Page 94 of Blue Moon

“Huh? Why would you think we broke up? I mean, why would you even think I was involved with my bodyguard in the first place?”

“Oh, please. I’ve danced in, like, ten different shows, and you’re the first celeb who lets their bodyguard inside their dressing room.”

“And he always smells of your perfume,” Venus added.

Luis took a pastry from the plate on my lap. “And you’re always staring at his ass.”

“Shit.” Shoot. I meant shoot! Oh, what the hell, Mom wasn’t here to tell me off for cursing anymore. “How many other people know?”

He shrugged. “Nobody’s said a word. And we spend more time with you than anyone else?—”

“Anyone apart from the hot bodyguard,” Venus squealed, giggling, then quickly straightened her face. “Sorry.”

“We didn’t break up, okay? He just has work stuff to do.”

“Work stuff? Aren’t you his client?”

“It’s kind of a side project. Please, please can you keep this quiet? Ryder can’t become a reality TV star.”

“Uh, he knows who he’s dating, right?”

“Yes, and he also knows that after Luna at the Palace finishes, I’m moving to Virginia and quitting showbiz.”

“No way! You can’t quit.”

“Why not? I lost my record deal, and I’m so, so sick of my entire existence being splashed across the internet. I just want to sleep, walk my dog, and watch movies with my boyfriend. And maybe I’ll try baking cookies?”

Luis gave up picking at my food and liberated the whole plate. “Well, I heard a rumour that Frank Serafini wants you to do another show here. A bigger, fancier show with special effects and more dancers.”

“Really? Who told you that?”

“A guy from the management office who I may or may not have hooked up with. So, are you gonna come back, chica? You have to come back.”

“Frank hasn’t said anything to me.”

“Only a matter of time. And you’re looking at your number-one quartet of backup dancers right here.”

They absolutely were. Without Mom here, I’d been able to form genuine friendships with my team, and it felt good. Plus they were super talented. Okay, the costumes would definitely need improvement, but now that I’d had a taste of creative control, I’d found it was addictive.

But so was Ryder.

Could I spend the rest of my life playing housewife?

Or if I was offered the chance to sing at the Palace again, would I take it?

Why did my head hurt so bad?

Why was my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth?

And what was that freaking banging?

I levered my eyelids open, but everything was fuzzy. Why couldn’t I move my legs? There was a weight pinning them down, and Ryder’s words filtered into my mind.

Concrete boots.

I struggled up to sitting, panic coursing through me, and saw?—

“Housekeeping.” The woman pushing the cart gasped. “Ma’am, I’m so sorry. I tried knocking, but…”

---