Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 90520 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 362(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90520 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 362(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
It was 2:30 in the morning in Vermont but only 11:30 in California. Griffin was a night owl, so I dug out my phone and called him. He answered on the first ring.
“Hey, baby. You’re up late.”
My shoulders relaxed a little just hearing his voice. I sighed. “Hey.”
“Everything okay?”
“I just went to the supermarket.”
“Oh. How’d that go? What crazy shit did you see tonight?”
I’d forgotten that I’d shared with him some of the bizarre things I’d seen during my middle-of-the-night trips. Though the thing I’d seen tonight topped them all. “I saw a picture of me—a picture of us—in the National Enquirer.”
Griffin hissed. “Shit. Damn that Marty Foster.”
“Who?”
“One of the photographers from the restaurant. I had my assistant reach out to the others and buy the photos they’d taken. But Marty wouldn’t return our phone calls. I was hoping it was because he didn’t get a good shot and had nothing to sell. Guess I was wrong.” From the tone of his voice, I pictured Griffin raking his hand through his hair. “I’m sorry, Luca. I tried.”
“Oh my God. Don’t be ridiculous. It’s not your fault. I can’t believe you bought the other photos. I didn’t even realize you could do that.”
“Money buys pretty much anything in this town. Paparazzi don’t care who buys their work, only that they get paid. Plus, I offered them more than they’d fetch with the tabloids, so the other three were happy to sell them to me.”
“It’s so sweet that you did that. But really, it’s not necessary. I don’t want you wasting your money on stuff like that.”
“Anything I spend that might make you happy or less stressed is a good use of my greenbacks, Luca.”
That anxious feeling in my chest settled a little bit more. “Thank you, Griffin.”
“No need for thanks. Just trying to look out for my girl.”
I took a deep breath in of my girl and exhaled out the National Enquirer. “So did I wake you? What were you doing?”
“Nah. I have some company tonight. The guys in my band came over. We’re celebrating wrapping the album this afternoon. We were slated to finish tomorrow, but we were able to knock it out a day early.”
“Oh wow. Congratulations. That’s amazing. You must be so happy.”
“Yeah. I’m pretty stoked about the way it came out.”
“That’s great. But I’ll let you go. I didn’t realize you had company. It’s so quiet in the background.”
“I stepped out into the backyard when I saw your number come up. I’m sure I’ll get a good ribbing when I go back inside.”
“What would they tease you about?”
“They’re calling me whipped.”
“Whipped?”
“As in pussy whipped. Apparently that’s a popular expression in America. It means your woman has you on a tight leash.”
I laughed. “I know what it means. I was just asking why they would call you that?”
“Oh. Normally, when we end a tour or wrap a recording, we have a wild party to celebrate. But I wasn’t up for wild tonight. So I told the guys they could come over, but no women allowed. And now I’m on the phone with you.”
“You didn’t want their girlfriends to come?”
“They don’t have girlfriends, Luca. Their idea of a party is booze, a bunch of groupies, and a few strippers.”
“Oh.”
“Anyway. It’s just us blokes tonight.”
“I should let you get back, then.”
“Nah . . . rather talk to you than listen to their stories. I’ve heard every one of them ten times by now. Shit tends to get repeated when you spend months traveling on a bus with the same people.”
I smiled. “I bet.”
“So tell me . . . how did you handle seeing your face in the tabloids for the first time?”
For the first time. “I might have hyperventilated a little.”
“It gets easier.”
I’d been so caught up in how I felt seeing my face plastered in print that I never stopped to think about what it must be like for Griffin. The tabloids only took my picture because I’d been with him. This was just a small taste of what he must go through every day. “How do you handle it?”
“You learn to ignore it. The worst part isn’t even the pictures. It’s the shit they make up about you to sell a story. I once touched the belly of a very pregnant fan while signing an autograph. She’d told me that her baby was a superfan and jumped around during my concert. She swore every time she put on one of my songs, the little bugger would start to dance in her belly. Her husband was standing next to her and said he thought it was true, too. So I leaned down and started to talk to her belly as a joke—see if the baby would start to move around. And when it actually did, they told me to hold her belly and feel it. It was pretty cool. But the next day, photos were plastered on the cover of every tabloid with stories of how the woman was carrying my love child, and her husband had come to the concert to beg me to allow him to adopt my soon-to-be son.”