, those forbidden words he said to me. My nipples turn to painful little peaks and I rub at them discreetly, grateful for the darkness in the back of the SUV.
Where did Murph go?
It’s not unusual for him to disappear for chunks of time, although I still have no idea what exactly he does for a living. Only that it’s top secret and requires someone with tactical military experience. Someone indestructible.
The flesh between my legs clenches hotly enough to make me gasp.
Murph is nothing if not durable.
Thousands of times over the course of the last year, I’ve wanted to call my father’s best friend and hear his voice. But I kept putting it off, afraid he wouldn’t want to talk to me.