Page 41 of Blue Moon

His words sparked a thought. Yeah, the paparazzi did get everywhere, and Luna was so used to seeing them that she wouldn’t think twice if a guy with a camera was lurking in the background. Could Mark A be a reporter? Or was he pretending to be one?

Food for thought.

But right now, Ryder’s priority was getting to his girl, and the moment the cops climbed back into their car, he headed for Blackwood with Gina.

12

LUNA

“They won’t arrest him, will they?” I asked Randall as we drove toward Blackwood’s office. Ryder had promised I’d be safe there, although I didn’t like leaving the scene of the accident without him.

“Not with Gina on the scene. She’s the cop whisperer.”

“Really?”

“Her papa was a cop, and his father before him, and now her family runs the Blue Line Tavern. Cross Gina, and an officer can find himself barred from the best watering hole in town.”

That’s what Randall said, but I couldn’t believe him, not completely. Not after what had happened with the cops in San Gallicano. When we got to Blackwood, he parked in a lot surrounded by high walls with spikes on top and led me into a squat two-storey building. Grey brickwork with mirrored windows, no logo or sign showing who inhabited it.

“Not quite as fancy as what you’re used to, I suppose, but I can get someone to bring you a coffee.”

“I don’t want coffee.”

How could I drink anything when I felt so sick? It was my fault Ryder was being questioned by the police. Me that he’d been driving around. And the paparazzi had only followed there because for years, I’d measured my worth in column inches. They were the wasps, but week after week, I’d laid out the picnic.

Randall led me past the front desk, into an elevator, and up to the second floor. I felt the receptionist’s gaze burning into me until the doors closed, and I steeled myself to be the centre of attention when we exited. Everywhere I went, people stared.

I could cope as long as they didn’t also try to talk to me. Every time I’d tried to tell Mom that I got anxious around people, she’d just brushed my fears away. Probably because parties and dinners and meetings had the opposite effect on her. She thrived in social situations. Talking to people energised her, while it drained me. If I ever told that to anyone, though, they’d think I was crazy. How could I get up on stage in front of thousands and sing? Well, those words were all pre-written and learned by heart. If I had a conversation, I had to try and work out what the other person was thinking, which was often different from what they were saying. Then I had to respond appropriately, and I usually messed that part up. Maybe that was why I’d gone along with Mom’s plan to turn me into a diva? Divas were meant to be demanding and unreasonable.

Huh, strange. A couple of folks glanced up as Randall led me across an open-plan office, but nobody stared. Did they not use the internet at Blackwood?

“You can wait in here,” he said, ushering me into a glass-walled meeting room. “Ryder would probably be pissed if I put you somewhere with external windows.”

“Because he doesn’t want me to see out?”

“Because he doesn’t want snipers to see in.”

I froze. “S-s-snipers?”

“Relax. The chances are infinitesimally small, but a man like Ryder doesn’t survive as long as he has without a touch of paranoia settling in.”

Relax? Randall mentioned snipers and then told me to relax? The room was small, and when he closed the door behind him, I felt as if I were a goldfish in a bowl. Trapped. On display.

On display in one of those dusty old stores that nobody ever visited because why was everyone ignoring me? I wasn’t complaining; I just didn’t understand. Although on the internet it was situation: normal. I was trending on every social media site, and my “nobody tells me what to do” line had already been turned into a meme. At least I’d put make-up on before I left the apartment. I read every post I could find, inwardly cringing, but there was no mention of an arrest, and the only pictures of Ryder showed him in the background while I was front and centre. Thank goodness for small mercies.

A half hour passed before a brunette not much older than me approached, but instead of walking past as everyone else had done, she knocked, didn’t wait for me to say “come in,” and opened the door. A scrawny black dog with wiry hair trailed behind her. Its huge ears reminded me of the Anubis mask Luis wore on stage.

Wait.

A dog?

“Hey, are you okay?” The brunette rolled her eyes. “I can’t believe Randall just abandoned you in a meeting room and didn’t even bring you a drink.”

“He did offer me coffee.”

“You should have accepted—he used to work as a barista, and he draws little animals in the foam. Or do you want a soft drink? Water? I’m Shani, by the way.”

“I’m Luna.”

---